Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Tabbs sits forward in his chair, interpreting a new toughness in the boy’s face.

  Wire walks in, walks into his house and finds them there, trespassers occupying space that belongs to him. So you’re here? Unfleshed speech against the mute surface of the furniture, Tom quiet at the piano, chin high as if straining to hear, Tabbs trying to puzzle together words and phrases, his head heavy, his body cold. What can he say with the freakishly tall preacher standing there, his right to stand on his shiny floor under yellow light hanging from the ceiling? Ruggles must have summoned him, and the mother too, not that it matters now. Mother or no mother, Tom will return to the stage.

  Wire looks around. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s no accident you are here, he says. The Almighty has impeccable timing.

  I only thought to—

  Stay. The sheep has heard your voice. He must follow. Wire shifts direction, moves to another side of the room, a walking tree, strange to watch. The Almighty spoke to me and told me to treat you like a son. (Noah had three.) He wants you, us, our race, to prosper. That’s why you couldn’t walk away.

  As if I had a choice, Tabbs thinks.

  Expectation is a cord that binds.

  Wake me, Tom says. Wire beside him now, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  See, isn’t my piano everything I said it was?

  A promise, Tom says.

  More than that. The Almighty has blessed you so that you can bless others.

  You can’t preach like Peter

  You can’t preach like Paul

  One thing you can say

  Our Lord Jesus died for us all

  Tabbs holds still, pressed against the chair. I don’t feel so blessed. He surprises himself, his willingness to speak aloud his feelings to the preacher. Less surprising the unspoken distinction he makes in his head—not blessed but deserving, deserving what’s rightfully his.

  But you are.

  Always one more thing to say, Tabbs thinks.

  You will lay hands on a million people. Wire is soothing the boy’s shoulders.

  The boy sings,

  One two

  Buckle my shoe

  Three four

  Open the floor

  Yes, Tom, yes. Smiling, touching the boy’s shoulders. If the Bible is silent, we should be silent. If the Bible talks, we should shout a clarion call.

  Tabbs can think of nothing to say. The ease of the preacher’s assurance almost annoys him.

  You have come far, and you still have far to go. What you are willing to walk away from, leave behind, determines what the Almighty will bring to you. The abundance.

  You brought her? Tom asks.

  Wire takes a beat to consider the boy’s face. I’m sorry, son. She should be here, right now, with you, but she stayed behind, in the city.

  Tabbs hears. The words assume a shape in him.

  Yes, the city woman.

  Wire presses both hands into Tom’s shoulders as if he is trying to keep the boy seated on the piano bench. We were in the camps, as regular as rain. Doing our work. Then one day, she just up and—it’s just some misunderstanding. What else could it be? Wire’s face holds some reticent knowledge that seals him off from Tabbs and Tom, some harmful (damaging) facts.

  And you don’t know where?

  I know. She is out there. In the city. Somewhere.

  Tom’s face goes wild.

  We will find her.

  We can go across the water, Tom says.

  That’s just what we’ll do, Tabbs says. Believe it if you want, he thinks.

  Yes, we will find your mother. She wants to be with you.

  Always mother, Tom says.

  Wire walks about the room in his high-shine shoes, looking everywhere at once with his three heads. How have I ended up back here, again?

  Wire watches the slow stirrings of the chapel come to life. Swears that he has been in this scene before, with these very men, positioned about the pews as they are. A dream. A presentiment even. (Sight is anticipatory sense.) Did he dream it last night? Is he dreaming it now? Were it not for the smell (burning trees, gunpowder, blood) he might doubt the reality of what he is seeing and hearing.

  Drinkwater is speaking in a loud insistent voice, his throat wild with words, words undoing words, his mouth open so wide that Wire can see his small teeth. His body appears tense with a terrible effort of will to remain standing where he is, clutching his hat in his hand like a messenger sent on an errand. He no longer has the aura of someone exceptional, with his troubled disposition, his overexcitement, and his shoddy appearance, his skin and clothes speckled with mud and soot.

