Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  He was unsure to what extent this journey would either verify or invalidate his beliefs and principles regarding travel, but the risk of a train ride—how shocked he was to unveil the heroism that had been concealed within him for so long and that was pushing him forward into new ventures—was meager in comparison to all he stood to gain. So be it. He was in a state of becoming. In a word, Tom summed up everything he desired.

  While he had made sure that both he and the boy dressed in light summer clothes—given the significantly cooler climates where they lived, this requirement entailed purchase of a new wardrobe, required his spending some tens of dollars of the six thousand or more that he had saved up over the years and that he carried on his person now—their fellow passengers were all starched and ironed. Some were red in the face from the heat and the weight and color of their dark garments. (The men had even refused to take off their hats. Perry Oliver never wore a hat and wouldn’t pretend to now.) And the numbers of bodies in the car only made it worse. Although the car was a first-class compartment, it was crowded and had been so from the start—and so it would be to the finish—three to a side with small windows—he would have preferred double—a narrow aisle, and no corridor. He had paid top dollar in the mistaken belief that he and Seven would have a compartment to themselves. A few hours after setting out, the journey began to seem tiresome and absurd, the heat uncomfortable, the smell (sweat and steam) offensive, the method of transportation violent, and the results increasingly uncertain. Seven did not seem to enjoy it any better, following the world outside the window with a sad worried expression. Every now and then he would shut his eyes and breathe desperately. He was thin and anxious—Perry Oliver often had to remind the boy to keep his hands still—and had been from the very moment Perry Oliver brought him into his service those many months ago. (How long has it been? Yes, nearly two years and counting.) The traveling clothes Perry Oliver had purchased for him did little to improve his appearance, as the new tailored order of neat angles and patterns was disrupted by the old familiar chaos of the boy’s sloppily manufactured cap. This matter of a ratty cap could easily be accounted for. The little traveling they did do by train always made Seven feel like someone important, although Perry Oliver’s custom of keeping the boy in the dark, of failing to reveal to him where they were going or why—Perry Oliver had his reasons—never seemed to bother him. In fact, it brought a lifting of spirits, a ritualistic sending-off that necessitated the donning of this favorite cap, a cheap beaver skin that fit his head somewhat too snugly. Perry Oliver wondered, had he himself purchased the ugly cap—when? where?—or did the boy already own it when he came into his service?

  Seven?

  Sir?

  Answer me this one question. Where did you get that godforsaken cap?

  From the getting place.

  It was not the answer he expected. Surprised (shocked?), one mind told him to challenge Seven’s statement and press for the clarity of detail—when? where?—even if for no other reason than to instruct the boy in the proper method of answering a question—Rule number one: Always answer in a complete sentence. Rule number two …—while his other told him to let it stand, for the phrase had a certain enchantment that, momentarily at least, took his mind away from the drudgeries of travel and the mental worries of his scheduled meeting with General Bethune, as it hinted at some deeper penetration, made him ponder about what it held back. Seven’s wide serious face seemed to suggest that he was almost afraid, forbidden, to pronounce the name. All the better if the boy had thoughts and projects he did not disclose. Up to now Perry Oliver suspected (feared?) that he might be, through either birth or upbringing—Perry Oliver had few pertinent facts about either—totally empty.

  He rocked to and fro—was he moving his body or was the train directing it?—half dozing, his whole mind on the contract and cash in his briefcase until the city rose up out of the landscape, a black shapeless mass that air and sky began to mold into a recognizable form with each passing mile. Even at a distance of twenty miles it was little more than a church steeple rising up from and pinning down the horizon, but as they drew nearer he could see small houses huddled on its outskirts, placed down in patches of crops, then large farmlands radiating outward from white mansions, looking down on rows of cabins and shacks like badly aligned teeth, then the city itself with its town hall and three-story buildings and stone streets. Bell clanging and steam rising, the engine pulled them into the station. Hardly had they stopped before an army officer forced his way into the overflowing car, followed by a second soldier with a rifle mounted across his chest. They moved slowly from one end of the car to the other, row by row, staring down into the face of each passenger. Satisfied, they moved on to the next car. (Perhaps additional officers and soldiers were performing this very same duty on the other cars, serial repetition and imitation.) Only then could the passengers detrain.

