Song of the Shank

President Lincoln didn’t move, lingered staring at the Bethune daughters in one long unbroken moment, his rifle at his chest, the barrel close to his nose as if he were sniffing it. (Tabbs disliked the driver’s casual handling of the rifle, but what could he say?) The Bethune daughters remained standing where they were, each girl with a distinct look of terror on her face, each girl planted in a cone-shaped dress, their slim torsos tapering off to constrictive bonnets, slim nothings, three long-stemmed flowers. And Tom’s mother with garments in kind, similar but apart, her face placid, undisturbed, riding above the driver’s words.

Just take them in the other room.

You ain’t got to worry. Only us here. Ain’t nobody gon know. President Lincoln saying what he is, what he wants.

Tabbs needed to talk, needed to penetrate the driver’s focus, keep his hands from doing the thinking. I just need to talk to her. Nothing else. He said it without panic or force, calm, trying to bring the driver back to himself.

So you gon and talk while I take care of this.

I need them.

The driver paused in his offer to look at Tabbs. You ain’t got to do it. Not nwan one. I’ll do it. I’ll do it all.

I don’t need you to do my work. Tabbs tried to sound capable, tried to create the picture that what had drawn them together was something greater than money, the dollar he had given in exchange for the driver’s services, the dollar he might give tomorrow.

But you gon stop me? Why? They ain’t nothing but woogies.

I know what they are.

Then you know. All them years, master boss. The driver looking at the daughters again, his eyes wet, moving. All the hurt these woogies put on me, years they put on me, put me through.

But I need to talk to them. How will I talk to them? The dead can’t talk.

Okay, master boss. I ain’t gon get in yo way. You go on and talk. Talk. Then just say the word.

Tabbs was relieved. Lucky him. He hadn’t the will to talk sense to the driver. The driver nodded a command, and the daughters herded into the other room, the white buttons on their shoes moving under the smooth expanse of their skirts, their hands linked like paper dolls, President Lincoln behind them, the long barrel of his rifle fisted in his right hand like a walking stick. He firmly shut the door.

Tabbs heard himself say to her, He won’t hurt them.

The woman watched him sternly.

But I need to ask you something and I need you to tell me the truth.

I know some truth.

Tabbs looked into her face for some time. Miss Bethune — Wiggins, she said. Greene Wiggins. With the e. That’s who I be. He wondered by master or marriage? The Wiggins. The e. Her words said to him, I’m other, I’m not a Bethune.

Miss Wiggins—

You looking for him, Thomas.

I’m looking for your son.

Thomas.

You are free. You both are.

Proclaimed, she said. Proclaimed.

He thought about it. The Bethunes cannot stand in the way of maternal bond. So why are you here? He has no hold on you.

He gave me the girls. I got them to tend to.

They are his daughters, not yours.

I know what’s mine. All mine gone, she said. Niggers always gon have cause to call on a woogie. Ain’t nothing come from us, and ain’t nothing gon end with us.

What have they done with your son? Where are they keeping him?

He livin up north with that Yankee woman, the one who marry Massa Sharpe. Her words rose to the ceiling, stayed put for a few breaths before they started their descent, settled on his face and shoulders. Our child you have returned to us. My child you have returned home.

All this time, Tabbs said. All this time. He shook his head. He been right there in my face. In the city. Back at home. He laughed. He shook his head some more.

She asked, How did you let yourself get mixed up with General Toon? I never known him to have no dealings with our kind. With niggers.

Gold and Rose (1868–1869)

“My song will stand.”

I’LL BRING HIM BACK TO THE HOME TOMORROW, TABBS SAYS. He is far, far away, the floor between him and Ruggles like a shimmering lake of sunlight. He doesn’t know what work he will do once he leaves the island. Only this: he has settled this matter of Tom once and for all. After all else, now the boy himself is the great impediment to his aim, Tom the final impasse that can’t be moved. No remedy to his loss. The sooner he’s done with the boy, the better. Anything but surrender to Edgemere. Anything but getting stuck here. Once he’s gone, the island will shrink to a tarnished coin that he might lift and carry in his pocket.

He expects Ruggles to speak but he doesn’t. Because Ruggles’s response is silence, he assumes Ruggles is waiting to hear more. You might as well send for her, Tabbs says. Send for anybody you like. Damn him. Damn her. The boy can stay here and give concerts to piss-poor orphans.

How did this all start?

I’m losing track of things.

Has he asked for her?