Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  The good thing, she always knew that Thomas would be returned to her that same evening. (She is not making excuses.) She understands that her separation from him was always temporary, could never be anything more (glad to have him with her, back where he belongs), and not something that she either wanted or willed. But suppose that she in fact secretly desired longer periods of separation, that she wished somehow to prolong the displacement? Could anyone blame her? Knowing as we do that in the course of normal activity, on those days when the transfer didn’t occur, the Bethune girls and Thomas formed part of the weight of her day. She and Domingo would dress quickly at first light, bright and clear-headed to do their sweat-drenched work. Their paths would rarely if ever cross during the day. Her husband—tending to the acres of gardens and lawns, tending to the stable of horses, sharpening the axes and knives, varnishing the General’s spare (backup) canes, blacking boots and shoes, drawing water, cutting wood, making repairs to or fixing up the house (every week, Miss Toon or Sharpe wanted one room or another completely altered), leading a cow to the shed and butchering it. I feel like eating meat. (It fell to her to knife chickens and the hogs and to shape the meat.) Then curing the leather. Hides hung up and drying like linen. Service the carriage and when called to, take it and drive on an errand to town or a neighbor or up-country. It often fell to Domingo to drive the General and his wife and bundled-up Thomas to the town hall, where he would wait outside with the carriage, while Thomas performed on the stage inside—an old piano, a rotting splintery thing, badly tuned—for some unidentified strangers Domingo had spied arriving in his carriage and entering the hall, always well-dressed travelers.

  And herself: open out the curtains in every room of the mansion so light falls clean over and brightens objects (an array of familiar shapes) and skin, prepare the bathwater, prepare the stove, set the table, cook breakfast, clear the table and wash the dishes, polish the piano (rubbed shine), scrub and hang the laundry (they will dry quickly in the sun), scrub the floors, prepare the stove, set the table, cook dinner, clean the table and wash the dishes, tend to the mistress, remove the bright laundry from the line (they dried quickly in the sun), iron the next day’s clothes, fold the clothes and put them into their proper drawers, prepare supper for the family, clear the table and wash the dishes, and see the family off—Anything else, ma’m?—to the evening, sometimes even to bed, tucking and kissing. Time finally to go to your cabin, barren of those things (possessions) most people surround themselves with, attachments to the past, sentimental items endowed with emotional richness. Your lopsided door resistant to shutting, especially on humid days. Feed your family. (Food makes you happy for a time.) Get your children off to sleep then settle into your small bed next to your husband. A man is some comfort. Then the steady rise and fall of his chest beside you, two nestled under the mess of blankets sharing sleep, his head heavy beside yours in the low space—their bed stunted, no right to rise far from the floor—a ripe full day coming to term followed by an appalling night—in the dark where do all the painful noises, sighs, and creaks come from?—to look forward to after the day’s exertions. Wake at the line of light glowing up at the bottom of the misshapen door and dawn entering through cracks between the poorly fitted planks of the walls and floor. Rise, touching ground gently like a migratory bird landing after a long pauseless flight. One day just like the next. Come Sunday, you have to remind your body to keep to the bed. Hey, fool, it’s Sunday, the day God rested. She and Mingo would drowse for as long as they chose, relegating the breakfast, laundry, dinner, and such, the usual maintenances of family, to her oldest daughter, she allowing Mingo to be the first to rise, her husband off to trap, hunt, or fish—cage, rifle, cane pole—always cleaning and cooking (supper) catch and kill himself.

