Mary Bethune was the first person to welcome Perry Oliver. She left her husband’s side—pink, white, and red roses blooming up behind his shoulders and back—and came over to Perry Oliver and introduced herself, offering him a white-gloved hand. He didn’t have one sentence ready in case she should ask him how he came to be invited to her party. (He had not been invited.) Taking evasive measures, he tried ingratiating himself, complimenting her on the house and the grounds and the servants and the food and wine. Well, she said. You are here to enjoy yourself. Let me know if it all meets your satisfaction. For now, I beg your leave, she said, but I must pay my respects to—she soon moved off to greet other guests.
Another guest, a pretty young woman, a bright vision of elegance in her flowing white gown—some fancy drape guarding a sculptor’s prized creation—came over and started up a conversation. Somehow the talk got around to the Bethune children. The young woman raised a slender wrist sparkling with three silver bracelets of separate diameter and actually pointed out their son, Sharpe, who was standing in another segment of the garden with a circle of listeners. Is that so? He feigned interest. Took her hand into both of his own. What a pleasure this has been. She raised her chin to move her face closer to his. He let her hand fall. If you will excuse me. Freed himself of her company under the pretense that he was off to meet the son. And there she stood, smiling, while he hurried through waves of guests bustling about with cheerful faces. But he only walked far enough to observe and listen.
Sharpe was a handsome man of around twenty—some vague resemblance between him and his father, or mother for that matter, although there was more of her in his facial features—possessing that special self-consciousness that only actors have. (He was no professional actor, as far as Perry Oliver knew.) He wore a splendid shirt and tie, without a jacket. But the most striking thing about him was the exceptional length of his legs, which he displayed in well-polished knee-length black leather boots. The young women in attendance certainly seemed stirred by the style and quality of his dress, but he struck Perry Oliver as dull, colorless, and stupid, for the moment anyone started a discussion with him he would start talking about himself—what concerts he had attended, what paintings he had seen, what business he had conducted, where he hoped to travel. Otherwise he spoke about things that were common knowledge. He seemed most engaged with people of comparable age and tastes.
As though he had heard every silent word and wished to prove Perry Oliver wrong, Sharpe actually parted company with the circle and sought out a group of elderly guests to talk to. At one point Perry Oliver was engaged in conversation with another pretty young woman—about breeding expensive racehorses, a subject he cared little about—and since the lady’s perfect lips were taking too long to form a word, he turned his head to discover that Sharpe was watching him. It was hard to say how long he had been looking. He did not come over. Instead he found a group of elderly women and started kissing hands and cheeks.
The party went on this way. Perry Oliver seemed to always catch the attention of some busybody who liked to rattle on. He sometimes smiled and sometimes sputtered at a loss for words. Even found himself repeating phrases in parrot fashion. He blamed himself. What kind of feeling, what motive had compelled him to linger in this city for a full week to attend a party of posers reeking of elitism, and at that, a party he had not been invited to?
A week earlier while he was on business at the orphanage—the director corrected him, We are a Christian mission—he had overheard the elderly director discussing the party with her young assistant, holding up the perfumed invitation to the other woman’s nose. The orphanage had turned out to be of little use to him—he would have better luck finding an understudy a few days later in the next town he visited—but he did learn of this party being put on by perhaps the most powerful man in the county, General Bethune, a newspaper publisher and political player. He decided to hang around. So, here he was, thoroughly bored and wanting to leave. (He also worried at the thought of chancing upon the fragrance-awed orphanage director or her assistant. Why hadn’t he thought about this sooner?) But leaving might be awkward. So he continued to make conversation mechanically, careful not to make the error of stretching the truth too little or too much or of supposing too soon or too late. And he went on this way until they were called into the mansion.
