Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

Tabbs ventures to take a sip from the glass of sack he has been holding in his hands. The sea beyond the windows, outside the house, will float them through this silence. Wire seated in one monumental chair and Tabbs in another, across a table pointed with a decanter of wine. From this angle there seems little demarcation between house and sea, sea and house, as if the house is a cork bobbing in the ocean. A boat might come crashing through a window at any moment.

  Every day we lose another surgeon or nurse. Why do they come at all? They work in silence. They pretend to hear and see and feel nothing. Wire’s hand moves, starting the long trek to some remote part of his body. So many who wish to abscond. Perhaps I’m destined to be the last man standing. You don’t just walk away from work like this. I will go to the camps tomorrow and the next day and the day after that, trying to pull death off these bodies. The weak have need of what is strong.

  Wire brings the glass to his lips, his hair and beard barbered in a collusive manner making his beard look like a halter that has been slipped over his face. The end of the glass trembles as he drinks, his eyes wet and brilliant. He returns the glass to the hollow of his lap and takes his hand away, letting the glass rest, a shiny rising above cloth, crystal silo, liquid-drowned tower.

  None of it stays with me. And none ever will. I’m used to trading in sin and rot.

  He brings the glass to his mouth again, keeps it there for a time before returning it to his lap, the glass giving no evidence that it has been touched, the wine inside maintaining its previous level. The glass captures light in ways Tabbs thought not possible, glass as beautiful as water.

  Doing what we do there you accept the limits of your power without thought about how much you can bear. You discover the limits of what you can feel.

  Tabbs hears a donkey braying in the distance. A high congested honk followed by a low wheeze. Over and over again. He follows the sound in his mind. So many sounds he has yet to get used to here on the island of Edgemere. The call of a rooster in the morning. The shouts of fishermen. The familiar whine of the ocean. And sporadic calls, sharp and clear and far but unidentifiable.

  Come see for yourself.

  Tabbs eyes Wire warily, knowing not what to say, no time to lie, invent an excuse. I would welcome the chance, he says. How can he refuse? Wire’s enthusiasm has to be indulged. People come to him for guidance. Put their lives in his hands. Besides, Tabbs will need to ask Wire for a money loan before he leaves this house tonight. He swallows some of his drink, hoping he has mollified Wire somewhat with his almost-promise.

  How else can I convince you?

  You don’t need to convince me, Tabbs says. He knows the right words, the lie leaping from chin to chest, where it works its way back in. Does he sound convincing? He sees the look of doubt on Wire’s face.

  Would it that you accompany me tomorrow. Setting out before dawn. But you must take your own decision. None of your days are idle. Would it that I cause an interruption.

  Would it, Tabbs says, but you can count on my joining you.

  Tabbs looks into the face of the other man, waiting for him to say something, show some indication of what Tabbs’s submission has earned him. But Wire says nothing, his face impassive. He lifts up the decanter from the table and refills his glass, pouring into the well of his lap, reaches across the table—this plane of smooth wood between them a silent road, a tongue stretched speechless—long arms forming a bridge over to Tabbs. He refills Tabbs’s glass. Let me ask you something. He returns the decanter to the table and meets Tabbs’s gaze. What compels you into your trade? You feel an obligation?

  Yes, Tabbs says. Yes I do.

  Concern for the greater?

  Tabbs nods.

  And so I ask you, what is the greater?

  Tabbs hears the question.

  I think I know you well enough by now and don’t doubt in the least your convictions, but can you say that what you do is more important?

  Plain words, the voice hard and clear, so certain of itself.

  No, you cannot. So why aren’t you there in the camps with me?

  Tabbs feels his seat move back. Wire a big man and everything he does has force. A good ten feet away from him, but Tabbs feels the words catapult from Wire’s mouth, like wind-flung gravel, knocking Tabbs and his seat back. I would gladly put my services to use, he says, but I’m no surgeon.

  What am I? Wire, expecting this response, leans forward, bringing his chest toward the rim of his lap-level glass, giving Tabbs the hard lines of his eyes, face, beard. Do you really believe that I am so without intelligence as to fail to recognize that you are not a surgeon?

  Certainly not. If you will permit me—

  What is it that you think I am?

