Song of the Shank

Wire says, At this moment of revolution, when our country needs the blessing of Almighty God and the strong arms of her children, this is not the time for us to solemnly enact injustice. In duty to our country and in duty to God, I plead against any such thing. We must be against wrong in its original shape and in all its brood of prejudice and error.

No blood is to be shed except in self-defense, Deacon Double says. One hand goes into the sleeve of his robe and reappears holding a rolled leather map. He unrolls it and spreads it flat on the table before the other men, turned so that they may easily view it, paperweights pinning down the corners. Bends his bulky body over the map and begins moving his hand freely above the leather.

She set the glass before him. Milk will pass right through a haint, a white puddle on the floor. Best she find out. Maybe that Mr. Tabbs ain’t all he promised. Good chance of that, with his fancy clothes, proud hat, and that silver tongue. Made-up nigger thinking he other, better. I can give you your son.

He stuck his tongue out like a snake and let the tip of it touch the milk, his lips far away, keeping safe distance. He set the glass down, milk intact.

Who thirsty, he said. And then: You are just a weak worm of the earth.

The strays in Central Park have multiplied. At least double yesterday’s number grouped around the well, sweaty and haggard.

I can’t stay behind, my Lord

I can’t stay behind

Swaying like vile flowers, dirty mushrooms, in their wide-brimmed hats. A steady drift of them dressed in rags, some of the women in cast-off soldier’s coats, both blue and gray, men and women alike carrying their households on their backs (dirty sacks, splintery crates) and heads (baskets, bundles), arms toting tubs, kettles, and pots, animals too, pigs and roosters and chickens, their rickety children and gaunt mules, their porkers, goats, lambs, and dogs trailing behind them. A common sight: a swollen belly leading the rest of the body like a big stubborn eye.

The nurses work with dignified speed. Sun boiling, moisture and sweat hanging in the air. She can’t quite keep up, her hands like a den of aggravated snakes, the green veins beneath the skin pulsing and writhing in the heat.

A nurse he calls me. I ain’t never done that, I said. And I’m dry. No milk. I ain’t no nurse.

The church touches her hands. This is the abiding nature of the place. Always there. Once she settles down on the bed her day stops, her body crumpling inside her sweat-heavy dress. She tries to pay it no mind. Won’t bother to take it off. Can’t. Exhausted beyond wanting company, she lies still and tries to empty herself, empty herself of all that water out there, all that ocean she had crossed to get to Edgemere, and had crossed again (back) to get to here, the city, to this room in this church. She has a room in the church, small, but the bed is perfect for sleeping. Not too soft, not too hard, and plenty of pillows to cushion her head just right. Cracks in the drapes let in random patches of light. She lays bare her worries and tallies her setbacks. Thinking a long time before she falls asleep.

She awakes, the room ablaze with light. Drags herself up out of dreams, works the knots in her body out, doing all she can to turn away from sleep into morning. For yet another day she will have to get up, leave this room, and go back among those people to save herself.

Now that she and Reverend Wire are here, in the camp, nurses dressed in white descend from the topmost branches of the trees like a lost flock of birds. Tall trees that brush the light in, brush the shade out.

Her senses come alive. She breathes in the smell of strays, mouthful by mouthful, struggling for air. Every glance a landscape, too much for the eyes to take in. The broken, the blood, the pain. But the Reverend touches them all. His hand on each person’s shoulder carries absolute certainty. He issues a string of authoritative commands to the other nurses. A nurse he calls me. She wraps bandages, cleans wounds, snaps bones in place, wanting nothing of the skin. Cloth boiled clean spinning in speeding circles around a head, an elbow, or a waist. Spinning herself, a dull throbbing in her temple. A nurse. Why has she consented to such contact?