William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

How long has Henry — been up there? Furber asked in a proper mourner's voice.

Omensetter hesitated.

I couldn't say. Some time. I'm not a real good judge.

He fiddled with the lamp, reducing the light.

Who have you told?

Nobody — not even Lucy.

She's still at the Hatstat's.

I mean I haven't been home. I came straight here.

Straight, straight, straight. The crooked, straight. He had to scratch his foot.

You wouldn't think anything so cold could itch, he said, apologizing, but Omensetter wasn't really aware of him. Beside the little table, rubbing the edge, he waited. They could forget the whole business, of course, and let Henry hang there — that would be easiest.

So you want me to break the news?

Furber sighed, restoring the slipper, and thought suddenly of Persepolis and rows of granite lions.

lt's my business, I guess, he said.

I hadn't thought about that.

You hadn't? Then in christ's name why did you pick on me? Not because I'm a preacher. Am I so close? convenient? friendly? Look — I'm not the by-your-side sort, you know that. For you, I'm neither person nor parson… Well was nobody home in the whole town so you were left with me? Too bad. I'm not home either. I've just gone out. The man you're talking to is Furber's ghost. And I'm not going to crawl up a tree to bump him down either, if that's what you expect — I'm not all that handy.

Look parson, don't you believe me? Omensetter made a gesture of entreaty. I did. Honestly—

Furber groaned with annoyance.

He's hanging from a limb.

From a limb like a leaf, I'm sure, Furber said, jumping up. That's poetry — sweet immortal poetry — it really is. The symbolic clown.

Omensetter rushed to the door. Calm and threatening by turns now, he was like a piece of weather in the room. The curtains seemed to lift a little as he passed.

Sorry, Furber said, promptly sitting. I keep forgetting you're a hero. Have a seat.

Furber carefully measured the air into fish lengths.

Gilean searched, but Omensetter found, he said. Am I correct?

I know I was wrong, Omensetter said, his hand on the knob, but I hadn't figured… well I was mistaken, I was wrong… Lucy said you wouldn't favor—

Favor? favor what?

Omensetter drifted from the door. Me.

You?

Yes.

You haven't been home.

No.

But you discussed it with Lucy.

No. We talked about it earlier. What I should do.

Then Jethro Furber wondered whether Omensetter wasn't an actor.

What do you keep in that?

What?

That.

This?

Yes.

Bibles, Furber said, still disconcerted — holy things.

A pretty picture.

My god, he's maneuvering, Furber thought.

We've one of St. Francis feeding squirrels.

I know.

Lucy said that you'd been out. With the sheriff.

Chamlay's no sheriff.

He has a badge.

Badge. That's a story.

He has some authority.

Furber let it pass. The gosh-boy business was gone. Omensetter was speaking calmly now, but with almost desperate intensity. And he was absolutely still. It was uncanny.

Well he's way in the woods and high in the air. No wonder they never saw him. Nobody'd think to look straight up.

You did.

No I didn't. It was luck. I just happened to. I got a crick in my neck and was working it out.

Omensetter clasped his hands behind his neck and began to roll his head about wildly.

And now his soul's where it serves him. I can't do anything. Furber was knitting his fingers. The whole thing was absurd. He trapped his tongue behind his teeth. Omensetter doesn't notice my puffy eyes. He doesn't notice anything. Long live the pretty speech. Have a seat.

Omensetter riffled a book.

You haven't seen how high he's hung himself. He picked a white oak. It's huge — a hard climb in the cold. I'd like to borrow this. I read sometimes, though not in the winter. The light isn't well for the eyes.

Furber made a low sound of disgust.

He's wearing that gray wool coat with the wide pockets he used to stuff duck shells in. He has his hands down them now, and he's hanging by the belt so his head tilts to the side some when he spins.

Does he seem well rested?

I couldn't tell.

Oh come on — jesus.

Omensetter stared at him.

He turns, you said.

He turns some.

You don't intend to leave him up there?

Ha ha. Boy. Have you got any books on birds?

You do, then.

Sure. But they won't leave him hanging when I've told them where he is and everything. I was a friend of Henry's, so you know — in a way I wish they would. He's up there, Mister Furber. Boy. I had a notion not to say a word and leave him be, but I guess I can't.

My feet are cold, Furber said firmly. We need a fire in woo. I'm cold all over. Somewhere there's a little scuttle—

They'll never find him without a dog, he's hung so high.

Sometimes it gets slid under this stool.

With the wind taking every scent, it took my Arthur time out of mind, plus my wise crick in the neck besides, although Arthur's got the finest kind of tracker's nose.

Sometimes it gets pushed into the corner there.

Maybe they'd have a little luck like mine with the Bencher hound. I don't know.

Or kicked under the bed. I've got a terrible bruise on my toe.

It's bad weather for it, the wind's in your eyes all the time. You know-a fit of pique.

I notice they've been slow to go to dogs — that Chamlay fellow doesn't like them. I just don't know.

Hog Bellman. They remind him, that's why. Say, I want to show you that toe. The nail's black.

Anyway, they'll never think to look so high. He's hung way up. River or field or floor of the woods is all in the world they'll think of.

Ah, here it is — would you think of that — back of this stack of books.

I'd just as soon keep shut.

Let me just poke this up a bit.

You read all them books?

Hum.

After a while, though, that belt will rot or the limb he's hanging from will break.

I thought as much.

I'm surprised he found a branch as high as that to hold him so far out — enough to be above another tree, a little hackberry it is, covered with those witches' brooms. Henry must have had a real desire to die there. I climb easy and that climb near finished me.

Its smoking some. Too bad I've no kindling. Mustn't put on too much. Maybe he farted and flew up.

Furber felt sorry for him. The forceful ends of Omensetter's fingers had left red lines on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched; he blinked; he examined his coat sleeve. Furber had cranked his head around. Now it turned back to the fire. He couldn't have done any better if he'd hit him with the poker.

When I first saw Henry I thought he was a great horned owl.

Damn this Pennsylvania coal.

Furber was squatting in front of the grate. Omensetter leaned down to touch his shoulder.

One day certain, if I leave him there, that bough or that belt will break and he'll come down through the hackberry, branch by branch, and be mostly in bones at the bottom. Who'll know then, for sure, he hung himself up there — beyond anybody else's doing?

In front of Furber: a landscape of coal and ash and faint smoke. You don't touch the minister. His nose needed blowing. What a godforsaken thing this was.

And you've chosen to tell me.

Yes, Omensetter said, I know I have your trust.

The imbecility of this remark was so immense that Furber found it impossible to respond to it. He shook his head and rose. The new coals would not ignite. He held the poker. Maybe he should.

Tell me — what's your idea? Why did Henry turn so strange?

He hung himself a way that suited him.

Oh stop it.

I couldn't safely come to anyone but you.