Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Ah, General Bethune said, the early bird.

  Yes.

  And why shouldn’t I wait for one of the latecomers?

  I will best any offer.

  I already possess money. I own industry. Discretion outweighs all else.

  Tabbs contemplated this some, needed to see what was back of it. You would claim to understand better than myself a person of my own blood?

  General Bethune did not answer right away. Sat watching Tabbs, his face betraying no emotions. Perhaps you are right, Mr. Gross. Tom might best be served by another Negro. Even so, must that Negro be you? What I see before me is merely another boy. He had intentionally or unintentionally spoken with signs of growing dislike—the moment Tabbs had, perhaps at his deepest self, hoped for, an insult that would justify a full venting of his anger.

  Your kind always knows what’s best for us, Tabbs sneered. I suppose what I require is the blood of experience on my conscience to become the equal of you.

  Understand something, Mr. Gross. You are clever and strong, but you will never be the equal of me.

  Tabbs idled in his seat, hot air slowly escaping from his lungs.

  How could a son best a father? But your equality or lack thereof is not why you are here today. You seek Tom. I would sorely regret sitting in unfair judgment of your youth. For that reason, I need you to make clear to me what logic would justify my putting Tom in your hands. I have no intentions of insulting you, Mr. Gross, but I must express my belief that at your age you can hardly answer for your own self.

  Tabbs held back hard air, fists clutched. Could he save himself? All lost in his mind. He decidedly had not wanted anything outrageous to happen, anything to go over the line, the more especially at his provocation, but it had. As I said earlier, sir. I seek opportunity. You well understand this. As a military man, you are accustomed to leading. And in your present role, retired from military service, you remain one of the leaders of your country, perhaps more now than before.

  Yes, General Bethune said. I am a leader. But I am no longer a leader of men but one of thought. That is why I publish.

  Indeed, Tabbs said. You would agree that thoughts are easily led?

  I would. Still, Mr. Gross, you have failed to fully satisfy my conscience. Surely you have considered the possibility that his own kin should want possession of him?

  Yes, sir, I have. And I will back down if they so request. But I ask careful possession of him until such request be put forth.

  General Bethune was quiet for a time studying Tabbs carefully. What time frame do you have in mind?

  I am willing to pay you one thousand dollars now, sir, at this very moment.

  I see. And how did a youth, a man such as yourself, a Negro, come into such a sum?

  Respectfully, sir, is my history of concern in this matter?

  You are correct. Winged light flew across the General’s face. And what about the balance?

  My investors will provide me with the balance after you sign and notarize the contract. Then we will expect immediate delivery of Tom into my charge.

  General Bethune fidgeted in his seat. So you have investors?

  These grimaces brought to light that Tabbs had the white man where he wanted him, that he held the black upper hand. Yes, sir. I can supply you with a list. He needed General Bethune to believe that he was not alone in this venture, as a white man neither respects nor fears a singular Negro.

  Perhaps it is more pertinent at this time for you to produce a contract.

  Tabbs removed the contract from his jacket pocket and smoothed it flat on the table. (Any who should read it will find it carefully worded.) From the other pocket he removed a stack of banknotes, two leather cords wrapped around either end to keep it neatly formed.

  General Bethune did not move or give any indication that he noticed either the money or the document. Only continued to look at Tabbs.

  The money is completely sorted, Tabbs said.

  I trust that it is, General Bethune said. Still, you understand that my attorney-at-law will need to review the contract. He did not touch the document. Nor did he touch or count the money.

  I would expect nothing less. You will find the money is all there.

  I shall sign in receipt.

  I have no such receipt for you to sign, Tabbs said.

  Room flickering, General Bethune looked surprised. You elect no receipt?

  No, Tabbs said. He knew full well that the money was a calculated risk, small bait for the larger catch. I know you as a man of your word, however much I might disagree with certain views you express and certain causes you champion.

  So you know me. You needn’t worry. I will present this contract before my attorney-at-law today and you should expect a speedy reply. May we both wish that this contract meets with Mr. Geryon’s exacting standards.

