Song of the Shank

And given the severity of these injuries, the Doctor estimated that the mutilation had been going on for quite some time, for days, or weeks, months even. Right under our noses. Tom had outwitted all of us.

The lake crawled in the direction of the drinking animal.

We were able to draw much after the fact, although little good it did us. One sister—his? — had observed the poking, while another sister—his? — had chanced upon the prodding. The parents too had noticed some minor cuts and scrapes, which they chalked up to normal roughhousing and mischief. Innocence cannot be expected to save innocence.

Word-done, Sharpe returned to toying with his hat’s stiff brim. They sat lost between sentences, Eliza trying to follow the features of Sharpe’s face, bushes cooing and whispering behind her. What was clear, he had not seen it for himself. What was lacking: music. Music had to figure in there somewhere. (Stories await the telling.) Where was music? She could ask him. The mother, no, mistress, that was the word; the mistress, Mrs. Bethune, had been a music instructor, information she had gleaned some time ago from reading a racy exposé about the family. (True, not true.) Of the many stories she could construct, the easiest has Tom drawn to the piano after the world goes black. Who can stand vacancies? Tom gives himself up to Music. (How close is this to the official account? She tries to remember.) The world for him now no wider or taller than a piano. What it takes to get through the dark succession of constricting years. The story she invents, imagines. As good as any. Why not simply ask? She could ask. But the questions would have to take different form.

She adjusted her legs — numb, sleeping — to be sure that they were still functioning. Her knee brushed against his shin — no memory of the feel of his skin — but they were both quick to recover.

Dr. Hollister has him on a regular schedule.

He’s still not done talking. She will have to say something.

But if there’s no hope—

Tom seems to derive pleasure from the visits. Is that why we carry on with it? And the Doctor. Is that why he carries on with it?

Your Dr. Hollister sounds like a thorough and exhaustive type.

Yes, he is.

He puts me in mind of someone. I wonder if he has ever crossed paths with Dr. McCune. Here she was again, wading out of her depth.

He keeps active company with the living and the dead. Sharpe released the hat. Healing would be their sole affiliation?

Yes. He is another eye man. Perhaps he could examine the boy. The words took a long time coming from her mouth. A voice her own but outside her, speaking something that she was only thinking. She was still watching the distant shore, certain that Sharpe was watching her. Her offer not so surprising really. For — understanding everything — she felt an unspecified sense of duty — sight slowly fading from memory, images dissolving one by one, like wafers in water — although she didn’t know the boy and she hardly knew Sharpe. (Was just getting to know.)

What good would it do?

None. But what harm? The doctors one and the other will have much to talk about.

Who is he?

Eyes, hands, she gave up water — the lake is still there unchanged — and trained her attention on him. A colored man of distinction that I work under at the Asylum.

He turned, leaving water, looking at her — what we do to resolve blur and disbelief — so she could see her words reshape his face. How she had phrased it—work under—was that it or instead the meaning of what phrased?

Said (asked), A Negro doctor? A nigger doctor. And shook his head as if to empty it of her suggestion. Imagine how that would fly with the family.

They needn’t know.

They wouldn’t know.

A difference. A quiet disdain in the way he stared back. He was taking her offer as an insult. She knew that he wanted to rise and walk away, but he had the grace to continue sitting quietly (keeping quiet). Easier in fact if he showed his anger, but it is as though he thinks her unworthy of even that. For whatever reason, his stifled passion doesn’t sit well with her, doesn’t settle on her stomach but rises. (Jesus.) For a brief irrational moment, she wishes she could (rise) walk away from him. Need grants him power without his trying, deserving it. The color of his statement has moved something in her long forgotten. The weight felt.