Song of the Shank

Gold and Rose (1868–1869)

“My song will stand.”

I’LL BRING HIM BACK TO THE HOME TOMORROW, TABBS SAYS. He is far, far away, the floor between him and Ruggles like a shimmering lake of sunlight. He doesn’t know what work he will do once he leaves the island. Only this: he has settled this matter of Tom once and for all. After all else, now the boy himself is the great impediment to his aim, Tom the final impasse that can’t be moved. No remedy to his loss. The sooner he’s done with the boy, the better. Anything but surrender to Edgemere. Anything but getting stuck here. Once he’s gone, the island will shrink to a tarnished coin that he might lift and carry in his pocket.

He expects Ruggles to speak but he doesn’t. Because Ruggles’s response is silence, he assumes Ruggles is waiting to hear more. You might as well send for her, Tabbs says. Send for anybody you like. Damn him. Damn her. The boy can stay here and give concerts to piss-poor orphans.

How did this all start?

I’m losing track of things.

Has he asked for her?

He hasn’t asked for her, Tabbs says. He hasn’t asked for a goddamn thing.

Ruggles listens, sitting not quite straight in his chair, his back to a window, sits quietly, watching Tabbs, Tabbs trying to put a name to the look on Ruggles’s face.

Happy now? You got what you wanted.

Ruggles continues to look at Tabbs.

I never had a chance, Tabbs says. His face falls. Something not right about both of them. Maybe he’s what they always said he is, an idiot. And she ain’t much better. Who knows? Maybe we’re just not like them. We’ve been free from the start. He leaves in what is essential, takes out what is not.

You and I, homeskillet, we ain’t like nobody. Never have been. Never will be.

That’s some comfort, Ruggles. Some comfort.

They say nothing for a time. Then:

Well, I should give you a fitting good-bye.

Or bury me.

You ain’t ready for that. You got some years ahead.

Tabbs draws his breath but says nothing.

You ain’t got to go back among them.

Tabbs forces himself to look directly at Ruggles. I can’t stay here. You want to go back. You still seeking their approval, their praise. I hate them as much as you do. They use us any way they like then throw us away.

Then why go?

You expect me to stay here, on this island filled with donkey shit?

Take some time. Get yo head right.

What’s to think about? I tried to give her something. He got what he wanted and left nothing for me.

And what did you get her to give up to come here?

I brought her here.

A husband.

She had nothing.

Children.

Ruggles—

Siblings.

I took nothing from her. I gave her back what the Bethunes took away, her son. And look how they repay me. I’m the only one losing here.

You paid what she couldn’t.

Somewhere beyond his consciousness, his thoughts are racing, unformed, disconnected. He trusts these surroundings. He can relax in the midst of this conversation, this running series of ruminations, let his eyes close and give in to his tiredness, his body unbearably heavy, drained. Needs to close his eyes, try to collect himself. Dissolving, parts of him drifting away. Haven’t they discussed all this before? What’s being remembered, confirmed, denied? Him secure in his own awareness, Ruggles asking him to open out to accept this place.

Tabbs!

He looks at Ruggles, tired of everything.

You sitting there feeling sorry for yoself, thinking yo luck ran out. You can’t even see what’s happened. He put one over on you. He ensnared you. The boy was the bait. You couldn’t resist.

But I was the one. He didn’t know me. I made the offer. Drew up the contract. Me, Ruggles, me.

Don’t matter. He had you.

Why would he go through the trouble? For what? Just to get my money?

They never need reasons, Ruggles says. Ain’t you figured that out by now?

Ruggles was like that. Everything he said was a certainty in his mind, and he expected you to see it that way too.

We can’t be among them.

So you think this is what the boy deserves, Edgemere?

I ain’t say that, Ruggles says. Don’t matter what he deserve. Nothing you can do about that now.

Tell me something I don’t know.

But the boy ain’t got to be the end.

Tell me. Tabbs saying anything rather than sit in ungracious silence.

