William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

Tell me, Mr. Rush, in that uncustomary country, are you comfortable by this time? A child, for all his fright at first, grows used to life too, swells to a fondness even, and sucks on its sweets till they loosen his jaws. Or do you worry whether your bones will be up to the next leap when it will be the end of you again, poor thing… oh well, the water will take you on, or the fire, though there'll be new responsibilities as always, new risings required, you'll never escape those —but weren't you one, when you lived on air, who badgered the body about spirit? Ghosting's what we've always called for. Be above yourself, that's what we've urged — Pike, you and I — the hanker for the other side. We've no reason to complain, then, if our crotch is cracked by a hurdle. But I wonder — you might know now — is it a lie? What ease instead to melt into the body's arms and be one's own sweet concubine. And Omensetter? Is he, in his fashion, like us? Is it cruel to tease stones so? What's your view now you've splashed under? Whatever he gives them, it lasts only a moment. There's no help for it, they have to come down to a stone's end.

Furber's heels registered loudly on his walk. Not too quick, he moved with the sun; he threw his shadow like the gnomon, his absence warming, his presence cooling, the face of his clock.

Name his name, the missing fellow, so they said, sick so long, who ran from his wife, well almost certainly, hardly surprising, who could stand her? after all these years not to remember, tongue tipped, yet… who could stand her? though she had a strange body under those clothes, breasts with buttons, he imagined, stranger soul; it was Henry… Henry… and she was. . she was. . an effect like fallen slag… she was… there was no such thing as flaccid stone or she'd seem made of it… she was… no connection to Kinsman, with the crumpled knee and the dainty limp, why do they escape me? oh she's strange, strange, who could stand her? the way her teeth snap, like a toy lock, well that's what he had, a stone jaw, he — Pimber! — and she went to pieces just as though she loved him the night he passed through the valley of the shadow scared to death, that juice-spewing doctor perched beside him like a night-shitting bird, and the god-calling going great guns beneath him, as the Reverend Jethro Furber — ah, 'twas I, in my grave-colored clothing, long a small dear friend of the nearly departed-name his name — in low-pitched swallowy prayers beseeched our gentle God to spare, oh spare, and pled with Him to save, oh save. His Henry, our humbly cherished, that he not be let to cross the limit of the living yet or that he cross quite painlessly if that were the wish of his Father or that he find some comfort among the dead, and merciful rewards, and rest.. from his wife, one thought, for who could stand her? it would have been no bother to his bones if he had died, they were stiff in their joints already, while through his skin his skull was glowing, nearly safe his teeth were smiling, for he no longer had to stand her, or stand anything, sloughing his sensitive parts; and these, these prayers and these petitions, pathetically strung like beads of kisses round the forehead of a feverish child, our feverish child, he had at a critical moment, as though divinely breathed on, in confidential whispers, touchingly described him — I, that is, the Reverend Jethro Furber, he, the sweetly speaking, oh the charlatan melodious… name it, name it, name her name… just fake, just liar — sprung tears from the eyes of: who first were they? Mrs. Curtis Chamlay, Mrs. George Hatstat, and Mrs. Olus Knox, which were a match for the beads… chatoyant… like Christ's eyes… my soul's eyes… and from Mrs. Hesiod Harmon, too, in for the weekend from Bridge, who kept her heart enclosed in heelskin normally, while residing with the Luther Hawkins family still at home, also from Miss Millicent Andrew and Miss Grace Cate and Mrs. Quentin Martin only moved to town a month yet socially as well ancestored as anyone in Gilean, and her daughter Eliza, lovely as lilac, whose hand she held, then Mrs. Emory Root with Lutie on the Sheraton settee, freshly reupholstered in beige wool rep by Mrs. Pimber working evenings till her eyes were sore, and further Mr. and Mrs. Claude Spink, as well as Edna Hoxie, fly that death drew, and Mr. Israbestis Tott, of course, who won the weeping; while later, as the night wore on and the watchmen wearied, ginger cookies Mrs. Chamlay had baked were served with coffee by Miss Samantha Tott, serious throughout and, Furber thought, severe; well there was some sense there, the mumbo jumbo didn't stir her, unless it was the stain of the beets, for it wasn't Henry's life that was the thought of the house but the bandaged hands the doctor wouldn't touch, the red pulse underneath, and the superstition that would catch it if he died, if Orcutt's didn't, since death meant the triumph of the clergy's, they were the masters of the resting places-and she was… that other was… she was… full, smooth, glistening, white… while life meant, in this case… Omensetter's luck… and it would be just like the Lord to raise up Henry in the circle of the beet's spell… name her, name her, name her name… while additional refreshments were offered Misters Knox, Stitt, Hatstat, Mossteller, and Chamlay, who popped in and out looking grave, smelling of spirits and rubbing their faces, for who could stand her? no wonder Henry was going away, the lucky devil; and Furber felt his prayers smoke up to the god of the witches: death is better for you, Henry, better for me too, of course, better for Gilean; defeat him, fight him for us all, wrestle him down like Jacob the angel, perhaps Omensetter will receive the blame, that's worth dying for, Christ's cause; listen, you can't stand her anyway, just think, no more nights and days; listen to me, your spiritual adviser, no more living, what a prize! look, ask Rush or Meldon… Pike, yes, ask Pike, he'll speak, he will advise, he's stone himself now, and knows what it means to have relief from feeling… Henry? remember! it's Omensetter otherwise… then the dark hollows of his eyes and the woolly eyebrows were menacing, his smile was menacing, the pillow glowing in the pale light was menacing, and Furber heard the whistling of witches or the god of the witches, was it wind through Henry's teeth? but he kept on bravely closing in, his hands sanctimoniously clasped, lips shaping words of love and life and light and Lord — but crying die, shouting die through his whole inside, lungs echoing, liver ringing, belly thundering, die, it's best you die… but it was as if Henry's body had sunk beneath him, or his bones had risen, for only the bones were showing, luminously shining, ghost lit, and Furber fell back, frightened terribly… out of the body, then, as out of a cave covered with stones, He rose alive, a net of thongs and wires His nature now, imperishable, a God… and leaving the room to Watson and the watching to Watson, he flew below stairs… our feverish child, he said, to ooze the tears… and name the liar … liar … name the liar … loudly… listen… Lucy… it's Lucy… looo… seee… look… how fat she is and unattractive, her dress hiked above her knee to cross a log, and where am I all this time, where's the watchman? he's waiting God's cruel sign like a weasel in the woods. . oh I leave nothing moving though I breathe with difficulty, my chest heaves… I've scratched my hands and ankles, haven't I? lying behind those young elderberries and these knuckles of granite. . Henry, if you'd seen. . she was. . she was. . who'd believe me? I'm the perjuring preacher, only my lies have their ears, yet to touch… just to. . I tell you I saw them bathing in the creek like two cows… indescribably smooth and full and shining. . not a pig's bladder, not a stone the sun's bleached… you'd have run away to have a sight of her… she snapped in my face like a twig. not like a mushroom, either, even fresh and perfectly puffed… her son inside her… who'd believe me? that she was…