Song of the Shank

The road encroaches upon her like a tightening band, squeezing into view a single solitary figure who strolls along it, shoes thumping in the dirt. Eliza watches the shape with almost scornful incredulity, fearing that she has given physical form to some mad hope filling her heart, and wont perhaps to admit that the stable owner’s predictions (promises?) might be fulfilled so quickly. Notions and motives that seem reasonable enough until she sees a head spin in her direction, a quick look of recognition before looking away, and only then does she believe that the figure is real, Eliza witnessing this brown face catching sight even as it is caught, catching then confirming her presence and Tom’s with additional discreet glances. The Negro seems wary, content to carry on. So why is it that she can’t call out to him, can’t lift her tongue to the roof of her mouth and press a single word out, or at least signal him over?

Sees him curve off the road and begin to make his way toward them, brisk and definite. What strikes her is how the Negro takes the initiative. NO way she could have expected that. Surely, he has caught wind of her situation and looks to gain some improper price. And she will have to pay it. She shuts her eyes tight for a second to prepare herself. Finds him standing with his eyes open in apparent expectation only feet away from her. He’s an imposing man, several inches taller than Tom and twice Tom in years and almost double his weight, but there’s nothing slack about him. Statuesque, chiseled. And perfectly groomed — shirt ironed, collar starched, sideburns trimmed — like somebody for Sunday service but in a manner that seems natural, unobtrusive, as if he had done little more than slip into a fresh set of skin.

Day, ma’m. He lifts his derby then lets it settle back onto the shelf of his forehead, a certain pause in his gestures and a smile poised on his face, deliberate contrivances meant to give her ample time to return the greeting. But her voice is still trapped somewhere inside her body. I can tote them bags for you, he says. His eyes are white and quiet, staring at her. The derby softens his appearance and makes his head look like an egg lodged inside a bowl.

She looks between Tom and the other Negro in a kind of agony. Her faltering now, at this moment, can’t be a good thing.

Lend a hand, Tom says.

The Negro looks at Tom then back at her. What time’s your train, ma’m?

How can such a quiet voice come from so large a man? Perhaps he is dropping it so as not to be discourteous. She tells him the scheduled departure time.

The luggage, Tom says. He makes a pseudogeometric move with his walking stick, part circle and part directive. If the Negro feels insulted he refuses to show it. Only picks up the lightest suitcase and closes the fingers of Tom’s stick-free hand around the handle, performing this apportioning of labor with such diligence and ease that Tom makes an impatient sound — breathes deep once — but does not resist. Then in an acrobatic display, he takes up every piece of the remaining luggage, muscled out in both fists, wedged between his elbows and his rib cage, and — the largest trunk, heavy even when empty — mashed up against his chest and stomach. Leaves not a single bag for her to carry. (She’s paying after all.)

The Negro handles the luggage with assurance — moving matter — like one used to it, although it takes all of his focus to walk in a straight line, trying hard not to display any strain. She can’t remember the last time she’s seen a Negro in this county, certainly not since the days when she and Sharpe and Tom first came here together to spend their summers. Little clouds of dust rise from their shoes, reaching a maximum height three or four feet above the road, slow and lingering dust, hanging in air. Easily another two miles to the train station, and Eliza becomes aware of curious sounds spilling out from the Negro’s body — wheezes and belches, grunts and snaps. Soon — a quarter mile — he is panting furiously, his arms, legs, and back wearying down, giving way to exhaustion. The remainder of the trek is one of constant upset, Eliza fearing at every step that the Negro will lose his balance.