Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  After the battle over the table, the next struggle became one of getting Tom to sleep in his bed. He would fall asleep at the table like one slowly succumbing to poison. Seven would awaken him, but he would refuse to relinquish his chair, clutching it so firmly you might have believed that the wood had actually penetrated his skin and nailed him to the object. But once he became accustomed to sleeping in the bed—the room where the boys sleep is so narrow that they can actually extend their arms sideward from a prone position and reach across and touch one another up to the elbow—Perry Oliver decided that the moment had come for Tom to return to his music.

  The very first time they had taken Tom out of the apartment, in the hallway he had leaned into nothing and went rolling and tumbling down the stairs. Three flights.

  Seven?

  Sir?

  Did you see what just happened?

  Yes, sir.

  Do you fully understand your responsibilities?

  Yes, sir.

  After this exchange of words—he was hard toward Seven when it came to his wishes and expectations—he recalled Seven hurrying off while he made an effort to pull himself together. Recalled reaching the bottom of the staircase and seeing Tom all bloodied with scratches and scrapes, struggling to his feet, tottering and dizzy. He had to decide then and there if he should summon a doctor, a matter quickly resolved when the name (threat)—General Bethune—sparkled up out of his ponderings. He knew there could be no doctor.

  Thankfully, their destination was close enough for Tom to reach it in his pitiful condition. (How fragile we are.) Perry Oliver, Seven, and Tom—three—entered the establishment under a rusty horseshoe nailed over the door, with a small hand-painted sign—NO ONE ENTERS THESE PORTALS BUT THE TRUE IN HEART—swinging from it, and to the murmur of conversation that immediately ceased at their entrance, as if they had let in a powerful wind that extinguished sound. All heads turned in Tom’s direction.

  Tom. An intimation. A signal. Every room was transformed when he entered it. (Perry Oliver recognized this fact for the second time, but only now truly acknowledged it. Tom’s commanding presence bringing back the feeling from weeks earlier when he had gone to retrieve Tom from the station, faces turning, eyes zoning in, as he led Tom to a hansom taxi, heads cocked, eyes aimed, attracting the same unthinking reaction as now.) Everything got put into the background, relegated to the shade, while this ugly little blind imbecile nigger boy became a radiant presence. The exact opposite of Perry Oliver, who all his life had been retiring and modest, keeping himself to himself.

  Stationed behind the bar, owner William Oakley saw them enter and nodded welcome at Perry Oliver. He looked at the nigger and looked some more, but he said not a word, nor allowed his face to express surprise, disapproval, or disappointment. However odd or transgressive his behavior appeared, Perry Oliver had no intentions of divulging to anyone, including the owner, why he had brought a nigger into this establishment or why this nigger looked the worse for wear. One and all, his dealings with Tom made him feel supremely indifferent to public opinion at this moment and fully justified in saying nothing. Besides, whatever might be ruined now could be set right later. Comfort in that thought.

  Although he and the owner had a long-standing business relationship—he rented space for his horse and carriage in a stable, Spectacular Spurs, that the owner operated up the street—he rarely set foot inside the establishment, in distinct contrast to Seven, who was required to come here at least three times in a single day to pick up their meals.

  He eased Seven in the direction of the upright piano, indicating that the boy should direct Tom over to it. Tom sat down on the unvarnished bench, raising all of Perry Oliver’s expectations, and tapped out a few chords. Then he sat still, his hands folded in his lap. Like a puppeteer, Perry Oliver lifted the other’s hands and moved them over the keys. No doing.

  Perry Oliver threw a questioning glance at Seven. Seven shrugged his shoulders. In the other faces Perry Oliver saw ludicrous expressions of disbelief, not that he was expecting to gain their sympathy or understanding.

  You can’t blame him, Oakley said.

  Why not?

  It’s out of tune.