  Tabbs shapes words in his mind, tries them out, but can’t get them past his lips.

  Just what? Who do you see sitting here? A fool?

  No, Doctor, Tabbs says.

  Take your right measure. Take it.

  Tabbs is looking away so as not to see and feel Wire’s words. Wire is testing him, and Tabbs stares at Wire’s large hands, trying to manage the silence under Wire’s scrutinizing gaze, deflect the charge of moral authority. What Tabbs really wants to know, will Wire extend him the money he needs to carry on his efforts with Tom? Isn’t that after all the reason why he had accepted Wire’s invitation? Granted, Tabbs enjoys the comforts of Wire’s home. All grace and courtesy, Wire supplies his visitors in a most satisfactory style, makes them eat and drink as much as possible, has a thousand stories for anyone who cares to listen, his polished manners rising from the room’s armchair, his ease with people genuine, so too his concern, high-handed but always polite. They get along well. They hold similar opinions on many subjects. Tabbs is almost out of money and a free supper and good wine cannot easily be turned down. Who but Wire can supply him with a dose of funds? Should he ask Wire for a loan—

  How much do you want?

  As much as you can spare. More.

  —Wire will set his crude conditions, no question of Tabbs coming to the camps the next day.

  Is there any way around the camps, any way to delay his entry into those golden fields of Wire’s hopes? He must walk into this trap of his own accord, the give he needs to get—I’m obliged to come to the camps. You’re obliged to pay—an unhoped-for possibility.

  Behind the scenes the Almighty is working things in our favor.

  Yes, Tabbs says. Yes He is. He takes a quick breath, glad that Wire has mentioned God. Who knows, he, Tabbs, might at last say something embarrassing and true.

  You must get used to the idea. Earnestly contend for the faith which was delivered unto the saints. But you don’t believe.

  It’s just that I don’t know where to commit myself. I don’t know all that much about church.

  Tabbs, you needn’t worry. You are not welcome in my church.

  Wire sits there, smiling—confident, male.

  Then I’ll stay away, Tabbs says, but only if you promise to preach my funeral. Otherwise bury me like a dog.

  I would be happy to preach you and bury you. We all have thankless jobs to do.

  Drowsing in the diminished light, Tabbs sits in an uncertain state, earnest, tired, something broken and floating inside his head. Despite hours of talk and drink, Wire looks surprisingly fresh, a full day of energy in his body.

  So, you will tell. Are you not drawn to deep belief? Let’s clear this matter up. What are your beliefs?

  It seems to Tabbs that he has already answered the question.

  I have my reasons for asking. When the Almighty calls me home, I will need something to report.

  Please speak to our creator on my behalf, Tabbs says, that is, if you think I am deserving of a good word.

  Many good words. Should it come to that. But am I capable?

  Wire takes to his feet—the decanter is empty—an ending overly prolonged. Come now, it’s time for you to go.

  But through some force of inertia, Tabbs remains sitting, his mind commandin
g (pleading with?) his legs to perform their function. Wire standing like a black wall before him, gazing. When limbs capitulate at last, Tabbs rises to leave, a painful weariness in all of his body, a thousand fists beating him. What derives from the accumulation of many monotonous hours. Nothing said that was not to be said. Nothing remaining unsaid. He has won the right to submit, to surrender. All he has to do is ask. Ask.

  Here, Wire says. From somewhere in the darkness he produces a pouch of headache powder and offers it to Tabbs. Put that on your pain.

  Tabbs is obliged to accept the pouch, round light weight in his hand, admitting to himself—so it is—that Wire knows the uncertainty that floats about inside his skull, however discreet he has been.

  You prefer to leave here still suffering. What have I told you? Nothing is foul for those who win.