  So it was. When the Bethunes purchased a second girl, Antoinette, to assume her chores, while assigning her a new single duty—she was to accompany the General on his daily visits to the printing office and attend to whatever needs he had there—she welcomed the purchase and transfer of responsibility with a sort of silent celebration, as it brought a fundamental change to what had been a life of unvarying routine. Her time at the office freed her of constant responsibility for Little Thomas. (It was not a question of renunciation, of love, that permanent resident in her heart.) And it brought something else she might not have expected. It raised her in the eyes of others. At the office or in the street, woogies rich or poor greeted her as Miss Charity—some even slipped up and called her Miss Bethune—according her a position of respect, finding something admirable in her constant service to the General, her presence in his privileged company. And she had to admit that their acknowledgment made her feel favored and charmed, would encircle her in a bubble of light-headed pride that floated her through the next hours. The General often spent much of the day receiving visitors, prominent men, magnanimous men with loud voices who talked out their ideas and plans, devised plots and election schemes. He usually heard it all while seated behind his desk, one black cane unashamedly placed in full view along either side of the desk. He often seemed bored with it all, murmuring in irritation and making no attempt to disguise it. Men of lesser status called upon him too, an ant heap of travelers from all the regions round about, filling the office and rushing up to his desk, here to consult him, each one with his troubles. (White folks and their troubles.) General Toon seemed to take greater interest in these men, the desperate and needy, while she performed her duties—on call, standing off to the side or in a corner, observing, listening, or moving but keeping to the edges of the room as the men complained or conversed—feeling a measure of detachment from the matters at hand, her attention drifting along the factual edges, hearing but not really listening, seeing without really observing, other and apart from the General and his visitors but also miles and years removed from whatever might be happening back at Hundred Gates.

  When can I get a look at that boy of yours? How come you stopped bringing him down to the office?

  On occasion the General would send her down (belowdecks) to relay a message (an order) to the man in charge of the Negroes operating the big noisy machines, or upstairs (the nest) to one of the men cramped over a square of board with ink and pen, usually a notice to hire or fire. Quiet days too when it seemed he had no true reason to keep her around, no visitors calling upon him, nothing to do but sit reading a big book at his desk, rapidly flipping through the pages at times, she seated not far from him, in one of the chairs normally occupied by a guest. They took dinner at his favorite restaurant down the street, she waiting out back and eating her meal there while he stayed inside for as long as he wanted. (She could live with the waiting, although the food could have been better.)

  This new life uneventful by comparison to the old one, so much so that she had to fight to keep Little Thomas in her thoughts. The one drawback, the office required her constant presence before the General and forced her to give up the one good thing labor at the mansion had rewarded her with: a few minutes of privacy thickening in the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee, big cup little spoon, or to slip undetected into an unoccupied room, the steadiest satisfaction of her day.

  She whispers into his ear, Wait for me here.

  He hears.

  Cut that out. She squeezes his hand affectionately. Don’t talk so loud.

  He knows from experience that she will only be so long. So he stands and waits for her to return in the coolness of the shade, sunlight noisy around him. Heat transforms into hay under his feet. Wait for me here.

  Despite the caution with which he advances—he has been learning to slow down, their soft voices aiding him in this—despite running a hesitant hand along the barn wall, not anticipating any obstacles, he sends a pail crashing to the floor. Hanging empty. But the cows hang full. He leans his head on her shoulder. He gently probes her udders—this is a word he does not know—with his fingers. Cows and trees have branches. He gets on all fours and crawls into the cave beneath the cow, the anima
l spreading her legs farther apart to facilitate him, his entire body fully under the belly now, letting the soft branches above trail along and across his face. He pulls and squeezes and sucks. In a low voice the cow encourages and supports him. More.

  Milk spreads across the barnyard floor. More. He feels milk warm around his ankles. Hears it rising around him in the hall-filled barn.

  Truth be told, General Bethune is neither the best nor the worst man to serve under. Many pluses in his favor. He maintains an unimpeachable position in the public mind, among his own kind, for his continuing service to country, his advocacy of their national cause, its voice both in print and at the platform, his flair for coming up with the right ideas in laymen’s terms. Not just this—many think him a kind man, as he rarely speaks dark sentences to his wife, children, employees, or slaves. Rumors that it is enough for a man to express a desire and the General will take pity on him and help in whatever way he can. Has she not seen this herself? Perhaps this aspect of his personality, his shining and noble sentiments, feelings of generosity and altruism, might help her now. Knowing also—what is most important for her—he is a man from the outside who has neither understanding of nor affection for plantation life. But she must not feel tranquil standing before him as she is now. A white man—a master—has limits. Through experience she well knows that a good servant (nigger) must be able to cross both fire and water.