  Indeed, it was the only conclusion one could draw. No doubting it, Tom knows what he wants to hear and knows how it should sound. Perry Oliver laughed at himself—the silent movement went a long way in releasing many weeks of tension—having to concede that Tom’s resistance went beyond his expectations. No, he had not foreseen in complete perspective the kinds of hesitation—five varieties?—the boy had put up, and could only assume that there might be more.

  Two weeks later—three?—Seven had informed him over breakfast that the piano had been brought up to speed—the boy’s exact words—and awaited Tom’s use. The news made the food easier to digest. The moment was not far away when they could begin their work. Once breakfast was done, they hurried down to Scaldy Bill’s and placed Tom before the piano, the instrument thoroughly made over, shining with a fresh polish, and smelling all the better for it. Tom moved both hands over the ivories in a trial run. Then he picked his way through each key, first the black, then the white. Satisfied, he fingered out an entire song. And so it went. The patrons applauded after each number—What a remarkable nigger—and called out requests, but Tom seemed to play whatever came to mind. No one present was more impressed with Tom’s abilities than Seven, who remained standing near his charge, seized by the sight, totally reluctant to part from his side.

  Seven heard their neighbor urinate into the same bottle the old man used to collect his milk. More than once he had considered going across the hall and telling the old man how to manage this action without making a noise. Show proper consideration for others. The neighbor’s good fortune that Mr. Oliver had already finished his breakfast and left the apartment, that he had been spared this offensive sound. Heaven knows what he might do. Understand, Mr. Oliver was a civilized man, the most decent sort, but some things he would not tolerate, especially from a certain class of people.

  Seated across from him on the opposite side of the table, Tom knocked his hands several times against the flat wood side. You are hungry, he said.

  What would you have? Seven asked him. Tom had a good appetite.

  A little milk. A little bread.

  Seven poured Tom a glass of goat’s milk, cut him a slice of bread. Despite his dexterity on the piano, Tom had difficulty bringing the glass to his lips without spilling the contents. One quick motion and the glass jerked up to his mouth, splashing milk across his face. Equal difficulty with bread. Less a matter of him biting the bread and more of him moving the bread sideways across his teeth until it all disappeared. A few archipelagoes of crumbs positioned above his milk-glistening upper lip.

  Employ your napkin, Tom, Seven said.

  Tom picked up his cheap cotton napkin and wiped his mouth.

  Seven recognized that Tom was feeble-minded—is that how Mr. Oliver had put it?—and he tried to remember by what means he had brought Tom this far. He cast his mind back, hoping to recover an image of Tom as he was before. (Tom muffled in a worn black suit three sizes too large for him.) Yes, some progress, plenty, truth be told. Still, he had to get Tom to drop some of his ill manners, smooth out some of the rough edges, a goal he had set for himself. He had found common cause in the things Mr. Oliver required of him and those other things that he felt he should require of himself. (Principles and habits.) Only proper that he should give more, for Mr. Oliver had bequeathed him a tremendous responsibility, a laying out of trust, an investment of faith. One that posed a challenge from the first, but one he gladly stood up to since it filled him with new purpose and confidence.

  Although Mr. Oliver had left the apartment physically, he was still present everywhere in the clearest way. He had moved this, had left that lying around, had not closed his window, forgotten to shut that drawer properly, left that slipper sticking out from under the bed and a half-empty glass of water at the window in his room
. Seven didn’t believe these were oversights, mental lapses, but intentional disorder to keep him on point, to see how capable he was of putting each object back in its proper location. Even if he believed Mr. Oliver had no good reason for testing him this way—his skills were far beyond the basics; had long since adapted to the role of Tom’s protector and guardian, though he didn’t know the exact number of days, had known Tom all this time but had never made the effort to keep count until a week ago; give these days back, a full accounting—Mr. Oliver felt it was worth the trouble. So be it. Who was he to complain, to ask more?

  Cows keep the milk down, Tom said.

