Omensetter’s Luck

7

When Omensetter shook the door with pounding, the Reverend Furber shouted no, and drove his fists together. It was six in the evening, he was in his nightshirt yet, his voice was hoarse, and his eyes were badly puffed. All day he'd thrashed about and wept and yelled at Pike. Now he sat in the dark, mooning dimly, cursing his tears and knotting his bedclothes. The room was cold. The coals in the grate had thick covers of ash, and moisture had frozen on the windows. He'd risen early, in the grip of a dream, and stumbled to the vestry where Flack had begun his sweeping. You've been telling people things about me, he'd said bluntly. The colored man had clung to his broom while Furber cruelly accused him. You know all about me. You've given me away. Moments later, Furber had tried to drown himself in a basin. Of course it was an act, another futile gesture, and he'd flung the basin the length of the hall — carrying it carefully from his room first, so as not to wet his belongings. Back on his bed he hammered the wall, wailing and weeping. It was true that the day had passed quite quickly, yet he didn't think he'd snoozed. He'd been in a genuine delirium, then, and he took some comfort from the momentousness of that conclusion. Out he was hardly prepared for the pounding which suddenly assailed him — pounding not his own — from without, not within — repeated, thunderous, imperative. The lummox is here, he thought, and he drove his fists at one another so viciously his knuckles skinned.

I must see you, Omensetter said.

Furber almost laughed.

There's no light, no fire. I'm sitting in the dark.

He needn't have answered. Omensetter had no way of knowing he was there — unless Flack had given him away again. He was immediately ashamed. Flack came by his color honestly. The little Ngero would never have betrayed him. It was inconceivable. He had cared for the church when Rush was its master, and he had suffered without complaint through its terrible plague-time under Furber the Furious, Jethro the Pretender, always serving loyally and with equal love, Furber felt certain, though each day, lately, he had seemed to shrink a little, and to go about his work still more invisibly. During all this time, Furber had actually learned nothing about him; he had never taken the slightest trouble for him or shown the least real interest. The fellow had remained a servant, a Negro, a mystery. And why shouldn't he be a mystery? No one is simple, he was about to say, yet how would he know? What had the watchman seen on his rounds? Surfaces. Scatters. He'd kept everything at a word's length, and it was words he saw when he saw her — tight, and white, and shining; it was words he felt when his anger burned him, when he shook and wailed and struck about wildly. Out of the world he could safely take just the ravelings: the color of the bruise on his toe, for instance, or the isolated croak of a frog which surprises the afternoon, or the vision of an intense green slope where a ball coasts under a wicket. Though mankind was his hobby — so he'd often said — he knew nothing of men. Negro seemed more properly the name of a patent medicine, just as mankind, despite his study, was only a compound joke to him. Furber ached, for a change, from the blow he had struck the friend of his church, but there was no help for it now, and he would not bandage either wound by begging for forgiveness. In one way Gilean was more punished than Egypt, he thought, since Egypt was never visited by a plague of lies.

I have to see you, Omensetter said.

What can I do now, Furber thought, pushing himself to the edge of the bed. I'm not all dressed, he said.

He was worn out, defeated. His head buzzed. His feelings were shredded, and he was shaking badly — out and in. He knew he must look a sight. The last few days he had grown increasingly careless. He had refused to shave. He had howled for Pike and got no answer. Incredulous, he had walked around his clock in the garden. Sunday would come soon. There'd be no sermon. He watched the snow whistle through the gate and sink in the Ohio. Since he was done for in Gilean— done for everywhere in that case — Furber wondered why Omensetter could not leave him alone.

What do you want?

I want to speak to you, but I can't shout through this door.

It's late.

I know it's late. There's time enough, though. It's important.

I haven't had my dinner.

Omensetter rattled the knob.