Forget all that. Bygones.

Forget? Damn, Ruggles. What’s happened to you? They took everything from you, everything you had, everything you worked for.

None of that was mine anyway. I only thought it was. But them alabasters had claim to it. All of it. You can’t be king in somebody else’s castle. No way they gon let that happen.

Well, Ruggles. You go on and be king.

I’m glad they took it.

Wish I could say the same.

Your three thousand. Ruggles says it with slight disgust, his lips working against the words.

You don’t know what it cost me.

Take them into the other room.

Ruggles gives him a strange look of anger. And you don’t know what it cost me, living among them.

Maybe I don’t, but one way or the other you’ll keep sitting there flapping your mouth about it.

Ruggles snaps to his feet like a fish yanked from water. He unbuttons his trousers.

So, what, you’re going to piss on me now?

Ruggles lets his trousers drop to his ankles, a cloth puddle. Tabbs is thinking, Did they take that from him?

Ruggles raises his shirt ends to reveal his shaved groin, his long even thighs. To Tabbs’s eyes, the sight is a relief. Go on, Ruggles says. Get you an eyeful. See?

Tabbs neither confirms nor denies. But he can plainly see that Ruggles’s deformed leg is deformed no longer. How could this be?

Take your measure, so there’s no doubt.

What?

Measure them. Measure each and see if they match. You can’t dispute numbers.

I ain’t got to do that. Pull your pants up.

You sure?

Ruggles.

Ruggles secures his trousers in place. Resumes his seat.

You really think you need to prove that to me?

Seem like I do.

He finds it impossible to answer. Without words. I must not surrender to Edgemere.

Wire told me that it was a sign I should give myself over to the church. That the Almighty had been good enough to take pause and go back and correct what He had created. And what about the many He hasn’t corrected? I asked him. I can’t speak for them, he said. Far more the mistakes of man than the imperfections that can be attributed to God’s hand. But we ain’t talkin bout God, homeskillet. God ain’t play no part in it. These alabasters made the man you see here.

Tabbs feels the focused tension of violence beneath the words.

My house burned to the ground. My friends dead. Had I a firearm I would have killed the first alabaster I saw — man, woman, or child. Truth is, maybe I did kill one or two. Maybe I even spent my rifle to the last bullet. Hate carried heavy in my heart. I can still feel it, feel it now even as we speak. But I ain’t got no reason to hate them anymore, do I?

Some hours later, he finds himself alone once again with Tom. The boy holds the glass of milk up to his ear as if listening to it, a seashell, the sound of ocean. Brings the glass around to his lips and makes quick work of the contents. Sets the glass down on the table and sits with both hands on the table. It’s not as flat as it feels, he says.

What, Tom?

Water.

His statement is like many things he says, demanding (deserving) no reply. Now he sniffs the air, smelling water, ocean, Edgemere.

You want something? What would you like?

Lait, he says.

You are tired? You wish to rest?

You’ll give me the drink.

A drink? I have tea, sweet water. Even wine.

Lait. Hot or cold. You know, the honey from cows.

More milk?

Yes.

Tabbs fills the glass, both hands carry milk to mouth, then one ear listening to the glass.

I’m going to take you back. He might as well say it.

Across the water.

No, Tom. To the Home, the orphanage.

Across the water. He sips the milk.

I’m trying to understand, Tom. Is it that you don’t like me?

You brought me here.

Yes, Tom. Yes I did. So why? I only wanted a chance. Why give white men that chance and not one of your own?

Tom neither moves nor speaks. He is misinterpreting the boy’s behavior, assuming he knows—this—what he wants. Then: You gave him money?

Yes.

These. Tom holds his hands up and wiggles his fingers. And you bought tickets when you heard me?

Yes.

And you heard me sing too?

So you remember?

Yes.

How amazing it must have been, playing for all those people.

You want to know?

Yes.

I can show you.

Okay.

They walk to the piano. After some time:

It’s not as hard as I thought, Tabbs says.

