Song of the Shank

His skin is ready. He holds his arms closely to his chest as if determined to guard this limited (torso) part of his nakedness — flabby mounds not unlike (almost) a woman’s breasts, belly button in layers of abdomen suggesting the bird’s-eye view of a volcano — and wobbles toward the tub. Hauls his legs up one after the other over the high porcelain side and joins her neck deep in high islands of foam. It’s the only way she can get him to bathe, the two of them together—He never has taken much to water, Sharpe said—two huddled forms stationed at either end of the tub, face to face, an archipelago of suds between them. Two bodies peeling away, layer by layer, soap the substance that obscures when it is smeared across cheek and brow, nose and chin, before running white fingers over muscle, bone, soft places, hard places — knows them all — making it hard to tell which leg or elbow, one outside, one inside, belongs where, to whom. She reaches to slow down his wild hurried hands. Rebuffed, cut short, they go moving like dark fish through the water, swimming to another world.

She grows considerate. Guides him back, hands that work as hard returning as running away. Stroking her face. Down-stroking her shoulders. Drawing warmth across her breasts until he takes tight hold of her silent back. She lets his touch linger, feeling the power of his fingers, this body embracing her reminding her that she is not alone. He reaches up and fists a hank of her hair, letting the strands sieve through his splayed fingers. Hairs pushing against each other, flickering back and forth, a mass of flowers set afire under his water-warm touch.

Two washed bodies, light and clean — she dries Tom then herself, using the same towel made from Georgia cotton — smelling of lavender soap and talcum powder. He dresses her, she him, her form preserved under the wide heavy folds of her nightgown, Tom exotic in his white sleeping caftan and peaked nightcap like something out of an Oriental tale, Arabian Nights.

Back in the parlor she takes a seat on the settee, and he kneels at her feet, rests his head on the altar of her lap. Lets her (needs her to) massage his scalp, harvesting the naps, black buds blooming open. Unexpectedly, he pulls himself up midtouch — short season — and ambles off to the piano, where he sits on the bench, hands positioned above the keys. And he stays that way, still, withdrawn, music withheld, leaving her to measure the distance between them. It’s as if he knows that something is up. (NO, she hasn’t told him.) She feels a deep sense of gnawing discomfort but refuses to let it take hold. NO use trying to draw him in. He’ll find his way to bed. In fact, she should allow him to savor this hour, his final night here. She rises — heavy filled skin — and snuffs the lamps.

I’m going to bed now, Tom.

As might be expected.

With no light to guide her, she starts her ascent up the imposing mahogany staircase — a body wound through space — reaching out for the inclined railing to steady and direct her. Pain sets off in her hand. She realizes that she has actually grabbed the blade-like finial, which is carved in the form of a fiery torch (Sharpe’s idea), with pointed top and sharp spiraling edges, rather than the customary polished globe. Soon finds herself sitting upright on the bed, its circular shape (Sharpe, ever the iconoclast) — a beached sea creature trapped inside the pink and blue and gray squares and diamonds of the crocheted bedspread — so familiar to her bottom and the soles of her feet, yet she feels like an exile in an unknown space, her fears scrawled into words on the unmade sheets. Lets her head fall back into the pillows, her turn to be quiet.

She awakens the next morning in a semi-trance-like state. Shudders loose. Scrambles out of bed. If she slept at all last night she does not remember doing so. (What actual and what the engine of dreaming?) Opens one drawer after another, moves into the closet and dresses for the day ahead. Finds Tom downstairs — he is always up at the first fluttering of color in the sky — seated at the kitchen table, an empty plate before him, utensils set, fully clothed, a napkin tucked into his collar.

Miss Eliza. Sleep well?

Yes, Tom. Thanks for asking.

And how are you today, Miss Eliza?

Fine, Tom.

I am fine today too. The smile on his face is meant for her. No trace of last night’s glumness. (Forgotten? Denied?) The old Tom in full effect. How faithfully he assists her. Pumps bucket after bucket of water from the well out back — the motions come naturally, the trajectory of handle and shoulder — and hauls them to the door. Grinds her coffee. Beats eggs in a bowl, his hands circling faster and faster, while she slices some strips of salt pork and sets them popping in the hot lard-lathered skillet.