Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  They struck out to the garden and followed a solitary side path speckled with blue moonlight, walking neither fast nor slow, without hurry or hesitation, space between their bodies, Tabbs put on edge.

  Dr. Hollister curved his face back to hook a glance at Tabbs. You look like a man who wants to run.

  Maybe I should.

  That’s why I came. The General and I, we’re worried about you.

  I should thank you.

  My agreeable duty. We want you safe.

  Tricks upon tricks, Tabbs said, speaking to the back of the Doctor’s head. He was on performance, standing on his head and hands, turning somersaults. You even look like the General.

  A man can’t change what he is. He is my cognate.

  The night hummed with the rasping sounds of insects. Everywhere in the garden, naked marble women glowed white from under the foliage. What was one supposed to feel here? Their eyes are upon me, and I am not.

  But you know more about him than I do. So there ain’t nothing I can give you. He looked back at Tabbs, showing his strong white teeth.

  Sooner quiet than say too much, Tabbs said nothing, a silence that did not reside on the surface of his lips but in the mouth. The world is always half someone else’s, never one’s own, never Tabbs’s. He wished he possessed his own private language that could represent him speak him be him.

  You talkin bout how I look. I don’t see him walking here with you. Why don’t you go ask him for it? Go on out there to Hundred Gates, if you ain’t already been.

  (The wrought iron gate.) (The carefully arranged grounds with fine shrubs and vines and graveled walks bordered with flowers.) (The waveless sheet of the pond.) (The marble fireplace inside the great hall.)

  I’m all you got.

  He continued to follow the Doctor, the sweep of hair, the hunch of shoulders, the squat wall of back, nothing of the Doctor’s legs visible in the dark, only this floating faceless torso.

  Certain things a man ain’t gon give up, can’t give up, even if that thing be his owning the flesh of another man. I absolve myself of such claims. When all this mess started I set mine loose, every one of them, one hundred and twenty-four mouths that I gave food, upkeep, clothing, a roof and walls, year after year, settling their vexations and celebrations and all matters in between. They belong to themselves now. And where are they? Roaming about, confused, hungry, dead.

  I just want the boy.

  So does he.

  What?

  They went into the grass, no longer solid path beneath his feet but soft earth, his shoes pressing down with each step. Any time now, he would sink, disappear, sucked in.

  You mean to tell me you ain’t figured that out by now? He ain’t got him.

  Tabbs said nothing, bursts of facts illuminating the night with the fireflies. Some way off he could see Mrs. Birdoff and her help heaping crates into a cellar.

  Ruggles: a long pull on a fish hooked deep. Raising the fish from water, still alive (thrashing) at the end of the hook. What about the worm?

  Who did you think I was talking about? Thomas.

  He wanted to stop walking but couldn’t.

  Do you know where the boy is?

  What I know don’t matter. Go bargain with his mother. You can bargain with her. She has a right to what’s hers.

  I already spoke to her.

  Speak to her again, Dr. Hollister said.

  The Doctor stopped walking and turned to face Tabbs, Tabbs almost stumbling into him. He watched Tabbs for a moment, the edges of his mouth working. Maybe I got you wrong.

  Bearing no grudge and hardly any sorrow, Tabbs breathed in the smell of the Doctor’s cologne. He had all he needed, a chance to undo what had (has) been done, a possibility, plan of action that could not have suited him better if he had designed it himself.

  Take them in there, Tabbs said.

  Master boss, President Lincoln said, we can do it right here. Right here in front of her so she can see.

  President Lincoln didn’t move, lingered staring at the Bethune daughters in one long unbroken moment, his rifle at his chest, the barrel close to his nose as if he were sniffing it. (Tabbs disliked the driver’s casual handling of the rifle, but what could he say?) The Bethune daughters remained standing where they were, each girl with a distinct look of terror on her face, each girl planted in a cone-shaped dress, their slim torsos tapering off to constrictive bonnets, slim nothings, three long-stemmed flowers. And Tom’s mother with garments in kind, similar but apart, her face placid, undisturbed, riding above the driver’s words.