Your hands are easy.

For the first time the boy appears in good spirits. I would like to learn more, but I don’t want to take you away from your own work.

Don’t try.

Would you like me to send for an instructor?

I can teach you.

Not for me, Tom. For you.

I’ll teach you.

The piano shines, animated in late afternoon. Tom plays with a powerful joy, a melody played too fast or too slow. It’s got things that shouldn’t be in there, foreign tones, melodies taking wrong turns, bass notes darkening passages that should be clear, chords with so many notes they cancel any understanding, foot hand allowing chords to resonate and invade where they shouldn’t, a deliberate display of excess, of error, of noise, Tom having his way, one side of the floor rising, the other falling, a rocking, storm-tossed sea. Time assumes the shape it should. Tom where Tabbs wants him, taking a song from start to finish. Tom, Tabbs, and piano at a point of decision, agreement.

Tabbs sits forward in his chair, interpreting a new toughness in the boy’s face.

Wire walks in, walks into his house and finds them there, trespassers occupying space that belongs to him. So you’re here? Unfleshed speech against the mute surface of the furniture, Tom quiet at the piano, chin high as if straining to hear, Tabbs trying to puzzle together words and phrases, his head heavy, his body cold. What can he say with the freakishly tall preacher standing there, his right to stand on his shiny floor under yellow light hanging from the ceiling? Ruggles must have summoned him, and the mother too, not that it matters now. Mother or no mother, Tom will return to the stage.

Wire looks around. Nothing out of the ordinary. It’s no accident you are here, he says. The Almighty has impeccable timing.

I only thought to—

Stay. The sheep has heard your voice. He must follow. Wire shifts direction, moves to another side of the room, a walking tree, strange to watch. The Almighty spoke to me and told me to treat you like a son. (Noah had three.) He wants you, us, our race, to prosper. That’s why you couldn’t walk away.

As if I had a choice, Tabbs thinks.

Expectation is a cord that binds.

Wake me, Tom says. Wire beside him now, putting a hand on his shoulder.

See, isn’t my piano everything I said it was?

A promise, Tom says.

More than that. The Almighty has blessed you so that you can bless others.

You can’t preach like Peter

You can’t preach like Paul

One thing you can say

Our Lord Jesus died for us all

Tabbs holds still, pressed against the chair. I don’t feel so blessed. He surprises himself, his willingness to speak aloud his feelings to the preacher. Less surprising the unspoken distinction he makes in his head — not blessed but deserving, deserving what’s rightfully his.

But you are.

Always one more thing to say, Tabbs thinks.

You will lay hands on a million people. Wire is soothing the boy’s shoulders.

The boy sings,

One two

Buckle my shoe

Three four

Open the floor

Yes, Tom, yes. Smiling, touching the boy’s shoulders. If the Bible is silent, we should be silent. If the Bible talks, we should shout a clarion call.

Tabbs can think of nothing to say. The ease of the preacher’s assurance almost annoys him.

You have come far, and you still have far to go. What you are willing to walk away from, leave behind, determines what the Almighty will bring to you. The abundance.

You brought her? Tom asks.

Wire takes a beat to consider the boy’s face. I’m sorry, son. She should be here, right now, with you, but she stayed behind, in the city.

Tabbs hears. The words assume a shape in him.

Yes, the city woman.

Wire presses both hands into Tom’s shoulders as if he is trying to keep the boy seated on the piano bench. We were in the camps, as regular as rain. Doing our work. Then one day, she just up and — it’s just some misunderstanding. What else could it be? Wire’s face holds some reticent knowledge that seals him off from Tabbs and Tom, some harmful (damaging) facts.

And you don’t know where?

I know. She is out there. In the city. Somewhere.

Tom’s face goes wild.

We will find her.

We can go across the water, Tom says.

That’s just what we’ll do, Tabbs says. Believe it if you want, he thinks.

Yes, we will find your mother. She wants to be with you.

