Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Perry Oliver awakened when he heard the door to the adjacent room open, then he hurried out of his room and caught Seven just as the boy sat down on his bed to remove his boots. He stood silently in front of the boy. In the lamplight the boy’s eyes were large and black. Perry Oliver was trembling with anger.

  Seven.

  Yes, suh.

  Sir.

  Sir.

  Must I remind you yet again to think before you speak?

  I do think, sir.

  If only you did. He went over and took the boy’s face in one hand and studied it as if it were a gem. Seven.

  Yes, sir.

  Use this tool between your two shoulders.

  Either reflection or confusion reshaped the muscles in Seven’s face.

  He returned to his room, put on his nightshirt, and got into bed. He waited fifteen minutes then knocked three times on the wall. The boy answered back with three knocks.

  He was so tired that his eyes closed of their own accord. Far away a steam engine whistled its cry. His last waking thoughts were about Tom. In dream or reality he heard the boy signal three taps on the wall. He did not answer.

  Even in sleep he shivered now and then despite the heat. At some point during the night the cold forced him to get up and shut the window. He returned to bed and pulled the covers over his body, one layer after another, these layers that brought a force of buoyancy and motion. He felt the bed drifting on waves of black water.

  Perry Oliver did not begin to feel any better until the following morning when they were in the moving taxi, the carriage squeaking and trembling on the slow uneven approach to Hundred Gates, some ten miles south of the city. And the lifting of his spirits was either so sudden or so gradual he hadn’t noticed it. He found himself reflecting on what Mrs. Rudge had said about General Bethune’s acts of charity and found solace in the reflection. (Was it something in her gestures this morning, her acts of kindness toward Seven that brought it on?) As far as he knew, Bethune made his money solely from his newspaper. (Perhaps he had some investments. Only a fool would rule out that possibility.) His charitable acts caused Perry Oliver to suspect that General Bethune might have some personal debts that he would be too ashamed to tell anyone about and that caused him considerable distress, these facts demanding the necessary cover-up and temporary relief that certain public spectacles might provide.

  Their horse was actually galloping, the hooves digging like spades into the dirt road, carrying them from city to countryside, a gain in nature. Speed and rushing air brought the feeling that the winds above were racing far ahead of him in warning. Heat broke into colors such that living creatures seemed to be moving against a painted backdrop. Niggers drying fish along the riverbank, their cane poles stuck into the mud in odd formations, like impoverished tents deprived of their canvas covers. In the distance niggers struggling up tree-covered hills, baskets balanced on their heads, or wedged across their backs. Poor farmers emerging from three-windowed little houses, working small plots of land. Bonfires of manure, straw, and other refuse crackling and smoldering—human heat adding to natural heat—and every now and then niggers drifting through the smoke like shadows. Perry Oliver found no vitality or beauty in people at work. What did these planters see in it all? Why this love of the land? The whole air smelled like hard labor. He did not dare to take a deep breath. Who knew what diseases and plagues lurked in this air?

  The coachman halted the horse near the main lawn of a white, newly painted and plastered three-story mansion, the very same mansion that Perry Oliver had visited two years earlier and that to all appearances was unchanged beyond new paint and new plaster. The sprawling main lawn was freshly cut. They stepped out of the taxi onto the dirt road at the gates of Hundred Gates, no gate really, but two chest-high posts constructed from a motley collection of brick and stone. The cement walkway leading up to the porch was lined with a column of oaks on either side, each tree identical to the others in width and height, forming—for Perry Oliver—a monotonous picture.

  It would take them a good five minutes to reach the porch. Perry Oliver held Seven at arm’s length and took stock, noticing that the boy was already defiled since his morning wash, two white lines of dried saliva stretching across his mouth and lips. Matter-of-factly (without fuss, anger, or disgust), he retrieved his handkerchief and presented it to the boy. Nodded for him to clean his mouth. Made him remove the beaver cap and tuck it under his arm.

  Do you know why we are here? he asked.

  On the assumption of important business, Seven said.

  Well put. Display your best behavior, as I will display mine.

  Yes, sir.

  Side by side, man and boy walked up the paved path toward the house, under late August light that somehow managed to find its way through the trees and slash at a low angle, almost horizontal, into their heads into their eyes. The scene presented the vacancy and hush that is often said to accompany an ambush. Of creatures human or animal, they saw but one: a little male nigger whom Perry Oliver placed in his early twenties, who was sitting under a tree outside the garden, quaking as if somebody had routed him from his warm bed and forced him out into the cold. He raised his head and looked at them wide-eyed, but he did not rise to either greet or stop them. Something in his gaze caused Perry Oliver to quicken his step and reach the porch, get out of the open and under cover. And there he stood, feeling vulnerable as he prepared to push the bell and knock on the door.

  The door opened to reveal a Negro servant, roughly equivalent in age to the nigger sitting under the tree, with a black head covering knotted at the back of her neck. She gave Perry Oliver a look of recognition—he had never seen her before—and confusion. She turned her face to change her line of sight, as if she were deeply embarrassed.