  The five soldiers scattered around him in various poses of disheveled collapse chime in where they think necessary with expressions of incredible assurance—uh huh and that’s right and yeah and you know it—and constantly nod their heads, small movements of spasmodic affirmation (and shock) as if Wire, Double, and the other deacons are not impressed by Drinkwater’s account of murder and tragedy, the stark facts of the city’s offensive against them in Central Park, which has claimed the lives of all the men in their unit except those present. Double sits motionless on a pew in front of them, his manner extraordinarily composed as always, head bowed, one hand clutching his chin. Wire can feel the Deacon thinking, his mind fidgeting with the future. The Deacon has strong ideas—more than once Wire has thought about telling him so—but he is also reserve personified, never the first to speak, never a loud word, a man so at a remove listening and observing that his silence seems to cancel out his presence altogether, a man so purely inward and oriented toward the duties of his church that he enlarges the world around him by an erasure of self, occupying (filling) space but without taking space away from other things around him. Sometimes Wire will sit and think about how he wishes he knew more about the Deacon’s life.

  After a long introduction containing many unusual words, Drinkwater’s second-in-command, dark and solidly built, his ears too big, picks up the story in minute detail, going beyond the bare facts—life making its extensions—narrating entire conversations, throwing himself into the attitudes of the participants, changing the expression of his face and voice like a professional actor. As Wire listens, his thoughts blow backward, the stench of donkey dung, the troughs filled with donated rations, the creaky dhows, the unkempt tents, the barefoot vendors, the half-naked children sporting in the glare of the noonday sun—all a background to thoughts and feelings not easily gauged, never completely assayed.

  Christ bought us with his blood. The words come from his mouth, but they are not his words, his mouth. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. Everything in the room pulls into silence, time broken around them. The dancing light from the kerosene lamps assume shapes that give everything in the room an oddly broken impression. Light he does not trust. Such terrible darkness.

  Do not unduly bear the burden of your fallen brethren, Double says. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice carries and everyone listens. For unless Jehovah has raised you up in this thing you will be worn down by the opposition of men and devils.

  Heat cleaves to every object in the church like a low fever. Wire feels the grip of weariness, both drained and filled.

  The search for a homeland has always been at the center of our chronicles. And so the years go by.

  Double’s expansive words seem to push at the walls of the chapel, make them fly apart and come together again.

  Truth crushed to the earth shall rise again, he says. The same indignation that cleared the temple once will clear it again. Brothers, await that day. In the meantime, say nothing, do nothing. It is enough that all of us are here now. When the time comes, the Lord will give us the words to speak. Scarcely moving in the darkness, he unsnaps the button on his left shoe, removes the shoe, then unsnaps the button on the right shoe and removes it. He cups his hands together and from knee to toe slides his left silk stocking free from his leg and foot. Repeats this process with his
right stocking. Then he just sits for a while looking at the other men in the room, his bare feet contoured like two red-brown mushrooms. Wire gathers vaguely that he wants them to follow his example, but it takes the soldiers a full minute or two to catch on. Drinkwater sits down on the pew and his men follow his lead, taking places in his proximity, shoulder to shoulder, where they proceed to remove their soiled boots and socks. Many ideas taking shape in his head, Wire is the last man in the room to partake in the brotherhood of bare feet.

  Double takes up a pitcher and pours water into a basin. He kneels before Drinkwater and carefully lifts the lieutenant’s foot as if it were a delicate bird, pours water over it, and massages it clean. He returns the clean foot to the floor then lifts up the other foot smoothly and easily and effortlessly, pours water and cleans away the mud and dirt. He passes a freshly filled pitcher and a newly emptied basin to Drinkwater’s second-in-command, who kneels down before the soldier to his left. Amid the somber circulation, the sound of pouring and rinsing, Wire cannot shake the feeling that they are being spied on, shadows watching them from the corners, and even through the high windows, darkness looking in; he is certain of it. And yet they continue pouring and rinsing, Wire secretly glad that, true to form, Double had brought into being this evocative ritual—ribbons of water—for these soldiers requiring answers, consolation (some at least) in knowing that the Deacon has succeeded (momentarily?) where he, Wire, had not the fortitude, resolve, and presence of mind to try.