  So when—yet again—the General confronted her about her little Thomas, she gave the answer she thought he wanted and waited for him to reply as she thought he would—he did—and dismiss her for the night. She started for her cabin, her bosom swollen and heavy. She remembers how her Little Thomas would nurse with unexpected pauses and interruptions, a herky-jerky rhythm. He would stop sucking every so often, quiet and still. Then it occurred to her—or it occurs to her now—that he was actually stopping to listen to the sounds of his nursing. And if she, Mingo, or one of the girls spoke or made any sound he would pull his lips from her breast altogether, leaving the uncomfortable impression that the family, her included, were intruding on his feeding.

  By the time she entered the cabin she had recovered her outlook. Mingo was sitting on the bed, Little Thomas and the girls conspicuously absent. In his face she saw uneasiness and anticipation, but this time he did not ask her about the outcome. Her own nervousness and expectancy gave her a painful sensation in her chest. What if she were to tell him her feelings, namely, that she cannot think of any solution to gain time? How often noted the silent conversation between husband and wife, air itself projecting words that need no tongue to speak them. She was unable to acquaint her husband with the thoughts that had been passing through her mind for the last hour or more, so she sought to minister to his pleasures before the children returned.

  With something of the feeling of the night before a decisive battle, she was unable to sleep. This night, and the next, and many upon many. She is part mother, part more.

  Tell it fresh, she says to her oldest daughter. Not the same ole lies.

  The three lined up before her, elbow to elbow, like links in a chain. The expressions the same, threatening and at the same time afraid. (Was the fear of one the fear of the other?) Was she being unfair? Her own eyes told her that only the voices of the Bethunes, master and mistress, for whatever reason seemed to give Thomas pause. She suspects that the girls are willing to engage in the lowest imaginable tactics to manage their brother, bring him under control. Then too the more painful thought, the possibility of vile means for vile intentions, anger, spite, and ill will pushing the girls to punish him for all of his trouble, transactions of skin—she has not spared the rod—repaying in kind all she has paid them. He is bruised, black areas in the skin. He draws back from her touch. He wiggles out of her arms when she tries to hug him, a frantic animal chewing off a limb to limp free of a trap. What punishment will suffice? Her daughters (or is Thomas to blame?) have suddenly returned her the thoughts, the feelings, and the black griefs, which from her earliest childhood she had permanently entrusted to her white owners.

  She holds her most severe admonishments for her oldest daughter, whom she believes—she must believe something—is leading the other girls astray by the contagion of example.

  The girl watches her, hard-eyed and defiant. Don’t know why they always blaming me.

  She gives her a bold and specific instruction. (What alternative does she have? Plans, chances, undertakings. Hard questions, harder choices.) Starting tomorrow, tether Thomas to a post or tree. She goes so far as to suggest a location. The order fails to surprise the girl.

  Silently and with solemn slowness Mingo continues to eat his supper. Knife and spoon are instruments of wonder in his hands.

  Which tree? her daughter asks.

  In outrage Mingo allows the utensils to spill from his hands then pounds one fist on the table, the table splintering in the center, spreading an infectious silence, all in the room, all words, sound and language, caught in the web-like splinter. Startled too perhaps at this quiet man who rarely displays anger, who loses all of his powers of reasoning at the sight of violence. He gets up from the table and leaves the cabin.

  She goes out to check on him, to comfort him. Finds him sitting in the grass a few feet from the tub. She takes the tub and flips it over to use the bottom as a stool. Facing one another across the night. The first thing she does is to take his hand gently in hers and check it for signs of injury. I should send for the Doctor to inspect you, she says.

  Better you send fo God, Mingo says.

  No appeasing him. What tone will first light assume?

  The following day, she travels to the printing office with the General in customary fashion. Nothing different about this day except he doesn’t speak a single word to her. Come evening, together they return to Hundred Gates, the General to his white mansion and she to her knotty cabin, and after she has finished feeding her family, the new girl, Antoinette, all speed and efficiency, shows up at her cabin door; she stretches out a hesitant hand and meets Charity’s hand on the way; informs her that the Bethune—those exact words; what she always calls him, them—would have her up at the house.

  She finds herself in a vast green drawing room. General Bethune speaks her name. Then he says something about his regrets at having to impose a better discipline. Instructs her to fix a pallet in the back pantry off the kitchen. Tom will live and sleep here from now on.

