William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

I must see you, Omensetter said.

Furber almost laughed.

There's no light, no fire. I'm sitting in the dark.

He needn't have answered. Omensetter had no way of knowing he was there — unless Flack had given him away again. He was immediately ashamed. Flack came by his color honestly. The little Ngero would never have betrayed him. It was inconceivable. He had cared for the church when Rush was its master, and he had suffered without complaint through its terrible plague-time under Furber the Furious, Jethro the Pretender, always serving loyally and with equal love, Furber felt certain, though each day, lately, he had seemed to shrink a little, and to go about his work still more invisibly. During all this time, Furber had actually learned nothing about him; he had never taken the slightest trouble for him or shown the least real interest. The fellow had remained a servant, a Negro, a mystery. And why shouldn't he be a mystery? No one is simple, he was about to say, yet how would he know? What had the watchman seen on his rounds? Surfaces. Scatters. He'd kept everything at a word's length, and it was words he saw when he saw her — tight, and white, and shining; it was words he felt when his anger burned him, when he shook and wailed and struck about wildly. Out of the world he could safely take just the ravelings: the color of the bruise on his toe, for instance, or the isolated croak of a frog which surprises the afternoon, or the vision of an intense green slope where a ball coasts under a wicket. Though mankind was his hobby — so he'd often said — he knew nothing of men. Negro seemed more properly the name of a patent medicine, just as mankind, despite his study, was only a compound joke to him. Furber ached, for a change, from the blow he had struck the friend of his church, but there was no help for it now, and he would not bandage either wound by begging for forgiveness. In one way Gilean was more punished than Egypt, he thought, since Egypt was never visited by a plague of lies.

I have to see you, Omensetter said.

What can I do now, Furber thought, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. I'm not all dressed, he said.

He was worn out, defeated. His head buzzed. His feelings were shredded, and he was shaking badly — out and in. He knew he must look a sight. The last few days he had grown increasingly careless. He had refused to shave. He had howled for Pike and got no answer. Incredulous, he had walked around his clock in the garden. Sunday would come soon. There'd be no sermon. He watched the snow whistle through the gate and sink in the Ohio. Since he was done for in Gilean— done for everywhere in that case — Furber wondered why Omensetter could not leave him alone.

What do you want?

I want to speak to you, but I can't shout through this door.

It's late.

I know it's late. There's time enough, though. It's important.

I haven't had my dinner.

Omensetter rattled the knob.

All his speeches… his beautiful barriers of words… He thrust a paper spill through the ashes and the room rolled in its flare. After these sounds, would the door come down? The bolt rattled at Omensetter's urging and Furber's hand shook. Wrinkles appeared in the wallpaper; the walls themselves seemed to waver; corners of the room crumpled; the ceiling swooped; there were bats on his pillow. It took a certain sort to undertake such banging — just the sort of loud muscling oaf he was. If he let him in… then there he'd be , filling the door, huge, breathing heavily, the edges of his fists red, lips wet, body rocking, every bit as real as — as what? the bats on his pillow? the chasm yawning by his bed? the hungry holes in the wall? As the lamp lit, the room grew; its objects steadied. Furber dropped a smoking fragment of paper. He gently mooed and blew upon his fingers. The comedy is finished. The floor was icy.

Coming — take it gently — coming, coming…

Hoo. Relief and fright at silence. To mortify the flesh, Furber heeled the ash, then sought his slippers. There was no harm done. He needed a nightcap to go with his nightgown. Then he thought he knew how he felt like someone facing execution.

Coming…

It was true. He was too exhausted to contain any greater emotion. A night's grief, a night's waiting, and now the warden with his keys. Furber's head ached. Yes, his eyes were surely swollen. Pale, the prisoner from his cot… The gray wet wall of the garden.. forlorn ivy… dripping trees… Then scorn for the hankie blinding. Lift fist forward — defiant to the last. Cry death to truth and long live liars.

Bangedy bang.

You were in bed.

Omensetter gave him a sheepish grin and slapped snow from his shoulders.

That's what I said.

Then it's good I pounded.

Omensetter's hair was in a desperate tangle. His face was pale from exhaustion and filthy from the woods. Furred with a week's beard, it was deeply creased and there were lines of windburn across the cheeks. His clothing was badly picked and burred, pulled out and twisted on him, and he struck at his body repeatedly with his hands.

Furber retreated to a chair.

I've found him, Omensetter said.

Have a seat, said Furber weakly.

Omensetter advanced, buffeting his ears. I've found him.

You've—

Right. Boy. Yes I have. Ever seen weather so bad so early?

Henry?

Right. Whew. I haven't been in — I haven't been in to work much — what with hunting him.

He's dead?

Sure.

The nightshirt rose a moment — sat. Now, with God's help, Furber would look at him, flat on, for he was all new; his face no longer suited him, nor did his hands. His nose was inappropriate, his words weren't right. There was that false hailfellow tone, the whapping and bashing… new. And Furber began to feel his bones gradually burning with shame.

I see, he said.

Ha ha. Yeah.

Omensetter pulled off his hat.

For Christ's sake, did he chew, Furber wondered. In a moment he would snap his suspenders.

Omensetter turned very slowly around in the room.

Then he…

In the woods.

There was a little red in the stubble of his beard, Furber noticed. He was wiping his mouth with a wool rag of hat.

You didn't bring him him in? — bring him back?

At this moment, Furber thought, Henry might be propped like a statue in the vestry the new-found saint and spirit of the woods.

Boy, you should see.

Omensetter looked dramatically at the ceiling.

I mean — holey oley — he's up high. In a tree. Way up there — a terrible climb.

Heavier in his chair, Furber tried to keep his head clear. Have a seat. He tried to imagine what would have to be gone through, but he could squeeze out only a little, it was too grim: the glints from Knox's glasses afflicted him, there were long sloping woodrows, smoked with frost, furry mittens ice had beaded, shouted curses and intemperate commands, squeaking tree boughs, looping veils of snow; yet even these paltry tatters were shameful — Hawkins whittling a wooden penis — for he was burning; his ears and cheeks were aflame from the past, since Omensetter seemed so different than he was, or otherwise than he had been, as he was altogether slow and sad and shy now, or embarrassed — rueful? worried? scared? god knew. "His watchmen are blind: they are all ignorant, they are all dumb dogs."

You mean he's still there, Furber said finally.

Sure. That's what he wanted. Besides—

But how in heaven—

He hung himself.

But — the question crept through Furber's fingers — why did he have to do it in such a silly — in such a circusy way?

Ha ha. Yeah. Why? Boy.

Omensetter began roaming around the room.

Aunt Janet had teetered, soul in her eyes — he could read. Through this damn back and woody shoulders — nothing… christ. "The invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen." Another lie.