William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

And this is the garden. Constraint in her voice, a certain thickness, harshness, was it scorn? She wouldn't let the little colored man help her and now she struggled with the latch, pushing at the door with her bony shoulder. She knew Gilean society for what it was. You couldn't be much if you were sent to such a place, especially if you were no longer young. She was right. It was only too clear he'd been banished. The door yielded suddenly and she staggered through it with an embarrassed cry. In the church it had been pleasantly cool and dark, even his room had seemed restful, but the light in the garden was painful; the air was hot and smelled of dust. They had fastened walls of stone to a wooden box. This is your suite, she had said disdainfully. The church itself had a certain crude charm; he wouldn't mind it. What was it called — Pike's Peak? She was saying that Reverend Rush had little interest in gardening. There was a smudge on her arm now and if she would only move a bit he might edge by. The Chamlay woman had referred to Mister Rush, over and over, very determinedly. Quite correct, of course, but in the sticks they ought to say "Reverend." He was always so busy, poor man, so busy, even in his last days… Professionally sad face. Then sour, hard Mrs. Pimber, with a twitch. Pretty once. A distrubing woman, somehow. Was it the way she walked or the stretch of her lips? Mumbling, mumbling, the Flack fellow shuffling — what sort was he? She'd just begun mumbling. Yes, her mumbling was new. Self-conscious? She had a permanent stoop; walked with slightly bent knees; crick in her neck. Her brother was nothing like her size though he had her lumpy nose. God if he wasn't a fatuous ass. That joke at luncheon about putting him out to pastorage. What was she saying?… you can see. He stared grimly at the garden."… when the dew was still on the row-zezz …" We can't afford to pay someone to keep it up, though Flack does dig about in it from time to time, don't you Flack? Yes ma'am, now and then. She was a little belligerent about the money, he thought; she was warning him maybe; and to the darkie she was threatening. Yes. He was complaining he was old. No one had thought to donate the labor, of course; that's how things were done in the church, for christ's sake, didn't they know? That rear pew's got a little rickety, Mr. Knox. Chuckle. I'm afraid it'll collapse in the middle of the offertory music. Touch his shoulder. Please, not a rheumatic complainer, anything else; a liar, a peeper, a thief. At lunch, who seemed interested in money? Mrs. Pimber? Mrs. Pimber. Important to know. They were suspicious of him, he could see, held his fork properly for one thing. Stingy farmers, stinking of cows. Oh it would be dreary here — a wilderness, a desert. Well St. Jerome had thrived in one… and drawn the women to him. The walk was overgrown with creepers and covered with dry green leaves. It would have to be relayed. There was a sundial but the gnomon was missing. A pagan object, he said, pointing. She smiled. Endless mouth. He wondered if the children teased her much as a girl. Not so long ago really. A maidenhead like a bass drum. They might have called her Bones. There's quite a lot… of Samantha Tott. Oat weed. Jimson. Nettle. The trail of a garter snake in the dust, or a rope. Crabgrass and dandelion. At least there was a wall. Plantain. Ah Miss Tott, you're lagging. This might be difficult for her, after all. Here was St. Francis as a bird bath, missing an arm, with a dented nose. St. Francis, for christ's sake-in this Protestant yard. Watch the thorns, he said, you'll snag your dress. He'd bet a rhino couldn't puncture it. An improperly cut stump next. Couldn't they do anything right? He dug into it with his toe. Alive with ants. Wasn't a muscle jumping at the hinge of her jaw? How her brother did jabber — lazy looking young fool. Pike's Peak. And that Lutheran language. He was the one. Perhaps the pastor would appreciate another cup? Pastor has a lump of gas as large as a penny balloon lodged in his lower intestine. He would like to fart but he doesn't dare to. Cowardly pastor. That Chamlay woman had unfriendly eyes, and Mrs. Knox, Rosa was it? didn't keep her bust up. He'd wade over there. In the corner bronze chrysanthemums were blooming. The unseasonable heat had made them ratty. Nearby there were patches of bare ground thickly layered with dust. He chuckled. This is where you put them when they're all used up? That was cruel. Is this Mister Rush, he said, looking down. She was coloring. The blood's up for Mister Rush. Rest his soul. If he'd worn a hat — what a chance. Anyway he bowed his head. Bad form, no hat. Some sort of symbol. The dead ground in Gilean didn't look like this. This was a pauper's pocket. He had half a mind to say so. There was a hankie in her hand he hadn't seen. Up her sleeve? The dust. Dab at her nose. Made of putty. Samantha Totty… grew her nose… in her potty… like a rose. He indicated the flowers. In his honor? That was cruel too. Did he have his hat on when they slid him under? The weeds do get about, don't they? Oh me oh my I'd like to cry and wash the evil from my eye. You'd never guess that all of this was dug in June. Or did he die in July? Last through the fourth? Miracle of growth. Lid twitch. Dust again. Talking through her hankie. Not very proud… discouraging … lack of action… years of service… loved him though… a fine inscription on the stone… You might point out that the church never moved him up. Left him to rot in this hole in Ohio. What was his weakness? Little girls with creamy underclothes? It was a tradition to be hung here despite the churchly laws. Forever for their sins. Gilean. End of the line. Get off. The Negro man was blowing his nose. He did it delicately and Furber was surprised. She did have good brown eyes. But wore a bracelet. The others are over there? and there? I suppose we might as well go.".. the son of God dis-cloh-oh-zezz …" That damn tune was haunting him. "Oh He walked with me, and He talked with me, and He told me I was His oh-n-ne…" Out that gate? No?

