Song of the Shank Read online

  So why doesn’t she? He takes more time with the second glass, drinking and blowing melodies into the liquid at the same time. Drains the third—see, you should have brought the bottle, or made a fuss—then bites the rim in place between his teeth, the glass attached to his face like a transparent beak, both hands free to roam over the keyboard. Tom drinking milk, making an event of it.

  Milk seeping from the corners of his mouth, Tom sits quietly on the bench—buttocks seesawing over the narrow mahogany edge—facing her (twenty feet—more—away), practicing gestures on his pliant face, each expression holding the burden of a moment—what is he pondering? feeling?—and not for the first time the thought occurs to her that his face is not unattractive, the skin smooth and unblemished, the hidden eyes protruding against the lids to give them a pleasant bell shape, the ears large and relaxed at the sides of his head, close and tight, the nose spread wide and clinging, a bat hanging upside down in sleep. All in all, a look of still calm that he can never fully eradicate from his face.

  He’s forgotten all about the piano—the music sleeps between his fingers, which are joined together and resting atop his paunch—and is ready for something else. His arms moving in circles now, hands trawling through the air, like someone swimming. What is it that he wants? She pushes her thoughts (speculations) into his body and face. He wants her to choose a song for him to play. (Yes, that’s it.) She calls out a selection—Waltz in A-flat—but he continues to gesture. She shouts out more guesses, the two of them partnered once again in this dance of communication. He won’t simply come out with it. A game for him, having fun at her expense. Lured (roped) in, she’ll just have to play along, abet him. What choice does she have? Looking at these arms and hands moving even quicker now in strange uneven arcs, frantic, annoyed.

  Perhaps what he wants involves some act where words can’t go. She relinquishes her place on the settee, rising up to meet what? And answers with a dance that moves her feet forward, two steps, three, which succeeds (at last) in eliciting a change in Tom. He hears her move away from the couch, hands waving her on. (Advance.) She stays put, and he begins a hauling motion, as if she is attached to an invisible rope. And when she still doesn’t move he leaps up from the bench and charges, face forward, body behind, Eliza startled (confess), not knowing what will happen, knowing nothing ever. Comes and takes her by the hand (left), palm up, and starts to lead her back—now she understands: he wants her to sing while he plays, though she can barely carry a tune—to the bench, where he begins to wedge her down before the piano, bending her fingers back, stretching the seams of her palms, testing the durability of the hem that is her wrist. She sits and he settles into his space right beside her, close enough for her to feel the heat come off him. Sings. (What tongue, mouth, and throat don’t know.)

  Sometime later, she salts, cuts, plucks, soaks, scrubs, rinses, chops, grinds, dices, pounds, oil sizzling in the skillet, pots bubbling and boiling, her mind working over tomorrow’s departure, while Tom stands listening at her side (touching distance), swaying slightly—his body can’t keep still—mouth watering, strings of drool webbing his chest, a sticky obstruction between now and tomorrow.

  She readies her knife while he hovers over the cutting stand, poking and playing with the dead thing, exhibiting the straightforward curiosity of some innocent—a puppy or toddler—unburdened by any evident capacity for prejudice or appraisal. Her hand claims the handle, blade venturing out to discover the difference between air and flesh. The pleasant rhythm, slice and clack, of the knife, hitting the butcher’s board, traveling from gullet to gut.

  When she is done, Tom seizes the knife and begins running it back and forth over the butcher’s board, sharpening silence, his mouth moving, some song just beyond the ear. A short time later he rinses the knife in the sink, strokes it dry, and puts it quietly away in the cutlery drawer. Circles back to the sink to wash his hands and face, water and skin splashed and slapped. Dries himself firmly with a clean towel. She spreads a fresh cloth over the table and sets two places, and they take seats, he on one side and she on the other. He is quite capable of serving himself, his fingers drawn to steam, and already his plate is full, spongy biscuits pushed to the edge, like shipwreck survivors overcrowded into a single emergency craft. Tom bent over his plate, lips quivering—is he saying grace? a new activity for him if so—the same angle he assumes at the piano, one hand rising to his mouth.