All his speeches… his beautiful barriers of words… He thrust a paper spill through the ashes and the room rolled in its flare. After these sounds, would the door come down? The bolt rattled at Omensetter's urging and Furber's hand shook. Wrinkles appeared in the wallpaper; the walls themselves seemed to waver; corners of the room crumpled; the ceiling swooped; there were bats on his pillow. It took a certain sort to undertake such banging — just the sort of loud muscling oaf he was. If he let him in… then there he'd be, filling the door, huge, breathing heavily, the edges of his fists red, lips wet, body rocking, every bit as real as — as what? the bats on his pillow? the chasm yawning by his bed? the hungry holes in the wall? As the lamp lit, the room grew; its objects steadied. Furber dropped a smoking fragment of paper. He gently mooed and blew upon his fingers. The comedy is finished. The floor was icy.

Coming — take it gently — coming, coming…

Hoo. Relief and fright at silence. To mortify the flesh, Furber heeled the ash, then sought his slippers. There was no harm done. He needed a nightcap to go with his nightgown. Then he thought he knew how he felt like someone facing execution.

Coming…

It was true. He was too exhausted to contain any greater emotion. A night's grief, a night's waiting, and now the warden with his keys. Furber's head ached. Yes, his eyes were surely swollen. Pale, the prisoner from his cot… The gray wet wall of the garden.. forlorn ivy… dripping trees… Then scorn for the hankie blinding. Lift fist forward — defiant to the last. Cry death to truth and long live liars.

Bangedy bang.

You were in bed.

Omensetter gave him a sheepish grin and slapped snow from his shoulders.

That's what I said.

Then it's good I pounded.

Omensetter's hair was in a desperate tangle. His face was pale from exhaustion and filthy from the woods. Furred with a week's beard, it was deeply creased and there were lines of windburn across the cheeks. His clothing was badly picked and burred, pulled out and twisted on him, and he struck at his body repeatedly with his hands.

Furber retreated to a chair.

I've found him, Omensetter said.

Have a seat, said Furber weakly.

Omensetter advanced, buffeting his ears. I've found him.

You've—

Right. Boy. Yes I have. Ever seen weather so bad so early?

Henry?

Right. Whew. I haven't been in — I haven't been in to work much — what with hunting him.

He's dead?

Sure.

The nightshirt rose a moment — sat. Now, with God's help, Furber would look at him, flat on, for he was all new; his face no longer suited him, nor did his hands. His nose was inappropriate, his words weren't right. There was that false hailfellow tone, the whapping and bashing… new. And Furber began to feel his bones gradually burning with shame.

I see, he said.

Ha ha. Yeah.

Omensetter pulled off his hat.

For Christ's sake, did he chew, Furber wondered. In a moment he would snap his suspenders.

Omensetter turned very slowly around in the room.

Then he…

In the woods.

There was a little red in the stubble of his beard, Furber noticed. He was wiping his mouth with a wool rag of hat.

You didn't bring him him in? — bring him back?

At this moment, Furber thought, Henry might be propped like a statue in the vestry the new-found saint and spirit of the woods.

Boy, you should see.

Omensetter looked dramatically at the ceiling.

I mean — holey oley — he's up high. In a tree. Way up there — a terrible climb.

Heavier in his chair, Furber tried to keep his head clear. Have a seat. He tried to imagine what would have to be gone through, but he could squeeze out only a little, it was too grim: the glints from Knox's glasses afflicted him, there were long sloping woodrows, smoked with frost, furry mittens ice had beaded, shouted curses and intemperate commands, squeaking tree boughs, looping veils of snow; yet even these paltry tatters were shameful — Hawkins whittling a wooden penis — for he was burning; his ears and cheeks were aflame from the past, since Omensetter seemed so different than he was, or otherwise than he had been, as he was altogether slow and sad and shy now, or embarrassed — rueful? worried? scared? god knew. "His watchmen are blind: they are all ignorant, they are all dumb dogs."

You mean he's still there, Furber said finally.

Sure. That's what he wanted. Besides—

But how in heaven—

He hung himself.

But — the question crept through Furber's fingers — why did he have to do it in such a silly — in such a circusy way?

Ha ha. Yeah. Why? Boy.

Omensetter began roaming around the room.