  Even with the shade awning overhanging the platform, the hard midday light stunned Perry Oliver quiet. Everyone’s face had the longing for something cool and wet. A small group of soldiers stood posted along the stationhouse platform. Seven’s eyes widened in admiration at the sight of them. He even stopped to look. What next? Would he ask for an autograph? Perry Oliver spoke his name to move him along. Miniature suitcase in hand, Seven resumed walking, turning his head for a final look or two and stepping on the heels of the person in front of him.

  Mind your feet, Perry Oliver said. He might have said more. But he understood that little minds mistake strength and action for beauty, are crushed by pomp and spectacle. Why bother challenging such vulgar perceptions? Seven had many other annoying qualities that caused Perry Oliver greater distress.

  For a respite from the heat (the sun at least) and the travel, Perry Oliver decided to take the boy for dinner inside the station diner. They had their choice of a table since few patrons were inside, mostly men traveling alone who would walk up to the bar and order a beer or whiskey before taking a stool and struggling out of their jackets and vests, which they threw across their laps. Perry Oliver ordered the special. The boy wanted hard-boiled eggs and lemonade. They took their time about eating. Trains came and went. They lowered their napkins and left them behind on the table, then returned to the platform, feeling all the better for it.

  Nigger porters were busy, attending to luggage and freight, some carrying trunks, boxes, or crates on their backs and showing remarkable speed despite their top-heavy condition. (Many riders were returning from vacations, bearing magnificent purchases.) One older porter sidled over to take their bags. Seven glared angrily at the nigger when he reached for his suitcase. Perry Oliver had witnessed this struggle before. It was not so much that the boy believed the porter a thief but that the relinquishing of his bag lowered his own sense of self-importance, for he feared that his fellow citizens would observe his luggageless condition and label him as another anonymous urchin, a hanger-on awaiting a handout, or even worse, a conniving thief or troublemaker.

  Allow him to perform his job, Perry Oliver said. Go fetch us a taxi.

  The boy hurried off under his ill-fitting beaver cap, which looked like some mad animal that had seized his skull. He stopped to peer into one carriage only to pass it up and run up to the next, where he stopped and stared in. He approached every carriage one and all in such fashion. Then he returned to Perry Oliver with his head lowered.

  Where is our taxi?

  None were suitable, sir. They got niggers doing the driving.

  He had to restrain himself from slapping the boy. (He had slapped the boy once or twice, always with good reason, a calculated chastisement, and never in anger.) They were in public. Don’t be stupid, he said. Niggers are the best drivers.

  Seven looked at him, surprised by the words. He did all their driving back home.

  Please go and fetch us a taxi.

  Moving at a much slower pace than before, the boy went to fetch a taxi.

  Time and again, Perry Oliver reproached himself with the qu
estion, Why did I settle for this boy instead of another? And why do I continue to put up with him? He did not know the answer. True, the boy was a loyal and dependable driver. (Driving their old carriage was one of his few chores that Perry Oliver would gladly admit that the boy performed with remarkable skill, totally to Perry Oliver’s satisfaction.) And the boy had one other good quality: he needed little beyond what he already possessed under Perry Oliver’s service—food, shelter, and his beaver cap. However, he had continual reason to wonder if this boy could be left to supervise a peculiar nigger pianist (his eventual duty), since these past two years (three?), not one day had passed without some upset. I’m sorry, sir was a ritual habit. He certainly felt no pity for the boy—in fact, he had no feeling at all for the boy; well, perhaps he had to admit he had some—and he certainly felt no parental obligation or duty to keep him fed and employed. (Perry Oliver was almost thirty and still did not know if he liked children or if he would want to father and raise a son or daughter himself someday.) So it pained him, made him feel serious disgust for himself, that he tolerated this boy. Seven had no idea why he had come into this world, why he had been created. He could only visualize himself in the future as rich and important. What are your plans? Perry Oliver would ask him.

