Song of the Shank

Was it this blood commitment, the bond and obligation of Race, that laid the unspoken rule that the Bethunes would only enter his home as friends, never as patients — had he offered? had she or Sharpe? — however much the Bethunes were in perfect accord with his moral and professional life? Bound up with the Asylum, the circumstances of that life first established between Eliza and the Doctor passed on to Sharpe. Tracing back, she recognizes now that it was through her that the two men met and that she had a hand in the friendship they forged, unaware that in serving as this instrument of connection she was sealing the fate of each and forever linking her and Tom. (True, but one should beware of such judgments.) Not that the pattern is completely clear to her, the where what why and when, the x that preceded y and z, only that she is at the center of the likeliest sequence of events. Sharpe is gone now, forever, no coming back, but she distinctly recalls the morning, a few days after Tom’s benefit recital, when Sharpe called at the Asylum, his face smooth and smiling — yes — and without a word took her hand where it rested at her side and shook it gratefully. His uncalendared appearance — a new intake of feeling — the moment she pinpoints as the start of their enthusiastic days together. Sitting over tea in the matron’s office, he expressed his hope that they should again entertain the children at some point in the not too distant future. He had no sooner finished his cup than he rose to leave. Their stay in the city would be short; there were places to be. Something in his tone of voice, a glimmer beneath the words—We welcome another opportunity—in his posture and manner and excitement — partly observed, remembered, partly dreamed — occasioned in her a feeling that his linen-dressed body was a conspiratorial screen designed to mask the true intentions of his visit. He seemed to want to talk to her. (The screen too easy to see through.) A hope belief powerful enough to pluck up her courage to ask him, the caller—Mr. Bethune he was to her then — if one afternoon he might desire to leave the side of Tom and the manager for a few hours and accompany her for a walk about town so that he might embrace the good weather and see—Allow me to show you; was that it? — if not visit — yes, that was it — a few of the city’s most impressive sights, just the thing he might need to feel fortified and refreshed before carrying on with the many duties — the boy needed to be outfitted for the approaching concert season less than a month away — and blur of appointments awaiting him. Of course, for her to extend such an offer was to overstep the boundaries of acceptable behavior, action made even more brash and bold given the many speculations and rumors circulating in the journals at the time concerning the reasons why Sharpe’s father, General Bethune, several months earlier, had removed Tom’s longstanding manager and replaced him with a new one, Warhurst, and given that the General’s scheduled visit to the city in a few weeks as a stop on his national tour (Save the South!) to raise funds and supporters for the Confederacy was the talk of the town. (The stories always seemed to be accompanied by that now familiar photo of the General, posed behind the seated pianist, one hand in paternal rest upon the boy’s shoulders, the boy’s fingers — those cherished objects — fitted together in two fists of knuckles inside his lap.) For his part, Mr. Bethune readily accepted. In view of the (his) circumstances, he suggested the sooner the better. Why not tomorrow? Why not.

They rendezvoused on an unusually fine day, one of those summer afternoons that commanded the populace out of their homes. Wherever one looked, people were pouring out of open doors. On the street, everything was rushing and physical, a light gaiety in the air. Men touching theirs hats in mute greeting, women tilting their faces forward to smile. At her suggestion, they began walking toward Central Park, the nearest lawn only a few blocks away. What better way to impress him on their first outing than with the city’s most impressive location? (He was a foreigner after all, a Southerner.)