Song of the Shank

by Jeffery Renard Allen

  Just as things began to settle down and as the visitors were managing to elicit a few curt and reluctant sentences about church matters from the Bible-mouth, Miss Toon returned to the room, leading Thomas by the hand. Charity was as surprised as anyone to see him, and almost didn’t recognize him. How much he had grown since she had last seen him several months ago and how well they had outfitted him in a little black suit. Miss Toon released his hand and faced the assembled. Where he stood Thomas was full of agitation, turning his head up and down, this way and that, his hands and arms and torso twisting about, like a wet dog shaking dry. Miss Toon made her announcement then concluded by asking them to take a seat and maintain silence during the performance.

  The guests were clearly disenchanted at first, casting a glance over the wild nigger boy who would supposedly be entertaining them at the piano. In their faces they made no attempt to disguise their true feelings of disgust for the nigger. Some even trembled, fearful. The boy Bible-mouth stepped back in revulsion. They looked at General Bethune as if they were questioning his sanity—he was indifferent as always—for what man in his right mind would bring before them a wild untamed animal and even worse, a creature who was apparently feverish, rabid?

  Undisturbed by their reaction Mary Bethune ushered Thomas over to the piano, where he sat down on the stool, positioned his hands above the keys, and moved his head around him with some curiosity.

  That’s when the men broke out in a chorus of laughter. (All but the Bible-mouth and his wife, two silent peas in a pod.) James, you are a prankster. Hands down the best. You have it in you after all? Whoever heard of a nigger playing the piano? Where’s his violin? Someone please fetch his banjo. His spectacles. But they all saw that General Bethune (their James) was indeed serious. One and all, they seated themselves as Mary Bethune with great formality of voice instructed Tom to begin his recital.

  Thomas teased out the opening notes, the men by turns startled or impressed—read their faces, record their gestures—at Tom’s performance, not wanting to believe but enjoying it all the same. (And Charity watching and listening, but feeling nothing.) Not surprisingly, the Bible-mouth and his wife sat in solemn gratitude. By the end of his recital, the last crescendo of chords, their eyes and ears had grown accustomed to Tom’s primitive condition, responding with smiles and laughter to his strange movements and gestures. Basking in the high revel of event, they all wanted to touch the nigger—and touch they did, the men almost fighting one another to get a sufficient number of feels and caresses—their previous discomfort dispelled, all acting and behaving as though they had known nothing else, at ease with this nigger like all the others they had known. The only holdout was the one planter among the group—how rare it is for General Bethune to even allow a planter in his house; but it was necessity, duty, a way of both keeping the peace and preparing for longed-for war—who deliberately did not change his expression to show his sophistication.

  Brethren, the boy Bible-mouth said, it disappoints me that you find mirth in this remarkable display of the glories of the Almighty’s unchanging hand.

  One man spoke up. You said it, Pastor Frye. It’s monstrous kind of our almighty father to send such likely niggers for our convenience and pleasure.

  You should learn from this gift, the Bible-mouth said.

  The men in the room eyed him one and all then gave each other slanted looks. Did I hear correctly? What did he say? Does he mean it?

  Hold back on your words. Who among you can laugh and be elevated at the same time? The Bible-mouth looked at each man in turn. Do you question the Almighty’s handiwork? For it is He alone who directly assigns to each nationality its definite task on earth and inspires it with a definite spirit in order to glorify Himself through each one in a peculiar manner. Every nation is destined through its designated organization and its place in the world to represent a certain side of the divine image.

  He’s starting early, Charity said to herself. Can’t wait til Sunday.

  The whole of mankind is a vast representation of the Deity. As the good book says, Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.

  Frye’s wife had pushed to the front of her seat in excitement, as if she were seeking a moment to applaud.

  Therefore we cannot extinguish any race either by conflict or amalgamation without serious responsibility.

  Charity thought she heard someone whisper, Save it for Sunday.

