Omensetter’s Luck

3

That Omensetter had a secret no one doubted now. Gossip was continuous, opinion split, the atmosphere political. One would have thought it France. Henry's own salvation was the central thing, and Henry was frequently vexed to the point of tears, weak as he still was, by the constant queries, the noisy quarrels, the wild conjectures of his friends. Nothing escaped them: chance was reperceived as calculation, distant possibilities were carried briskly into likelihood, the flimsiest hypotheses spun into woolens for a tapestry, and each conclusion was communicated to the town like a disease. At first consigned by nearly everyone to God and so to the faith of Reverend Furber, though always by a smaller group to Science and hence to the skill of Doctor Orcutt, the cur — except for a scattered few who insisted upon the will and constitution of Henry himself — was now almost universally awarded to the beet root poultice and the luck of Brackett Omensetter. But what did this amount to? This credited the cure to… what? Edna Hoxie had an increase of trade, though Maggie Scanlon — unwedded, large — scoffed at the question. Don't he always get what he wants, she said. He's happy, ain't he, the sonofabitch. I wish to god I was.

For Henry his illness was a joy and agony that still went on. Whole days it rained continually and water spilled out of dry containers. He would sit in the sun with a blanket on his knees and feel the rain come down on the stiff summer leaves and fly from the dusty spouts. He begged the fox's pardon constantly, as weak and palsied in his chair, as loose from his will, as he'd been during the first days of his recovery. His arm would dart out, seizing a flood of light in its fist. Well, he'd exclaim in surprise, it still seems to be raining. Lucy would shriek at him, the sun drum on his chest. His eye entered everything like a needle even yet — penetrated, looped, and then emerged — and he hung these pictures on a string like beads around his neck. For hours he fingered the air obscenely, and when he moved, he felt they clicked. He would say to his wife: here's your vulva, it's next to the nose of the beagle; or he'd say: here's your blood, dark as wet bark; or he'd say: here are the stools your bowels are shaping; on and on, until she struck him.

Cruelty brought no relief, as sight did not, and yet he sometimes thought his pain might simply be the pain of his shedding, since it often seemed that he was sloughing like a snake the skins of all his seasons; his white fats and red flesh were lost in a luminous wash. Sunshine lapped at him, rose over him, and soon there were pieces of him drifting off — his head like a hat, legs like logs. Then gently he toweled his bones until they shone. They made a fair tree; they weren't so bad. Henry hadn't been prepared for anyone like Omensetter. He'd been content to believe that he would always live with usual men in a usual world; but he'd lived with himself all these years like a stranger — and with everybody else. So on these shining armatures he fancied that he shaped a fine new unstreaked clay through which life lifted eagerly like moisture warming toward its heat. There was no mistaking Omensetter's likeness; Henry was newborn in that waltzing body now; he had joined it as you join a river swimming; surely Lucy must have seen… but he didn't mind if she had. Perceptions no longer pierced his eyes — his needles returning; instead, he poured out giddily.

In this mood Henry could remember piling up a mountain in the wagon: the quilts and comforts, the toys, the tools and the utensils — tasting their metals in his mouth. Clouds were living in the river; Gilean was resting by it, the air so clear. There was every house out honest and every barn banked proper to the weather. The trees were beautiful and bare, and the tracks of the wagons glistened. On the way they'd sung Rose Aylmer. Then sometimes they counted birds. There were rings in the pools of water by the road and the air was clean as it is after rain. He thought it would be healthy for the boy to live by the river, to catch fish and keep frogs, to grow up with good excitement.

But his wife would come and jar him loose. Age had beautifully lined her jaw. Her knuckles were huge. She rattled tins and silverware in drawers.

Where have you got to now? what are you thinking?

Nothing.

Nothing? You should see your face. Nothing!

Nothing.

It's fatty. You should see your face. It's fatty.

No.

What do you go to the shop for? You can scarcely walk yet you're always off down there, and in this weather when it's hot. What do you talk about? Does Tott tell stories? Or is the Furber preaching at you, trying to fish your soul out like the last pickle? Oh, I know what's happened. You've gone to the devil. That's what's happened.

No.

It's fatty.