Always mother, Tom says.

Wire walks about the room in his high-shine shoes, looking everywhere at once with his three heads. How have I ended up back here, again?

Wire watches the slow stirrings of the chapel come to life. Swears that he has been in this scene before, with these very men, positioned about the pews as they are. A dream. A presentiment even. (Sight is anticipatory sense.) Did he dream it last night? Is he dreaming it now? Were it not for the smell (burning trees, gunpowder, blood) he might doubt the reality of what he is seeing and hearing.

Drinkwater is speaking in a loud insistent voice, his throat wild with words, words undoing words, his mouth open so wide that Wire can see his small teeth. His body appears tense with a terrible effort of will to remain standing where he is, clutching his hat in his hand like a messenger sent on an errand. He no longer has the aura of someone exceptional, with his troubled disposition, his overexcitement, and his shoddy appearance, his skin and clothes speckled with mud and soot.

The five soldiers scattered around him in various poses of disheveled collapse chime in where they think necessary with expressions of incredible assurance—uh huh and that’s right and yeah and you know it—and constantly nod their heads, small movements of spasmodic affirmation (and shock) as if Wire, Double, and the other deacons are not impressed by Drinkwater’s account of murder and tragedy, the stark facts of the city’s offensive against them in Central Park, which has claimed the lives of all the men in their unit except those present. Double sits motionless on a pew in front of them, his manner extraordinarily composed as always, head bowed, one hand clutching his chin. Wire can feel the Deacon thinking, his mind fidgeting with the future. The Deacon has strong ideas — more than once Wire has thought about telling him so — but he is also reserve personified, never the first to speak, never a loud word, a man so at a remove listening and observing that his silence seems to cancel out his presence altogether, a man so purely inward and oriented toward the duties of his church that he enlarges the world around him by an erasure of self, occupying (filling) space but without taking space away from other things around him. Sometimes Wire will sit and think about how he wishes he knew more about the Deacon’s life.

After a long introduction containing many unusual words, Drinkwater’s second-in-command, dark and solidly built, his ears too big, picks up the story in minute detail, going beyond the bare facts — life making its extensions — narrating entire conversations, throwing himself into the attitudes of the participants, changing the expression of his face and voice like a professional actor. As Wire listens, his thoughts blow backward, the stench of donkey dung, the troughs filled with donated rations, the creaky dhows, the unkempt tents, the barefoot vendors, the half-naked children sporting in the glare of the noonday sun — all a background to thoughts and feelings not easily gauged, never completely assayed.

Christ bought us with his blood. The words come from his mouth, but they are not his words, his mouth. Whoever drinks from my mouth will become like me. I myself shall become that person. Everything in the room pulls into silence, time broken around them. The dancing light from the kerosene lamps assume shapes that give everything in the room an oddly broken impression. Light he does not trust. Such terrible darkness.

Do not unduly bear the burden of your fallen brethren, Double says. He doesn’t speak loudly, but his voice carries and everyone listens. For unless Jehovah has raised you up in this thing you will be worn down by the opposition of men and devils.

Heat cleaves to every object in the church like a low fever. Wire feels the grip of weariness, both drained and filled.

The search for a homeland has always been at the center of our chronicles. And so the years go by.

Double’s expansive words seem to push at the walls of the chapel, make them fly apart and come together again.

Truth crushed to the earth shall rise again, he says. The same indignation that cleared the temple once will clear it again. Brothers, await that day. In the meantime, say nothing, do nothing. It is enough that all of us are here now. When the time comes, the Lord will give us the words to speak. Scarcely moving in the darkness, he unsnaps the button on his left shoe, removes the shoe, then unsnaps the button on the right shoe and removes it. He cups his hands together and from knee to toe slides his left silk stocking free from his leg and foot. Repeats this process with his right stocking. Then he just sits for a while looking at the other men in the room, his bare feet contoured like two red-brown mushrooms. Wire gathers vaguely that he wants them to follow his example, but it takes the soldiers a full minute or two to catch on. Drinkwater sits down on the pew and his men follow his lead, taking places in his proximity, shoulder to shoulder, where they proceed to remove their soiled boots and socks. Many ideas taking shape in his head, Wire is the last man in the room to partake in the brotherhood of bare feet.

