Song of the Shank

I expect to be anywhere but here when my father arrives, another state, another country, circling the rings of Jupiter — anywhere other than here when he starts making a fool of himself with his war talk. One should know how to behave in another’s house.

So there was a rift. Was she ahead of herself again? Pardon my mentioning him, she said. Of course, his reputation is so often put before us. The entire city is awaiting his arrival.

You are innocent of any wrong. I would be suspicious if you had said nothing. He dropped his head and stared at the ground with an expression of immense satisfaction. She was only now noticing the strangeness of it, how awkward he looked sitting there, his collarbones jutting out like mountain peaks. For as long as I can remember, my father has sought secession, separation. Five years ago, before anyone was talking war, talking seriously about the possibility, he raised the first regiment in our state out of his own pocket.

So you’ve heard much more than we have.

Yes, and for far longer.

The lake was bringing a change, making them lower their voices with the feeling its sight and presence stirred in them.

Had he wanted, he could have formed an army before I was born. Does that sound so impossible?

She watched a smile pull his mouth up at one end, a derisive look.

Well, it isn’t. My fellow countrymen suffer the pathology of ignorance. How easy it is to pull the wool over their eyes. All it takes is some savior or devil cleverly done up as a man of the people, an otherwise average man of learning and consequence who has been unjustly wronged and has no choice other than to fight for self, family, and country. If such a man told them the pope was an Israelite, they would believe it.

She didn’t know what to say. Could only imagine how hard it must be for him. Although she could not recall ever having seen his name or image in print — he remained ghost, operated from behind the curtain — the name Bethune surely fitted him like trouble, given his father’s celebrity and notoriety.

The hand (troubled) in closest proximity had found his hat, one finger flick flick flicking at the brim, as if testing if the hat were alive or dead. She wanted to reach out and touch it, to lift it off the grass and position it in place, then draw her hands away and let it settle onto the shelf of his forehead.

Where will you go? she asked.

Good question. Better near or far? What do you recommend?

She thought about it for a while, pretended to.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be so eager to run. After all, his stay will be short, three days. That’s really not so long, is it? I might simply hide away, go underground. This city is vast.

She smiled. Well, if you do you can gain some practice in being my neighbor.

Yes I could.

They sat looking out at the lake, lost between sentences. Yet another vessel had taken to the water, a gondola, its driver aiming and sinking the long skinny oar, gliding gradually forward to join the other vessels, the lone canoe and compounded dhows. Almost as if the five vessels were competing, three totally distinct forms pitted against one another.

She wondered, where was the boy Thomas, Tom, in all of this? From what she had gathered Sharpe saw the boy as an entity that existed only in relation to the family. What did the boy pianist think about it all? What does Tom think about it all? Does he know his value, worth?

Will the boy come with you or stay behind with your father?

He comes. No two ways about it. He has come so to rely on me.

Ah, so that was it. Sharpe weighed down with dependence. Another life. (Was that it?) He was in charge of Tom’s life.

Of course, Warhurst could assume primary responsibility. He would, gladly. But I can’t fathom the rightness or wrongness of such an arrangement.

She worried; if the boy was so delicate, who was looking after him at that very moment? Your concern is perfectly understandable, with such a special case.

Another animal had come to drink. A bird had taken to the sky, branch vibrating. And what were the vessels doing now, moving into some sort of authoritative formation?

She said, His blindness, that’s always been the great cause of debate. As I remember from the reports, he was without sight at birth. She tried to make it sound more like an assumption than a question. Whichever, she saw nervousness on his face — she was asking him to uncover a secret; no, another source of discomfort — and something else she was not sure of.

That lie has served the interests of publicity. In fact, he was born with sight, and he had sight when my family purchased him. He quit his fussing (energy, trouble) over the hat. He was the cause of it.

It was not what she expected to hear. If he hoped to shock her, he had succeeded. How so?

He gave her a report.