  Be rich and handsome. And I will have a strong body to carry all of my riches.

  Perry Oliver strongly believed that Seven was set for a life of repeated mistakes and constant suffering. Perhaps he should be looking to replace the boy? He told himself that he could do better. He had to do better. The boy’s days were numbered.

  These were his thoughts as the taxi driver helped him and the boy into the hooded space of the carriage. By the time he took his seat the fabric of his pants had gone wet against his skin, the cotton hot and sticky.

  Without even remembering the how and when, Perry Oliver was awakened from a nap with several knocks on his door and a voice telling him that the innkeeper Mrs. Rudge was calling him down for supper. He pulled the door open to find her curious nigger servant standing there with his head wrapped in a bonnet and his body strapped in an apron, and with Seven at his side, looking rested.

  The hand Mrs. Rudge gave him was plump but weightless. A fleshy petal, the red-painted nails like shiny beetles stuck to a flower. She was extremely thin and extremely ugly in both shape and face. Even her eyebrows looked deprived, like two thin columns of ants lined up on her pale and powdered skin, powder that helped her countenance none. She seated them at the largest table Perry Oliver had ever seen, one that could easily accommodate twenty people, already laid and glittering with linen and silver. Seven got up from the chair where Mrs. Rudge had placed him and hustled off to the end of the table farthest away from Perry Oliver.

  Perry Oliver took his time about finishing his plate. If the food was not bad enough, his napkin—the cheap material stiffened with too much starch—was rough against his lips. Once he placed his napkin on the table, the nigger in the white bonnet and apron cleared away plates, bowls, cups, and utensils then made a pot of tea. Mrs. Rudge took the kettle and poured out three glasses. Standing, drinking her tea, she turned her talk to matters of the city, the estates and the harvests, the people of consequence, local men of great importance and the noticeable men of lesser importance. Perry Oliver was quick to realize that the conventional, definitive nature of her views and convictions was a barrier between him and the truth. Nonetheless, he tried to learn what he could about General Bethune—she had mentioned him time and again—without being obvious about it. The General had done a great deal of good in that city and the people loved him. He dispensed charity without stopping to consider whether he should or not. Paid poor schoolboys’ fees. Took coffee, sugar, and molasses to widows and old ladies. Gave indigent brides dresses, and grooms tails. Found homes for niggers who had unexpectedly lost their owners. What she told him confirmed another one of Perry Oliver’s theories: the city valued the part of General Bethune that he himself valued the least.

  From what Mrs. Rudge related, in the final months of his wife’s lengthy illness General Bethune had to hire a man to handle the daily operations of the newspaper, a task that would have fallen to his son Sharpe, who was away from the family for recognizable periods of time. And then too, General Bethune had the additional concern of his three daughters. After the loss of their mother, the girls spent their waking moments walking about the mansion and grounds, prayer books in hand. Mrs. Rudge went on to narrate a detailed account of the wake, funeral, and burial. We are all saddened by his recent loss. Such a noble woman. I counted her among my oldest and dearest friends. From the time she was a child she had a heart of glass. General Bethune gave permission for anyone who so desired to attend the funeral, even farmers and niggers, on condition that they did not wear mourning clothes. He himself came in uniform, his military outfit from twenty years earlier freshly tailored to account for new flesh and pounds. The girls were terribly overwrought at the loss of their mother, but Sharpe was hit especially hard. He had actually dropped to his knees at the gravesite. Otherwise it was a quiet and beautiful gathering, as an appreciative city had put forward the money to have the grave dug with silver spades, and to have the pallbearers lower the fine casket into the earth with golden chains.

  As if to rest her voice for a moment before she continued her narration, Mrs. Rudge performed a casual turn of her head in Seven’s direction, saw the boy, and trembled with a little shock of recognition. Dear, boy, she said. You must find this talk disagreeable. How could I have lost track? Please, join me in the parlor.