Double takes up a pitcher and pours water into a basin. He kneels before Drinkwater and carefully lifts the lieutenant’s foot as if it were a delicate bird, pours water over it, and massages it clean. He returns the clean foot to the floor then lifts up the other foot smoothly and easily and effortlessly, pours water and cleans away the mud and dirt. He passes a freshly filled pitcher and a newly emptied basin to Drinkwater’s second-in-command, who kneels down before the soldier to his left. Amid the somber circulation, the sound of pouring and rinsing, Wire cannot shake the feeling that they are being spied on, shadows watching them from the corners, and even through the high windows, darkness looking in; he is certain of it. And yet they continue pouring and rinsing, Wire secretly glad that, true to form, Double had brought into being this evocative ritual — ribbons of water — for these soldiers requiring answers, consolation (some at least) in knowing that the Deacon has succeeded (momentarily?) where he, Wire, had not the fortitude, resolve, and presence of mind to try.

And this feeling deepens as Double slides from water back into words, his voice a low grunting accompaniment.

I was in a wilderness sort of place, all full of rocks and brushes, when I saw a serpent raise its head of an old man with a long white beard, gazing at me, wishful like, just as if he were going to speak to me, and then two other heads rose up beside him, younger than he—

The hands on Wire’s feet are pleasing to the touch.

— and as I stood looking at them and wondering what they could want with me, a great crowd of men rushed in and struck down the younger heads and then the head of the old man, still looking at me so wishful. This is a dream I have had again and again and could not interpret it until now.

Charity looks around the austere room where Wire works on his sermons—Brethren, I have taken off my shoes and on this consecrated ground adored the God and Father of our ancestors. You’ve been crowned with victory. There is a king in each of you—looks at the bed, the table, shelves of books, sketches on the walls, and the shiny white sheets of paper that occupy his hard narrow desk like felled birds. No easy time of it. His robe stiff tight on his shoulders like feathers mashed in place. He shifts his bulk from time to time. She waits in silence, the room hot, airless, can feel the urgency flowing from him in waves. Wouldn’t surprise her any if he rips the sermon into skinny strips and tosses the wasted words out the window. Nothing a preacher can’t do. He puts down his stylus, shakes his head, looks up at the sagging ceiling — God pressing in — shielding his eyes as he does so. Seems to have forgotten that another person, her, Charity Greene Wiggins, is in the room with him. But then he looks at her, and for a moment his eyes look almost compassionate. Try again. He shuffles the papers, moves them about on the desk, piecing together a new nest where his tired hands can perch. Looks at her absently, eager to get back to his sermon. So she’ll just keep standing here, awaiting some sudden surprise of light, color, or motion. Not much longer now. He takes a sip of chocolate tea, lukewarm now, returns cup to saucer. Primed, he stuffs a black plug of tobacco in his mouth and chews his annoyance away. Spits brown puddles of tobacco juice right onto the floor.

She remembers moments of the recent past that already seem distant, long ago:

Why did you go? Thomas asked.

I ain’t go nowhere.

You been.

They took you, took you away.

You say.

He gave you to them.

He put his arms on the table. Still arms, slack face.

You understand? They took you away from me.

But here now.

Yes. Here. Together…. Don’t you miss me?

Got no words.

Why? They took you. A nigger ain’t go no say.

You want to play. Play. I’ll hear you.

She started to hum a song, low in her throat.

Don’t ever touch me like that again, he said.