Barely a minute after all of the guests had taken their seats, Perry Oliver saw General Bethune struggling into the room, his fists gripped around the looped ends of two black canes. (So that was why General Bethune had remained standing in one place back in the garden.) The son Sharpe was at his side, walking at a measured pace with his hands behind his back and carrying on an ordinary conversation with his father. The other guests seemed to notice them as well, and their chatter started to die down, replaced by a gradual hush. Father and son seated themselves in two of the three mahogany chairs positioned under the mantelpiece of the marble fireplace. Then the Bethunes’ three daughters entered the room, dressed in white gowns, each with a different shade of rose—red, white, yellow—pinned to her collar. All three girls wore their hair wound in a Grecian knot. Perry Oliver estimated that they ranged in age from seven to ten, which meant that the oldest of the three daughters was only half Sharpe’s age.
Mary Bethune returned to the room, with a little nigger boy walking beside her, hand in hand. She led him over to the piano, where he sat down perfectly straight on the stool and positioned it under him with the legs turned at a slight angle toward the audience. He was no more than ten feet away from Perry Oliver, who would estimate that the boy was no older than five or six (although with a nigger age was never certain). His eyes bulged as if someone had fitted stones in the hollow sockets then sealed them over. They had outfitted him in a black suit with short sleeves and pants and a freshly pressed white shirt with a rounded collar. His hair was as glossy as his highly polished shoes. There on the angled stool he started twitching his shoulders and trembling as if he were feverish. He seemed to move his head in the direction of the daughters, who giggled when they saw his curious gesture.
This is our prized attraction for the evening, Mary Bethune said, our boy, Tom. Rather than prejudice the performance that you are about to see and hear, I will ask that Tom simply begin. Mary Bethune took a seat slotted between her husband and son.
Tom positioned his small hands over the ivory keys and began playing the piano so violently that the furniture rattled and the paintings on the wall trembled. Perry Oliver kept a mistrustful ear to a melody that ran along, then jerked at intervals.
While Tom played, the three daughters remained perfectly still, only the occasional movement of an eye, a twitching of a nose, or a trickle of sweat indicating that they were living and breathing creatures. Even as he played, two niggers dressed in white top hats, tails, and gloves went about serving the guests savories and dainty glasses of French wine from silver trays. (Hungry, Perry Oliver would have been satisfied with a main dish.)
Tom sounded the chord that closed his first song. His listeners gave him generous applause, a sound that sent him into long loud fits of laughter and handclapping. General Bethune and his wife looked at each other. They seemed equally delighted to see Tom receiving such a warm response. The wife was smiling openly, and her husband showed some easing up of his habitual reticence, only to quickly resume his old expression, perhaps thinking it an improper display of affection.
As the applause died down, Perry Oliver heard someone whisper behind him, Now that’s my kind of nigger. He’ll do what you tell him with his eyes closed.
Tom began his next song. In Perry Oliver’s hearing and perception, the music broke off now and again, and the great glass over the mantelpiece, faced by the other great console glass at the opposing wall, increased and multiplied the image of Tom at the piano, until you saw the piano fading away in endless perspectives. The music knew no denial. Perry Oliver felt like a hunter being lured into ambush by some unidentified prey just up ahead beyond his field of
vision. Music set the trail. Somehow in all of this he managed to study the faces of those seated around him. Their eyes were mocking, tender, clear. And perhaps their eyes showed something else that he had no name for and that they themselves would fail to name even if they knew it existed. (Best they didn’t know, for awareness negated any possibility of acknowledgment and could only bring denial under the regulatory lens of social custom.)
It went on this way, Tom fingering one song after another. Perry Oliver could not recognize any of the melodies let alone the titles because he knew little about music. His entire life he had been uncomfortable with sounds. He knew this much: the disparate lines of the party—the chattering, the laughter, each guest’s clever or stupid remark, every grace and gesture, the shoes and clothing made of the simplest materials or the most fancy, the attendees in all of their perfections and defects—took pattern and form in the melodies, chords, and rhythms of Tom’s piano. The more Tom played, the more frenzied he became. He turned his blind eyes and face to the audience and shouted “Look at me!” or “How about this?” or “Let’s see you do that!” or “Straight now!” or simply “Hey!” Perry Oliver might have been mistaken, but he would have bet money, and plenty of it, that Tom was expressing the comments for Perry Oliver’s ears only.