  Just take them in the other room.

  You ain’t got to worry. Only us here. Ain’t nobody gon know. President Lincoln saying what he is, what he wants.

  Tabbs needed to talk, needed to penetrate the driver’s focus, keep his hands from doing the thinking. I just need to talk to her. Nothing else. He said it without panic or force, calm, trying to bring the driver back to himself.

  So you gon and talk while I take care of this.

  I need them.

  The driver paused in his offer to look at Tabbs. You ain’t got to do it. Not nwan one. I’ll do it. I’ll do it all.

  I don’t need you to do my work. Tabbs tried to sound capable, tried to create the picture that what had drawn them together was something greater than money, the dollar he had given in exchange for the driver’s services, the dollar he might give tomorrow.

  But you gon stop me? Why? They ain’t nothing but woogies.

  I know what they are.

  Then you know. All them years, master boss. The driver looking at the daughters again, his eyes wet, moving. All the hurt these woogies put on me, years they put on me, put me through.

  But I need to talk to them. How will I talk to them? The dead can’t talk.

  Okay, master boss. I ain’t gon get in yo way. You go on and talk. Talk. Then just say the word.

  Tabbs was relieved. Lucky him. He hadn’t the will to talk sense to the driver. The driver nodded a command, and the daughters herded into the other room, the white buttons on their shoes moving under the smooth expanse of their skirts, their hands linked like paper dolls, President Lincoln behind them, the long barrel of his rifle fisted in his right hand like a walking stick. He firmly shut the door.

  Tabbs heard himself say to her, He won’t hurt them.

  The woman watched him sternly.

  But I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth.

  I know some truth.

  Tabbs looked into her face for some time. Miss Bethune—Wiggins, she said. Greene Wiggins. With the e. That’s who I be. He wondered by master or marriage? The Wiggins. The e. Her words said to him, I’m other, I’m not a Bethune.

  Miss Wiggins—

  You looking for him, Thomas.

  I’m looking for your son.

  Thomas.

  You are free. You both are.

  Proclaimed, she said. Proclaimed.

  He thought about it. The Bethunes cannot stand in the way of maternal bond. So why are you here? He has no hold on you.

  He gave me the girls. I got them to tend to.

  They are his daughters, not yours.

  I know what’s mine. All mine gone, she said. Niggers always gon have cause to call on a woogie. Ain’t nothing come from us, and ain’t nothing gon end with us.

  What have they done with your son? Where are they keeping him?

  He livin up north with that Yankee woman, the one who marry Massa Sharpe. Her words rose to the ceiling, stayed put for a few breaths before they started their descent, settled on his face and shoulders. Our child you have returned to us. My child you have returned home.

  All this time, Tabbs said. All this time. He shook his head. He been right there in my face. In the city. Back at home. He laughed. He shook his head some more.

  She asked, How did you let yourself get mixed up with General Toon? I never known him to have no dealings with our kind. With niggers.

  Gold and Rose
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br />   (1868–1869)

  “My song will stand.”

  I’LL BRING HIM BACK TO THE HOME TOMORROW, TABBS SAYS. He is far, far away, the floor between him and Ruggles like a shimmering lake of sunlight. He doesn’t know what work he will do once he leaves the island. Only this: he has settled this matter of Tom once and for all. After all else, now the boy himself is the great impediment to his aim, Tom the final impasse that can’t be moved. No remedy to his loss. The sooner he’s done with the boy, the better. Anything but surrender to Edgemere. Anything but getting stuck here. Once he’s gone, the island will shrink to a tarnished coin that he might lift and carry in his pocket.

  He expects Ruggles to speak but he doesn’t. Because Ruggles’s response is silence, he assumes Ruggles is waiting to hear more. You might as well send for her, Tabbs says. Send for anybody you like. Damn him. Damn her. The boy can stay here and give concerts to piss-poor orphans.

  How did this all start?

  I’m losing track of things.

  Has he asked for her?