  The merciful aspect of the Almighty’s economy shines out in history as clearly as His justice and judgment. Who among you is chosen? Who among you is free?—for as every man here knows, submission to the Almighty turns out to be the only true freedom.

  General Bethune squeezed the boy’s shoulder. No harm done, he said. He smiled at the boy and turned his inclusive face to the men before him. These intelligent gentlemen are kindred spirits, he said. How often have I had to relay to them these very same sentiments.

  Sentiments are not facts, the Bible-mouth said.

  Okay, General Bethune said. Facts.

  I am prepared to believe you, another guest said, at least in principle.

  On the contrary, the planter said.

  He’s the preacher.

  I admit to minor moral stagnation.

  Do you not have greater sins to acknowledge? the boy asked. Yes? Then admit to more. My aim is to win you over.

  The men looked perplexed, at a loss for answers. General Bethune rushed to save them. So this means you enjoyed the performance?

  A blessing, the boy said.

  Indeed.

  Very much.

  What a find.

  No, the Bible-mouth said. General—he always called General Bethune “General”—do you not feel some sabbatical obligation?

  Sabbatical? one of the men said.

  It means Sunday, someone else said.

  I know that.

  Yes, Sunday. I do not mean to confuse. I am here to humbly serve all of you. General, unbeknownst to your person, you find yourself in the honorable position of holding the power to save our Sabbath.

  General Bethune just looked at him.

  Would you assign this boy to play in our service this Sunday? As you are well aware our pianist is abhorrence.

  General Bethune looked at his wife. I don’t see what would prevent it, he said. You but ask.

  I ask. Your boy would be a welcome respite. God willing.

  For a single Sunday? Mary Bethune asked.

  We might first begin with a Sunday service, then try another Sunday, and another, and by and by through the Sundays, for a long-standing tenure could not possibly exceed our needs. Not to exclude the nonsabbatical services during the week. At present these services present us with less need for musical accompaniment. This Sunday would be the trial for all else. The Almighty will see to it as He sees fit.

  Thomas began fussing with his clothes. Mary Bethune went into action to quiet him down. His animation disappeared as quickly and as suddenly as it had appeared.

  It would be an interesting experiment, General Bethune said.

  Hardly, the Bible-mouth said. Our dilemma surely is real and constant. The boy is chosen.

  Tom don’t play no Sunday school music, Thomas said.

  His affront registered on every face in the room, although no one voiced complaint.

  Party over, guests gone—Charity goes so far as to kiss Antoinette on the cheek in farewell—she returns to her cabin surprised to discover that the three girls are still awake, fresh-faced and happily seated in a circle on the splintery floor where Mingo is indulging and tantalizing them with some sleight of hand involving forks and spoons. She offers her family a brief and censored report about the party, gone from her whatever element of detachment she felt earlier during the actual event, images developing clearly and cleanly now in her mind as she retells it and as she concludes with an emphatic paraphrasing of the boy-mouth’s request-offer. (Does she pass on Thomas’s demurral?) Only to herself, inside her own skull, does she sing the o
ld melodies, religious or secular, she learned on other farms.

  O massa take that bran new coat and hang it on the wall

  Darky take that same ole coat and wear it to the ball

  Has she not caught her girls, at work and in play, singing the tunes? Songs Thomas has never known in their isolation, their withdrawal from the world of the plantations at Hundred Gates.

  One of her daughters asks, Is that preacher a man?

  He ain’t no preacher. He a Bible-mouth.

  Same thing.

  No.

  Like water and rain.

  Mud and dirt.

  No.

  Tell her, Mamma.

  Tell her, Daddy.

  It’s the same thing, she says.

  See. I told you.

  That ain’t what you said.

  Did too.

  Did not.

  Is he really a preacher? her oldest daughter asks.

  Yes, she says.

  See.

  But he my age. He a boy.

  Yes.

  Where his mamma?

  He ain’t got no mamma, cept God.

