Song of the Shank

Each thing accounted for — checks again — but Mr. Hub has unsettled what she thought was settled, shaken her belief in anonymity, that there’s no one in the city with a passing thought for her. The building big enough that no neighbor is near and all acquaintances are vague. Eliza a familiar face in the hallway or on the stairwell or on the street (those rare occasions), passing under a street sign, already gone, a woman without name or connections, or a woman who was only a name. Mrs. Bethune. Apartment 5B. Where the piano music comes from. As far as she knows, they assume that she is the pianist. Whatever their assumptions, she is uneasily conscious of her neighbors. More so now. (Yes, on Monday — think about it — there was someone leaning in the shadows, watching.) Who has she seen this week other than Mr. Hub? And how many of her neighbors have caught a glimpse of Tom in the past three years? Before the violence, every resident in the building knew Tom; half of them were Negro and for that reason took pride in the proximity; but who among the present neighbors — white, all of them white — can place him here, in apartment 5B?

When Sharpe was here, working with Tom and the manager, the neighbors found any excuse to knock on her door — I thought the young master might like some custard — some with punctilious regularity. Pulling the bell, but not without a certain guilty sense of invading someone’s privacy — blurting out explanations and regrets, even as others were less polite, ventured to make forcible entry. She would screen the visitors when she could—

Tom, this is little Sally from the second floor.

Some little girl lifting herself out of memory, wearing a short dress of white satin, a black-buckled pink belt around her waist.

Hello, Mr. Tom.

Hello, girl. Hello, Sally. Tom took the girl’s hand. She’s a nigger, he said.

— but Tom was often quick to answer the bell before she or Sharpe or the manager could refuse or turn away the caller, resolved to present “Blind Tom” to one and all.

I am Blind Tom, one of the greatest humans to walk the earth.

Syllables paced out one breath at a time.

Nice of you to visit, Tom said. You don’t know me, and I don’t know you.

Names circling names.

This was all they wanted to know about their neighbors. Indeed, Mr. and Mrs. Bethune maintained close relations with only one other family in the building, the McCunes, Dr. and Mrs., who were further along in years than Sharpe and Eliza, but not significantly so, and whose offspring, boy and girl, were deeply attentive to Tom. They’re niggers, Tom said. Once a week, the older couple would extend a supper invitation to the younger — never the other way around — so that the Bethunes became a regular presence in their home, a sumptuously furnished apartment (third floor, 3A), the chairs and couches tattered and antique, proud of period detail, the walls hung with tapestry and bedecked with a great number of spirited modern paintings, landscapes and seascapes, in frames of rich golden arabesque set against walls papered in an expanse of white flowers. The McCunes themselves smacked of careful cultivation, presentation pieces with their own form and meaning. Their tastes ran to art, theater, geography (places traveled, destinations to come), and politics—

I won’t support a losing cause. Sharpe passed the decanter of wine across the table to the Doctor.

I take that to mean you are perfectly comfortable supporting the winner?

Hardly.

At least you have no doubts about who will win.

I have no doubts.

The children ran through the room, set forth in their own wonder.

How can I? They will destroy the South just so they can rebuild it in their own image.

The causes are deeper.

I’m not saying they aren’t.

So why then do you aid the rebels?

Sharpe stretched his body, easing into an answer. Look, Doctor, I’m still a Southerner. A man can’t simply cut off his family. He sat back in his chair, arms spread wide in a request for pardon. I won’t leap to their defense, but why not throw a few bills at the battle-scarred and the war widows?

The Doctor poured the last of the wine into Sharpe’s glass. Does it matter what the boy thinks?

Obviously you’re saying it should.

The Doctor continued to look at him, shoulders curved forward, head hanging over the table.

A benefit concert or two. Is that taking advantage? Besides, do you know how much money we’ve given the Abos over the years? More money than I can count.

Ah.

Not openly, of course. Under the table.

That’s unfortunate. You will never get the recognition. The boy will—

Doctor, I stopped wondering long ago about what people think of my doing this or that.