  Good morning, he said. She said nothing in response. I am Perry Oliver and have an audience before General Bethune.

  She turned from the door without speaking to him, an action that clearly indicated she expected him to follow. And follow he and Seven did. She was slender, fine-boned, dark, but not as slender as she looked at first sight. Older perhaps too. From his vantage point behind her, Perry Oliver noted several rolls of fat on her neck, covered with the finest skin. In the rooms they passed he sought to detect any traces of grief—flowers, black ribbons or cloth, black draperies. Seven walked with difficulty on account of his effort to keep his head high in continuous observation, face turned first this way then that, only too easily distracted and impressed by every glorious adornment, almost stumbling over his own feet at times when he attempted repeated looks. In contrast Perry Oliver saw less with each step, as each movement brought an intensification of his nervousness and a decrease in his awareness so that by the time they finally stopped walking, the details of the house had barely impinged upon his thoughts.

  The room she led them into was large and airy, teeming with furniture—sofas, spindly chairs and armchairs with curved backs, a chaise longue, little tables with spidery legs, and a stool tucked under a grand piano. Every surface except the piano top was crowded with objects: tall blue vases (porcelain from China, Perry Oliver assumed), Venetian mirrors with flowers, small porcelain plates with gold rims and floral designs, bowls filled with rose petals, fancy clocks, and silver-framed portraits and sweeping landscapes of ample dimensions. And there were golden cornices and polished wainscoting and mahogany chairs positioned before a large marble fireplace. Only then did he realize that this was the very same ballroom he had visited two years earlier.

  You can wait in here. She walked away.

  He had expected, Please wait in here, suh. Kindly inform me if I may be of service.

  A general? Seven asked, rooted to the spot in amazement, his dream showing on his face.

  Perry Oliver looked at the boy but did not answer him.

  A short time later, General Bethune limped into the room through one of the French doors aided by his two black canes, throwing out one and then the other to pull his body forwar
d, less an image of oddity and weakness than of comfort and habit, for he moved with an ease that showed he had grown accustomed to his condition. (Most assumed that the General had suffered a battle wound during the Indian Wars, but Perry Oliver had read somewhere that he had fallen off an unruly horse here at home several years after the war he had served in ended.) The canes were weird instruments that amplified the man in Perry Oliver’s vision, raising him up the way a scaffold might thrust one’s face into the cracked details of a painting. He was untidily dressed and poorly groomed, as if he had been awakened from a nap. Perhaps the death of his wife had pushed him to a new stage of his malady. Indeed, Perry Oliver had expected as much, knowing that the General would be vulnerable, confused even, as his wife’s death brought with it new burdens for a parent and an owner. But would it fall to his favor if the germ of infliction or grief spread victoriously to every part of the General’s body, either killing or totally incapacitating him? This would leave Perry Oliver in the less certain position of having to negotiate with Sharpe the son for Tom.

  As if to relieve Perry Oliver’s worries, General Bethune looked at him quite calmly and held out his hand in greeting. Perry Oliver moved to take it, a simple action that required tremendous effort as his elbow and fingers were stiff with anxiety.

  Which of them spoke first? During their meeting for the next hour, Perry Oliver would scrupulously note every detail of the room and the man, but it was such that over the course of the next few months, the field of vision and memory would draw in, so that when he walked into this very same room a year later, he would not remember it. In fact, he would have tremendous difficulty recognizing the man himself two or three years hence, upon General Bethune’s visiting them backstage following a concert. He would hear the voice and voice would bring back the man.

  I see you brought someone along with you?

  Yes.

  And what is your name?

  My name is Seven, sir.

  Seven. Hello, Seven.

  Hello, sir.

  And Seven would be your son?

  Perry Oliver had anticipated this question. Had even played over the possibilities of lying—yes, sir—but decided against it, figuring that a man in General Bethune’s position, a newspaperman, could easily investigate the facts and uncover the truth. The lie would cost him down the line. No, sir. He’s my understudy.

  Your understudy? General Bethune shook his head once or twice in mock astonishment. Is that the term they use for it now? He made a gesture with his hand as if he were presenting Perry Oliver to an audience. So that would make you his overstudy.

  Finger at his chin, Perry Oliver pretended to give the comment serious consideration. Yes, he said. I suppose it does.

  I already supposed for you, General Bethune said. He gave Perry Oliver a measuring look, checking to see if the words offended or disturbed. Working his canes he made for an armchair near the fireplace. You will have to supply me with all of the details at a later date. Please take a seat. General Bethune eased himself into the armchair and crossed the looped ends of his canes in his lap. Perry Oliver sat down in the closest armchair near the piano, a good distance away from the General. Seven moved to take a seat.

  Not you, Seven, the General said.

  Seven stood like a trapped animal, unsure where to run.

  The General gave him a tender and curious glance. So, Mr. Seven, how old are you?

  You must beg my pardon me, sir, but I never tell my experience without good reason.

