William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

In this mood Henry could remember piling up a mountain in the wagon: the quilts and comforts, the toys, the tools and the utensils — tasting their metals in his mouth. Clouds were living in the river; Gilean was resting by it, the air so clear. There was every house out honest and every barn banked proper to the weather. The trees were beautiful and bare, and the tracks of the wagons glistened. On the way they'd sung Rose Aylmer. Then sometimes they counted birds. There were rings in the pools of water by the road and the air was clean as it is after rain. He thought it would be healthy for the boy to live by the river, to catch fish and keep frogs, to grow up with good excitement.

But his wife would come and jar him loose. Age had beautifully lined her jaw. Her knuckles were huge. She rattled tins and silverware in drawers.

Where have you got to now? what are you thinking?

Nothing.

Nothing? You should see your face. Nothing!

Nothing.

It's fatty. You should see your face. It's fatty.

No.

What do you go to the shop for? You can scarcely walk yet you're always off down there, and in this weather when it's hot. What do you talk about? Does Tott tell stories? Or is the Furber preaching at you, trying to fish your soul out like the last pickle? Oh, I know what's happened. You've gone to the devil. That's what's happened.

No.

It's fatty.

He would sit so quietly within the shadows behind the forge that visitors scarcely noticed he was there. It was like the effect of his illness, for after a period of pain and confusion he thought his eyes had cleared and he had watched from his bed as if from out of the world. It had been as he imagined it was like to be invisible. Your eyes were open. People looked into them but they didn't think you saw. They were less than a mirror, no more than a painting of eyes. The sickness was nothing. Many times he had struggled to say that he could hear. Being stretched to pieces was nothing. Many times he'd tried to shout I can see, I can see you — hissing instead. Fighting for breath was nothing. Burning was nothing. Locked in a shrinking boot of flesh, hour after hour he remembered Jethro Furber's prayers.

The child of Decius Clark, said Doctor Orcutt through bis beard, is very bad. A bee stung him six weeks come Tuesday on the neck. You never saw a bigger swelling.

The doctor's fingers formed an egg.

Clark used to be a potter. Quit. He's farming now — or trying to. Not much account. I won't collect.

Orcutt aimed his spit.

Let's see that finger Matthew smashed.

You're a bastard, Truxton, Watson said.

You took on so, I thought I'd see. Well, Brackett? No charge for curiosity. The nail grow back? Mat told me that he knocked it clean away — is that a fact?

Omensetter held his hand out silently.

Orcutt grinned.

Mat's took up surgery, I see. Might drive me square from business.

He turned the thumb.

A scar of great bravery, the doctor said. What do you charge?

Mat shook his head helplessly.

Well, it always happens, cut like that.

Orcutt dropped the hand. The arm fell muscleless.

A sledge ain't a very thoughtful knife. The next time you get stung like that you see me right straight off and maybe you won't grow up such a swelling.

I hit him accidental, Mat exclaimed.

All round you're mighty lucky, mister, Orcutt said.

Then he asked Hatstat how the fishing was.

Rotten, Hatstat said.

Always is, this time of year, the doctor said.

They should be up.

Ah, George, they never is, you want them to. Ain't that right, Brackett?

It isn't cool enough, said Tott.

Mat rattled through his tools.

It was stifling in the shop, and fiercely hot by the forge.

Well he's a friendly sort, Clark is, said Doctor Orcutt, spitting. Not much account. I won't collect. But friendly. His wife is taking on about the boy but Clark is calm, I will say that. He's calm. How's your infection, Henry? It all gone? Ain't you out a little early like a winter robin?

It's been weeks, Henry mumbled, backing deeply in the shop.

Home remedy — by god, it's killed an awful lot, Henry. Could have lost that arm, you know. Fix your horseshoe game permanent. Does Brackett play?

We won't let him, said Israbestis Tott.

Too bad, I'd like to see that.

Juice oozed from the doctor's mouth. He spat a running stain.

Everyone fell silent.

The child of Decius Clark is very bad, said Doctor Orcutt once again, but Decius is a friendly sort, and calm.

… Then there was Israbestis Tott entertaining him with tunes: jigs, trots, polkas — Henry thought his mind would break. Then there was Matthew Watson, who sat by his bedside with his huge hands in his lap like a pair of frogs; there were endless files of whispering women; there was Jethro Furber in the costume of a witch, threatening the divine with spells; there was Lucy, lovely as a treetop in the door's grain, Furber as a drape, Mat a lamp, Tott a shriek, Furber both frogs, Orcutt their leaps…

A hen's first egg is always female.

Orcutt burned his spit.

Mares who've seen the stallion late have colts. Scientific fact.

Luther Hawkins tested the blade of his knife with his thumb, then sighted along it and winked at the tip.

Ain't it the month, he said. The women get the odd ones.

Orcutt shook his head.

All thought a while in silence. The iron was a pale rose.

I read a Swiss professor… hell… what was his name?… Thury. That's it, Thury. He says the same Danielson — downstate — has tried it. Works with cows. Works fine. Fact.

Orcutt showed his teeth.

But I couldn't say, you move the problem on from cows to ladies.

Henry giggled against his will.

It's out of my experience, Watson said, and George Hatstat laughed like a whistling train.

Orcutt hitched about and peered at Henry through the dark.

How's Lucy these days, Henry? Bearing up?

Watson put tongs on the iron.

Orcutt rolled his chew. His lips gleamed.

She ought to get out more.

Wars, Watson said.

He began hammering.

Wars, he shouted, more boys… replace dead ones.

Sparks flew in arcs and showers to the floor.

Doctor Orcutt wiped his mouth and stared at Henry through the rain of sparks.

The bar — reluctant — bent.

The doctor leaned back, tilting his chair. He gazed solemnly at the ceiling where a spider dropped itself by jerks from a beam.

Omensetter threaded a needle.

There was a lull in the hammering through which Henry's ears sang.

In passing, Lloyd Cate waved.

Each man looked morose and thoughtful.

Tott patted his pockets, hunting his harmonica.

Finally Orcutt said: lucky to be alive by god — in a low but outraged voice.

The hammering began again. The cool iron jumped.

Luther Hawkins moved the blade of his knife with caution, rolling back a sliver like a piece of skin. Hatstat followed him intently, while Omensetter stabbed a piece of leather with his needle.

Orcutt straightened; spat heavily at the dropping spider. The spit bore it off. At this the doctor slapped his knee and stood.

Authorities I've read… honest scientific minds, remember, gentlemen… claim males are made in special weather.. ethey result from special postures… or depend upon the testicle that's emptied. Honest scientific minds. It's quite a problem for them. Some screw for science only in the afternoon, while others keep their faith with evening — here Orcutt chuckled-it's a matter of light, I understand, but which makes which I can't remember.

He hefted his bag.

You rest easy Henry, hey? No lifting. No climbing. No spading. That sort of thing.

Beneath his beard, Orcutt loosened his collar.