Song of the Shank

Trapped in their own collapsing bodies, the strays take their time getting from one place to another, brittle-shelled turtles. The oldest and most weathered of the bunch don’t seem able to get about at all, planted at a spot along the road or under a shady tree. Even sitting such, they seem to suffer from erethism of their digits and limbs, and twitching and tics of eyes and face. The Reverend tries to look them in the face, in the eye, when he talks to them, but they get all respectful, hold their elbows and study their feet. Every now and then he swings his face toward heaven, either seeking guidance or receiving approval.

They drool nonsense sounds to each other, Charity dizzy with listening, nigger talk that even she can’t understand.

Blouse open, the thin fan of bones wafting heat through wet skin, the moist pressing air cool for a moment, until the next breath. She picks and plucks determinedly at gray desiccated flesh, uncovering the dirty buried life, lifting it to the surface. Plugs up holes where existence can escape. No two bodies alike. All the bodies alike. For weeks now since they sent her from the Home to the city, she has gone out each day and tried to see the city through Wire’s eyes and with Wire’s words. How impossible. Too much. Too much. She follows this perfectly aligned road, putting her feet down in those overlooked spots speckled with brown and green, feeling twigs break under her shoes — the sound at least — walking on bones. On her way. By and by, finds herself far from the camps, on the out-reaches of what she knows, unfamiliar streets. Moves through the streets (never stumbles) with these thoughts on her mind. Many people about. Black men in blue and varying shades of blue and gray. (She is looking for color.) She sees ship sails sticking up out of the water like amputated wings, and boats that look like disembodied feet kicking the water.

We have to board the ferry, Mr. Tabbs said.

What fo? I ain’t lost nothing over there.

Thomas was there, on the island, surrounded by all that water. What had happened to the Thomas of old that she can still picture, still feel? Don’t ever touch me like that again.

She walks through the streets and tells herself, I cannot bear staying in this city any longer. But she is alone with only her labor in the camps and the church chores. She has no other bed, no other place to go back to. Elsewhere in her head. (Which way to turn?)

A hand snakes out and touches her then someone grabs her by the shoulder from behind. She jumps with fear, heart beating. Even before she turns around, her head goes into an accelerated and feverish deliberation, picturing several possible scenarios and how she will attack or defend and extricate herself. Someone calls a name, and she turns at the call, but she has turned in error, wrong person wrong name. A mistake that won’t let her go, that gets her thinking. All those faces out there. People everywhere. A gathering around her. No one knows her, knows her name. She can get lost. Disappear. Charity Greene Wiggins no longer.

She breathes the warm night air, people inhaling her breath and she inhaling theirs. One of them now. Stray. Contraband. Refugee. Free.

Song of the Shank (1869)

“I didn’t think screaming was part of music.”