Song of the Shank

The room is so still that Tabbs hears no sounds until he thinks of listening for them, hearing calls of “nigger” and “blind.” The station towering over them so they feel they are within a deep iron well. The roof and walls rattle and shake whenever a locomotive leaves or enters the station. Caged and aging light in this echoing vault. There is no wish in him to step away from this place.

Tabbs breathes in the forbidden atmosphere. Eyes everywhere. Has his secret been found out? He feels manically awake. Tom blind and the boy eyes wide open, swallowing everything, shank glinting in his boot. Tabbs continues to sit locating himself. Not their train. Two or three more trains are called out. He lets the calls seep into him. The boy’s head is bent down, his lips moving, as if speaking with someone. He opens his eyes when Tabbs touches him on the shoulder.

Finally, they hear the call.

Train, Tom says. And already he is up and walking toward the platform, the boy shambling after him. Once again, Tom is leading them — to the proper car. (Blind Tom. Half man, half amazing.) They walk the stretch of the station to reach their compartment, from front to rear, open air on either side of them, Tabbs aware of every sound as the alabasters come and go. What he wants in his life now seems a huge thing.

Tom pulls himself up into the car and clatters about the almost empty compartment. The boy slides alongside of him and directs him to a seat. Tabbs sits directly behind the two of them, attached instantly to the sounds of the train. The alternatives that surround them. Not too late to turn back. But he understands the complications of removal. This is his whole life right here. No turning back. Soon they are pulling out of the station. Too late to turn back.

Fire up the engine, Tom says. You will see her.

Who?

Her.

Pulling into speed, above clattering wheels. Motion simultaneous around him. Tabbs nestles back into his seat, watching the boy, his face young and lean and dark, his eyes bright. Encased in the slow-rocking compartment. The train sweeps unhesitatingly into a tunnel, deep space around him. He sees his reflection in dark glass — some woman — and is shuddering in the darkness. This is when it will happen, he thinks, in the impersonality of darkness. But the train comes into daylight, his eyes inches away from the window, receiving the moments of brightly lit trees, water left behind, the city left behind, the train stirring its way up into the light, passing small towns.

For some time — an hour or more? — Tabbs sits in the slow-rocking compartment and tries to lose touch with the world around him, looking with hope at the boy’s and Tom’s faces every now and again. Then the conductor calls out their station, and Tom rises up out of his seat. Debarked, Tom resumes his frantic push for the Bethune woman’s country house. Spills forward without hesitation, his legs running ahead of his speed-shaken body.

The thrill and terror that get knocked into Tabbs when he sees the house. He wants to say something but can’t, opening and closing his mouth as he takes in the full aspect of the sight blooming up before them, as they draw the house closer to them. The grounds are a jungle. Grass overgrown. Tangles of vines climbing up to the roof so it appears the house has grown hair. Wind banging and loosening a roof tile, trying to unpeel it. And Tom is already banging on the door, the boy twenty feet behind him, unsure what to do next, watching Tabbs, who nods to acknowledge that everything is all right.

Tom, let me.

With Tabbs’s concerned hand on his shoulder, Tom steps back to allow Tabbs access to the door.

He sees her face, unbelieving, baffled. Startled, she backs away. He simply walks into the waiting silence behind her, the politest entry he can make. Enters into stunning emptiness. A room that holds nothing of interest except for a settee and a few chairs made soft by embroidered pillows and antimacassars ready to soak up pomade. The room bright and hot, sun streaming in, revealing all the dust in the air. Tom and the boy follow, and he watches pure surprise (fear) slide into her face. His hands work quickly, removing the dark head covering and the bright coloring from his face, no more need to hide and deny.

You.

The whole of her person shaped now into an accusation that drives her confusion into him. There is no wish in him to be here.

She stares at Tom long and with so much concentration, like a person taking a farewell look. She looks exhausted, face and body drawn out. Tom takes her hand and holds it, caressing it. He moves closer toward her, bringing his excitement. She does not seem able to say anything. Tabbs watches them with far-off curiosity, and so watching, feels himself receding from the scene.