She blows out the quotidian candles, readies the kerosene lamps, and carries them lit by the latches, two to a hand, into the small sitting room where the Vigilance Committee, twelve deacons from as many churches, come with weekly reports about trials, tribulations, and triumphs. (She does not give as much thought as she might to what the men actually speak about.) Looking at the men, she thinks about how the black children of Israel are like a speckled bird in their many shades of skin. She serves them decanters of sack, kettles of soma, and goblets of Medusa for those who want their eyes to roll back in their head. Bowls of goobers and pecans, apple and pear preserves on little rafts of hard bread, and flat cakes of ground meat smothered in sweet red sauce. Reverend Wire is brightly attired in blue robe with a line of silver buttons shining — she keeps button polishers in the pantry — from his throat down to his shoes. All of the men at the table wear robes of the same color if not similar in fit and construction.

Using only the tips of his fingers, Deacon Double lifts a newspaper from the table, the newspaper some vile unclean thing. Brothers, this is what they write about us. He lowers his eyes and reads from the newspaper. Negroes at every turn. Their presence is undesirable among us. They should be confined to large tracts of unimproved land on the outskirts of the city, where they can build up colonies of their own and where their transportation and hygiene and nourishment and other problems will not inflict injustice and disgust on worthy citizens.

A little breeze reels through the white curtains and suddenly the entire room feels different.

Double raises his line of sight from the newspaper and makes a point of catching the gaze of every man in the room. It would be nice to be able to say a miracle had happened, he says. But it hasn’t. We know these alabasters, know that their hearts and hands are capable of anything. Knowing what we do, it is the duty of every man here, men of God, to provide himself and his congregants with arms and ammunition. I myself have at least one rifle and at least enough projectiles to make it useful.

Wire says, At this moment of revolution, when our country needs the blessing of Almighty God and the strong arms of her children, this is not the time for us to solemnly enact injustice. In duty to our country and in duty to God, I plead against any such thing. We must be against wrong in its original shape and in all its brood of prejudice and error.

No blood is to be shed except in self-defense, Deacon Double says. One hand goes into the sleeve of his robe and reappears holding a rolled leather map. He unrolls it and spreads it flat on the table before the other men, turned so that they may easily view it, paperweights pinning down the corners. Bends his bulky body over the map and begins moving his hand freely above the leather.

She set the glass before him. Milk will pass right through a haint, a white puddle on the floor. Best she find out. Maybe that Mr. Tabbs ain’t all he promised. Good chance of that, with his fancy clothes, proud hat, and that silver tongue. Made-up nigger thinking he other, better. I can give you your son.

He stuck his tongue out like a snake and let the tip of it touch the milk, his lips far away, keeping safe distance. He set the glass down, milk intact.

Who thirsty, he said. And then: You are just a weak worm of the earth.

The strays in Central Park have multiplied. At least double yesterday’s number grouped around the well, sweaty and haggard.

I can’t stay behind, my Lord

I can’t stay behind

Swaying like vile flowers, dirty mushrooms, in their wide-brimmed hats. A steady drift of them dressed in rags, some of the women in cast-off soldier’s coats, both blue and gray, men and women alike carrying their households on their backs (dirty sacks, splintery crates) and heads (baskets, bundles), arms toting tubs, kettles, and pots, animals too, pigs and roosters and chickens, their rickety children and gaunt mules, their porkers, goats, lambs, and dogs trailing behind them. A common sight: a swollen belly leading the rest of the body like a big stubborn eye.

The nurses work with dignified speed. Sun boiling, moisture and sweat hanging in the air. She can’t quite keep up, her hands like a den of aggravated snakes, the green veins beneath the skin pulsing and writhing in the heat.

A nurse he calls me. I ain’t never done that, I said. And I’m dry. No milk. I ain’t no nurse.

The church touches her hands. This is the abiding nature of the place. Always there. Once she settles down on the bed her day stops, her body crumpling inside her sweat-heavy dress. She tries to pay it no mind. Won’t bother to take it off. Can’t. Exhausted beyond wanting company, she lies still and tries to empty herself, empty herself of all that water out there, all that ocean she had crossed to get to Edgemere, and had crossed again (back) to get to here, the city, to this room in this church. She has a room in the church, small, but the bed is perfect for sleeping. Not too soft, not too hard, and plenty of pillows to cushion her head just right. Cracks in the drapes let in random patches of light. She lays bare her worries and tallies her setbacks. Thinking a long time before she falls asleep.