He would sit so quietly within the shadows behind the forge that visitors scarcely noticed he was there. It was like the effect of his illness, for after a period of pain and confusion he thought his eyes had cleared and he had watched from his bed as if from out of the world. It had been as he imagined it was like to be invisible. Your eyes were open. People looked into them but they didn't think you saw. They were less than a mirror, no more than a painting of eyes. The sickness was nothing. Many times he had struggled to say that he could hear. Being stretched to pieces was nothing. Many times he'd tried to shout I can see, I can see you — hissing instead. Fighting for breath was nothing. Burning was nothing. Locked in a shrinking boot of flesh, hour after hour he remembered Jethro Furber's prayers.

The child of Decius Clark, said Doctor Orcutt through bis beard, is very bad. A bee stung him six weeks come Tuesday on the neck. You never saw a bigger swelling.

The doctor's fingers formed an egg.

Clark used to be a potter. Quit. He's farming now — or trying to. Not much account. I won't collect.

Orcutt aimed his spit.

Let's see that finger Matthew smashed.

You're a bastard, Truxton, Watson said.

You took on so, I thought I'd see. Well, Brackett? No charge for curiosity. The nail grow back? Mat told me that he knocked it clean away — is that a fact?

Omensetter held his hand out silently.

Orcutt grinned.

Mat's took up surgery, I see. Might drive me square from business.

He turned the thumb.

A scar of great bravery, the doctor said. What do you charge?

Mat shook his head helplessly.

Well, it always happens, cut like that.

Orcutt dropped the hand. The arm fell muscleless.

A sledge ain't a very thoughtful knife. The next time you get stung like that you see me right straight off and maybe you won't grow up such a swelling.

I hit him accidental, Mat exclaimed.

All round you're mighty lucky, mister, Orcutt said.

Then he asked Hatstat how the fishing was.

Rotten, Hatstat said.

Always is, this time of year, the doctor said.

They should be up.

Ah, George, they never is, you want them to. Ain't that right, Brackett?

It isn't cool enough, said Tott.

Mat rattled through his tools.

It was stifling in the shop, and fiercely hot by the forge.

Well he's a friendly sort, Clark is, said Doctor Orcutt, spitting. Not much account. I won't collect. But friendly. His wife is taking on about the boy but Clark is calm, I will say that. He's calm. How's your infection, Henry? It all gone? Ain't you out a little early like a winter robin?

It's been weeks, Henry mumbled, backing deeply in the shop.

Home remedy — by god, it's killed an awful lot, Henry. Could have lost that arm, you know. Fix your horseshoe game permanent. Does Brackett play?

We won't let him, said Israbestis Tott.

Too bad, I'd like to see that.

Juice oozed from the doctor's mouth. He spat a running stain.

Everyone fell silent.

The child of Decius Clark is very bad, said Doctor Orcutt once again, but Decius is a friendly sort, and calm.

… Then there was Israbestis Tott entertaining him with tunes: jigs, trots, polkas — Henry thought his mind would break. Then there was Matthew Watson, who sat by his bedside with his huge hands in his lap like a pair of frogs; there were endless files of whispering women; there was Jethro Furber in the costume of a witch, threatening the divine with spells; there was Lucy, lovely as a treetop in the door's grain, Furber as a drape, Mat a lamp, Tott a shriek, Furber both frogs, Orcutt their leaps…

A hen's first egg is always female.

Orcutt burned his spit.

Mares who've seen the stallion late have colts. Scientific fact.

Luther Hawkins tested the blade of his knife with his thumb, then sighted along it and winked at the tip.

Ain't it the month, he said. The women get the odd ones.

Orcutt shook his head.

All thought a while in silence. The iron was a pale rose.

I read a Swiss professor… hell… what was his name?… Thury. That's it, Thury. He says the same Danielson — downstate — has tried it. Works with cows. Works fine. Fact.

Orcutt showed his teeth.

But I couldn't say, you move the problem on from cows to ladies.

Henry giggled against his will.

It's out of my experience, Watson said, and George Hatstat laughed like a whistling train.

Orcutt hitched about and peered at Henry through the dark.

How's Lucy these days, Henry? Bearing up?

Watson put tongs on the iron.

Orcutt rolled his chew. His lips gleamed.

She ought to get out more.