  And this feeling deepens as Double slides from water back into words, his voice a low grunting accompaniment.

  I was in a wilderness sort of place, all full of rocks and brushes, when I saw a serpent raise its head of an old man with a long white beard, gazing at me, wishful like, just as if he were going to speak to me, and then two other heads rose up beside him, younger than he—

  The hands on Wire’s feet are pleasing to the touch.

  —and as I stood looking at them and wondering what they could want with me, a great crowd of men rushed in and struck down the younger heads and then the head of the old man, still looking at me so wishful. This is a dream I have had again and again and could not interpret it until now.

  Charity looks around the austere room where Wire works on his sermons—Brethren, I have taken off my shoes and on this consecrated ground adored the God and Father of our ancestors. You’ve been crowned with victory. There is a king in each of you—looks at the bed, the table, shelves of books, sketches on the walls, and the shiny white sheets of paper that occupy his hard narrow desk like felled birds. No easy time of it. His robe stiff tight on his shoulders like feathers mashed in place. He shifts his bulk from time to time. She waits in silence, the room hot, airless, can feel the urgency flowing from him in waves. Wouldn’t surprise her any if he rips the sermon into skinny strips and tosses the wasted words out the window. Nothing a preacher can’t do. He puts down his stylus, shakes his head, looks up at the sagging ceiling—God pressing in—shielding his eyes as he does so. Seems to have forgotten that another person, her, Charity Greene Wiggins, is in the room with him. But then he looks at her, and for a moment his eyes look almost compassionate. Try again. He shuffles the papers, moves them about on the desk, piecing together a new nest where his tired hands can perch. Looks at her absently, eager to get back to his sermon. So she’ll just keep standing here, awaiting some sudden surprise of light, color, or motion. Not much longer now. He takes a sip of chocolate tea, lukewarm now, returns cup to saucer. Primed, he stuffs a black plug of tobacco in his mouth and chews his annoyance away. Spits brown puddles of tobacco juice right onto the floor.

  She remembers moments of the recent past that already seem distant, long ago:

  Why did you go? Thomas asked.

  I ain’t go nowhere.

  You been.

  They took you, took you away.

  You say.

  He gave you to them.

  He put his arms on the table. Still arms, slack face.

  You understand? They took you away from me.

  But here now.

  Yes. Here. Together…. Don’t you miss me?

  Got no words.

  Why? They took you. A nigger ain’t go no say.

  You want to play. Play. I’ll hear you.

  She started to hum a song, low in her throat.

  Don’t ever touch me like that again, he said.

  She blows out the quotidian candles, readies the kerosene lamps, and carries them lit by the latches, two to a hand, into the small sitting room where the Vigilance Committee, twelve deacons from as many churches, come with weekly reports about trials, tribulations, and triumphs. (She does not give as much thought as she might to what the men actually speak about.) Looking at the men, she thinks about how the black children of Israel are like a speckled bird in their many shades of skin. She serves them decanters of sack, kettles of soma, and goblets of Medusa for those who want their eyes to roll back in their head. Bowls of goobers and pecans, apple and pear preserves on little rafts of hard bread, and flat cakes of ground meat smothered in sweet red sauce. Reverend Wire is brightly attired in blue robe with a line of silver buttons shining—she keeps button polishers in the pantry—from his throat down to his shoes. All of the men at the table wear robes of the same color if not similar in fit and construction.

  Using only the tips of his fingers, Deacon Double lifts a newspaper from the table, the newspaper some vile unclean thing. Brothers, this is what they write about us. He lowers his eyes and reads from the newspaper. Negroes at every turn. Their presence is undesirable among us. They should be confined to large tracts of unimproved land on the outskirts of the city, where they can build up colonies of their own and where their transportation and hygiene and nourishment and other problems will not inflict injustice and disgust on worthy citizens.

  A little breeze reels through the white curtains and suddenly the entire room feels different.

