Song of the Shank

Wire told me that it was a sign I should give myself over to the church. That the Almighty had been good enough to take pause and go back and correct what He had created. And what about the many He hasn’t corrected? I asked him. I can’t speak for them, he said. Far more the mistakes of man than the imperfections that can be attributed to God’s hand. But we ain’t talkin bout God, homeskillet. God ain’t play no part in it. These alabasters made the man you see here.

Tabbs feels the focused tension of violence beneath the words.

My house burned to the ground. My friends dead. Had I a firearm I would have killed the first alabaster I saw — man, woman, or child. Truth is, maybe I did kill one or two. Maybe I even spent my rifle to the last bullet. Hate carried heavy in my heart. I can still feel it, feel it now even as we speak. But I ain’t got no reason to hate them anymore, do I?

Some hours later, he finds himself alone once again with Tom. The boy holds the glass of milk up to his ear as if listening to it, a seashell, the sound of ocean. Brings the glass around to his lips and makes quick work of the contents. Sets the glass down on the table and sits with both hands on the table. It’s not as flat as it feels, he says.

What, Tom?

Water.

His statement is like many things he says, demanding (deserving) no reply. Now he sniffs the air, smelling water, ocean, Edgemere.

You want something? What would you like?

Lait, he says.

You are tired? You wish to rest?

You’ll give me the drink.

A drink? I have tea, sweet water. Even wine.

Lait. Hot or cold. You know, the honey from cows.

More milk?

Yes.

Tabbs fills the glass, both hands carry milk to mouth, then one ear listening to the glass.

I’m going to take you back. He might as well say it.

Across the water.

No, Tom. To the Home, the orphanage.

Across the water. He sips the milk.

I’m trying to understand, Tom. Is it that you don’t like me?

You brought me here.

Yes, Tom. Yes I did. So why? I only wanted a chance. Why give white men that chance and not one of your own?

Tom neither moves nor speaks. He is misinterpreting the boy’s behavior, assuming he knows—this—what he wants. Then: You gave him money?

Yes.

These. Tom holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers. And you bought tickets when you heard me?

Yes.

And you heard me sing too?

So you remember?

Yes.

How amazing it must have been, playing for all those people.

You want to know?

Yes.

I can show you.

Okay.

They walk to the piano. After some time:

It’s not as hard as I thought, Tabbs says.

Your hands are easy.

For the first time the boy appears in good spirits. I would like to learn more, but I don’t want to take you away from your own work.

Don’t try.

Would you like me to send for an instructor?

I can teach you.

Not for me, Tom. For you.

I’ll teach you.

The piano shines, animated in late afternoon. Tom plays with a powerful joy, a melody played too fast or too slow. It’s got things that shouldn’t be in there, foreign tones, melodies taking wrong turns, bass notes darkening passages that should be clear, chords with so many notes they cancel any understanding, foot hand allowing chords to resonate and invade where they shouldn’t, a deliberate display of excess, of error, of noise, Tom having his way, one side of the floor rising, the other falling, a rocking, storm-tossed sea. Time assumes the shape it should. Tom where Tabbs wants him, taking a song from start to finish. Tom, Tabbs, and piano at a point of decision, agreement.

Tabbs sits forward in his chair, interpreting a new toughness in the boy’s face.

Wire walks in, walks into his house and finds them there, trespassers occupying space that belongs to him. So you’re here? Unfleshed speech against the mute surface of the furniture, Tom quiet at the piano, chin high as if straining to hear, Tabbs trying to puzzle together words and phrases, his head heavy, his body cold. What can he say with the freakishly tall preacher standing there, his right to stand on his shiny floor under yellow light hanging from the ceiling? Ruggles must have summoned him, and the mother too, not that it matters now. Mother or no mother, Tom will return to the stage.

Wire looks around. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s no accident you are here, he says. The Almighty has impeccable timing.

I only thought to—

Stay. The sheep has heard your voice. He must follow. Wire shifts direction, moves to another side of the room, a walking tree, strange to watch. The Almighty spoke to me and told me to treat you like a son. (Noah had three.) He wants you, us, our race, to prosper. That’s why you couldn’t walk away.

As if I had a choice, Tabbs thinks.

Expectation is a cord that binds.

Wake me, Tom says. Wire beside him now, putting a hand on his shoulder.

See, isn’t my piano everything I said it was?

A promise, Tom says.

More than that. The Almighty has blessed you so that you can bless others.

You can’t preach like Peter

You can’t preach like Paul

One thing you can say