Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  I need to speak to you a moment.

  She stops and turns, releasing a movement of shadow. Mr. Tabbs.

  Might I have a word?

  Jus let me mind these children first.

  I’ll be in the church.

  Set on a short walk to the church, he leaves the way he came, through the high wrought iron gate set inside the four-storied stone wall surrounding the Home, a wall ancient and crumbling but wide and strong, suitable for a castle or a fort. No clue who built it, when or why. His progress quickly stalls on a street where donkey buttocks block his passage, Tabbs caught behind a donkey train on a street so narrow you have to turn sideways to let another person or animal pass. The conductor carries a stick, beating it rhythmically against his own leg rather than against animal hide. Directs the train with a series of kissing sounds and whistles. One kiss means Go left. Another, Go right. This whistle, Straight ahead. That whistle, Step around that hole. Tabbs following along, a hoof a minute. These people and their donkeys. A man without a donkey is a donkey. Content to take life at a crawl. Why horses and carriages are rare here.

  He wants answers. Something to go on. Unclear the source of the boy’s despair. If he is cross or sad. Just what exactly? The boy had expressed no desire to see anyone other than her. I want her. He has no idea what the boy and the mother do together in their time alone. What the boy does with his day. She seems to be exactly the thing the Home requires. Works without complaint for the miserly salary the Home can provide. Makes no fuss over her own person or her own sufferings. She seems to like her work, and life here on Edgemere. Doesn’t she owe this new life to him? Fact of the matter, she owes her new life to him. Edgemere. Salaried labor. Her son. Tabbs needs her to tell her son. Needs her to set the boy right, get inside his head and make him understand what they’re doing. Who else better than her?

  He had offered her a generous share of future earnings. (He had it on good word that the Blind Tom Exhibition took in better than twenty-five thousand dollars a year for the Bethunes, a sum he expected to meet and increase.) For I know the plans I have for you, sayeth the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. But she neither accepted nor declined the offer, only continued to sit with her hands in her lap, looking at the washtub hollow on the floor between them.

  Tell me how much, he said.

  You already said it good, she said.

  So you’re okay with the percentage? I can have papers drawn up.

  I had enough of papers.

  And that was that. Now he needs to know that Tom is still free to shaping, that all of him is within reach.

  Turning the corner, the last mule in the train blinks him a big-eyed wink, proud of its balanced buttocks close enough for Tabbs to smell and touch, and thanking Tabbs for his patience, for hanging in stride after long deliberate stride, his shoes closely rhythmed with hooves, almost on beat. Passing the angular church the mule makes sure to lower its head and mumble a few respectful words.

  Lord, do it

  Do it for me

  This is the cry of your children

  Please, Sir

  Do it for me

  Right now

  What is it that Tabbs hears? The choir (congregation) singing inside? Preaching, weeping, praying, hollering, testifying, grunting, groaning and moaning, and stomping feet. He passes under the prohibitive sign of warning above the church door. NO FISH ALLOWED. Takes all of his wondering into the church, half-expecting to find Wire there.

  If you read your Bible

  You heard about the blind man who could not see.

  But he is alone. Must have chased minister and congregation away, leaving only echoes. Can I preach it like I feel it? He takes a seat at the rear of the church, welcoming the hard pew beneath him, the creaking bulk of it. Closes his eyes and savors the privacy, the quiet emptiness, dozens of wooden pews like docked ships. Explaining it all to himself. Thinking about everything and nothing.

  You should take your time with this one, Ruggles said.

  Since when are you the man of caution?

  I always look first.

  I’ve looked, Tabbs said.

  Nawl. You couldn have.

  What am I missing?

  What are you seeing?

  A chance, Ruggles. A chance.

  Shit. You already got that.

  Ruggles, just come out and say it.

  I thought I was.

  Ruggles.

  Okay. You’re dealing with a white man.

  I’ve never known anything white to scare you.

  This ain’t bout being scared. Everybody scared. But this ain’t bout that.