  Double raises his line of sight from the newspaper and makes a point of catching the gaze of every man in the room. It would be nice to be able to say a miracle had happened, he says. But it hasn’t. We know these alabasters, know that their hearts and hands are capable of anything. Knowing what we do, it is the duty of every man here, men of God, to provide himself and his congregants with arms and ammunition. I myself have at least one rifle and at least enough projectiles to make it useful.

  Wire says, At this moment of revolution, when our country needs the blessing of Almighty God and the strong arms of her children, this is not the time for us to solemnly enact injustice. In duty to our country and in duty to God, I plead against any such thing. We must be against wrong in its original shape and in all its brood of prejudice and error.

  No blood is to be shed except in self-defense, Deacon Double says. One hand goes into the sleeve of his robe and reappears holding a rolled leather map. He unrolls it and spreads it flat on the table before the other men, turned so that they may easily view it, paperweights pinning down the corners. Bends his bulky body over the map and begins moving his hand freely above the leather.

  She set the glass before him. Milk will pass right through a haint, a white puddle on the floor. Best she find out. Maybe that Mr. Tabbs ain’t all he promised. Good chance of that, with his fancy clothes, proud hat, and that silver tongue. Made-up nigger thinking he other, better. I can give you your son.

  He stuck his tongue out like a snake and let the tip of it touch the milk, his lips far away, keeping safe distance. He set the glass down, milk intact.

  Who thirsty, he said. And then: You are just a weak worm of the earth.

  The strays in Central Park have multiplied. At least double yesterday’s number grouped around the well, sweaty and haggard.

  I can’t stay behind, my Lord

  I can’t stay behind

  Swaying like vile flowers, dirty mushrooms, in their wide-brimmed hats. A steady drift of them dressed in rags, some of the women in cast-off soldier’s coats, both blue and gray, me
n and women alike carrying their households on their backs (dirty sacks, splintery crates) and heads (baskets, bundles), arms toting tubs, kettles, and pots, animals too, pigs and roosters and chickens, their rickety children and gaunt mules, their porkers, goats, lambs, and dogs trailing behind them. A common sight: a swollen belly leading the rest of the body like a big stubborn eye.

  The nurses work with dignified speed. Sun boiling, moisture and sweat hanging in the air. She can’t quite keep up, her hands like a den of aggravated snakes, the green veins beneath the skin pulsing and writhing in the heat.

  A nurse he calls me. I ain’t never done that, I said. And I’m dry. No milk. I ain’t no nurse.

  The church touches her hands. This is the abiding nature of the place. Always there. Once she settles down on the bed her day stops, her body crumpling inside her sweat-heavy dress. She tries to pay it no mind. Won’t bother to take it off. Can’t. Exhausted beyond wanting company, she lies still and tries to empty herself, empty herself of all that water out there, all that ocean she had crossed to get to Edgemere, and had crossed again (back) to get to here, the city, to this room in this church. She has a room in the church, small, but the bed is perfect for sleeping. Not too soft, not too hard, and plenty of pillows to cushion her head just right. Cracks in the drapes let in random patches of light. She lays bare her worries and tallies her setbacks. Thinking a long time before she falls asleep.

  She awakes, the room ablaze with light. Drags herself up out of dreams, works the knots in her body out, doing all she can to turn away from sleep into morning. For yet another day she will have to get up, leave this room, and go back among those people to save herself.

  Now that she and Reverend Wire are here, in the camp, nurses dressed in white descend from the topmost branches of the trees like a lost flock of birds. Tall trees that brush the light in, brush the shade out.

  Her senses come alive. She breathes in the smell of strays, mouthful by mouthful, struggling for air. Every glance a landscape, too much for the eyes to take in. The broken, the blood, the pain. But the Reverend touches them all. His hand on each person’s shoulder carries absolute certainty. He issues a string of authoritative commands to the other nurses. A nurse he calls me. She wraps bandages, cleans wounds, snaps bones in place, wanting nothing of the skin. Cloth boiled clean spinning in speeding circles around a head, an elbow, or a waist. Spinning herself, a dull throbbing in her temple. A nurse. Why has she consented to such contact?