  General Bethune laughed openly. Perry Oliver could not force himself to smile—wished that he could—let alone laugh, finding no humor in the boy’s ability to repeat a vulgar line used by every commoner in the street. (Pity Seven’s spirit of imitation.) Well then, the General said, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear. I won’t inquire any further. Your overstudy and I have some crucial matters to discuss. Why don’t we send you off to the kitchen for some cool beverage. Would you like that?

  Yes, sir.

  Unless your overstudy objects. General Bethune looked at Perry Oliver, challenging him. You obviously had good reason for bringing your boy to my house. Does your understudy need to be present for our meeting?

  Perry Oliver was sure that he saw a mocking smile part the General’s lip. He judged himself from the same point of view as the General did. He said without hesitation—hesitation would kill his chances here and now—No.

  As I thought. General Bethune raised his head and shouted, Charity! When the nigger didn’t appear quickly enough he took up both canes and banged them loudly against the floor.

  The servant in head rag who had answered the door appeared in the room. Yes, suh.

  Take this boy to the kitchen for a cool drink.

  Yes, suh. She summoned Seven with a hand signal. Right this way, young master. Seven followed her.

  General Bethune watched them leave the room. Then he directed his gaze at Perry Oliver. Perhaps I sent her off too soon, he said. It didn’t occur to me that you might require something from the kitchen.

  No, sir.

  Coffee? Tea? Lemon water?

  No, sir. I am well replenished.

  Of course. Mrs. Rudge. You are staying with Mrs. Rudge?

  Yes.

  He laughed a small laugh. How are you getting on with her? She is famously polite.

  Indeed, Perry Oliver said. He noticed that shadows had collected in each depression of the man’s white face. Beyond his unkempt appearance this was perhaps the only discernible physical change that Perry Oliver could detect in the man from his previous visit two years earlier, comparing what he saw now against what he remembered, drawing up the image of the General standing in the sun-drenched garden.

  And how are you getting on in the town? General Bethune raised his hand. Don’t answer. I apologize. This city is so boring. It must be murder for a man of your taste.

  Perry Oliver sought some neutral response. General Bethune was hard to read. His words alone challenged, and to everything he said he added a facial expression that would have seemed more suitable for a different phrase. In the silence Perry Oliver breathed so hard he was sure the General could hear him. So to fill the void he blurted out, Thank you for taking the time to see me.

  A transmutation took place in the General’s face, some blend of astonishment and anger. You are here on business.

  Yes, sir.

  That is why I granted you a hearing. I’m not taking time. The General’s eyes were mocking Perry Oliver, like a child seeing how far he could go. At once his presence in the house became clear like vision itself. This was stage, public performance. He had been here less than five (ten?) minutes and was already on display. Perhaps he had come all this way for nothing, thinking he had the upper hand when in actuality General Bethune controlled everything, had lured him into this trap, this elaborate joke. Here was the General Bethune that his reading and research hadn’t (couldn’t have) revealed.

  He simply sat there, his back trembling before the danger of making another mistake.

  Tell me, Mr. Oliver, what is your profession?

  Until recently I worked tobacco in Savannah. He tried to conceal the trembling of his hand.

  Tobacco?

  Yes. His awkwardness filled him with disgust for his own body—heart, lungs, arms, and legs—which only made him feel more discomfort.

  General Bethune shook his head in apparent (clear?) disdain. You count yourself among the common herd. Planters are a vile and filthy lot, totally uncultured. I have to deal with these types on a daily basis. That’s why this town is the insufferable disappointment that it is.

  Excuse my lack of clarity. Allow me a correction. I fought down in Mexico. And then I put myself in the service of the most important tobacco planters in Savannah.

  Mexico?

  Yes, sir. Perry Oliver had meticulously prepared a list of battles and two or three detailed anecdotes.

  If you can imagine such a thing, those Mexicans are a more savage lot than the Indi
ans, from what I’ve heard. I’m glad I never had to square off against one.

  I suffered that misfortune.

  Yes, the General said. But I guess one man is as good as the next.

  Perry Oliver held his tongue, unsure what the General meant.

  Perhaps you can tell me all about it sometime. I’m not one of those who relishes swapping war stories or showing off injuries and scars. Each day presents us with some fresh triviality. General Bethune looked down at the floor, as if he regretted having allowed himself to even think of such matters. So now you see a need to free yourself of these planters?

  Yes, sir.

  You are a smart man. They fail to understand a fundamental fact. A nigger never pulls his own weight. Far be it from me to put my means of survival in the hands of unpaid servants. General Bethune spoke with a rhythm of pure certainty that required silence as the only possible response. (Thematic closure, harmonic return.) Then he went on. You are not here by accident. We’ve met before, you and I?

  Yes. Two or three years ago at a party for your daughters. This much was true. I came at the invitation of your wife. This part wasn’t, but if the General caught the lie he didn’t let on. Not taking any chances, Perry Oliver pulled the invitation he had saved—it had lost none of its scent over the years—walked across the room, unfolded it, and handed it over to the General for further verification.

  General Bethune looked at one side of the paper, then the other, only to repeat the inspection, looking without seeing, validity in touch and scent. That’s when you heard him play?