  I so wish. Tabbs could barely contain himself, remain seated. I will wire word to my partners that you have accepted the terms of our agreement and plan to subscribe yourself to the contract upon your finding it suitable.

  You have my permission to do so. General Bethune extended his hand out to Tabbs. Why did the gesture surprise him? Was it because he had not expected to glide through the negotiations? And certainly not in a single day. Deals are never so easy, unless one party already feels at a disadvantage, defeated. He hooked his hand into the General’s—brown to pink—and gave it a firm tug before letting go, leaving the other to feel like the fish lucky enough to yank free of a captor’s hook whatever blood and flesh loss.

  Found himself moving down the dark hall and encountering on his way to the front door one after another the three (four?) black maids. Seeing the women made him think, How did we get from there to here? Only now had history made it possible for him to give flesh to an abiding logic of thought. The world he could (can) make—you possess a thing only when you build it with your own two hands—if he accepted the challenges and risks. Chance speaking. Hands measuring and shaping.

  He threw the door wide and stepped out into the street, expectant, both where he wanted and needed to be. The Tabbs who spoke to General Bethune would soon disappear, the Tabbs-to-be carrying this fact in his mind as if it had always been there, a name he could slip out of anytime he chose to. He fluttered through the city, gaze rising and dipping, catching and losing a hundred faces.

  A week later, one maid let him through a door, another led him in darkness halfway down a long hall, and a third took him the rest of the way. She turned (pointed?)—in there—and she was gone, returning—to light?—down the same blind corridor whose dark length would understandably dissuade most. Everyone quiet and still and looking up at him from their respective places at the table, as if caught off guard. He managed to stumble forward into an empty chair at the table and sat down before he was invited to do so. Taking the liberty, liberties. Carrying the room. This pretense at certainty and confidence mostly for himself, caught off guard too—admit this much—forgetting for a minute what had brought him here.

  Mr. Gross.

  General Bethune was speaking. He sat opposite Tabbs on the other side of the table, leaning slightly to one side as if favoring a damaged limb. I’m glad that you could join us. Allow me to offer you a refreshment. What will you have? Tea? Coffee? Lemon water? General Bethune lifted one hand from the table and raised it to his side, like one about to take an oath.

  Took Tabbs a second to realize that his other was prepared to summon a servant into action. For the first time he noticed a black woman standing in a far corner of the room, a good thirty feet away, as if caught in the distance of another life. She was fashionably clothed in a black dress with maline cuffs and trim, her torso wrapped in a shawl of yellow and red challis. Her face spiteful and impudent, like something trained and caged, ready to pounce upon him should she be so commanded. Then again, perhaps he was judging her appearance, reading her looks, incorrectly.

  Thank you for your kind offer, Tabbs said. I respectfully decline. I am not in need.
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br />   Should we proceed then? General Bethune returned his hand to the table. Tabbs was already growing tired of seeing him, of hearing his voice. Couldn’t wait to be done with it all. Kindly allow me to introduce you to the other gentlemen you see before you. The man seated beside him he introduced—he gestured—as Dr. Hollister, a medical specialist who guarded over Tom’s health. Seated next to him—General Bethune gestured—was, at last, Mr. Geryon, General Bethune’s attorney-at-law. (That peculiar phrase.) The two men seated on Tabbs’s side of the table: Mr. Warhurst, Tom’s stage manager, a well-dressed man with black distant eyes who took the trouble to smile at Tabbs—Tabbs in midlumbering with his hat, hidden hands (beneath the table) straightening it, then moving it to his other knee, crushing it—and a curious-looking man of the cloth—our pastor, General Bethune called him—Reverend H. D. Frye. Blunt and inexpressive, he appeared to be still in his teens, possibly younger. His clothes fit him poorly, oversized, his body a small concern among the folds. All the men in the room received Tabbs nicely enough. After this initial introduction, General Bethune and Mr. Geryon dominated the talking, words upon words, Warhurst and the two men seated alongside Tabbs never a single utterance, Tabbs continually aware of the silent weight of their watching, the gaze of one (Warhurst) unreadable, that of another (Dr. Hollister) curious, and that of the last (Reverend Frye) resentful. Of course, General Bethune did not introduce the woman, presumably his servant or the servant of one of the other white men. Tabbs was prompted to ask—And who is she? or Madame, your name would be?—but he couldn’t risk making a mistake. Intent on acting in concert with what he believed might least offend.