With a great rising, waving, and falling of his hands, Tom closed a song and immediately stood up from his stool and took a stagy sort of bow. All of the objects in the room returned to their customary place, piece by piece, as did the various layers of Perry Oliver’s skin. (A week later, two weeks, he could still hear the music buzzing softly at the back of his skull.) The audience greeted the finale with a standing ovation that caused Tom to begin bowing again and again, like some well-oiled or broken machine.
Guests began to leave their seats and gather around the performer and his master and mistress at the piano. It took some effort for Perry Oliver to take to his feet, but he worked his way around the gathering bodies to squeeze within touching distance of Tom, evening sun reflecting off the boy’s black form. (While Tom played, Perry Oliver had felt, heard, and remembered nothing of the weather.) Perry Oliver was so agitated and exhausted he couldn’t evaluate what he had heard—was it good or bad?—with a cool head. Closer up, he could see that Tom’s hands were dirty, the nails rough as if he’d been scratching and gouging the earth.
One after another the guests praised General Bethune and his wife to the skies.
What a remarkable find.
I’ve seen nothing like it.
They were skilled appraisers, knowing when to pause to let a compliment sink in.
Did you really enjoy it? Mary Bethune asked.
Why of course.
Need you ask?
I’m so pleased, Mary Bethune said.
From their place behind the piano, the three daughters rose in unison and went to stand among themselves near the fireplace then seemed to decide against standing and took the seats formerly occupied by their brother and parents.
Tom is quite something, General Bethune said. He infuses our best melodies and harmonies with a barbaric element.
Yes.
And you should hear him sing, he said. My wife prefers his playing, but I’ll take a good song any day.
Fascinating creature.
How do you explain it?
A conundrum of Nature.
God.
Or the devil.
How did you acquire him? someone asked.
Nothing in the Bethunes’ manner of expression showed that they had heard. So Perry Oliver asked, How old is he?
Mary Bethune stopped one of the fancily dressed niggers and took some old porcelain cups from the silver serving tray he was holding, then personally poured each guest in the immediate vicinity a mouthful or two of steaming tea from a silver kettle. You must really try this tea, she said.
Tom? an elderly gentleman asked. I don’t believe I recognize that last allemande. What’s it from?
Tom rubbed his knuckles against his teeth.
You play delightfully.
Other guests set about paying their compliments to Tom and his master and mistress. Tom responded to the remarks with a faint tilt of the head, a raised jaw, and random nods and head shakes directed at no one in particular. Mary Bethune put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and pulled him back into her body, hugged him as if she were protecting him from ghosts, while the daughters sat silently before the fireplace, snuggling close to each other like tiny animals feeling the cold, and watching this world of adults with amusement perhaps or terror.
A pretty young woman, earrings glinting like stars from the darkness of her tanned skin, stood smiling at the boy. His head rose as he caught her scent, and his hand rose too, reached out and touched her bare arm near the shoulder. She shivered.
Perry Oliver spoke at that moment. I really enjoyed your playing, Tom.
Tom spun around to face him. Mary Bethune looked at Perry Oliver.
Tom, she said, this is Mr. Perry Oliver from Savannah.
Her statement impressed Perry Oliver. She had remembered his name and an important particular, though they had spoken for only a few minutes.
Tom peered up, merry-looking. Hello, Mr. Perry Oliver. Tom reached out and took Perry Oliver’s hand, his own still trembling from the music. Glad to meet you. He gave Perry Oliver’s hand a painfully wild squeeze and pull. And just as suddenly threw the hand free.
The lines in Mary Bethune’s face tightened. He seems to respond to you, she said. She studied Perry Oliver’s face. Most unusual.