She awakes, the room ablaze with light. Drags herself up out of dreams, works the knots in her body out, doing all she can to turn away from sleep into morning. For yet another day she will have to get up, leave this room, and go back among those people to save herself.

Now that she and Reverend Wire are here, in the camp, nurses dressed in white descend from the topmost branches of the trees like a lost flock of birds. Tall trees that brush the light in, brush the shade out.

Her senses come alive. She breathes in the smell of strays, mouthful by mouthful, struggling for air. Every glance a landscape, too much for the eyes to take in. The broken, the blood, the pain. But the Reverend touches them all. His hand on each person’s shoulder carries absolute certainty. He issues a string of authoritative commands to the other nurses. A nurse he calls me. She wraps bandages, cleans wounds, snaps bones in place, wanting nothing of the skin. Cloth boiled clean spinning in speeding circles around a head, an elbow, or a waist. Spinning herself, a dull throbbing in her temple. A nurse. Why has she consented to such contact?

Trapped in their own collapsing bodies, the strays take their time getting from one place to another, brittle-shelled turtles. The oldest and most weathered of the bunch don’t seem able to get about at all, planted at a spot along the road or under a shady tree. Even sitting such, they seem to suffer from erethism of their digits and limbs, and twitching and tics of eyes and face. The Reverend tries to look them in the face, in the eye, when he talks to them, but they get all respectful, hold their elbows and study their feet. Every now and then he swings his face toward heaven, either seeking guidance or receiving approval.

They drool nonsense sounds to each other, Charity dizzy with listening, nigger talk that even she can’t understand.

Blouse open, the thin fan of bones wafting heat through wet skin, the moist pressing air cool for a moment, until the next breath. She picks and plucks determinedly at gray desiccated flesh, uncovering the dirty buried life, lifting it to the surface. Plugs up holes where existence can escape. No two bodies alike. All the bodies alike. For weeks now since they sent her from the Home to the city, she has gone out each day and tried to see the city through Wire’s eyes and with Wire’s words. How impossible. Too much. Too much. She follows this perfectly aligned road, putting her feet down in those overlooked spots speckled with brown and green, feeling twigs break under her shoes — the sound at least — walking on bones. On her way. By and by, finds herself far from the camps, on the out-reaches of what she knows, unfamiliar streets. Moves through the streets (never stumbles) with these thoughts on her mind. Many people about. Black men in blue and varying shades of blue and gray. (She is looking for color.) She sees ship sails sticking up out of the water like amputated wings, and boats that look like disembodied feet kicking the water.

We have to board the ferry, Mr. Tabbs said.

What fo? I ain’t lost nothing over there.

Thomas was there, on the island, surrounded by all that water. What had happened to the Thomas of old that she can still picture, still feel? Don’t ever touch me like that again.

She walks through the streets and tells herself, I cannot bear staying in this city any longer. But she is alone with only her labor in the camps and the church chores. She has no other bed, no other place to go back to. Elsewhere in her head. (Which way to turn?)

A hand snakes out and touches her then someone grabs her by the shoulder from behind. She jumps with fear, heart beating. Even before she turns around, her head goes into an accelerated and feverish deliberation, picturing several possible scenarios and how she will attack or defend and extricate herself. Someone calls a name, and she turns at the call, but she has turned in error, wrong person wrong name. A mistake that won’t let her go, that gets her thinking. All those faces out there. People everywhere. A gathering around her. No one knows her, knows her name. She can get lost. Disappear. Charity Greene Wiggins no longer.

She breathes the warm night air, people inhaling her breath and she inhaling theirs. One of them now. Stray. Contraband. Refugee. Free.