William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

On the way they'd scarcely spoken. Chamlay had wanted Olus Knox to accompany him, but Olus showed no heart for it, and Furber, happening by chance to pass, had come along instead. Chamlay was in a rage. He now suggested that the moment wasn't right; that he'd return another time; but silence received him, and as they shifted in the room they failed to draw an eye. Then Chamlay began to question her in a voice that was soft and deferential. Furber moved in front of the girls, smiling still, about to speak, while their mother rocked on cautiously. The girls' lips were pale and parted slightly over clenched teeth. Furber faltered, then went around them and behind their mother to peer into the hall. Chamlay put his questions again. She didn't know where he'd gone, she said. She didn't know when he would return. Chamlay and Furber drifted protectively together, holding to the brims of their hats. She changed breasts without concern, slowly covering the emptied one, which was surfaced with gooseflesh like a lake in a shower. The older girl, Furber noticed, had an elbow chafed.

You may stay if you like. I don't know how long he'll be. If you decide to, they'll get chairs.

Chamlay's gesture of regret went unobserved.

You don't know why, he said.

She blew on the baby's hair and rubbed his scalp with a moistened finger, settling herself a little, twitching her shoulders. The infant's red cheeks worked. Furber touched Chamlay's sleeve and motioned to the door. She carefully kneaded her breast.

He feels he's got to find Henry.

They moved uncertainly as she looked up.

Chairs, she said.

The girls rose, but both men put out their arms. No, they said.

The girls' hands were clasped, their gazes steady, their mouths exactly carved. Furber chewed his cheek. The baby loudly smacked his lips and the nipple escaped, standing out long and wet.

Why try, she said, what difference will it make? what good?

Amos fought to find the nipple, puffing, about to cry. Chamlay's face was brightly flushed. He held his hand demurely across his badge and Furber failed to catch his eye.

There's Lucy, for one thing, Chamlay said.

The nipple skidded over the baby's cheek. It caught in the corner of his mouth and then sank in, leaving a trail of milk.

Mother, the older daughter whispered, startling the men.

He means Missus Pimber, her mother said.

Well, there's that then, Chamlay said.

Dead, she said, what good?

She rocked more rapidly.

What's any body good for, emptied out?

The law, you understand, has an interest, said Chamlay firmly.

Less use than a barrel, its bottom stove in, she said.

Chamlay shook his head.

You misunderstand. There may have been some violation in his death.

He paused.

Absence, I should have said — disappearance.

He can't be punished now for that, she said, he's dead.

How is it you're so sure, Chamlay said urgently, and her head snapped.

Don't play the fool.

Chamlay cleared his throat while Furber went to the door and put his hand on the knob. The daughters, standing yet, fixed Chamlay and their mother with an intense blank stare like the stare of plaster statuary.

We don't want to get caught in this snow, Furber said.

It was the well, I think, she said in a moment, returning her attention to her son. It was that simple circle in the ground. He sure acted queer about it.

Furber came forward and tugged at Chamlay's shoulder.

We never did him any harm I know of, and when he had the lockjaw, he lived for Brackett's sake, it seemed to me.

She thought a bit.

Then — she shrugged — he killed himself.

She stopped rocking and looked over her shoulder down the hall.

I thought I heard Arthur but it must have been another dog. . He killed himself. It's hard to believe. What harm had we done him? Living in this house? Do you know?

The baby belched and she patted his back, rocking once more.

Not Arthur I guess. Hours he's been out there at it and what harm had we done him? And to die as he must have, don't you think? in the leaves and all that wind, cold and away from every friend and everything he loved. How could he do it?… Are you the sheriff? I didn't know we had one… Arthur's bark is harsher… And what harm? to anyone? I can't believe it. It runs right over, it runs right over me. I can't stand crawling things, can you? Well it just comes over me like that. Terrible.

She shivered.

You want to wash things like that out of your clothes, off your body — rub them away… It turns you cold… Well, it's terrible to live, for some, I guess.