Whatever thoughts she was trying to puzzle together were interrupted when Tom walked off in the direction of the fireplace without warning. The blind boy moved—he walked with the same small quick steps of his mistress—without stumbling into objects or chairs over to where the daughters were seated. They stood up from their seats to greet him. The oldest girl hugged him, while the youngest rose up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. Then one of the girls said something Perry Oliver couldn’t hear. Shut up, Mary, Tom said, pushing her back. And he set off lumbering through the room, the little girls screaming with laughter as they pursued him and tried to catch him. When he neared the piano, he trotted over to it and leaned over the keys, where he did some violent hammering with one fist, as if he were trying to nail the keys in place. Mary Bethune retrieved the boy—the girls hurried off to their former seats at the fireplace—and returned him to his position beside her husband.
Once again, Tom reached out and took Perry Oliver’s hand. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Perry Oliver from Savannah. He pumped the hand in steady rhythm.
Tom, Mary Bethune said.
He released the hand. The girls tittered and giggled.
Tom broke away from his mistress and began moving through the crowd, firmly and impulsively grasping the hand of one guest after another, and squealing (singing?), Hi, sir. Hi, madame. Good day to you, sir. How’s the weather, madame? Soon he was rushing about the room, bumping into both servants and guests and screaming, Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people. Mary Bethune’s face quivered with embarrassment. Her husband lowered his eyes to hide his feelings. With her natural quickness, Mary managed to corner Tom and calm him with one touch of his elbow. He allowed her to lead him out of the room. The three girls got up from their chairs and followed.
Not long after, the party drew to an official close. General Bethune stood by the French doors leading out of the room and offered good wishes as each guest departed, many of the women kissing his hand, as if he were some sort of holy man. General Bethune was the only person Perry Oliver said good-bye to when he left. He had so much he wanted to say to the man about Tom, but the General stood before the opened door and seemed far away in his mind and somewhat put-upon. Once Perry Oliver was in the garden, he noticed some object—gray in color? He couldn’t say with distance and the distorting light—on the lawn. He took it up, with an immediate lifting of scent. It was a perfumed invitation that one of the guests had left behind, wi
th all of the necessary facts—date, time, location—printed in fine type on cream-colored paper—not gray—with a red border. He folded the invitation in half and placed it in his pocket.
On his way to the main road, he was surprised to discover that the Bethune estate actually had an abundance of gardens, sectioned off by wrought iron fences six feet in height, fences that were no doubt crafted by the finest nigger hands in the county. Pine trees grew by spiraling iron shafts. He wandered into one garden after another easing about, noticing but failing to truly observe the colorful flowers in fading evening light. Strolled all the way down to a pond where he sat on the bank and looked thoughtfully at the water. The gloomy pines with their shaggy roots stood motionless and dumb. After some time he crawled on all fours to the edge of the pond and dipped his face into the water and gulped the fresh liquid, his eyes open, seeing all the way down to the bottom into another better world.
Two years later, Perry Oliver boarded a hot autumn train—cloth suitcase weighing down one hand, leather briefcase weightless in the other—with his young assistant, Seven, a boy not yet a teen, to make a journey of several hundred miles for a speculative sit-down business conference with General Bethune—a man he had met once and a man he had come to despise after all he had learned since that meeting—an interview that might provide him nothing and cost him everything. He suffered at the thought of travel, for he had a theory that each mile of travel shortened a man’s life by months, even years. Distance ages us, not time.
These speculations were reason enough for Perry Oliver to remain homebound—he felt no disappointment for places he had not seen—and for him to, on a daily basis, sit and do nothing, as much as possible. He would admit that this habit of pondering disagreeable facts and suppositions—he estimated that he repeated his theory five or six times a day to an audience that was always the same, always interested: himself (curious how little the ideas of an individual vary)—always brought with it a measure of certainty and comfort, but he also believed himself savvy enough to recognize the possible limitations of his theory, to distinguish what was probable truth from what was improbable exaggeration. Any man who hoped to make his way in the world needed an ability to see both sides of an issue.
Song of the Shank Page 23