  Can I go over to his house sometime?

  Why?

  So we can play.

  He don’t play.

  How you know?

  Cause I know.

  What, he ain’t got no toys?

  He don’t play with toys.

  And he white, another daughter adds.

  That’s not the play he means, she says. He wants Thomas to play the piano and sing in the church.

  I wanna sing too.

  Me too.

  You can’t sing.

  This gets them singing.

  I can see the coming—

  —of the glory—

  —of the lord. Hallelujah.

  Amen.

  Glory be.

  She bustles the girls off to bed, where they go gently into good sleep with a few final words.

  People don’t dance no more.

  All they do is this.

  And this.

  She lay down beside her husband, her mind astir with her daughters’ chatter, with Thomas’s sudden appearance and her family’s lack of interest in it, and with the boy-mouth’s show of interest and his offer. She thinks about his church.

  The Bethunes and other prominent people of the city take up the first rows of pews, an empty row separating them from ladies and their daughters dressed in white cotton sunbonnets and long-sleeved dresses and their crude husbands and sons outfitted in coarse cloths and unraveling ties—their Sunday best, meaning some clothing other than their tattered work garments—hair and clothing glistening with fish grease. Niggers take up the last rows of pews if any are left—the small church has yet to construct a balcony for them—otherwise congregating about the open door outside, some leaning in to look, slipping in their Amens and Hallelujahs, humming responses between verses, and joining in on the hymns, these activities competing with, made all the more difficult given the discomforts of the sounds and the smells of the poor farmers’ bony mules and skinny horses hitched to run-down buggies and wagons. (The better grade of horses and carriages are afforded a lot behind the church.)

  I can’t say I see nothing wrong wit it, Mingo says.

  She turns her head and stares at him in the dark.

  The thing you spend your time at is what you are, he says. A hewer of wood is a hewer of wood, even if he spends all day fancying he’s some big-timer driving a carriage.

  He continues to whisper to her. A man can spend all his day fancying he’s laid up in bed with the queen of England while lil Sally is the only flesh he knows. You are what you live. Mighty fact, I can’t see not a damn thing wrong wit it.

  She is left to think. Yes, she wants to say, but will this be the last? How many Sundays? Thomas is chosen. The boy-mouth said that Thomas had been chosen. God had handpicked him. Like walking down a dark road, then somebody up and clobber you over the head. Chosen like that. How come nobody had chosen her?

  A rapid gust of wind. Tom alone in the river tangled with fish, color washing across him. His mouth jumps and every few seconds his nostrils flare, breathing words and breeding air. How it is. See Tom leaning away. He scarcely disturbs the water.

  Certain things even God can’t repair. In hindsight, looking back to piece it all together, Charity will recall it this way. The image of Mrs. Bethune piled up on pillows in her bed, her bloodshot eyes glowing in the hollows of her withered face, Mrs. Bethune upset to the point of sickness over her husband’s decision regarding Thomas. Go only so far, as Dr. Hollister has forbidden all to enter the bedroom, although no one can keep out Sharpe, who arrives from overseas even as others are trying to escape, hurrying along in poor light, cloaks wrapped around them, shifting shadows who seem to be whispering in foreign languages, even as General Bethune implores them to remain, because his wife is not long from the grave. Long legs, long boots, Sharpe will come up to Charity and ask for certain information with a penetrating glance, at once both skeptical and kindly—he stands up with real devotion when she enters the room—eyes and cheeks aflame, a little black mustache like a pencil balancing on his top lip. Days of this, sickness and questions.

  Then, on an impulse, she heads down toward the river, and finds Thomas on the bank where the harsh water flows, a sight that both chills and excites her, just out of view herself, spying as Thomas piles up little stones to build structures that resemble towers. What she sees now before her she sees again. Had he not constructed such structures before? Had not her girls in fun or anger kicked them down?

  She sees him rise and start up the bank. Sees him stop to embrace first one wet tree then another and still another. Embrace the air itself.