  No, Seven said. Cows keep the milk in. Tom turned his face to Seven in his crooked way. Seven forked back Tom’s eyelids with two fingers on his left hand, a slow revealing, like stage curtains being drawn up. The orbs were completely black and hard in appearance—should he touch them?—nothing soft about them, stone; you might believe that two objects had speeded down from the heavens above and come to a deep burial inside Tom’s face. If our eyes are indeed windows into our soul, as he had so often heard, then Tom lacked windows. Hard blackness sealed off inward entry. God had deliberately put Tom’s soul on his face.

  Tom was seated in a chair identical to his—straight-backed wood, uncushioned—but Seven afforded Tom what he believed was the more comfortable of the two. His job to preserve order in the apartment’s August emptiness. His duty, sure, but he also felt a quiet affection for Tom. Tom opening up new areas of feeling in him. He could not get over the fact of how much freedom the blind give us. The closest thing to being by oneself. You can do most anything before them undetected. Not that he chose to do so, took advantage. He was always correct in his bearing toward Tom.

  Absently, he passed his gaze over the surface of Tom’s face, unseeing eyes that made the aspect of him a particular delight. Sitting carefully upright in his chair during silent moments, he found himself staring into this face. Black calm. Blankness. The shiny smooth innocence of an unused stone. The most comforting person he had ever met, Tom was happy here with him (them) and he took considerable pleasure in the knowledge, as in his good handling of Tom he deserved primary credit for Tom’s state of being. Whatever he said to Tom would be heard with sympathy, with kindness. And Tom had the additional advantage of Mr. Oliver’s close and careful management.

  Seven decided to leave the apartment as it was for later. Too much trouble. They should be able to depart and return with sufficient time left over for him to tidy up before Mr. Oliver returned. Time for all things.

  Tom, he asked, where are you?

  I’m on earth.

  So you are. He stood up and stretched out the stiffness. Leaned across the table and fit Tom’s hat onto his head, flattening the thick-rooted hair, low, mashing, right down to the ridge of Tom’s brow and just above his blind bulging eyes.

  Every day, Tom said, I put on a new head.

  Hat, Seven said. Tom could well use a new hat. It would decidedly improve both his appearance and his existence. A good head covering—his beaver cap, Paul Morphy’s panama—provides important relief from the heat. (Mr. Oliver somehow managed without one.) He tugged on the brim of Tom’s hat, signaling that it was time for them to depart.

  Tom rose up from the table, came around it, and embraced him so hard he thought he would choke in Tom’s arms. Chest constricted, breath trickling out, he allowed Tom to hug him for a considerable length of time until it was clear that Tom had no intention of releasing him. He wiggled free by distracting Tom with a tune he whistled into his ear. (One trick he had learned.) His skin felt different, as if Tom had left some element of his body behind on Seven’s. In fact, it seemed to have taken on a certain painful illumination, and he wondered now if he had wrongly sensed Tom’s embrace, the stationary hug not stationary at all but a rough rubbing of skin against skin, a hard-worked polish.

  Tom had been his shadow ever since he hit town. His Tom unique, a totally new person in human history as far as he could tell, and his singularity left him unable to exist without Seven. Height against height, he loomed above Seven, a fairly sizable nigger at seven years of age—his reputed age (Mr. Oliver’s estimate), certainly (probably) far younger than Seven by several years, five at the least, possibly more, but niggers don’t develop by the calendar or the clock—tall but not excessively so. Seven was small for his age, a full head shorter than Tom, and just as slim as his younger charge, spindly, boy-skinny—Eat, Perry Oliver says. You need to eat more—but he was a force capable of imposing the necessary discipline. Easy when one was experienced in such matters. His job to keep Tom regulated, under a daily routine, an unavoidable necessity as Perry Oliver had made it clear that Tom lacked the internal clock that most of us, white people and niggers alike, are born with.