  Well, what’s it about then? I can’t change the fact that he white. Damn if I care.

  You should care a little, a teeny bit. Cause his white skin ain’t the only thing you got to worry bout. You want to hear the rest?

  Are you gon say it?

  The rest: You ain’t half what he is.

  …

  He got everything to go along with that alabaster skin. Money to do his will. And men to boot. More and more of the same.

  That’s the story of this country.

  And it’ll be your story too.

  He opens his eyes to discover her sitting on a pew at the front of the church, watching.

  I ain’t mean to wake you, she says.

  No. I asked for you to come.

  He waves her toward him.

  She tries to rise, once, twice, three times, fumbling and weak, Tabbs refusing to accept such causality—She is stalling for time—primed to disbelieve, outraged. Then he sees that she is carrying something in her face, all of what she is. He speaks to her, softly but not softly enough. She sits down on the pew directly in front of him with unconscious ease and economy, like a section of wall slipping into an allotted place. He slides along the pew to angle a view of her face. Nothing of the son in the mother, the boy all black fire, dark sheen, while she bears the evidence of Anglo-Saxon blood—studding, rape. Her features indefinable, beholden to no eye, neither ugly nor pretty. Just. And ageless. He thinks of her as an old woman although she could as easily be thirty as fifty.

  As if to further confound his pondering, she lowers her face, her line of sight directed at the floor, the same way she had sat beside him on the train up from the South, head fixed, silent (can’t recall her saying a single word), never returning his gaze. He wonders now as he wondered then about her apparent timidity, to what degree actual, to what degree fabricated. Tabbs recognizes her dress as one of a handful Wire had given her, a length of fabric that in no way fits her form, but seems to stand away from her body and assume a shape of its own deciding, layers of air between material and skin. Preparing for their trip, Wire had guessed at her measurements, how what might best fit where, then had several fine dresses made for her.

  I put on my speed, she says, talking at the floor. But chillen is a tribulation.

  Well, you came when you could.

  She says nothing to that. So he finds himself, reduced to her company once again, sitting quietly in the church, a space that he has decided to make his—should he lock the door?—for an hour or two before he sends her back to the Home. He muses about right and entitlement, about which of the two of them has claim to the church, Wire’s domain, if only for an hour or two. Should he have asked first? (Ask Wire. You should have asked him.)

  How do you find it here, on Edgemere?

  I ain’t never seen nothing like it.

  Yes. And that’s a good thing I hope.

  Everybody so kind.

  They just want to help. We all want to help.

  …

  We all feel so honored to have him here.

  You did a good thing.

  I’m only doing what I promised.

  …

  I hope you’re finding some time for yourself. For you and your boy. He speaks into her profile, her skin smooth, her features firm, like a highly polished piece of wood.

  Doin jus f
ine.

  I can always talk to Ruggles if there’s something else you need.

  Mr. Ruggles, he so kind.

  Yes. That’s how we are. We all want to help, help you and Tom.

  Thomas, she says.

  Thomas, he says. Tongue corrected. Looking into that frozen face. You must feel special, so special because of the boy, Thomas.

  I have him back.

  Yes. But you know I’ve been worried. The boy has me deeply troubled. In fact, I’ve been praying, praying about the boy, Thomas.

  The words turn her gaze directly into his face.

  He hasn’t been himself.

  Thomas? Him? He new. He jus need some time.

  Do you think that’s what it is? I thought it might be something else.

  He givin you some trouble.

  Tabbs studies the fancy green- and-pink pattern of her silk shawl. Is it worry he hears in her voice?

  Don’t you worry about him. He got his own mind. Always did.

  If you just try talking to him.

  I can’t see what good it would do.

  We need to hurry this thing along. Isn’t that what you want? You can have all that you couldn’t before. And it will all be yours. No Bethunes to take. To steal and rob and cheat. Don’t you want that?

  You ain’t got to yell, she says.