Aunt Janet had teetered, soul in her eyes — he could read. Through this damn back and woody shoulders — nothing… christ. "The invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen." Another lie.

How long has Henry — been up there? Furber asked in a proper mourner's voice.

Omensetter hesitated.

I couldn't say. Some time. I'm not a real good judge.

He fiddled with the lamp, reducing the light.

Who have you told?

Nobody — not even Lucy.

She's still at the Hatstat's.

I mean I haven't been home. I came straight here.

Straight, straight, straight. The crooked, straight. He had to scratch his foot.

You wouldn't think anything so cold could itch, he said, apologizing, but Omensetter wasn't really aware of him. Beside the little table, rubbing the edge, he waited. They could forget the whole business, of course, and let Henry hang there — that would be easiest.

So you want me to break the news?

Furber sighed, restoring the slipper, and thought suddenly of Persepolis and rows of granite lions.

lt's my business, I guess, he said.

I hadn't thought about that.

You hadn't? Then in christ's name why did you pick on me? Not because I'm a preacher. Am I so close? convenient? friendly? Look — I'm not the by-your-side sort, you know that. For you, I'm neither person nor parson… Well was nobody home in the whole town so you were left with me? Too bad. I'm not home either. I've just gone out. The man you're talking to is Furber's ghost. And I'm not going to crawl up a tree to bump him down either, if that's what you expect — I'm not all that handy.

Look parson, don't you believe me? Omensetter made a gesture of entreaty. I did. Honestly—

Furber groaned with annoyance.

He's hanging from a limb.

From a limb like a leaf, I'm sure, Furber said, jumping up. That's poetry — sweet immortal poetry — it really is. The symbolic clown.

Omensetter rushed to the door. Calm and threatening by turns now, he was like a piece of weather in the room. The curtains seemed to lift a little as he passed.

Sorry, Furber said, promptly sitting. I keep forgetting you're a hero. Have a seat.

Furber carefully measured the air into fish lengths.

Gilean searched, but Omensetter found, he said. Am I correct?

I know I was wrong, Omensetter said, his hand on the knob, but I hadn't figured… well I was mistaken, I was wrong… Lucy said you wouldn't favor—

Favor? favor what?

Omensetter drifted from the door. Me.

You?

Yes.

You haven't been home.

No.

But you discussed it with Lucy.

No. We talked about it earlier. What I should do.

Then Jethro Furber wondered whether Omensetter wasn't an actor.

What do you keep in that?

What?

That.

This?

Yes.

Bibles, Furber said, still disconcerted — holy things.

A pretty picture.

My god, he's maneuvering, Furber thought.

We've one of St. Francis feeding squirrels.

I know.

Lucy said that you'd been out. With the sheriff.

Chamlay's no sheriff.

He has a badge.

Badge. That's a story.

He has some authority.

Furber let it pass. The gosh-boy business was gone. Omensetter was speaking calmly now, but with almost desperate intensity. And he was absolutely still. It was uncanny.

Well he's way in the woods and high in the air. No wonder they never saw him. Nobody'd think to look straight up.

You did.

No I didn't. It was luck. I just happened to. I got a crick in my neck and was working it out.

Omensetter clasped his hands behind his neck and began to roll his head about wildly.

And now his soul's where it serves him. I can't do anything. Furber was knitting his fingers. The whole thing was absurd. He trapped his tongue behind his teeth. Omensetter doesn't notice my puffy eyes. He doesn't notice anything. Long live the pretty speech. Have a seat.

Omensetter riffled a book.

You haven't seen how high he's hung himself. He picked a white oak. It's huge — a hard climb in the cold. I'd like to borrow this. I read sometimes, though not in the winter. The light isn't well for the eyes.

Furber made a low sound of disgust.

He's wearing that gray wool coat with the wide pockets he used to stuff duck shells in. He has his hands down them now, and he's hanging by the belt so his head tilts to the side some when he spins.

Does he seem well rested?

I couldn't tell.

Oh come on — jesus.

Omensetter stared at him.

