William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

Jacks?

He faced toward Watson to demand an answer, but his man was deep in bewilderment now.

Mat made a vague gesture, showing his teeth. Phosphorescent, they lit his lower lip.

Furber was back on both feet. This seemed to reassure Watson, who steadied, so Furber began hopping again.

Since O-men-set-ter… more-of-them… wouldn't-you-say? he said among bounds.

Camel and kangaroo. You could be sewn in the pouch. To take to the air. The day had seemed so clear there'd been nothing to swim in. Now shadows crisscrossed it like the bodies of divers, and those other bright blue days returned to him, clamoring. He stumbled. Mat leaned forward, saying something Furber couldn't understand.

My name is Philly Kinsman.

I am a famous bandsman.

You ladies may have heard of me.

I can hold a note

just like a rope

that's hanging from a balcony.

Stooping, Furber dropped an imaginary ball, and with remarkable reality swept his hand down for the jacks.

Creep away, sneak away, leak away — hide.

There are animals hunting in Furber's inside.

You know, Mat, he said, delighted with his performance, when I was a kid I was never permitted to play with other children. The truth is, the others kept me out.

He smiled: there were no hard feelings.

But I watched them — how I watched them-hour after hour: running, jumping, skipping, swinging, dancing, yelling, hopping, singing… Did you like playing house? Never? School? No? Ships and sailors? I'm surprised. I certainly wanted to — with all my heart. So then I'd imitate them, go through the motions I saw, pretend I was outside running with them, shouting with them, running and shouting and dancing about like one of them, no differently made. Well. The Olden Days. They shouldn't occupy us now. Actually, I played caves and craters. And have there been more, would you say, since Omensetter came? He's such a hand with kites.

Mat struggled with his words. He slapped his thighs.

I suppose. Maybe, he said.

Good. We are agreed at last. I knew we would.

What? What? Agreed about what?

Furber smiled.

Agreed, that's all, he said. Agreed.

My harp is highly rated,

and my flute is celebrated,

as for my drum, it's equal fun,

however it's berated…

Furber moved to Omensetter's bench and began inspecting it.

My lips are highly rated,

and my fingers celebrated,

as for my tongue, it's equal fun,

however it's rotated…

Tannin, he said, makes him seem brown. From oak bark, isn't it? Gall nuts. Well, an illusion. He'll be yellowish, by and by. I've heard it enters poisonously through the fingers.

My balls are quite inflated,

and my ass hole's lubricated,

wherever it's located…

as for my prick, it's just as thick,

He shifted a knife.

Don't—

Disturb. No.

Yes, my name is Philly Kinsman,

and I am that famous bandsman,

but silent now my symphony,

My fife, my horn, my timpani;

He held up a length of leather.

they've played their last

for any lass

excepting

present

company.

Breasting the feculent flood…

What I want to know, in strictest confidence, Furber said, is have you seen him strangely any time?

He moved a rule.

Have you seen him strangely?

He crossed abruptly to the forge.

Catch your death of cold… day like this, he muttered. Now have you seen him strangely any time?

Oh my god… well, honestly, Jethro—

Have you seen him strangely is what I asked: burning piles of tiny twigs and new — pulled grasses, say, or singing to himself in numbers, one two seven four or so, back and forth, six or nine, or crooning, you might call it, to some object — rock, a branch, a swatch of cloth — or doing things by evens or by odds, walking in a circle or avoiding certain sights, like that of a goose, a cracked glass, or an empty bowl?

gir-affe!

Furber went on slowly, shyly almost, wagging the meaning of his words away, smiling them off, while his eyes searched along the rafters and the point of his shoe dug at the floor.

You mean that kind of sign, Mat said. My god—

Well you might invoke Him, Matthew.

Sweet christ—

Yes. That would be wise. He too. Sweet.

I thought by signs you meant just how he knew the baby'd be a boy.

How did he know? It's a question that will do. How?

Furber floated to tiptoe, his face alight.

cam-el! kang-a-roo!

I don't know. I mean — how should I know? He guessed. How should I know? He wanted a boy bad. You know how that is. Why ask me? He was lucky, that's all. Omensetter's luck.

Mat made to move outside but Furber didn't stir. He held his hands above the furnace and the faint light lathered his cheeks. Your answer isn't good enough, his posture said, while his eyes and lips said it was everything, and confirmed his fears.

Luck. Is that really your opinion: luck?

The silence of the street was intimidating.

hip-po! cam-el! kang-a-roo!

The buildings were of paper. Now against a bench, Mat stood propped. Damn the fat dackering dunce. Again Furber brought his hands, like boards, together.

hiiii-eeeee-naaa!

Does he make swirls in his hair with his fingers? Does he pull at his ear? Does he turn his head from reflections? Is he frightened of gnats?

Poison was once placed in the glass of a saintly priest, but as the priest blessed the meal, intoning latinly the name of the Father, the glass shattered and the poison flew up like a rainbow. No prot gawd could pull that off — never fear. Rome has a first-rate finagler…

baa-boon! monn-goose! gazz-elle!

The questions went on, Furber in the same position as before, the same expression on his face, though now he had a terrible desire to laugh, to shout gir-affe, and then such a sweating fear of doing so that the noise turned in his throat like a mouse he might have suddenly confronted on the stairs. It was proving too easy, too damnably easy. Mat might remain in everybody's eye the permanent and same Good Watson but his soul was sinking through the mire of their filthy private conversation toward the central ice.

lynx!

There's no longer any power in those legs and arms or he would throw me out, Furber thought. He's in to his knees already.

horse loris

civet seal

And the Reverend Jethro Furber, guide for the tour, master of the steeple, spokesman for the dead (they have an eye in me, he'd often said), was going too. Would the ground groan like a rotten plank and send him straight to hell? Or would he go down slowly (bitter foolish image) like a proud ship?

ox fox lynx

pig lion jackal

ass giraffe

gir-affe!

His soul scaly… furfuraceous scalp…

To regain possession of himself, Furber began moving violently about, flapping his arms.

Everything above us… love us. Bat.

Mat was bending over, coughing.

That painted paper body — coughing. Frog in your throat? a mouse in mine.

What in the world, was all Mat finally said — something like that.

Yes, yes, you might well say so, Furber said, darting up to him. So I say myself. You may laugh, but so I say myself. You see I emphasize the idiotic in it all, the superstitious — the insane, you could call it if you liked. Go that far. Observe that I don't avoid it. I emphasize it. I insist on it.

Mat nodded heavily.

Scalps at his belt by the dangling dozens … furry midriff… a kind of pubicle possession, Pike… soul straps… ghost clouts…

Yet this is the substance of their fears.

Mat mumbling nonnys… Go on — chew your knarry knuckle up.

ass asp, fox!

Quite so. No doubt. But have you seen anything unusual, anything to give them rise, some yeast?