  Tom unlatched the door, opened it, and made his way to the head of the stairs, then waited for Seven to help him down. They hurried out into late-morning light. The worst heat. Seven looked out at the world, a red line throbbing on the far horizon, his senses awakening, detecting. In the clear silence, Tom wordlessly clutched Seven’s hand with both of his, and allowed Seven to lead him forward. But Seven’s gaze was no longer directed upward at the much taller Tom but downward at the wobbly cobblestone road. The road seemed more even, your walk less steady if you concentrated on counting the individual stones as you stepped onto each one.

  Tom sniffed the air like a hound. Raised his face—peered up; could he call it that?—as if something—a bird, a cloud—had passed overhead. The sky is so high, he said.

  He often had much to say. Seven encouraged him to speak up, to talk loudly, even if he confounded sense, for he had found that much of our inability to understand Tom came from our inability to hear what he was actually saying. Hushed tones. Failed to speak at a high enough level for our ears to detect him. Speak up, Tom.

  Caught in an unreal space. Heat and overlapping speech. Faces came out of the blackness to glare and shout. Bibulous types who downed hot drinks, the temperate fuel that allowed them to blow fiery words from the open furnaces of their mouths. For some reason they thought it amusing to offer Tom tobacco. Like a smoke, Tom?

  Seven spoke kindly to the patrons, but he was quick to whisk Tom away, politely excusing them, removing his hat and tipping his head. He guided Tom toward the piano, scarcely registering the things around except in glimpses of single objects, as he (they) weaved between the tables, dodging a gauntlet of propositions, patrons offering Seven spirits, tobacco, and whatever else their tongues saw fit. Courteously he took the time to pause and decline to each and every one. Perhaps he and Tom were the only sane creatures within these four walls.

  A man stepped in front of them, blocking their passage. His thin cheeks were badly shaven, here and there short little tufts of hair having escaped the razor. He stared over Seven’s shoulder at Tom. What’s the nigger’s name?

  Thomas, Seven said.

  Thomas?

  Yes, sir.

  Are you sure?

  Seven tried to subdue his irritation. Yes, sir.

  That is too much of a name for a little nigger to carry around.

  Sir?

  Thomas, you said?

  Yes, sir.

  That means twin.

  No, Tom said. It means Tom.

  Taken aback, the man turned away noisily in a vibration of cloth, hobbling but decisive, a fantastic construction, his image changing and reforming, by turns good-natured, crazy, and threatening, like a passing cloud.

  Seven and Tom continued on until they reached their destination. Tom sat down on the long stool (bench?) positioned before the piano. Seven noticed that he was trembling. Sat down on the bench beside him, slanted, facing Tom but also able to turn his head and take in the room if need be. Not that he wanted to. He was unconcerned with his surroundings, closing in on himself, pushing the saloon further into the back of his consciousness. Tom and Seven, two plotters ill at ease in the light. Here they could unite with angles and corners, make
themselves invisible to the population.

  The piano was an awkward piece of work, with its tall square back and massive elephant-like legs and its cracked and discolored keys. It seemed strangely out of place here, this saloon the last place on earth where one would expect to find a piano or any other brandishment of fancy. Seven saw great meaning in this fact, knowing as he did the troubles that Perry Oliver had experienced in trying to locate an instrument for Tom. Something almost magical in all of this, as it could be this piano and no other. As if the piano had awaited Tom’s arrival, biding time, possibly for centuries. Had always been here, a natural formation like a rocky monolith, this roof this floor and these four walls constructed around it.

  Where did you get that piano from? he asked.

  I never got it, Mr. Oakley said. It was sitting right where it is when I accepted the deed.

  The piano had become a cherished habit, the tool that would clear the way for him and Tom to develop an understanding. Seven distinctly recalled the very first time (second?) Tom touched the keys. His hands jerked back, as if the keys were some burning substance. (Seven had heard that electricity has the same hot effect.) Then again, minutes earlier Tom had fallen down three flights of stairs. Perhaps he had suffered an injury.