William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

Furber?

What in god's name are you doing?

Furber — will you pray for the boy?

And this, Furber asked, restraining a gesture useless in the darkness.

What comes next? What do I say?

Furber ran about the circle kicking at the piles. There was a spatter of stones in the water and a rush of others in the weeds.

You'll pray for the boy, won't you, Furber? You've nothing against him — a little boy — a baby — you'll pray for him?

Do you know what your wife believes? She thinks, like any decent man, you've gone for Orcutt.

No. She knows I can't do that.

You call this feeble nonsense trusting to your luck? Is asking me to pray — is that trusting to your luck or just more madness? Neither's the least use. You've got to go for Orcutt, the baby's nearly dead of your confusion. You wouldn't listen to your wife — what are my chances? Well I don't love you, that ought to help. I think you're a monster and you are proving me right… I've been right about everything all along… if only I had believed myself.

There was more shouting — angry tones.

Listen, Omensetter — it won't be endurable. No — wait now — wait for me. She'll hate you. Don't be a — a jackassed donkey, damn you, you don't want that. It's diphtheria, it's no theological disease. No witches' brew or number you can roll will cure it. You've got to go — there's no luck in this world and no god either… You stupid selfish fool, you blind dumb bastard, when you come to — it won't be bearable. To have had what you dreamed you had — and let it go Hey, stop that. Christ. You'll never understand. Orcutt can't cure anyone. He can't do a thing. That's not the point. It's your going for him that counts, not what he does; it's how your girls will feel — after — how Agnes and Emerald will respond—

Eleanor… and Angela.

And Lucy — how she'll—

Omensetter turned and blundered off down the beach, away from the shouting.

I'll pray, Furber yelled after him, I'll pray… for what it's worth, he finished bitterly, knowing that he wouldn't pray at all; real prayer would embarrass him. Really, he knew no more about it than Omensetter did about his stones. Furber retreated up the slope. The snow was falling thickly now and his feet and hands were cold. Apparently he couldn't speak with his hands in his pockets. Even in the dark, they'd been out gesturing, fluttering about like moths.

So it was coming true, and he had played the chorus to his own Cassandra. That was put nice, preacher. Shit. Swearing was also an empty habit. What had he said — made up — that wasn't coming true? Aunt Janet hurls herself from the dizzy height of her ladder-backed Shaker. A pretty thought. A plaything like a horse on wheels. The choir of heaven and furniture of the earth, all those bodies which compose the mighty frame of the world-the snow now, his streaming eyes — were they just words, too, just characters, as he had always pretended? It was coming true. God was coming true, coming slowly to light like a message in lemon. Ah, and what was the message? in yet another lingo? Truth is the father of lies; nothing survives, nothing dies; only the wicked can afford the wise. And shouts through gaps in the wnid. Blasphemers are believers. And there were sermons in stone, as he'd frequently said. Wasn't it what he'd always wanted — God to exist? Deep in the weeds, peering between the pickets, he'd dreamed his revenge… They were closing in; there was a wagon creaking. The snow fell on him as on a tree. But he really wanted to embrace the body of the symbol. But the body of every symbol was absurd. But not when the gods were Greek. But they never, never were… All the while, He was, and only He has been, and only He has the brass to continue.

You here Furber?

Furber?

You?

What's up?

Hey.

Here?

Hell. Just hell.

We've wagoned Stitt and Pimber both together, all ourselves. It was too damn dense there for horses.

A bit right.

My leg's broke, Furber, broke in two.

Right.

— lost the horses.

Ever hear of — right I said, I said right.

Oh go to hell.

Furber? That really you?

Our goddamn horses—

— easy in the morning.

Ho, listen at him, listen at the pizzler.

Go to hell.

Where's Tott? where's that tit? where's Tott?

I can't see a thing with this snow in my eyes.

What?

… what what what …

— all the time drifting.

Listen I got my nose froze, my fingers froze, my feet and eyes and private peter, and I ain't about to finish another fuckin' foot of this buggy-wheeling wagon over these goddamn rocks and ruts and tree roots in all this goddamn snow and all this dark and cold — not one more wheel around, you bet — not for me — no sir.

We were lucky the wind died.

Pee that out a pig.

Lost the whole lot — you want to know how?

Ah shut up.

His house is here, we'll get Stitt in.

Me in— me, boys, me.

Well then come on, hurry up.

Will you listen at that?

He's goddamn Cleopatra in his goddamn barge.

Pee it out a pig.

Come on, then, since your cock's so curly.

Shit.

Lend a hand, Furber, for christ's sake.

You really here?

We're on a fuckin' slope.

We've always been on a fuckin' slope.

I've spent my life on a fuckin' slope.

All right then, don't drag your ass, push.

You push— you push- I been a-pushing — push, for christ's sake — you been the whole way yelling push, push, push — ain't you got jaws to shut your mouth with?

How about you? You been dragging your ass the whole way. It must be sore. Still got skin on? Biggest ass in this state, too. Ugliest ass in the country. Heaviest ass in this asshole world.

You been doing a lot of examining to that ass?

Ah — ah shut up.

Is that you, Tott? you tit, you titter.

Hey — owwwww.

Come on — careful. Don't bounce him — lift.

Hear that? Furber says how's Henry.

Jeez.

Push.

Hear that? Henry.

How is he, Boylee? the Reverend wants to know.

— no stiffer than I am.

Come on, you suckers.

Cold as a snowman's dick, ain't that right, Boylee?

Wait. Hold up. Bush… Wait, goddamn, goddamit, bush, I said… Now… easy… okay.

Say Furber, lend a hand back here.

Fell out of the tree like a stone, the both of them, one after the other.

A little left.

Haul away easy, I can't see.

Couldn't tell if he hung himself up there or not.

There it is — come on — heave.

— branch broke. Dropped like a rock, the both of them. I cut my eye — bad — there's blood all over me.

There's light there — see?

I can taste it, it's salty.

That's your pee.

I hope they got a fire as big as a woods in there. Then I'm going to squat right down in them leaping flames, smack in the middle of them like a nesting hen.

You'll smother it and lay smoke.

George thinks his shit won't burn.

I know damn well my piss won't.

Know what I want? I want my hands around a cup of coffee. That's what I want. That's all I want. How we going to get past this?

Hot and steaming — I'll just wrap them right around, and then I'll lower — I'll just dip — my nose in.

Oh for christ's sake, let him walk, it ain't far.

Back — back up.

Back?

Yeah, back, everybody back.

What I want's a drink. I'd sell my soul off.

It wouldn't bring the price of piss-in-your-face.

Ah shut your shit.

I'll tell you one thing — that sonofabitch didn't get up there by himself.

My eye, Furber, I got blood in my eye still.

Back, you guys, will you back?

God damn and christ — it's lots of rocks… How's it look now, Curtis, can you see?