  He hasn’t asked for her, Tabbs says. He hasn’t asked for a goddamn thing.

  Ruggles listens, sitting not quite straight in his chair, his back to a window, sits quietly, watching Tabbs, Tabbs trying to put a name to the look on Ruggles’s face.

  Happy now? You got what you wanted.

  Ruggles continues to look at Tabbs.

  I never had a chance, Tabbs says. His face falls. Something not right about both of them. Maybe he’s what they always said he is, an idiot. And she ain’t much better. Who knows? Maybe we’re just not like them. We’ve been free from the start. He leaves in what is essential, takes out what is not.

  You and I, homeskillet, we ain’t like nobody. Never have been. Never will be.

  That’s some comfort, Ruggles. Some comfort.

  They say nothing for a time. Then:

  Well, I should give you a fitting good-bye.

  Or bury me.

  You ain’t ready for that. You got some years ahead.

  Tabbs draws his breath but says nothing.

  You ain’t got to go back among them.

  Tabbs forces himself to look directly at Ruggles. I can’t stay here. You want to go back. You still seeking their approval, their praise. I hate them as much as you do. They use us any way they like then throw us away.

  Then why go?

  You expect me to stay here, on this island filled with donkey shit?

  Take some time. Get yo head right.

  What’s to think about? I tried to give her something. He got what he wanted and left nothing for me.

  And what did you get her to give up to come here?

  I brought her here.

  A husband.

  She had nothing.

  Children.

  Ruggles—

  Siblings.

  I took nothing from her. I gave her back what the Bethunes took away, her son. And look how they repay me. I’m the only one losing here.

  You paid what she couldn’t.

  Somewhere beyond his consciousness, his thoughts are racing, unformed, disconnected. He trusts these surroundings. He can relax in the midst of this conversation, this running series of ruminations, let his eyes close and give in to his tiredness, his body unbearably heavy, drained. Needs to close his eyes, try to collect himself. Dissolving, parts of him drifting away. Haven’t they discussed all this before? What’s being remembered, confirmed, denied? Him secure in his own awareness, Ruggles asking him to open out to accept this place.

  Tabbs!

  He looks at Ruggles, tired of everything.

  You sitting there feeling sorry for yoself, thinking yo luck ran out. You can’t even see what’s happened. He put one over on you. He ensnared you. The boy was the bait. You couldn’t resist.

  But I was the one. He didn’t know me. I made the offer. Drew up the contract. Me, Ruggles, me.

  Don’t matter. He had you.

  Why would he go through the trouble? For what? Just to get my money?

  They never need reasons, Ruggles says. Ain’t you figured that out by now?

  Ruggles was like that. Everything he said was a certainty in his mind, and he expected you to see it that way too.

  We can’t be among them.

  So you think this is what the boy deserves, Edgemere?

  I ain’t say that, Ruggles says. Don’t matter what he deserve. Nothing you can do about that now.

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  But the boy ain’t got to be the end.

  Tell me. Tabbs saying anything rather than sit in ungracious silence.

  Forget all that. Bygones.

  Forget? Damn, Ruggles. What’s happened to you? They took everything from you, everything you had, everything you worked for.

  None of that was mine anyway. I only thought it was. But them alabasters had claim to it. All of it. You can’t be king in somebody else’s castle. No way they gon let that happen.

  Well, Ruggles. You go on and be king.

  I’m glad they took it.

  Wish I could say the same.

  Your three thousand. Ruggles says it with slight disgust, his lips working against the words.

  You don’t know what it cost me.

  Take them into the other room.

  Ruggles gives him a strange look of anger. And you don’t know what it cost me, living among them.

  Maybe I don’t, but one way or the other you’ll keep sitting there flapping your mouth about it.

  Ruggles snaps to his feet like a fish yanked from water. He unbuttons his trousers.

  So, what, you’re going to piss on me now?

  Ruggles lets his trousers drop to his ankles, a cloth puddle. Tabbs is thinking, Did they take that from him?