  Eliza enjoys watching him eat, the physical manifestation of a fact. But she can’t take in much, too much room in her stomach for remorse.

  The darkness that comes on them is startling (her momentary blindness, her fear) and complete. She lights the lamps, releasing the smell of kerosene. Tom floats against thin white curtains hanging straight in still air, the shadows concealing, revealing nothing of his color, his or hers.

  His skin is ready. He holds his arms closely to his chest as if determined to guard this limited (torso) part of his nakedness—flabby mounds not unlike (almost) a woman’s breasts, belly button in layers of abdomen suggesting the bird’s-eye view of a volcano—and wobbles toward the tub. Hauls his legs up one after the other over the high porcelain side and joins her neck deep in high islands of foam. It’s the only way she can get him to bathe, the two of them together—He never has taken much to water, Sharpe said—two huddled forms stationed at either end of the tub, face to face, an archipelago of suds between them. Two bodies peeling away, layer by layer, soap the substance that obscures when it is smeared across cheek and brow, nose and chin, before running white fingers over muscle, bone, soft places, hard places—knows them all—making it hard to tell which leg or elbow, one outside, one inside, belongs where, to whom. She reaches to slow down his wild hurried hands. Rebuffed, cut short, they go moving like dark fish through the water, swimming to another world.

  She grows considerate. Guides him back, hands that work as hard returning as running away. Stroking her face. Down-stroking her shoulders. Drawing warmth across her breasts until he takes tight hold of her silent back. She lets his touch linger, feeling the power of his fingers, this body embracing her reminding her that she is not alone. He reaches up and fists a hank of her hair, letting the strands sieve through his splayed fingers. Hairs pushing against each other, flickering back and forth, a mass of flowers set afire under his water-warm touch.

  Two washed bodies, light and clean—she dries Tom then herself, using the same towel made from Georgia cotton—smelling of lavender soap and talcum powder. He dresses her, she him, her form preserved under the wide heavy folds of her nightgown, Tom exotic in his white sleeping caftan and peaked nightcap like something out of an Oriental tale, Arabian Nights.

  Back in the parlor she takes a seat on the settee, and he kneels at her feet, rests his head on the altar of her lap. Lets her (needs her to) massage his scalp, harvesting the naps, black buds blooming open. Unexpectedly, he pulls himself up midtouch—short season—and ambles off to the piano, where he sits on the bench, hands positioned above the keys. And he stays that way, still, withdrawn, music withheld, leaving her to measure the distance between them. It’s as if he knows that something is up. (NO, she hasn’t told him.) She feels a deep sense of gnawing discomfort but refuses to let it take hold. NO use trying to draw him in. He’ll find his way to bed. In fact, she should allow him to savor this hour, his final night here. She rises—heavy filled skin—and snuffs the lamps.

  I’m going to bed now, Tom.

  As might be expected.

  With no light to guide her, she starts her ascent up the imposing mahogany staircase—a body wound through space—reaching out for the inclined railing to steady and direct her. Pain sets off in her hand. She realizes that she has actually grabbed the blade-like finial, which is carved in the form of a fiery torch (Sharpe’s idea), with pointed top and sharp spiraling edges, rather than the customary polished globe. Soon finds herself sitting upright on the bed, its circular shape (Sharpe, ever the iconoclast)—a beached sea creature trapped inside t
he pink and blue and gray squares and diamonds of the crocheted bedspread—so familiar to her bottom and the soles of her feet, yet she feels like an exile in an unknown space, her fears scrawled into words on the unmade sheets. Lets her head fall back into the pillows, her turn to be quiet.

  She awakens the next morning in a semi-trance-like state. Shudders loose. Scrambles out of bed. If she slept at all last night she does not remember doing so. (What actual and what the engine of dreaming?) Opens one drawer after another, moves into the closet and dresses for the day ahead. Finds Tom downstairs—he is always up at the first fluttering of color in the sky—seated at the kitchen table, an empty plate before him, utensils set, fully clothed, a napkin tucked into his collar.

  Miss Eliza. Sleep well?

  Yes, Tom. Thanks for asking.

  And how are you today, Miss Eliza?

  Fine, Tom.

