William Gass - Omensetter’s Luck

So you felt him over.

Ah — morning, Jethro — how's it feel to be awake? Good nap?

You touched his eyes.

Well — no… no — did you? I just figured it. A dramatic note.

A lie, in short, that's perfect truth. I can understand that.

Look, Truxton, I've been asking you a natural question. You know it's natural. There's plenty of reason for wondering. What do you think? Could he have?

Oh well — how high was he?

Seventy-five, eighty, wouldn't you say, Luther? Hey — you asleep?

No — christ. I'd say eighty easy.

About seventy's right, Menger said.

That high?

Orcutt thought a while, his nose over his coffee, inhaling the steam, his hands warming themselves at the cup.

That's high. It's more a matter for the preacher, seems to me, he said, nodding at Furber who was sprawled on the coats in the corner like a dead crow. He could have seen clean to Columbus from up there. It's hard to tell what a man will do if he's warmed up to it — Boylee for instance.

Why work so hard to kill yourself, why sweat?

And why so high? Didn't he want to be found?

To get shit on by birds like you said.

He'd have fell out of there some time, what was left of him.

The rain would have run right off him.

Well the wind would have dried him good.

Yeah. And the cold would have come on and held him a long time just in the shape he was. He'd have been well kept and damn near sound till summer.

That coat wouldn't have held him. The belt would have broke.

Well his branch did.

Was Boylee nesting on it?

No, I don't think so. He was on the one below it. He cut Henry loose and then he lost him — a cold load, I bet — and when Henry went he busted Boylee's branch off too.

Well, Orcutt said, I'm sorry I missed that. That must have been something. All my life I'll be sorry I missed it.

That's all right — Tott'll tell you about it till you're sick of it.

What do you suppose he went along for?

Without a single reason I can see to do it — that's what gets me.

He was getting well. He was okay — right, Doc?

Sure. What the hell was the point? He was okay — right? If he goes to execution in a chariot, and I in a cart or by foot, where is the glorious advantage, Furber quoted.

Orcutt felt of his beard and brushed it with his sleeve, happier now it was soft.

It's hard to figure, he said. That's high. Eighty's high. No ladies here? Ah then I'll chew. I must have a chew here somewhere.

He felt himself.

You know I took that sack away on my mare — she could smell it too, she reared around and fished to beat the devil — and I was maybe a mile on the road when I hear galloping behind me and it's father in a lather. The child is dead, he says, and I say that's too bad — it sure was no surprise-so I say that's too bad — what do you say, anyway, time like that? — and I get ready to give him back his money as I figure that's what he's come for, and well, I don't mind if it makes him feel any better, you know. But he says, holding out his hand in a smart-ass way, give me back the bag. The bag, I say, surprised, why? We want to bury him together, he says back, furious with me for being witless. You wouldn't want us to bury him in pieces, would you, separated like that from himself, he says, horrified. And he snatches the bag and gallops away, holding it out at arm's length, the thing beginning to wet its bottom and to swing and kick about by itself like he had a living chicken in it. Ain't that a funny one? Ah.

Orcutt finally dredged a piece of tobacco from his vest and carefully picked off the lint. With one hand he unclasped his knife and deftly sliced a generous hunk.

Just from the physical side you understand, he said — the other's outside science — my guess would be he wasn't strong enough to do it. Not by half. He'd been greatly sick, poor Henry had, and he was never what you'd call a powerful man, not in body surely, or in spirit either I should say. Not enough strength in him and not enough gumption.

Orcutt began chewing, closing his teeth slowly, and sighing as pleasure took possession of him. He leaned into the wall.

Well wind didn't blow him up there.

Well maybe Windy, Wise, and Noisy did.

With a fireman's carry.

The spirit moved him. Reverend, what do you think?

Henry's out there, why don't you ask him, Doctor? And he's smiling.

Furber sat up in a tumble of clothing.

Luther, please bring him kindly. Thawed, he'll speak. He was as hard as Christmas candy once before, when he was sick, remember? Set him right there nicely — by Chamlay the Beastly Badger, or by Ezra and Bessie, who've crossed their hearts in the table — or there, where Orcutt's leaning so in solemn silence, sunk in his dirty pleasure.

Furber rummaged in the pile.

Henry's eyes are out, but his tongue's in, I think.. Ink.

He picked at a mitten.

So the Lord says… ah… I am the Lord, says the Lord; I make all things. I stretch forth the heavens alone. I frustrate the omens of liars. Ha ha. I make diviners mad. I turn wise men backward and their asses inside out, and make their knowledge foolish… At last here come the monkeys on the horses.

Hold yourself together, Jethro, don't go to pieces. You have responsibilities here.

Do I go to pieces, Doctor? Here's a riddle: why am I so cold upon your faces? That's most unseemly in a man of my position, eh?… No answer. Then I shall keep my own good company.

Draped in hats and scarves and overcoats, Furber struggled to his feet.

Let's see: there'll be A to admire me, he said, ticking A off on the finger of a glove he had drawn only partly on so the finger flopped when he touched it.

Then there'll be B to bless me; C to cherish me; D … to undress me; E? to encourage me; F to — fondle… fondle… what an odd word. As ink. All as in ink. Ink's odd.

Hawkins laughed.

You look a sight.

He sounds a sight.

I shall recite a limerick of my own composition. It's very topical.

He held up an admonitory finger.

There was a young man of De Pauw—

The originality, my churchling smirkers, does not reside in the first line. Pffitt.

There was a young man of De Pauw,

who begot a giraffe with his jaw.

When compelled to admit it,

he said that he did it,

to repeal the Mendelian law.

It don't mean anything to me.

Sit down, Jethro, we've still got business.

But my dears — there's more:

All mankind now started to wonder,

concerning this cosmical blunder.

If giraffes, by this pass, can be got by an ass,

Who's the papa of lightning and thunder?

Say, Furb, that's pretty good. That's not so bad.

Then cried the Archbishop of London,

we are all quite certainly undone.

What such a jaw can,

an Anglican can,

by belling his balls with a bludgeon.

Whoo-ee, man. Whoo-ee.

By blowing his balls through a blowgun.

Whoo—

Furber, you're disgusting.

Don't be a pill, Olus. Furb, I didn't know you had it in you.

Olus is a sticky pill,

he will make you sick,

he will.

Hey — good — he caught you right off, Olus.

However this fraud from De Pauw,

who claimed to have broken the law,

broke down and

admitted 'twas not his jaw did it,

but his god father's beastly guffaw.

Hah—

Thank you, your gracious appreciation is applauded.

I'd like to settle some things in my mind, Furber, if you don't mind, Chamlay said.

A minister? A clown, Tott said. Lots of times we've had him in our house.

You smut muzzling mutt, Furber shouted.

Sit down, Furber, sit down!

But E's here to empty me — watch — he's wearing pink and has a passion to enter me. D's here to disparage me — there's nothing he can say, I'm black inside my clothing, black as ink. And then C — to chastise me, send me to Gilean, stripe my back. B to blame, to bully, to bluster, to bitch… A? A's last — to admonish me — no, surely more than that — no, perhaps to administer, nothing comes after.