Two years of living in this garden like a toad. They didn't weed it for me, or clip the hedges, or mow, or reset the walk. I failed at that too. Didn't I touch OK's shoulder nicely, pitty-pat the back of C. Chamlay? Whose knee did I fail to squeeze? And now The Noisy One. Futile… futile. They're no longer listening. The breeze seems gentler where he walks. Where he stands the sun seems warmer. The ground grows easy for his feet. Useless for me… hopeless.

Furber had recognized, almost at once, the drunken spirit of the man, so Indian-skinned and wild. The knowledge had run through him like a fire. It had been raining again, and blowing. He'd darted into Watson's shop, shutting his umbrella. Behind it a man like a range of hills. But he'd been greeted simply with a smile. Mat had said: Mister Furber, this is Backett Omensetter, just come on to here from Windham. Backett, Mister Furber preaches in our church. Both of Omensetter's hands had reached for his, enclosing it warmly. His own had seemed terribly pale and damp, wrongly inside of the other's, like a worm in fruit. He'd withdrawn it in panic, and pleading urgent business, he had fled. He'd strode about the church in sodden coat and trousers, gesturing with his umbrella. Oh this is no ordinary magician! Then anger and chagrin had overwhelmed him. Mister Furber preaches in our church. He had beaten his fists against the wall until he felt he'd broken them. Mister Furber preaches in our church. When they ached he shouted at them: well, well, do you enjoy this? what have you both deserved?

If I played the banjo… How's the fishing Olus? oats nicely? hay? ain't it hot though, ain't it rainy, ain't it cold? The wife? thin whiny Marjorie for instance? sour Susan? Pat the fat? curdled Carol? bitch Clariss? Has Constance come into her awfuls yet? and it don't scare her? god it did mine — put the terror to her. How's your old bald ma, Willie Amsterdam? And that indian she's got living with her? Boylee, your balls has gone soft, that's all. Borers? hoppers? rust? Ever try tobacco? — way up here? shit, Ames, you're in for a surprise. Pork's a poor price again. Well screw those dirty assed pigs. A hog's as mean as hell, boy. I mean it. They don't come any meaner. A mean hog's real mean, all right. That's no lie, let me tell you. Mean. Yeeee. And hailstones as big as your fist a-slamming into the ground whop. Yar? Judas the Profiting Priest. Here's Al. That dog's got a tongue on her, don't care what she licks. Kekekekekekekeke … Oh Lord we pray you not to forget your good servants here in Gilean. They're good faithful servants, Lord. I've been here all the time, watching, watching, watching, like a toad in the high grass… God oh merciful God… and they're good faithful servants, you bet they are, and they need rain, they need rain bad. Preachers is just people, ain't that right Curtis? Catholics are cannibals — they eat their own. Babies-god, boy, do they have babies. Say, how they hanging? Like Judas Priest. Here's Luke. It's damn good manure, I'll say that. Best shit in the world. Get any geese? Connie's got a bloody bunny; she'll not lay for love or money; Patrick thinks that's awful funny; he has neither dough nor dummy. Rum a dum dum, rum a dum. Say Luther, how come you to break that wagon's wheel? ran over a stone, Turner, why? you ran over a stone, Luther? didn't you see it? naw, Turner, naw, the kid had it hid in his fist. Rum a dum dum, rum a dum. Pastor astor faster faster, has a cock he cannot master, crows so loud he always haster, pastor astor faster faster. Rum a dum dum, rum a dum. The god damn government. Listen he could hit a man harder than anybody I ever seen, even if he was a nigger. Whop. I mean really. Blam. Heemeny heemeny ho ho ho, I took my wife to the carnival show. What did she see there, heemeny hee? She saw a cunt on a male monkey. What did she think of it, heemeny ho? Well what she thought of it, I don't know, since she's left me for the carnival show. Rum a dum dum, rum a dum. What's your flavor? I love orange. Only thing keeps me sober is you can't pitch horseshoes drunk. Chamlay can. Alfalfa? barley? timothy? rye? Sing us another song soon, sing-a-ling, sing us another song soon. Flax corn clover. The god damn government. Ding dong bell, pussy's not so well. Billy Butter has a lover, whom he's taken to the clover; roll me over, Billy Butter, and I'll leave my home and mother. How they hanging? Like Absalom — by the hairs. I love cher-rie. Here's Fred. If you think grasshoppers is bad in Ohio… Say, what fun do monks have, Lloyd? Why I don't know, Boylee, what fun do monks have? Nun, Lloyd, nun. Whoo-oo-ee. The little ones, the little green ones, when they move through the grass you'd think it was raining. Wheat's wet. That's an I think about. Wheat. I sleep awful. I love lickerass. Well say now Boylee, what fun do nuns have? Gol-lee, I don't know, Lloyd, what fun do nuns have? Nun, Boylee, nun. Whoo-ooee. Off Sandy Point there's a hole in the shape of a horse's collar and they're all in there, the hundreds of them, and some days you can see them, golden, lying in quiet bunches like pieces of sun. Do you know Mable Fox? All the same I've heard them convent cemeteries is full of bastards. No lie? They use hairpins. Never wash. Cannibals. Knew a cat did that — ate her own. Naw? Billy Butter has a lover; without no hands he lies above her, fucking lightly as a plover, first his sister, then her mother. Here's Ben. There ain't no law in the Redeemer's church against a good fuck, is there Furber? Why of course not, Luther, only it's got to be your wife, and beyond five inches it's a sin to enjoy it. By christ you're a good sport, Furb. By christ you are. Pat. Hey boys, ain't Furb a good sport? Squeeze. By christ. You can play at our picnic. Rum a dum. Rum a dum. Rum a dum dum.