  I am fine today too. The smile on his face is meant for her. No trace of last night’s glumness. (Forgotten? Denied?) The old Tom in full effect. How faithfully he assists her. Pumps bucket after bucket of water from the well out back—the motions come naturally, the trajectory of handle and shoulder—and hauls them to the door. Grinds her coffee. Beats eggs in a bowl, his hands circling faster and faster, while she slices some strips of salt pork and sets them popping in the hot lard-lathered skillet.

  The discarded bread crumbs, the empty coffeepot, the quiet sink, the cups, plates, and utensils cleaned and put away—only now does he pick up on it (again), the smell of moving, uprooting, as present and pervasive as the odor of their long-finished and satisfying breakfast. Tom seated across from her, fingers locked on the table, head bowed, like someone saying grace. It’s not easy for her, his silent pleas cutting through defenses. The best recourse is just to get on with it, Eliza dumbfounded once again at how poorly she has understood his feelings.

  In the parlor, he calls himself to order. Fits his bell-shaped bowler hat onto his head, a pristine object she hasn’t seen all summer, since their arrival here. Picks up his portmanteau—when had he readied it?—in one hand and his malacca cane with the gold knob, a gift from a former stage manager, in the other, his actions weighing everything with a solemn expectancy. She ties her bonnet in place and pulls the door open, but he remains standing, wavering slightly, rocked shut. She takes him by the arm and leads him out.

  An hour later at the rental stable, Tom begins to unload their luggage in neat even stacks directly behind the buckboard, quicker than she can count, a tumultuous rush, nothing she can do to stop him; her admonitions go unheeded. Must be that he insists on believing they’ve already arrived at the train station, the first leg of their journey complete. Stands waiting, leaning on his walking cane, the horse one place he another, as if each, Tom and horse, understands the other is off-limits, the rules and restrictions reestablished. She steps down from the driver’s platform and situates herself midpoint—equal distance—between Tom and the horse, throwing in for show a few demure adjustments of her bonnet to offset the way her hands move into confident position before her waist. The owner smiling politely in the doorway less than fifty feet away, tallying up Eliza’s transgressions and calculating their severity and trying to decide what chastisement or punishment is warranted before finally seeing fit to leave his post and amble over to her. She settles her account with a one-pound sack of sugar, a luxury she’s sure the owner’s never seen by the look on his face. (More where that came from—despite a summer of ounces weighed and measured—all those unused sacks she must lug back to their apartment in the city.)

  He places the sack on the running board, then looks at Eliza, looks at their muscled-over luggage, looks at Tom, back at Eliza. You must be after the early train? he asks.

  Yes, the early.

  And could do with means of transport. He palms his neck and rubs it. Well, miss, it grieves me to inform you that I can’t carry you. He pinches some rheumy annoyance from its lodging place between the corner of his eye and the bridge of his nose then takes a fresh look at Eliza to find out how much damage his report has caused.

  She can’t say a word in response.

  I’m constricted. You see, my boy is out sick, leaving me shorthanded for the day as is. And I am beholden here, to my livelihood. No getting away. He nods at the road fifty paces off. Try the first able body that comes along. Already he is bending over and grabbing one slender leg, anxious to see what the stallion has dragged in with its hooves. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, he unhitches the animal from the buckboard and man and beast disappear behind the closed door of the stable. (The last snort of the nameless horse.)

  So be it. She feels cheap and stupid, feelings in no way lessened by her knowing that the owner is of that variety of white man who believes she and Tom hardly deserve his professional courtesy. But he is willing to extend it anyway, clear evidence of his patient and generous nature, his time and words bordering on abundant acts of chivalry where Eliza and Tom are concerned. (Lucky them.) Whatever her true feelings, a proper lady would, at the least, openly thank him while privately counting her blessings and expressing gratitude to the forces that govern the universe. She stands, studying the sound and quality of the air. Small creatures clicking in her ear, the clatter of the leaves, a crow caught in a hot gust of wind somewhere above. She’s reminded how close the South is. How recent the war. (Time comes flying back. What has changed? What will change? What can change?)

