William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

What a thing to say to me — a man of God.

Omensetter looked at him strangely.

Where have you been, Furber said, now out of control. You're in the wrong farce.

You have to believe me. You know the trouble I'm in. I couldn't safety come to anyone but you. Finding Henry where I did was great luck, but Knox, you know, and Hatstat, and Chamlay—

Yes indeed, Knox, the Hatstats, and Chamlay, said Furber furiously, you're right; and Hawkins, Orcutt, Stitt, and Fyle — not out of jealousy, if you're thinking that- Tott even, Lemon Hank, my Flack and Edna Hoxie, all the wives and Splendid Turner, Cate and Bencher, Alfred Candle, that fool Jess Ivry, oh and Mossteller, the dutchman Blenker, Amsterdam, that Scanlon woman, Mat Watson too—

Not Mat.

Not Mat? Oh, you — you fool.

Please.

Please? You ask a please of me?

Furber whistled his wind out and regarded Omensetter steadily a moment before speaking again. Then he spoke very slowly and carefully.

But Mat especially, he said. He especially will think you throttled Pimber and hauled him up. My guarantee. Oh yes — Lucy Pimber too — no trouble there — everybody — your own wife, maybe—

No, not Mat.

Of course, Mat.

Furber chuckled bitterly and slapped his left hand smartly on his cheek.

Why not Mat? Mat first of all. Where — have — you — been? A friend, eh? Hooey. A friend. Friends all. Hatstat too. Chamlay. There's a friend. All the ladies. All the friendly women. Kindly Knox. Tott, who loves stories. The dear dear Doctor. Stitt and Hawkins. There's a pair. Everybody. Lovable Lucy. Have you had her? She's eager. And Jethro Furber, that sweethearted cuss. Everybody.

He dropped the poker with a clatter and formed two eloquent fists.

Go away. Go away, you idiot. What are you making me say?

His nightshirt swirled around his knees as he turned and began to pace between the table and the wall.

Come safely, he said. The fool. Come safely to me? The idiot. I'm safety? Where — where have you been? My god. My god. A friend. I've spent my life spreading lies about you. A friend, eh? a friend, a friend—

Okay. It's okay.

You — you know nothing of the life you live in. Sweet christ, what a booby — how can I convey — how — how could you be so — so stupid — so imbecile — live so long — know so little — how? Well, it's too late to learn now.

Arms slack, Furber leaned back into the angle of the walls and stared at the ceiling. At last he let his eyes drop.

Look: if a bird were to rub its beak on a limb, you'd hear it — sure — and if a piece of water were to move an unaccustomed way, you'd feel it — that's right — and if a fox were to steal a hen, you'd see — you'd see it — even in the middle of the night; but, heaven help you, if a friend a friend — god — were to slit your throat with his — his love — hoh, you'd bleed a week to notice it.

Furber tottered weakly across the room. He had achieved a splendid effect. It sickened him. He sank on the bed and threw his head in his hands, yet even that seemed theatrical. He had no knowledge of this man. None. He'd never seen him before. And all he wanted to do was hit him — hit him. When Furber looked up, he was still there — waiting.

Seen many hangings, Omensetter?

Do their tongues loll out?

Do they turn blue like everybody says, and jerk a lot?

How many struggle before the trap's sprung, or do they go out praying or cursing the crowd?

Perhaps they're brought drugged with their heads in a sack. What's your opinion?

Or were the hangings you attended all at night, of niggers maybe, slapped up from the rump of a horse or just jerked away communally and left to choke.

—

You won't answer. Why not?

Furber beat his knees.

It's not true of Mat, Omensetter said. Don't you believe me? Henry's hung himself in his coat.

No, Furber said. No. Of course I don't believe you.

Obviously. God. Believe you. No. You choked him with your great hands as easily as you might lift me up and then you fetched him to the top. No one else could have done it.

Omensetter laughed.

Oh, he said when he had got his breath, the hands — I see — with my great hands — yes.

And he began to laugh again.

By all means — tee hee. Ho ho ho. And so he's dead in some tree and looks like an owl. Well, that's fine. He turns in the wind and gets the sun. Splendid. He made a fine fatuous fool of himself and is now in hell. In a pit of hissing, pissing theologians.

All that matters is you trust me.

What a godforsaken soul I have. Ba — Brackett — what a shit I am.

Will you go to Chamlay? I can't. I can't do that.

Tell him what I've told you, that's all.

I simply can't.

Say I shall show him where Henry's hanging and help to take him down.

You don't understand. It's impossible.

Explain just how I am — my worry. Convince him that I'm telling the truth. Make clear the height that Henry's hanging — all that — and how sure you are it's suicide.

How sure I am, said Furber wearily.

For me.

For you.

Yes.

You're offering me a king of bargain?

You said it was your business.

There are bargains in business.

Just tell him.

And good business in bargains.

Both of us are tired. I'm sorry — you know — to have bothered — with you so sick, you know — but you can see I had to — you can see how it is. You were quick to wonder yourself when I told you that I'd found him.

Furber let his head wobble on his neck.

We — Lucy and me — the girls — we aren't used to living by the side of people. I guess that's it. Lucy thought the girls ought, well, to meet — you know — though neither Angela or Eleanor seems to care about that — well — perhaps in time you learn how…

Furber hugged a pillow in his lap.

I thought the weather would be fine for the boy, too, you know, and the excitement of the river. . I didn't figure right.

And so there'll be a covenant between us.

We'll be going… when Henry's down and buried. That would be right. Are there people living all along the river? If we went south could we find an open piece of woods there?

I'm to convince them, then you'll go, is that it? Where will you be? here?

Oh no. Amos has a cold. . something. Let them come by, it's on the way. It'll have to be tomorrow — morning would be wisest — an early start. It's supper time now, and dark.

Supper time.

Tomorrow's time enough.

Time enough. It's dark, you say?

I'll sure be grateful.

It's the business of the minister… to intercede.

Well—

My Aunt Janet was a different sort of suicide.

Golly. I'm sorry.

Furber put the pillow beside him. Golly. Old Aunt Janet. Who threw herself from a shelf made of wicker. What points had she thought to consider, the pros and cons of death and life? He turned inside and recognized at once the passage of the belly, the traverse of the loins, the navigation of the thigh. Now folks, we've reached, in here, the cathedral of the thorax, a natural cavern. No rare woods here, no perfumed wine, no choirs of boys, but Bael with the head of a man and a spider's body, cat and toad growing out of his neck, commanding forty-six legions of devils; Behemoth, full stomached as Omensetter's wife had been with her skin like shining satin, but otherwise an elephant devouring grass like the oxen, his whole strength in his loins and his virtue fitted in the button of his belly, commanding thrice seven regiments of furies; Astaroth, the ugly angel, vulgarly astride a dragon, leading forty legions; Forcas on a donkey; Marchocias vomiting; Buer in a wheel of hooves revolving; Asmodeus; Theutus; Incubus — demon after demon drawn delightfully by Angelo, who made God's finger like an amorous engine for the Vatican. What he really needed was a year abroad to study painting.