  And then she sees her body embrace a new dress, a black garment that reveals her form, elongated in the sunlight. Her breasts sag and her stomach too. Holy sounds reverberate beneath her feet. True, this is another Sunday, but it is also a day like nothing else. Sun, heat, smell—she sheds these elements as they appear. Her family stands around, watching and waiting without seeming to look, masking their true intentions with lackadaisical ambling, taking advantage of the usual assumptions about their race, namely, that the observer will fail to see anything beyond a handful of niggers—one, two, three, four—on pause from their chores and activities, niggers lazing about as niggers are supposed to. Thomas emerges. Never before has she seen him so well dressed. The sight brings a clear sharp pause in her thinking, much like that day many years ago when she spied his legs sticking up like ladles from the tub. In one prolonged instant she sees the strange escort take Thomas’s arm and guide him by the elbow toward the carriage. Thomas. Almost not wanting to believe. Thomas. His face is trained on the carriage. Thomas. He picks up speed and almost leaves his escort behind, the grass unbelonging to his feet. Heat shimmer on the horizon. How can the world shine from that far away? There is less fear in her now. She is upset. Why try to hide it? How tell about it later? All of the fragments of her life collect around this one afternoon, meet at the point right there in the grass where her sweating feet are planted.

  Domingo and the girls move forward to help Thomas up into the carriage. No need now to draw back or to be timid. He wrestles his arms and hands away and lifts himself up into the carriage unaided. She can’t understand. There is nothing to understand.

  Get these niggers away from me, Thomas says. Pulls away as though he has never known them, carrying with him all the light and air.

  Rain Storm

  (1854–1856)

  “Sure, I been ripped off. I been cheated. But they gave me a name.”

  FROM THE START PERRY OLIVER WAS BOTH BEWILDERED and annoyed by the noise of the fiddles, the lamps in the trees, the chatter of smartly dressed men, the medley of gaily colored dresses—mostly white cottons and silks done up with floral patterns—the clink of bracelets, the gold crosses and lace, the niggers in white jackets and pants scurrying about serving hors d’oeuvres ordered specially from New Orleans. I
n this garden setting, all the women exchanged kisses in the European style—Perry Oliver had never been to Europe—while the men seemed to take pride in their provincial accents. A few guests had even brought along their niggers to fan them cool.

  Perry Oliver walked the grass lawn up and down by the neat rows of flowers, hoping that the fragrances of soil and stem might drown out the powerful odors of the overly powdered women. He exchanged a few words here and there, practiced being sociable when he had to—he felt not so much antisocial or shy as careful and opportunistic—using his routine that he was a tobacco planter from Savannah. I’ve heard that’s a nasty business. Terrible stains on the fingers. You’re much too young for it. Get out while you can. But perhaps it is wrong of me to criticize. I must admit, I do like a good smoke every now and then. Even as he talked, he was careful to observe the going-ons of the party through a watery shimmer of heat and haze. Men and women alike, the guests gave their hosts, General James Bethune and his wife, Mrs. Mary Bethune, inquisitive welcoming looks, each considering it was her or his duty to make some pleasant polite remark. The couple was standing directly in front of a white trellis with several varieties of roses blooming out. In contrast to the commanding presence of her husband, Mary Bethune was small and slight, pale and thin, with protruding collarbones. She was very willing to raise the most casual remark—Are these Negroes on loan? They are quite delightful—into a conversation, while her husband was quite content to let his wife do most of the talking, smiling here and there and responding to statements directed at him with expressive movements of his mouth and eyes. Hands in his jacket pockets—he seemed to have the habit of keeping his hands in his pockets—he watched his guests with a strange glow in his face, as if he possessed a certain strength that he thought they all lacked. When he did speak—He is a soldier, his wife said, that’s all he can say for himself—he expelled words in a deep voice like some stage performer as if he expected his booming words to knock the listener off his feet.