Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Tabbs (sneaky-eyed) spied the missive he had mailed two months earlier—he recognized his own handwriting—atop a pile of papers positioned exactly in line with the left desk corner edge. For some reason the desk, worn and sturdy, seemed out of order, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on the why, the source of dissent.

  I’ve looked over your letter, Mr. Gross. Coffin took up the document he had been reading—his hand reddish on the outside, brownish on the inside—and placed it on top of a stack of papers, then took the letter and moved it to the cleared space before him.

  If I may, sir. I’ve taken the necessary move of adjusting it. Tabbs removed the new letter from his jacket pocket and placed it directly over the old, properly flat so that the lawyer might begin reading it. Please, sir. My apologies, but this letter before you now provides a detailed description of the case and is therefore a far more accurate accounting.

  The lawyer said nothing at first, but continued to sit leaning forward in his chair, studying Tabbs, his eyes aglitter, avid but cautious, weighing the possibilities. Hard for Tabbs really to look the man directly in the eye, but he somehow did. I did. Finally, the lawyer said, Then I must, Mr. Gross. He lowered his line of sight to the letter and began reading it.

  Tabbs waited quietly and patiently. No point to a missive if he had to explain it, although he was (is) far the better man at speaking than at writing.

  While Coffin read, Tabbs studied the many file-jammed cubicles constructed into the walls. Each box carefully labeled by month, day, and year in bright ink. These files represented a preservation of history dating back more than thirty years. On the desk Tabbs noticed a plainly bound (cloth) Bible positioned along the right desk corner spine outward so that anyone who sat in either chair before the desk could not mistake the title.

  Coffin took up both letters, one on top of the other, and placed them on top of a stack of papers. Tabbs adjusted his body in his seat, trying to snap his mind clean, and hoping Coffin—the lawyer lifted his gaze to Tabbs’s face—couldn’t see any trace of his impulses and speculations. Mr. Gross, Coffin said, there is much here, much that is concrete. The words surprised Tabbs. Some note in the lawyer’s voice abiding with implication, the faint reverberation of secrets, facts withheld. Had he not spelled it all out in the new letter he had sweated over so?

  I apologize for my handling of the pen, he said. Perhaps I wrote poorly. He sat awkwardly straight in the chair, like a man with his arms bound.

  No, I would not say that.

  You don’t understand the nature of my dispute? He had to admit, his writing hand was (is) fluid but perhaps a bit abstract. Never a word written as a commoner might say it.

  Of course I understand, Coffin said. Only a fool could mistake what you have set down here. He continued to look Tabbs in the face. Why did you come here? What are your true reasons?

  He knew why he was here, but how could he admit it to the lawyer? I seek your representation. That is my true reason.

  You hope to win a judgment against General Bethune?

  With your help.

  In what jurisdiction?

  Sir, I trust you with all of the legal details.

  Coffin studied Tabbs, reading his face as he had read the documents. And there’s nothing else?

  No, sir.

  More silence. All right, so we can proceed with the case, as long as you understand what we are up against.

  They set about reviewing the plain facts and the relevant dates of the case, a rough- and-ready conversion. Sure, he had written his side of it—Everything set forth in these pages is substantially true and within the truth—a twice-told tale, but perhaps his letter, one or both, differed in essential ways from the actual occurrence, from what he remembered (remembers) and what he said now. Best to acquaint Coffin with the whole of the monstrous wrong General Bethune has committed against him, from beginning to end and back again. As Tabbs spoke, the lawyer concentrated with all his might, frowning, like a dimly understanding devout listening to and pondering a sermon from the master, his hands continually moving across the desk as if he was engraving Tabbs’s words into the oak surface.

  You put forth the proposal. You entered into the agreement with conscious mind.

  Yes, Tabbs said, aware that Coffin was not asking but telling, reporting, in condensed fashion.

  And the contract?

  Tabbs produced two documents—thrice folded to form a thick rectangle of paper—from his jacket pocket and held them out to the lawyer. (He did not place them on the desk.) Coffin did not take them right away, still and reluctant, giving Tabbs a doubtful (fearful?) look as if he didn’t know what Tabbs was handing him.

  As you’ll see, sir, there are actually two. The one I drew up and the one that General Bethune had drawn up in addition.

  Coffin spread the two contracts side by side before him on the desk, keeping the bent pages flat with the edges of his hands. Started reading them.

  I signed one then the other, and he signed one then the other, and we spoke and shook hands, as gentlemen do, regardless of race, and I handed over the first installment.

  Reading done, Coffin lifted both his face and hands, allowing the documents to fold half-open half-closed on the desk like bloom-shy flowers. He gave Tabbs an eye-scrunching look as if remembering what Tabbs had just told him, as if he had been present at the meeting but couldn’t quite re-create the memory in his mind now. One thousand dollars.

  Yes. With a promise of another four thousand, a promise that he never afforded me the opportunity to keep.

  Five thousand dollars, Coffin said. An even better sum. More than most men could save in a lifetime or hope to save or dream of saving. His voice so resonant he seemed to be singing.

  I have means.

  You have a receipt?

  Tabbs brought one hand to his pocket.