He turns, you said.

He turns some.

You don't intend to leave him up there?

Ha ha. Boy. Have you got any books on birds?

You do, then.

Sure. But they won't leave him hanging when I've told them where he is and everything. I was a friend of Henry's, so you know — in a way I wish they would. He's up there, Mister Furber. Boy. I had a notion not to say a word and leave him be, but I guess I can't.

My feet are cold, Furber said firmly. We need a fire in woo. I'm cold all over. Somewhere there's a little scuttle—

They'll never find him without a dog, he's hung so high.

Sometimes it gets slid under this stool.

With the wind taking every scent, it took my Arthur time out of mind, plus my wise crick in the neck besides, although Arthur's got the finest kind of tracker's nose.

Sometimes it gets pushed into the corner there.

Maybe they'd have a little luck like mine with the Bencher hound. I don't know.

Or kicked under the bed. I've got a terrible bruise on my toe.

It's bad weather for it, the wind's in your eyes all the time. You know-a fit of pique.

I notice they've been slow to go to dogs — that Chamlay fellow doesn't like them. I just don't know.

Hog Bellman. They remind him, that's why. Say, I want to show you that toe. The nail's black.

Anyway, they'll never think to look so high. He's hung way up. River or field or floor of the woods is all in the world they'll think of.

Ah, here it is — would you think of that — back of this stack of books.

I'd just as soon keep shut.

Let me just poke this up a bit.

You read all them books?

Hum.

After a while, though, that belt will rot or the limb he's hanging from will break.

I thought as much.

I'm surprised he found a branch as high as that to hold him so far out — enough to be above another tree, a little hackberry it is, covered with those witches' brooms. Henry must have had a real desire to die there. I climb easy and that climb near finished me.

Its smoking some. Too bad I've no kindling. Mustn't put on too much. Maybe he farted and flew up.

Furber felt sorry for him. The forceful ends of Omensetter's fingers had left red lines on his face. The corners of his mouth twitched; he blinked; he examined his coat sleeve. Furber had cranked his head around. Now it turned back to the fire. He couldn't have done any better if he'd hit him with the poker.

When I first saw Henry I thought he was a great horned owl.

Damn this Pennsylvania coal.

Furber was squatting in front of the grate. Omensetter leaned down to touch his shoulder.

One day certain, if I leave him there, that bough or that belt will break and he'll come down through the hackberry, branch by branch, and be mostly in bones at the bottom. Who'll know then, for sure, he hung himself up there — beyond anybody else's doing?

In front of Furber: a landscape of coal and ash and faint smoke. You don't touch the minister. His nose needed blowing. What a godforsaken thing this was.

And you've chosen to tell me.

Yes, Omensetter said, I know I have your trust.

The imbecility of this remark was so immense that Furber found it impossible to respond to it. He shook his head and rose. The new coals would not ignite. He held the poker. Maybe he should.

Tell me — what's your idea? Why did Henry turn so strange?

He hung himself a way that suited him.

Oh stop it.

I couldn't safely come to anyone but you.

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.

Do you know very well the words of Jeremiah?

Furber rose as he spoke.

Omensetter shook his head.

I used a text of his for the first sermon I preached in this church.

Omensetter smiled politely. It was hot then.

—

Furber pulled his nightgown about him.

And very dry. We had a terrible fire. Burning trees fell in the river.

—

Furber sighed.

A catastrophe.

What was Henry's reason; do you have any idea?

Omensetter shrugged.

He was happy when I saw him last, Omensetter said. We'd been to the hill and he was resting on a log. I don't know. It was a good day.

Furber smiled.

A good day. Well then no reason.

You'll tell Chamlay?

“Take ye heed every one of his neighbor, and trust ye not in any brother." That's Jeremiah.

Gee.

You'll be cold with just a jacket.

You can convince him? You'll have no trouble?

Shapes were crowding toward Furber's eyes. "For death is come up into our windows…"

Oh, he said, Chamlay? and he waved his hand airily. That will be easy, never fear; it will be easy for me.