  Excuse me for asking, Mr. Gross, General Bethune said. Might you have some idea how much longer we must be detained? I assume your legal counsel will arrive shortly.

  My attorney will not be joining us today, Tabbs said.

  General Bethune peered into Tabbs’s eyes defiantly, a look that also seemed to hold some strange uneasiness.

  Is all in order? Mr. Geryon asked. Today, we truly wish to arrive at terms agreeable to all involved if so possible.

  I have already submitted the contract for your review, Tabbs said. I am perfectly capable of attending to any required modifications.

  His words silenced both General Bethune and the lawyer, the men at once transparent (stunned) and impossible to entirely see through, completely still, for a time, as if unable to move. Then Mr. Geryon spoke. Even if that is the case, Mr. Gross, is there some reason why your esquire cannot be present today? In your favor, we can adjourn until a later date.

  My attorney believes me perfectly and fully capable of handling any negotiation.

  Mr. Gross, certainly you are aware that—

  Let us proceed, General Bethune said, leaning forward on the table, hands cupped.

  I have carefully reviewed your contract and weighed its fairness, the lawyer said. I have so counseled my party, General Bethune, to subscribe, pending your willingness to sign an agreement I have drawn up. The lawyer’s hand disappeared under the table, resurfaced with a leather satchel, which the lawyer promptly laid flat on the table and opened, pulling a sheaf of papers, several pages thick, from inside. The lawyer slid—how small his hands seemed bringing the words, whatever they were—the bundle toward Tabbs, until letters pushed into sight, a document titled “bill-of-sale agreement.”

  Mr. Gross, the lawyer said, his voice high and tight, we see the need for two substantially similar, if not exact, versions of a contract, your contract, so that the exchange will be legally binding in both nations.

  Tabbs considered this some.

  Shall we review it together?

  Yes, Tabbs said. Keeping the bottom edge touching the table, he took up the bundle and inclined it, propped for reading.

  The lawyer took up a second copy of the contract positioned on top of his leather satchel, fit his bifocals onto his face, and with extreme readiness began to read it aloud, paraphrasing clauses where he felt the legal language was difficult, pointing to certain lines with his fingers as if to something too difficult (hidden) to see. Granted, perhaps Tabbs didn’t understand all of what was written there, a foreign language, Greek to his skin, but he made the effort, fully listening and taking in the lawyer’s abbreviations and clarifications point by point, seeking to understand it here in the moment—no time later—checking that understanding for validity, pursuing further to see if this validity served him, then persuading himself to accept it or reject it—well, in the end, he rejected nothing—before he privately arrived at a final decision to embrace the proposed terms.

  So this is what we ask, Mr. Gross, the lawyer said. I hope I have been sufficiently clear.

  Yes, Tabbs said.

  We can give some time alone for a second reviewing.

  That won’t be necessary, Tabbs said. I am prepared to sign. He feared nothing. I feared nothing. Some weeks later he would realize that he should have. I should have.

  His words hummed in white silence above their heads. With all the eyes in the room turned on him—all eyes on me—he felt in himself a complete and triumphant assurance. He needed more and he would find it here, right in this room, among these men. With no hesitation, only fresh clean movement—he will inhabit the free spaces—he removed a precounted wad of crisp banknotes and counted out two thousand dollars in notes of large denomination on the table, then with one edge of his hand slid croupier-like the stack of notes across the table to General Bethune. No one moved. No one said anything. Then a sudden shift of delicate forms (skin, paper, leather, and other solids): the lawyer, moving, speaking.