  The road encroaches upon her like a tightening band, squeezing into view a single solitary figure who strolls along it, shoes thumping in the dirt. Eliza watches the shape with almost scornful incredulity, fearing that she has given physical form to some mad hope filling her heart, and wont perhaps to admit that the stable owner’s predictions (promises?) might be fulfilled so quickly. Notions and motives that seem reasonable enough until she sees a head spin in her direction, a quick look of recognition before looking away, and only then does she believe that the figure is real, Eliza witnessing this brown face catching sight even as it is caught, catching then confirming her presence and Tom’s with additional discreet glances. The Negro seems wary, content to carry on. So why is it that she can’t call out to him, can’t lift her tongue to the roof of her mouth and press a single word out, or at least signal him over?

  Sees him curve off the road and begin to make his way toward them, brisk and definite. What strikes her is how the Negro takes the initiative. NO way she could have expected that. Surely, he has caught wind of her situation and looks to gain some improper price. And she will have to pay it. She shuts her eyes tight for a second to prepare herself. Finds him standing with his eyes open in apparent expectation only feet away from her. He’s an imposing man, several inches taller than Tom and twice Tom in years and almost double his weight, but there’s nothing slack about him. Statuesque, chiseled. And perfectly groomed—shirt ironed, collar starched, sideburns trimmed—like somebody for Sunday service but in a manner that seems natural, unobtrusive, as if he had done little more than slip into a fresh set of skin.

  Day, ma’m. He lifts his derby then lets it settle back onto the shelf of his forehead, a certain pause in his gestures and a smile poised on his face, deliberate contrivances meant to give her ample time to return the greeting. But her voice is still trapped somewhere inside her body. I can tote them bags for you, he says. His eyes are white and quiet, staring at her. The derby softens his appearance and makes his head look like an egg lodged inside a bowl.

  She looks between Tom and the other Negro in a kind of agony. Her faltering now, at this moment, can’t be a good thing.

  Lend a hand, Tom says.

  The Negro looks at Tom then back at her. What time’s your train, ma’m?

  How can such a quiet voice come from so large a man? Perhaps he is dropping it so as not to be discourteous. She tells him the scheduled departure time.

  The luggage, Tom says. He makes a pseudogeometric move with his walking stick, part circle and part directive. If the Negro feels insulted he
refuses to show it. Only picks up the lightest suitcase and closes the fingers of Tom’s stick-free hand around the handle, performing this apportioning of labor with such diligence and ease that Tom makes an impatient sound—breathes deep once—but does not resist. Then in an acrobatic display, he takes up every piece of the remaining luggage, muscled out in both fists, wedged between his elbows and his rib cage, and—the largest trunk, heavy even when empty—mashed up against his chest and stomach. Leaves not a single bag for her to carry. (She’s paying after all.)

  The Negro handles the luggage with assurance—moving matter—like one used to it, although it takes all of his focus to walk in a straight line, trying hard not to display any strain. She can’t remember the last time she’s seen a Negro in this county, certainly not since the days when she and Sharpe and Tom first came here together to spend their summers. Little clouds of dust rise from their shoes, reaching a maximum height three or four feet above the road, slow and lingering dust, hanging in air. Easily another two miles to the train station, and Eliza becomes aware of curious sounds spilling out from the Negro’s body—wheezes and belches, grunts and snaps. Soon—a quarter mile—he is panting furiously, his arms, legs, and back wearying down, giving way to exhaustion. The remainder of the trek is one of constant upset, Eliza fearing at every step that the Negro will lose his balance.

  They have come a good piece, and the three of them show signs of it. She can hardly stand, quick to collapse on the settle right outside the door that leads into the ticket office. Tom finds the settle with his cane and takes a seat beside her, still clutching the single bag the Negro had assigned him, arm crooked at his side to keep the bag from touching the floor. The Negro lets all the bags he is carrying fall into the dirt three paces short of the porch. Leans against a vertical post to catch his breath, so tall that he has to lower his head to avoid touching the wood roof under which he shelters from the sun. In all this not a word has been spoken among the three of them. Three people walking and sitting and standing while abiding by a hard bright silence that she did not find disconcerting. (It would hardly have been fitting for her to strike up any conversation with the Negro. Knows well how to play her part.)