She let some spit to her finger and began carefully scrubbing behind the baby's ear.

How does it feel, Amos, she said, chuckling, is it good to suck a soft teat?

She looked up at Chamlay.

He has a powerful draw.

She blew gently on the baby's head.

Well we've all forgotten, I guess… big as we've got… old. Amos — he just wants to sleep and eat. Henry's in the woods somewhere, somewhere in a field, or rump up under water, maybe, someplace. Amos — the mister says we'll call you Amos. Why, do you suppose?

She laughed.

Mother, the older daughter said, mother, please.

She slowly subsided.

You little muffin, she said, nuzzling him. Then her face was smooth and worn and white again.

The fox died better, she said. I've seen a spoiling mouse that still had dignity — but men…

That fox now, Chamlay said. It was funny about that fox. Strange, I mean. You were going to let him starve down there, I hear. Why? What was the point of that? Any fun in it?

Come on, Curtis, Furber said, she doesn't know anything.

After a while, you know, it might have begun to whine and whimper.

You're thinking of a dog, she said. A fox dies quiet.

Well what was so funny about it? That gets me. What was so funny? And now you shrug. Well it's easy for you to shrug, I suppose — what with Omensetter's luck.

Oh we've never had much luck.

Chamlay cackled brutally.

How do you think Lucy Pimber feels — her husband gone, lost, no one knows where — sitting at home while we walk through the woods looking for him — and in places where no living man should be?

She smiled.

When I was twelve I had a rabbit for a whole day.

Mother.

Is he worth all this fuss and march about?

For heaven's sake, he's a human being. He's got more feeling than a fox. You ought to be able to see that.

How hard did you hunt for him when he was still alive?

Chamlay swore and turned away.

The baby's head fell from its breast, curd on its lips, eyes closed.

Open the door for these men, she said.

Chamlay and Furber filed out, immediately putting their hats on their heads and drawing deep shuddering breaths. The door shut behind them with Amos coughing.

The air had a nip now though the snow had ceased and flakes were melting on the ground. The sky seemed, if possible, even nearer. Through the bare trees they could see the calm Ohio. Chamlay stood some moments in the yard, Furber quietly beside him until he took to shivering. Then they rode off. Now and then a crisp breeze felt its way through the woods from the river. They left the path and had gone a little on the road when Chamlay sighed. His face had cooled and the determination of his body eased. He spoke out of deep thought, as though alone. Did you ever see, he began, breaking his question suddenly as Furber turned to study him. No, Furber finally answered when he thought he understood, I never did; though he lied, since he knew one other time he had.

When Omensetter shook the door with pounding, the Reverend Furber shouted no, and drove his fists together. It was six in the evening, he was in his nightshirt yet, his voice was hoarse, and his eyes were badly puffed. All day he'd thrashed about and wept and yelled at Pike. Now he sat in the dark, mooning dimly, cursing his tears and knotting his bedclothes. The room was cold. The coals in the grate had thick covers of ash, and moisture had frozen on the windows. He'd risen early, in the grip of a dream, and stumbled to the vestry where Flack had begun his sweeping. You've been telling people things about me, he'd said bluntly. The colored man had clung to his broom while Furber cruelly accused him. You know all about me. You've given me away. Moments later, Furber had tried to drown himself in a basin. Of course it was an act, another futile gesture, and he'd flung the basin the length of the hall — carrying it carefully from his room first, so as not to wet his belongings. Back on his bed he hammered the wall, wailing and weeping. It was true that the day had passed quite quickly, yet he didn't think he'd snoozed. He'd been in a genuine delirium, then, and he took some comfort from the momentousness of that conclusion. Out he was hardly prepared for the pounding which suddenly assailed him — pounding not his own — from without, not within — repeated, thunderous, imperative. The lummox is here, he thought, and he drove his fists at one another so viciously his knuckles skinned.