  Now, if you gentlemen would be good enough to sign. General Bethune, it is only right that you should subscribe yourself first. The lawyer repositioned the stack of banknotes just enough to make room for the contract and the bill of sale, then offered General Bethune a fine-bladed pen. General Bethune took the pen, signed one (Tabbs’s) and its duplicate then signed the other (his) and its duplicate. Joy caged in his throat, Tabbs could hardly believe what he saw. (He paused to breathe.) It was as he wanted it.

  And now you, Mr. Gross.

  Tabbs accepted the pen and signed all four documents as quickly as he could. Then he looked up. The banknotes remained on the table.

  Congratulations to you both, gentlemen.

  General Bethune extended his hand out to Tabbs across the table. Tabbs accepted it—a touch he would decline—with his own, and they shook, as men should, but they did not simply shake once or twice and cease. General Bethune continued to move Tabbs’s hand—a fish trying to free itself, no luck this time—with his firm fearless grip, strong bones, pressing so hard that Tabbs felt the blood drain from his fingertips. Only then did he let go, release the other.

  One difficulty remains, the lawyer said. That of settling on a pattern and date for the transfer of Tom into your custody, Mr. Gross.

  Allow me to put forth a schedule, General Bethune said. He spoke for ten minutes without pause, providing a thorough explanation for why he would need a full week to hand over Tom—Tom must finish out his schedule; the professionals (Warhurst, Dr. Hollister, Reverend Frye) will need time to elucidate it all to the boy; the boy should be granted a final gathering with his kin—even as Tom was only a short distance, a few minutes away, presently in town for a concert. Tabbs took this verbiage to be a measure of the General’s own seriousness. Or so he felt he must (wanted to, did) interpret it. (How else understand it?) Then too, the General’s facts appeared reasonable. Perhaps General Bethune was a better man than Tabbs thought, better than himself in many ways.

  One week from today, here at my office, and shall we say at this very same hour? the lawyer asked. Mr. Gross, are you in agreement with such designation as the appointed date?

  I am, Tabbs said.

  We fend accord.

  Should we drink a toast? General Bethune asked.

  Yes.

  General Bethune nodded at the servant standing in the corner, who hurried over to a smal
l cupboard at the opposite back corner of the room, her scarf zipping behind her like a black flag. She lifted up a silver tray holding a crystal decanter and several crystal glasses, and carried the tray over to the table. With one hand steadily holding the tray, she proceeded to pour and set down before each man a glass of whiskey, working her way around the table from General Bethune to Tabbs. General Bethune raised his glass, the other men following his lead, and all drank a toast.

  The liquor warmed and brightened Tabbs like a light that wouldn’t stop going through him.

  I hope you are pleased, Mr. Gross.

  Yes, sir.

  Just like that, only the two of them, Tabbs and the General, were in the room, a bare exchange, the other men invisible even as they were physically present.

  I hope I have not disappointed you, General Bethune said, a man in mourning fumbling for words. At first I suffered resentment. However, I quickly realized that I should have no reason to be upset with you, for you are only performing your perceived duty to that world which you believe in and that you believe to be true. I fully understand your motives. Why then is it I feel the lesser man in this transaction?

  Tabbs knows now but did not know then the duplicitous courtesy with which General Bethune was speaking to him. In his vanity, he had lost sight of danger, the trap already set.

  Sir, Tabbs said, if anyone is the lesser, it is me. Why not say it, throw the General a bone or two? Tabbs had much ahead. What more could the General ask for, require? He should count his blessings, reaping gain for all these years to the benefit of no one—it helped no one—other than himself. Tabbs powerless to correct this man’s past even if he wanted to. When he quits the room the lights will gutter out. From now on the world will remember General James Neil Bethune as a man who could have but did not and will come to know Tabbs Gross as a man of vision and will who did.

  On the appointed day, he rushed out into the street, the city solid and real about him, daylight twisting in his eyes. Hurrying to meet the moment when he would board a ferry and cross waters to Tom. With Tom—Blind Tom—his story would (will) begin in earnest.