  What can Tabbs say in response? He simply thanks the doctor-preacher. Wire had taken it upon himself to see Tom back to health when Tabbs and the boy first came to the island. (It had come to pass that the Bethune woman had for days or even weeks there in her lavish apartment allowed Tom to suffer from a breath- and flesh-stealing affliction.) He had put Tom in one of the upstairs rooms rather than admit him to the hospital for what he surely knew would be a slow and difficult convalescence and had assigned one of his nurses from the camps to sit all night at the boy’s bedside, turning his head so that he would not strangle on his own vomit. Wire did not bother to set out his reasons for his generosity. I am only too happy to do you this small service. Why he had fresh clothes sent to the mother after her arrival on Edgemere. (Yes, that too.) Why he lent Tabbs the services of his driver and carriage. But Tabbs knew (felt, would learn) that it was more than just a pose. Tom for weeks reposed in a sea of white sheets like a black fish. Naked to the world. Skin dry and ashy, barely conscious, discharging rivers of urine. Tabbs and the nurse taking turns cooling down his body with water and chunks of ice. Wire would descend on the bed at set hours, pressing Tom’s eyelids with his fingers, with a raised flaming lamp check the color of his patient’s inner mouth, with palm measure the heat of Tom’s body, put ear to the hollow of the rising falling chest.

  What good medicines do you have, Doctor? Tom had asked.

  Try this. Wire set a bottle of holy water on the bedside table and told Tom to drink all of it.

  Do this for me, Tom said.

  Yes, Wire said. You’ll be happy to know that I have a piano downstairs. As soon as you are back on your feet.

  You’re the one all the time up in that church.

  Wire stood looking at Tom, surprise glittering in his eyes. Yes. He laughed. I am of the cloth. How did you know?

  Blind Tom doesn’t play church music.

  Released from Wire’s care, Tom took a room in the Home and gave no further thought to the Doctor. But Tom’s daily life remained of interest to Wire. No day went by without him dropping in to visit with the boy, entering the Home with his text- and appliance-heavy cloth satchel slung across his body, the instruments of his dual professions inside, not the least of which included hundreds of biblical verses stamped on leather and two leather-bound Bibles, the reason for the duplication unknown to Tabbs, nor clear the full purpose of their presence since Tabbs has never once seen Wire read from or even open either when giving a sermon or ministering to a patient, just weight in that bag he keeps slung across his body as he makes his rounds through the infirmary, all the happier to have Tabbs accompany him, should he wish to do so. Wire will pull a Bible from the satchel and keep it in one hand, moving from one tiny bed to the next, children weightless and inert. Wire full of knowledgeable satisfaction, perfectly comfortable in this world of dissipation, of retreating minds and withering skin, a bit fussy, scolding even, with the nurses and orderlies. As if to compensate for the failure of their hands, he brushes mentholated scent onto the sternums of his patients with the most tender strokes, especially those who are feverish—a remedy he had apparently never deemed appropriate for Tom—although nothing can hide his own smell after a day in the camps, the entire Home filled with the odor of cadaver, making it necessary to keep all the windows open for hours after he leaves.

  One by one, the children will raise their faces in sensual curiosity, exploring the glassy green air. Wire can then bring it all to an end, having succeeded in putting off to the last possible moment any mention of Tom, Tom saved for last. He will enter the chapel to find Tom seated onstage at the piano. Enters quietly, without ceremony, no declaration, no announcement, but Tom removes his hands from the keys and places them in his lap, as if someone has blown a whistle, and he will resume playing only after Wire has left.

  Is it so, a Chopin polonaise?

  You know perfectly well.

  He sits down on the bench next to Tom.

  Should I remove my clothes, Doctor?

  He defers to Tom, endeavors to be positive and polite.

  We miss you at the house.

  I don’t know a thing about it.

  Well, we do.

  He tries some tentative touches of the keys, even as his words fall short.

  Why do your fingers such injustice when I have a fine instrument that goes unused?

  I don’t want to live in a church.

  You think that I live in a church?

  Tom continues to refuse him. A Tom almost unknown to him.

  You feel that?

  What? What is it that you feel, Tom?

  God just touched you.

  Now he moves away, convinced perhaps that he has to do just that.

  I’ll see you tomorrow, Tom.

  A lot of good it’ll do you.

  Wire gazes at Tabbs with a look of (he now realizes) mistrust. Still, he finds it in himself to smile at Tabbs as he prepares to leave the chapel. Says, his back to Tabbs, That boy is full of pranks. But Wire cannot not break himself of the habit, Tom an unvarying necessity. I can have it brought from the house. No? You feel that’s too much. Well, we’ll just have to have this one tuned. Seeing there’s no other way. Tabbs attaches great importance to these visits and encourages Tom to open up to the Doctor. Do him this one favor. He would be so pleased to see you. But he can do nothing to persuade the boy.