  I’m not yelling, he says. Is she giving him some back talk? (What it is.) He feels like slapping her. (He has it in him. Knows this for a fact.) He could abandon the bad-tempered woman and simply walk out. But he brings himself to say, I’m sorry. I need your help.

  She moves her hand and the loops of metal bangles go sliding and clanking from her wrist to her forearm then back again.

  Now he has to sit here and put up with all her barbaric jewelry. Has he not been generous to her? Has he not given her back her son? A chance at a prosperous future?

  I can only imagine what you two have suffered, he says. The Bethunes. For all those years. How you managed to tolerate them.

  She wipes the sweat gathered at her eyebrows. I had my share of white folk. Before and since. I tolerate them jus fine.

  I cannot help but sympathize with you, Mrs. Wiggins. Greene Wiggins. With an e. Through my dealings with the General I well know the nature of his character, the nature of that family, the whole line of them. If he keeps talking perhaps he can pull from her the responses he needs.

  You know these woogies. They gave me misfortunes, misfortunes aplenty. They don’t know no other way to act. You can’t expect no different.

  Tabbs nods.

  But they did that one thing right.

  What thing is that?

  They gave my son a name.

  He is on his way to Ruggles. Not that he has much choice in the matter, for his difficulties with the boy have persisted for almost a week (more time lost) after his useless conference with the mother. Best to see Ruggles.

  Doing his best not to think of home, the city. His past lingers about him, a low humming in the ear, some memory trying to worm its way out. Many times since his return he has ferried to the city for one thing or another—interviews, appointments, arrangements—but he has never been able to summon enough will to venture to his old apartment in Black Town, afraid of what he might find there. White Pappa sitting in his chair. White baby sitting at his table eating out of his bowl and plate. White Mamma sleeping in his bed. Dreaming his history. A part of him there still, unfinished. He sees it but cannot hear it or remember its smells, tastes, and textures. No sounds or words carrying through time. His mind too full of present goals. The boy part of every thought, the boy even in his least ideas. Much is still unsettled, but he is borne in a single direction—the city, then the world.

  Looking at all that water, you can’t see the city, you never see it. You must trust that it is there. Perhaps Edgemere is drifting farther and farther away from the city into some dark unknown. He has devoted a great deal of thought to leaving the island, giving him and Tom the benefit of new surroundings. But he has already invested so much here, the preparations and negotiations. (Many waters crossed.) Why lose all that? Better to stay the course and push aside whatever stands in his way. He tells himself that the mother has honored her end of the bargain. Without her he doubts the boy would have progressed the little he has. Still, he has his own comfort to seek and his own situation to improve as he can. Give the stage back to Blind Tom and give Blind Tom back to the world, an interesting and worthy undertaking, highly becoming of his skills and powers. What better for him and the boy and the mother?

  Just so happens he sees her in the market—speak of the devil—holding in each hand three chickens upside down by their three-toed feet, heads only inches above the earth (fantastic white-yellow brooms), their eyes round and blank as coins, oblivious to the slaughter awaiting them. He lingers among the fishmongers until he can no longer see her. Avoiding her he has chanced upon a heated argument between two women, their voices growing increasingly high above rows of fish lined up on identical wood boards, one accusing the other of thieving her money by means of a tiny hole bored into her bucket.

  Edgemere seems the perfect place for the pull of superstition, the islanders at ease in their customs and habits. No white folks, alabasters, around to check them. Tabbs purchases a red snapper from each woman, but his coins fail to quell their dispute. They continue shouting, each woman standing up in anger from her bucket stool.

  Outside the church Tabbs sees scores of children converge around Wire, their bodies weirdly frenzied. Father, they call. So much they want to tell him, their voices urgent and excited, speaking all at once, Wire trying to calm them, moving his hands and pulling first one tongue from the mix then another, temporary success, one voice barely waiting for another to finish. He lowers his torso bridge-like, making it possible for each child to kiss his cross, the big silver object attached to a lengthy thumb-thick loop of iron around his wide neck. It swings back and forth in the light, the shiniest metal Tabbs has ever seen, clanking like a cowbell. You wear Jesus, Tom said.