Wars, Watson said.

He began hammering.

Wars, he shouted, more boys… replace dead ones.

Sparks flew in arcs and showers to the floor.

Doctor Orcutt wiped his mouth and stared at Henry through the rain of sparks.

The bar — reluctant — bent.

The doctor leaned back, tilting his chair. He gazed solemnly at the ceiling where a spider dropped itself by jerks from a beam.

Omensetter threaded a needle.

There was a lull in the hammering through which Henry's ears sang.

In passing, Lloyd Cate waved.

Each man looked morose and thoughtful.

Tott patted his pockets, hunting his harmonica.

Finally Orcutt said: lucky to be alive by god — in a low but outraged voice.

The hammering began again. The cool iron jumped.

Luther Hawkins moved the blade of his knife with caution, rolling back a sliver like a piece of skin. Hatstat followed him intently, while Omensetter stabbed a piece of leather with his needle.

Orcutt straightened; spat heavily at the dropping spider. The spit bore it off. At this the doctor slapped his knee and stood.

Authorities I've read… honest scientific minds, remember, gentlemen… claim males are made in special weather.._e they result from special postures… or depend upon the testicle that's emptied. Honest scientific minds. It's quite a problem for them. Some screw for science only in the afternoon, while others keep their faith with evening — here Orcutt chuckled-it's a matter of light, I understand, but which makes which I can't remember.

He hefted his bag.

You rest easy Henry, hey? No lifting. No climbing. No spading. That sort of thing.

Beneath his beard, Orcutt loosened his collar.

Or it's the length of the dick — how far it throws the seed.

The doctor carefully dusted his trousers. Whew-ee.

Thus he remained a moment.

All that's manure, he said. Manure. Then he strode away.

Henry watched the forge until it burned his eyes.

Later Curtis Chamlay looked in to ask if anyone intended fishing in the morning, and Luther Hawkins, admiring the point on his stick, carrying on the conversation in his head, chuckled.

Dogs don't care, he said. It's a fact.

George Hatstat said: know what Blender said that Edna Hoxie told his wife? douche with milk if you want a girl.

And all she does is douche with the Dutchman.

Hawkins picked dirt from a crack.

That fat Dutchman — how does he get on?

Take it easy, Chamlay said, laughing. Tott's ears are burning.

Why should they, Hawkins said. You listen at that preacher like he does, his ears hears every word there is.

That Dutchman, Chamlay said. I'll bet his cock is curly.

Pig's cock, Hawkins said.

Blenker isn't Dutch, Tott said.

Shit.

Hoxie says boys swell the right teat more.

Ah shit.

No, honest, Curt.

Hatstat clutched his chest.

Girls make special aches in the left side. That's what she said.

She's full of shit.

In the dust Hawkins began a drawing of the Dutchman mounting.

It's meat that does it, Chamlay said. Beef. It's got some chemical.

The bar began to glow again.

Hawkins scratched his drawing out.

I saw one in a bottle at a fair, he said. A little thing, you know. Pink and purply — whatever color. It was pickled… wrinkled… real pale and upside down in the stuff… looked like a pig.. but dead… jesus.

Mat hefted his hammer impatiently.

Hawkins drew a mason jar.

It depends on what she eats, Chamlay insisted.

Then Hatstat made a disrespectful noise.

Come on Omensetter, what do you think? is it going to be a boy?

If she lolls about and stuffs on candy, Chamlay said, she gets a sugar baby—

Naw — shit.

You've got boys, George, right? But Rosa Knox? When Rosa's pregnant all she eats is sugar buns. Ask Splendid Turner if she don't.

Luther Hawkins nodded.

Fact, he said. A scientific fact… I wonder what that little Perkins devil filled Maggie Scanlon's belly with.

That Perkins, Chamlay said. I know him. I'll bet it wasn't cock.

You think that belly's growing up from spit, Curt, George said.

What a bitch, said Hawkins. She'll give birth to dogs.

Mat's hammer rang the metal.

Afterward, when Mat had hushed his iron in the rain barrel, they discussed fishing for a long time. Olus Knox had come and he was always eloquent about it. Everyone, that is, but Omensetter did, who sewed on silently, a look of intense bewilderment on his face.