  No, Mr. Gross. You may safeguard it for now. The hidden validity of the receipt seemed to bring about a physical change in Coffin, some ease in position, some relaxing of the shoulders. For the first time, he was leaning back in his chair, actually slouching. And after he reneged, you had no other communication?

  I received—Tabbs started with that and knew he had faulted. He couldn’t tell the lawyer the rest, couldn’t tell Coffin that he had already gone to the Bethune estate. Had to and did think up something else to tell him. When I arrived here in town, he said, I received word that the Bethunes had left. It had been only a matter of speculation before. Thoughts and questions buzzing in the silent air. He could see the lawyer working to figure it out, to maneuver around the subterfuge and come face to face with the truth. So he added: The estate is completely vacant. So I was told. He realized that he had spoken incorrectly. In fact, the estate was not vacant. Far from it. Still, he saw no point in correcting himself. Enough damage done.

  So you’ve actually driven out to Hundred Gates? The lawyer’s jaw rose and fell with the words.

  A certain uneasy remembrance flashed in Tabbs’s mind. Hundred Gates. (The house enjoys the use of a big garden, surrounding it on all sides.) He had pushed the details out of conscious memory. (The gardens are full of flowers, none of which he can identity. What were his childhood names for startling grasses and other forms of curious or secret growth?) But he was pleased, for Coffin seemed to have set aside the idea of studying him more closely. Yes, he said, but only after I learned that it was vacant. (Not true. Anything but vacant.) He let the lawyer know that he had been out to Hundred Gates (trees like slender women) a half dozen times or more since his arrival in town more than a week ago. It never crossed my mind to impose my presence on you before our scheduled interview today. Then he paused—they were looking each other straight in the eye as custom and circumstance required (demanded)—not sure what he expected. Coffin was affected. Tabbs (years later) can still recall perfectly the rectangle of light that the sun cast through the windows, the pen leaning in the inkwell on the desk—a barren post minus its flag—and the slow way that the lawyer
began to speak.

  The Bethunes fled when so many others did, he said, his voice flat as he imparted the information. (He never said when. Months earlier or years?) He went on to inform Tabbs that upon his decision to meet with Tabbs—a decision he arrived at only after careful consideration—he had taken pains to investigate General Bethune’s whereabouts and learned through his most trusted sources that the Bethunes had taken up new residence at an estate called Elway in Virginia, not far from the former capital. A recent purchase, he said. Quite recent. He moved his hand toward one corner of the desk as if he was about to produce the deed itself.

  Not what Tabbs wanted to hear. Some time before he could will his tongue to move. Are you certain?

  Yes.

  Tabbs said nothing.

  So it appears that General Bethune still has financial means.

  But that isn’t the end of it. (Bad news on top of bad news.) Coffin informed him that another party, one Perry Oliver—a name Tabbs recognized, yes, the former manager, Tom’s former manager—had filed suit in the state of Virginia against General Bethune for reneging on a contract. The matter had been quickly settled upon the General’s issuing this Mr. Oliver fifteen thousand dollars in cash, the sum total that the jilted manager had paid the General up front upon the original terms of their contract.

  Fifteen thousand dollars?

  Yes.

  Tabbs said nothing.

  I am sorry.

  Tabbs sat quietly for some time with his disappointments, not sure what he should look at—the lawyer, the desk, the files, the tapestry, the windows.

  Your case is irrecusable, Mr. Gross. Certainly the facts weigh in your favor. General Bethune willfully and negligently misled you. So the legal solution seems easy enough. A fair and impartial court, either judge or jury, should rule in your favor based on the documented evidence, the sheer logic of fact. Facts that, I might add, in this instance should amount to justice now that the war has been decided. But you understand that General Bethune remains a capable threat and can forestall a quick resolution. Coffin seemed completely immobile now, his body on pause, hold. Even as he spoke, the slanted flesh around his eyes—praying hands—remained stationary. Tabbs sensed that the light in the room had shifted, changed. For the first time he realized that Coffin’s jacket was the exact color gray as the wall behind him. Found it necessary to watch closely to separate man from background.

  Tabbs found it difficult to speak, his words hanging fruit, but out of reach. I’ve been cheated, he said. I’ve done all I can.

  Of course, Coffin said. Of course. So this lawyer thinks he understands, knows Tabbs’s troubles, as well as Tabbs’s longings and aspirations; and as he took it all fully into heartfelt consideration he began to smile, not a cruel smile but one of pity. Mr. Gross, I offer no guarantee, but I believe a court should order General Bethune to square accounts and return the balance of your deposit, and also allow you some substantial monies to recuperate your legal costs and to compound reasonable interest. It may be that General Bethune will—

  That won’t do, Tabbs said.

  Simon Coffin didn’t say anything to this. I’m beginning to understand, he said. You seek revenge? Catch your thief in order to hang him.

  No, sir.

  Not that?

  No, sir. Nothing of the sort. Tabbs said it as straight as he could, needing Coffin to believe that he could usefully influence Tabbs.

  We’re at peace now, Coffin said.

  Peace? Tabbs thinks. That’s milk for the birds.

