William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

Maybe, Omensetter mumbled, holding the sides of his jaw.

I had to go see Furber first, you know.

Why?

Anyway you've had all day, god damn it.

If Henry's hanging where you say, Knox said, then what's the hurry? My god man, your son is sick — sick serious. What's a lifeless body by him? If he was mine—

Hell, if Henry's where you say—

Do they do a lot of good? doctors? I've always wondered if it wasn't better to let things run along their natural way.

God's will, Furber muttered.

That's been my feeling.

Omensetter smiled weakly and spread his arms.

What a lot of shit, George Hatstat said.

You've let things run too far already.

Knox gestured angrily with his glasses.

You should have gone for Orcutt right away, he said. You didn't — you couldn't — you and your damn fool ideas.

You'll have that child on your conscience, Omensetter, Chamlay said.

Conscience? conscience?

Knox carefully put his glasses on and peered at Omensetter closely.

What have we seen shows he has a conscience?

Hey, Stitt said, did you guys just come out here to drop your pants, or shall we get?

Omensetter went about the yard among the horses and post the men, looking at them dumbly as he passed them like a beast himself, and at the trampled ground between them with such sorrow that his whole face had to twitch when he ralsed it to their faces to form it for the animal passivity it wore. His eyes were rimmed and seemed so deeply sunken they must have seen continually through shadow, and his formerly full cheeks now had the look of crumpled paper. His breathing was audible and slow, his movements heavy, remote from any mind.

I can still remember coming, Curtis, Omensetter said quietly at last. Clouds — the river — Gilean by it — the air so clear… There was every house out honest and every barn banked proper to the weather.. The trees were bare, I remember, and as we came down the hill we could see the tracks of the wagons glistening. You could see what your life would be. You know — like the gypsy woman who can take your fortune from your hand. Well I took those tracks to be a promise to me… And on the way we'd all been singing. Rose Alymer . I heard it sung so strangely once I never forgot it. The words are high and fine beyond my understanding but I like their sound. And we counted kinds of birds… I guess you think — well, what does it matter? I don't know… I remember there were rings in the pools of water by the road, and I thought how exciting for the boy to live by the river, to catch fish and keep frogs, you know; grow up with good excitement. Now he's gone sick, Curtis, in this low place, and there's no honest snow to cover it or cold to hold it firmly even, and the hill we came by is still a slippery yellow. The boy is going to die, Curtis. I just feel — I'm scared he's going to die. He's dreadful sick, I know. You've seen him, you and Olus know he's going to die. Why — he's barely been alive… The boy — the boy, too — he was a promise to me. I hold he was a promise to me. If he dies — well you were all — too — promises. Curtis? Olus? George? Remember? Wasn't there a promise to me? He'll die soon, my son will — soon he'll be dead of this low ground and its dishonest weather. I'll cut that on his stone. If he ever has a stone. I don't think that I can bring myself to put him in this clay. I'll put him on a mountain maybe, where the birds can pick his body. Whoever lives so little and so low as he has should spend his death up high — like Henry's doing.

Chamlay rose on his horse.

In his life he only knew his mother.

Knox rose.

I hold there was a promise — Gilean was.

Menger rose. George rose.

All right — it doesn't matter.

Stitt rose. Tott rose. Hawkins rose.

I hope no one will send for Doctor Orcutt now. He'll not be needed. I've changed my mind.

He's worse, Brackett, Lucy shouted from the porch. Please won't one of you find Doctor Orcutt? Brackett? Please. His tongue — he doesn't breathe — someone — please — there's blood — I think there's blood.

No, Omensetter said, no, and his wife faintly echoed him, astonished, no? our child? Brackett? My son, said Omensetter wearily.

He drew himself together with an effort.

There was a promise to me and it was a lie.

His wife fell weakly against the railing.

What's this, she whispered.

I'll go, missus, Israbestis said; I've a notion where Doc is if he saw Emma Amsterdam this morning.

No, Omensetter cried, rushing at Tott and grasping his arm. Bessie, you know him, you know how his teeth slide in his beard, Omensetter said, leaning close; no, I don't want him.

Lucy groaned.

Mother, one of the daughters called, and the girls' cries drew her in.

Omensetter kept his grip on Israbestis.

Bessie, he said, don't go, don't go, I hate his eyes, they cross. You know his eyes. They're stitched to him.

Tott twisted away.

Have you looked, Omensetter roared, straightening, glaring angrily, waving his arms, his long hair tossing above his brow. Go off and find your friend where he has hung himself. Curtis knows the way now, and can lead. And take your wagon to the white log by the creek. Then you won't have so far to drag his bones.

The fire and the lamp made pairs of crossing shadows, one steady and firm, one leaping and vague. Her shadow spotted the wall and disappeared, drawn magically back beneath her chair as she rocked, then darting forth to climb the wall as rapidly again. He found himself marking the height. Incredibly swift, it bent itself up from the floor, passing the picture, the long head reaching a mar in the paper and covering a cluster of leaves while the lengthening finial that followed behind struck a rose. Each time it was the same. Omensetter's shadow dwindled under him and Furber had the Impression of something being poured steadily through a hole in the floor. The girls sat mute in ladder chairs, their stiff and strangely twisted figures fastened to the wall like ill-cut paper silhouettes. Another corner was darkened by the cradle where the baby, ominously quiet now, lay dying of a closing throat, an occasional wisp of its breath crossing the room like a little draft of air or brief creak of the house. I shall make a rabbit with my fingers. I shall make a tiger. I shall make a bird. His own thin outline oozed through generous cracks and hung alongside wintering ants and modest spiders between the boards. I shall make a goose. I shall make a bear.

There were foolish men in the woods, death in the trees. What did a body matter? It was such a damp low place, hardly fit to put a spirit in. What did they think they were rescuing?

In seminary they'd been called The Great Hypotheses. The One and The Other. The Spirit and its Enemy. Yes and No. A and B. Truth against The Adversary, Father of Lies. A always won, while B….

If I enumerated all the contents of my soul, he thought; if I made a thorough list of them; if I overlooked nothing; if I counted twice; if I wrote each down carefully with a spit-wet pencil end like Luther's accomplished clerk; would I find an item I could say belonged to me, made me, formed my core and heart? Thus The Other always argued.

If you were to place a lamp before a wall and put your hand in the light that flows between them, you would make a shadow. Purse your fingers properly, the shadow is a duck, while with the thumb thrust up, a horse. Then on mastery of these you may try to make a hawk fly slowly with both hands. End of the lesson. Who was teaching?

Death was only another arrangement. For suppose, and mind it narrowly, that life is simply a shadow bodies cast inside themselves when struck by all those queerly various bits and particles, those pieces, streams of — what? — of science. Death in such a case would be only another arrangement.