  Perry Oliver declined. Mrs. Rudge and Seven retired to the parlor where she promised to entertain the boy on an upright piano, while Perry Oliver departed for his room highly satisfied with the conversation if not the supper. He was not displeased at having heard the most recent details about General Bethune’s state of mind and health, for whatever he learned he could use. He was not unlike a general planning his strategy the night before a big battle. (So he viewed himself.) For this reason he couldn’t help wondering why she had omitted Tom from her narration. He had wanted to ask, And what about their strange nigger boy? Any word about him?

  A month earlier while he was enjoying his morning coffee, he saw a notice in the paper about the death of Mary Bethune. He set the paper aside, even as the black words he had perused remained in his mind like a bird perched on a high limb. Sunlight caught the glossy surface of his coffee cup, and he leaned forward and perched his chin on the metal rim. Peered down into the hollow interior, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever might be hidden in the darkness feet or miles below.

  He ordered Seven to ready the carriage. The speed with which he responded was astounding, as was the speed with which he drove. Their little house was a good thirty miles out from the edge of town, but they reached his lawyer’s office in what seemed a single moment of action. He hurried through the door, Seven behind him, pulled up a chair, and put forth everything directly and boldly. With attentive calculation, his lawyer took up a pen and wasted no time in drawing up a contract registering nuances both foreseeable and unforeseen.

  The settling of ink brought the first moment of pause. Perry Oliver tried to remember the appropriate code of conduct and obligation. By the time they left the office with the dried contract, he had decided that such code required his wiring a few words of condolence to General Bethune. That done he purchased two first-class train tickets, and it was only his realization that they had neither suitcase nor clothes that stopped him from actually boarding the train. While his first mind told him to strike while the iron was hot, meaning arrive in time for the funeral and the burial, after which he would seek the most opportune moment to take the widower aside and lay out his proposition and produce his contract, this deficiency in items of travel afforded his second mind to direct him to wait a week, even two. Certainly that man is greedy of life who should desire to live when all the world is at an end. Yes, he would have to hold back and wait a week or two. No purity of heart mot
ivating his decision but clear cold awareness that he could not risk being so dangerously blunt.

  He spent the next week drafting a letter to General Bethune, applied himself with extreme calm and single-mindedness—he didn’t take to writing easily—to construct long studied sentences appealing to the widower’s political sympathies. Bethune’s newspaper, the Columbus Observer, made no pretense at hiding his nationalism; the General wanted freedom now, independence now: Fellow citizens, ready our sharpshooters. The best army will be the army with the best eyes—crafty calculated words that both concealed and revealed their true significance. He made himself wait another week before he mailed the letter, day after day sitting and glaring down at the contract glistening on the table before him. In the third week he got his response in the form of a one-word telegram: Friday.

  General Bethune would sign. Little doubt there. Perry Oliver banked his success on a simple observation. Through his limited travels, he had come to believe that no one in the South knew what to expect or what was supposed to happen without a war. (One thing he was certain about: he would not be maimed or killed in battle since he had no plans to enlist, for he was no patriot.) These existing expectations would provide his means of winning over the General. But what would happen after General Bethune accepted his proposition? Management was an understood business, Perry Oliver’s way of earning his bread, but a raw black feeling moved through his body—charcoal clunking through the blood—whenever he tried to picture in anticipatory outline managing a peculiar talent like Tom.

  He undressed at the open window, the air on his body stiff and heavy, a second set of clothes. It came as no surprise that night here came suddenly, quick as a guillotine. Followed by a soft gradual blooming as people lit lamps in their houses and on the streets. Then a smell like dead cows clumped through the window. He guessed that niggers and women were boiling wax for candles. Hardly had he completed the thought when the sound of the piano came up through the floorboards and walls as in counterpoint or accompaniment to the smell, the light, the scene. The only good thing about Mrs. Rudge’s playing was that the piano was in tune. If her hands were pedestrian, her voice was worse. She sang so loudly it was impossible to hear anything else. But without knowing why he listened so intensely it tired him out.