  Coffin leaned forward and inclined his fleshy face toward Tabbs, this lifting of the head suggestive of an immediate change in consciousness, all that was required for him to draw up a fresh thought and give—a redirecting of muscle and skin—Tabbs a look part smile, part smirk.

  What’s done is done, he went on. Nothing can change that. Keep your eyes on the prize, on the future, he said. Blind Tom once had a dazzling career, he said. Perhaps he will again.

  Indeed he will, sir. (Indeed he will.)

  But the boy is beyond your reach. Coffin paused, as if to let the words sink in. The General took advantage of you. You honestly believed that he would keep his word, that he would give up the boy.

  Unclear if Coffin was asking or telling.

  Yes.

  What a funny turn of thought you have. The lawyer almost laughed. (Did he?) He shook his head, staring at Tabbs with a pitying look. Well, I foresee it possible that a mule might someday become a king.

  Tabbs couldn’t find a single word. What was there to say? Still, he didn’t want a silence to develop, so he uttered a platitude. We take a respected man at his word.

  And I’m sure you did just that, Mr. Gross. That makes you all the more the innocent. His eyes blinked beneath thick eyebrows that clung like gray slugs onto his face. Too much for Tabbs. Can any court or authority compel the General to produce the boy from hiding? the lawyer asked. By what means?

  Tabbs stood up from his seat, walked over to one of the wide windows, and stood looking down at the street three stories below. The end of the morning presented a particular shade of color he witnessed for the first time. He turned and faced the lawyer, who was observing him with none of his former amusement.

  Mr. Coffin, I am not naive. I was not weaned on babe’s milk. I am here because I know that you are a man of intelligence and means.

  Yes, I am.

  Many of our citizens, the best and the worst, have sacrificed almost everything to secure the rights of my people.

  And why do you report me this fact, Mr. Gross? The lawyer spoke in a quiet, unhurried tone. I am well aware of the recent course of history, as I’m sure you are fully aware of the far longer course, the many years, decades, I have spent offering fair and impartial representation for your maligned people.

  Of course, sir. I am not accusing you.

  You most certainly are, and in the worst way. With deceit and without forthrightness.

  They talked like people close to last words. Tabbs could offer nothing in his defense.

  As it is, Coffin said, I already face a dilemma. These days I am conflicted, tormented between two diametrically opposed callings. On the one hand, the longing for rest. And on the other, an acute awareness of our need to oppose human crime and human misery. With such serious decisions before me, what would compel me to entertain a flimsy claim? You choose to come before me with your own private cause.

  No, sir.

  Yes, Mr. Gross. Yes. Coffin sat watching and waiting for Tabbs’s response—measuring his reaction?—and would not say another word until he got one.

  Sir, I must respectfully inform you that you fail to understand why I am here. It is not a matter of my person. I come before you because no other man, Negro or Anglo-Saxon, stands a chance of aiding me in this cause. I stand before you at the price of a certain sacrifice of dignity, because dignity alone is the only worthy currency. There. He had said it. Now the lawyer understood (should) that this, at root and wing, was the substantive matter at hand.

  He saw Coffin’s eyes darken with kindness. Mr. Gross, I’m sure you are here on a pure impulse of the heart, but you must recognize that you are in an impossible position. General Bethune will never relinquish all that he believes is rightfully his.

  Indeed, sir. He won’t. I’m certain of it.

  Coffin leaned back in his chair, thinking. Mr. Gross, I am often asked why I have never taken on a junior partner, an understudy to whom I might pass on all that I have studied, learned, and mastered over the years. Actually, I would very much like to do so. But I will tell you why I never will. No matter how much we attempt to speak to novices, indeed to all young people, they never take the trouble to retain what is most important.

  Now, Tabbs felt that he was on his own, so utterly alone that nothing had transpired since he stepped through the door, that some other person from a very long time ago in a place very far away had seen and said and heard and felt.

  I foresee a time in the future, on
e year from now, perhaps two or three, when you will be seated once again as you are now before another man of my profession. The lawyer turned his face and lowered his gaze to the desk. So, at your insistence, Mr. Gross, I will immediately begin considering our best course of action. I will have our complaint served on the General personally.

  This was what Tabbs had journeyed here to hear. (Nothing less.) Coffin knew General Bethune’s hiding place. And Tabbs would kick in the safe house door, snatch off the roof, burrow into the General’s secret hole underground.

  Without looking at Tabbs—straight ahead, through the fully open door—the lawyer laid out two documents on his desk. I have here a letter of agreement in duplicate. You must sign both. Tabbs went over and signed each document with Coffin’s pen. Signing done, he stood looking at the lawyer, who was (now) returning his gaze. And I will need a sum of two hundred dollars as a retainer for my services. I can give you a few days to acquire the money if you so need it.

  Tabbs was already reaching for his wallet. (Thought twice. Should he or shouldn’t he? Now’s the time. Now isn’t the time.) Produced a sheath of notes and laid one after another upon the desk. As he had earlier upon Tabbs’s appearance, Coffin stood up from his desk and offered his hand. Tabbs took it for a brief sweaty meeting of palms.