  Beyond thanking the Doctor, Tabbs has shown Wire nothing in return for his concern, persistence, kindness. (How can he really?) Small gestures are enough for him. (They must be.) The fact that Tabbs will visit Wire’s church on a random Sunday or join him at his home for dinner.

  Now, Wire says to him, Why go the way you came? Use some now.

  Tabbs unloosens the drawstring of the pouch and rubs some headache powder on his forehead, then on his temples, a flurry of renegade particles flaking down onto his nose.

  He is already on the point of passing into the foyer—things inside the room don’t seem the same as they were earlier in the evening—when he hears Wire say, They’ve been telling me about the boy. My entire congregation. The entire island. These things get around.

  The words (tossed at him) point to a truth that Wire has uncovered about Tabbs and Tom (and the mother too? Ruggles even?), a truth that he has chosen to withhold until this opportune moment when it will do the most damage. Truly hard luck. Tabbs cannot ask Wire (himself) what Wire knows—What have you heard?—without risking discovery—the arrangements he does not want to expose, the uncertain ubiquity of his hopes.

  Is it really sensible what you’ve been doing?

  Easy to read Wire now. Tabbs feels at once humble and guilty (humiliated) in Wire’s presence. Now every vestige of control, of sense, of thought, goes out of him. How can he formulate his demand, knowing that it will seem feeble, undeserved, that anything he might say will seem suspect? He sees now that his plan has been nothing more than a misdirected outpouring of his energies. Wire had suspected (known) Tabbs’s intentions before this evening, conspired to use an invitation to his home as a prophylactic against Tabbs’s claims, thus freeing himself out of hand of any fraternal, moral, and practical obligations.

  Even
here at the door money lingers among Tabbs’s hopes, comes back into the field of present and immediate possibilities—so much he needs—a final pass at the Doctor’s purse will depend on a singular contingency: Tabbs will (he must) squeeze the request into the proper moral frame, an appeal on Tom’s behalf—You must do it for the boy. Only your money can save him—which Wire can then either honor or deny, which Wire can’t deny. Your money, his salvation. Tabbs sees a necessary connection between this prospective triumph and one cruel happening dating back to his (their, three) first days on Edgemere, an afternoon when he was in Wire’s company, the two strolling about the little narrow streets of the island, sidestepping pancakes of donkey dung—shit Wire calls it—looking in on various shops, stopping for a time at the old square where men gathered around the big bleem tree to smoke pipes and arm-wrestle and play cards and chess—Wire never loses, game or challenge—indulging a coalition of views, then speaking (Wire) in the full presence of a crowd of children outside his donkey sanctuary (constructed a month after his expulsion from the city; I saw the need; the first on the island), the most attentive children perched high on the fence where the donkeys were penned—twelve beasts under his care; Wire had said their names—praying for child and donkey alike before moving on to a more salubrious district, the market, island center, Wire passing on handfuls of spare coins to the perfumed mongers, which they accepted with hands they wiped clean for Wire to take and kiss, exchanging jokes, inquiring (Wire) about their husbands, offspring, and other relations. That day they would never get far without someone stopping to greet them (Wire), Wire and Tabbs partaking of the generosity they were given.

  When they reached the main jetty (east to the city), they saw before them a crowd circled three people deep, man woman child, heads lifting eyes catching, Wire looming above all, his place in their lives such that they began parting into two banks of bodies, affording him (them) unobstructed passage to the circle center where they discovered four fishermen, each positioned at one of the four cardinal points, their tired faces directed toward the ground at some object of interest there, a long tube-like form, not unlike a caterpillar in appearance, only too large to be that, massive—this something at their feet powerless it would seem, fixed to the wet ground it would seem, under the collective force of these fishermen, who eyed their captive menacingly, while the captive struggled against itself, splotched with eye-like spots of blood—red seeing through the skin—the promised life inside determined to break free, a butterfly imprisoned inside its own oppressive cocoon. Three of the four took up the unfortunate creature and tossed it into the hollow of their dhow with an explosive thud, leaving behind the man (West) closest to Wire. Disconsolate, embarrassed, he sought to establish the moral validity of their actions before Wire took them to task.