Song of the Shank

She remembers it this way, how she came to on the settee, faint moonlight floating in the air, unsure what had awakened her, unwilling to believe that she had actually dosed off. In truth she could not tell, having lost track of time, a terrible lightness to her body. Deprived of sleep over the past crush of days, maintaining a pitch of vigilance at the windows for hours at a time, mornings/nights curling around her like smoke, taking in shouts screams gunshots hurled obscenities sobbing pleads hurried prayers spit-laced laughter rollicking applause invading her apartment from the streets below. Heard urgencies that sounded completely different, depending on whether her eyes were open or closed. Which brought pictures upon entering the brain, her attempt to map the featureless surround, for what she could actually see — flickers of fire shooting upward — was limited since her apartment offered no view of the street, only the usual, the sea.

The more she watched the sea, the more it proved it could hold: a dozen crashing colors, schools of Negroes gone fish — fleeing the city was not a thought that had crossed her mind; her husband was out there — in the dhows that made their livelihood possible (fishing, ferrying, the transportation of cargo), in other small crafts, or with nothing but their bodies, a kind of oceanic monster of faces and limbs, sails and oars, tossed around in the rough exhaustive currents. Lights shining far across the water from the island of Edgemere — how else could it be seen? — were uncertain and distant. She supposed the island was within reach, even for those with only their bodies to carry them. In reach but far away. Some would not make make it, would drown. If only these Negroes had some Moses who could part the water. If only — not to put too fine a point on it — they could walk on water.

Had she already put an end to any form of hoping? How many days had it been since Tom had left the apartment in the company of Sharpe and the manager? Close to a week? Even as chaos was breaking loose in the city neither her husband nor the manager had considered canceling the concert. Days of waiting and wondering — Sharpe? — spreading in her head, on the verge of shattering it. Sleep was compensatory. Stripping her of consciousness.

What had she missed sliding in and out of sleep? The room sounded soft and hollow. The world seemed to have quieted down outside her windows. Was it over? That question in her mind, she shifted her gaze to the shadow cast by moonlight striking a lamp shade when she sensed a new kind of darkness, different from the darkness she had been experiencing until that moment, bleeding into the edgy air, beginning to burrow into her consciousness. She sat up and looked around. At first she thought she was hearing the outside, a resumption of the chaos, the violence. Then in the illuminated darkness she could make out a form curled up under the piano. She went over for a closer look and found Tom wedged in the cave of space formed by the piano’s spindly legs and heavy chassis, knees tucked to his chin. She gave herself time for two deep breaths. She had not heard him enter the apartment. Back without a sound. (She had fallen asleep.) How had he found his way back? How had he gotten in? No key of his own that she was aware of. Sharpe’s key? And what about the others? Where were they?

When she spoke his name, he shuddered, stirring up the dust floating in the darkness. He raised his head in her direction, his face in the shape of a snarl.

She took in the brutal aspect of his person. She dared not strike a lamp. Only this light to prove that he was actually there. He was still outfitted in recital dress. One jacket sleeve had been almost completely ripped away. The front of his shirt had a large black stain shaped like a butterfly. And his pants legs looked as if they had been singed, one cuff nothing more than straggly ash. His head and face had been spared, except for missing hat and one ear that was aglow with dried blood.

You found your way home.

Tom remained perfectly still.

Where are they? Sharpe? Your manager? Thinking, Tom has the answers.

He let out a breath she didn’t know he was holding.

Dawn came, a tiny crack separating one world from the next. A new day began to take shape. An unbroken covering of white clouds — clouds few enough to count — hung in the sky, clear and precise, textured as never before. From somewhere smoke funneling black and back on the wind. A single gull lent its monotonous cries to the scene.