  Tabbs can’t help but notice Wire’s ease with children. They don’t fear his intimidating form but enjoy his company. They follow him into the church, a long singing chain.

  Tabbs stands looking. Of course he is lost. Should he take the street on the left of the church or the one to the right?

  Excuse me, sir. How do I get to Ruggles? No sooner said than corrected. People here know Ruggles by his Christian name, David, Mr. David. When he’d first returned after more than five years away, Tabbs had no clues to Ruggles’s whereabouts, if he was dead or alive or if he had moved away, moved on. But he quickly discovered that on Edgemere Mr. David was a name in every mouth and ear. During the expulsion the island had taken Ruggles in with a thousand other exiles from the city, no questions asked. They provided him with a house and made him headmaster of the orphanage, an unlikely profession for the Ruggles Tabbs knew, a hard-nosed man loaded down with banknotes, a good twenty pounds or more distributed under his fine clothes and underwear, a man whose head was full of names, dates, places, and numbers, how much borrowed, how much paid. This Ruggles took his leisure at abolitionist parties, listened patiently while the runagate at the lectern narrated his horrible tribulations—ladies fainting, men vomiting in their handkerchiefs—and pleaded for donations toward the purchase of loved ones left behind, Ruggles unmoved, holding out for the post-testimonial food and spirits.

  I won’t put my hard-earned money into some slaver’s coffers, Ruggles said. Rather I murder one or two of them instead.

  By birth Ruggles’s right leg was noticeably shorter than the left, every inch of his body twisted and swollen with his lopsidedness. He tried to mask (present?) his deformity as best he could beneath fine clothing and expertly stitched shoes—a big half moon of soft leather on each foot, always polished, black shine—walking with surety at his own unhurried pace. However, his vulnerable body and risky line of work brought him days filled with violence, legs and arms and pockets wracke
d with danger, he and Tabbs both accepting the brutal necessity of fending off some attacker or collecting a debt.

  Nothing of his wealth survived the expulsion, ocean stripping him of suits shoes shirts and hats, dissolving the last of his banknotes, Edgemere restructuring the body itself, bringing about a change in dress and a change in personality (to the surface self at least), and creating in Mr. David a man decidedly different from his city counterpart, a man who finds everything in this life to his taste: the roosters, the donkeys, the narrow streets, the luring softness of sand and sea.

  I was in the water. Dark. Cold. My lungs had no more life to give. I knew I would never make it across. Knew I would be carried under. I would be left to tell my last words and tales to the mud and eels. Anytime now. But I kept swimming and somehow I made it across. That’s how it all started. Can’t say if it took a week or a month. It happened so quietly and without my notice. One day I up and realized that my legs were now the same length.

  These white devils had done a most wonderful thing. They had given me what God couldn’t. I could never have broken free from their world on my own. They kicked me out the door.

  Tabbs crosses the low hedge-lined and tottering and slippery narrow stone footpath that brings him to Ruggles’s house, a little cradle of stone. You should have seen it. A sight for sore eyes. Most of the windows gone, part of the roof, and all of the doors. They brought paint, plaster, and wood, and in two weeks the walls were white, the doors closed the way they should, the windows had shutters, the closets could be used, the floors no longer had holes in them, the roof and ceilings had been sealed. They brought beds and furniture and carried everything in and put each item where I told them. They started a fire in the stove. Stocked the pantry. Shit, wouldn have surprised me none if they gave me a wife.

  Ruggles cracks his knuckles in the doorway, looking amusedly at Tabbs, eyes steady with their assured shine, stark wonder. The unexpected sight of Ruggles standing there as if by prior arrangement causes something to break inside Tabbs. He doesn’t have the calmness of mind he thought, fearful of surrendering himself, Ruggles a master at balancing judgments, playing the devil’s advocate, off-putting, pushing around, cutting down. Tells himself that he must stick to his sense of right no matter what, that only his sense of right can decide it.