  Ruggles raises his shirt ends to reveal his shaved groin, his long even thighs. To Tabbs’s eyes, the sight is a relief. Go on, Ruggles says. Get you an eyeful. See?

  Tabbs neither confirms nor denies. But he can plainly see that Ruggles’s deformed leg is deformed no longer. How could this be?

  Take your measure, so there’s no doubt.

  What?

  Measure them. Measure each and see if they match. You can’t dispute numbers.

  I ain’t got to do that. Pull your pants up.

  You sure?

  Ruggles.

  Ruggles secures his trousers in place. Resumes his seat.

  You really think you need to prove that to me?

  Seem like I do.

  He finds it impossible to answer. Without words. I must not surrender to Edgemere.

  Wire told me that it was a sign I should give myself over to the church. That the Almighty had been good enough to take pause and go back and correct what He had created. And what about the many He hasn’t corrected? I asked him. I can’t speak for them, he said. Far more the mistakes of man than the imperfections that can be attributed to God’s hand. But we ain’t talkin bout God, homeskillet. God ain’t play no part in it. These alabasters made the man you see here.

  Tabbs feels the focused tension of violence beneath the words.

  My house burned to the ground. My friends dead. Had I a firearm I would have killed the first alabaster I saw—man, woman, or child. Truth is, maybe I did kill one or two. Maybe I even spent my rifle to the last bullet. Hate carried heavy in my heart. I can still feel it, feel it now even as we speak. But I ain’t got no reason to hate them anymore, do I?

  Some hours later, he finds himself alone once again with Tom. The boy holds the glass of milk up to his ear as if listening to it, a seashell, the sound of ocean. Brings the glass around to his lips and makes quick work of the contents. Sets the glass down on the table and sits with both hands on the table. It’s not as flat as it feels, he says.

  What, Tom?

  Water.

  His statement is like many things he says, demanding (deserving) no reply. Now he sniffs the air, smelling water, ocean, Edgemere.

  You want something? What would you like?

 
Lait, he says.

  You are tired? You wish to rest?

  You’ll give me the drink.

  A drink? I have tea, sweet water. Even wine.

  Lait. Hot or cold. You know, the honey from cows.

  More milk?

  Yes.

  Tabbs fills the glass, both hands carry milk to mouth, then one ear listening to the glass.

  I’m going to take you back. He might as well say it.

  Across the water.

  No, Tom. To the Home, the orphanage.

  Across the water. He sips the milk.

  I’m trying to understand, Tom. Is it that you don’t like me?

  You brought me here.

  Yes, Tom. Yes I did. So why? I only wanted a chance. Why give white men that chance and not one of your own?

  Tom neither moves nor speaks. He is misinterpreting the boy’s behavior, assuming he knows—this—what he wants. Then: You gave him money?

  Yes.

  These. Tom holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers. And you bought tickets when you heard me?

  Yes.

  And you heard me sing too?

  So you remember?

  Yes.

  How amazing it must have been, playing for all those people.

  You want to know?

  Yes.

  I can show you.

  Okay.

  They walk to the piano. After some time:

  It’s not as hard as I thought, Tabbs says.

  Your hands are easy.

  For the first time the boy appears in good spirits. I would like to learn more, but I don’t want to take you away from your own work.

  Don’t try.

  Would you like me to send for an instructor?

  I can teach you.

  Not for me, Tom. For you.

  I’ll teach you.

  The piano shines, animated in late afternoon. Tom plays with a powerful joy, a melody played too fast or too slow. It’s got things that shouldn’t be in there, foreign tones, melodies taking wrong turns, bass notes darkening passages that should be clear, chords with so many notes they cancel any understanding, foot hand allowing chords to resonate and invade where they shouldn’t, a deliberate display of excess, of error, of noise, Tom having his way, one side of the floor rising, the other falling, a rocking, storm-tossed sea. Time assumes the shape it should. Tom where Tabbs wants him, taking a song from start to finish. Tom, Tabbs, and piano at a point of decision, agreement.