  She stares directly into the face of her master.

  I suppose my wife will have to look after him, he says. Count yourself lucky, he says. Note my generosity. What might another man, a lesser man, have done in this circumstance? Always remember that. And be thankful.

  What a wild state he is in. Clattering, hissing, whistling, blowing off gauge cocks. Fire up the engine! Ringing his bell, thundering over bridges, whooping through tunnels. Fire up the engine! What muscles and what wind, dreadful hour after hour. Heavens, she thinks, will his devil never run his viewless express off the track and give her a rest? Fire up the engine!

  Tom chases his own voice about the room from one corner to the next:

  Tell him to come up

  I’ll do your Topley

  I met my mother in the morning

  Poor thing

  There there there

  Now comes the tutti

  Don’t be in a hurry

  Poor thing

  You hurt your Topley last night

  There there there

  Now he has gone up

  Into his mansion

  Poor thing

  Don’t be uneasy

  Until I see you

  Tom bites into the hard green apple. (Whale of an appetite.) The cold sweet grain against the roof of his mouth. Seeds perhaps. The shape of words enter and play at making sense. Leaves hover on the verge of speaking. Clutching at the air. Words rise to sky with the chickens but drop back to earth after a brief flight. Worms whisper marvelous things into his fingers and feet. And when others speak he can ta
ste their language and thoughts in his mouth.

  She taps the backs of his hands, just hard enough to hurt. No, Tom. Don’t put that in your mouth.

  No, Tom. A horse is not a big mouse.

  Tom, don’t eat standing up like a cow.

  This is food, Tom. Feel its heat enter your teeth.

  This is water, Tom. Feel the cool on your tongue. Note how it gives way like nothing else. And this is a flower. Put your nose right here and smell. Each color also has a smell. Both scent and touch allow us to distinguish one color from another.

  He repeats what she says, word for word. Tries it again, doing her voice a little longer.

  Tom punches the keys, pinches her awake.

  Miss Antoinette, he says. Who your pappy? He lets out a little scream of delight. Miss Antoinette, who your pappy?

  Tom makes a motion of swatting at the keys, as if warding off a swarm of flies. His arms are too short to span the entire ivory length, eighty-eight in all. (Proportions at work.) So he rocks from side to side on the stool to reach them. Music so foreign to the figure of the boy.

  Tom is a delight. A happy rumble. A welcome change of pace from her previous students. Rarely has she had one worthy of her efforts. Most of the parents refuse to invest in a piano at home, and when they do, it is something secondhand and second-rate. Might she make a diligent effort to drum up a better breed of trainees, because taking up with the inhabitants of their town doesn’t bear thinking about. She is in no mood to waste any more time at the pretense of instruction. Tom is a solid way to pass the time, seconds, hours, and minutes otherwise impoverished. Either in the town itself or on her estate how few entertainments or distractions. How similar it all seems after a while. A series of laboriously linked actions. Many affinities here. A sameness intensified by this uniform landscape and climate. No change in the weather really, no turning of the seasons, just an easing off of sun and heat twice each year, like the lowering and dimming of a lamp. (The female sex are said to be more tolerant and resistant.) And how deep the dark gets. The dim liquid lights of the lamps no match. How seldom have they gone on holiday in their many years of marriage. Such are the drawbacks of lifelong attachment to a man of importance, a Race man. And how seldom to spend sundry affairs with the man you love when he is rarely at the house, busy days and some nights, taken up with the dealings of his newspaper and politics. (Is she right in bemoaning her fate? After all she lives in a free city.) People’s real home is where they lay their head. She prefers Culture, and for this reason she prefers big cities, the bigger the better. They live in a town offering a poor impersonation of a city, empty miles stretching left and right. She would love to relocate to New Orleans—she has expressed this to James one or twice—Charlotte, or Atlanta, but preferably somewhere up North. (Blasphemy! If James knew. She dare not confide in him, although he wants it too.) True, age brings the advantage of history, insight, and wisdom, but also the disadvantage of the exhaustion of experience. The mind is locked in the fortress of the skull as the soul is forced to join the congregation known as the temple of the body. And the tired mind, tired soul, requires a new stimulation.