Waiting, his hands resting lightly on the back of his chair, his head alert to tip, what would he say about the food the good Lord of the ladies had provided? Benedictus benedicat Pro Christum Dominum Jesus Nostrum. No loaves, no fishes. Just covered dishes. Let thy grace lighten the potatoes but relieve us of the beans. Devil take them. No damp cast-uponwater bread either. After all, he was the water in this case. May this food form an image of the twin ends of our lives; may it be as peaceful and resigned on parting as it's noxious and rebellious starting. Is all in order? ready to begin? shall I bow now? I've come home to rolls and biscuits, mom, to hugs of butter and kisses of berry. Stay off foot washing and all blood and body. Cath-all-oh-cizz-zum. Love's no sort of food though hate's a tasty nettle. Love your mother? have another. His hosts intended to sit on either side of him, apparently. His hosts… What would the point of it be? How would it be taken? Would it be a cut the town would talk about for years? or was it simply unrestrained conceit? black spite? mere honest gaucherie? Kick your bruvver in his muvver. Envy somewhere. Malice. Greed. That's the way we… love our bay-bee. Fit of pique. Rely. The Husband of his Harpist in the Holy House was here, holding on his head and shoulders the head and face of some small mammal Furber couldn't place; heavily cinched about the waist, no bones in his hands; oh yes, there was the fellow with crêpe over his eyes, the one who had the face of a man, as the books of magical secrets say, destined to die by drowning. That made two of them he knew. The Totts were two. Numbering is knowing. Bless these bounteous provisions. In an unctuous bishop's voice. It was Christ's own blood he was blushing. No doubt he'd get the blame for being in between them. Better to cry: I see shit in the soup, turds in the cream; be honest and be out of it — free. Study their faces for a moment. Enjoy the revelation of the word. Yes. Joy. Then smoothly pass the portals and away. But no, god no, flatter like the coward, chew weeds. Moistened by his tongue, his words crossed the burning linen safely. Sparrowing the corner of the table he clenched Samantha's chair, but he heard wingbeats behind him, by god, as the other Tott flew swiftly to seize his. Devil boil his pee. Samantha bent poorly; he bumped the back of her legs. Not an old woman but an old woman. Then it became necessary to rejoin Master Tott. Furber was trembling with maledictions but there was a smile on the greengrocer's face. It was the face of a… disciple. Smile matched smile… shared flame… dead heat. Well for christ's sake are the legs stuck? He grasped the seat and jerked the chair forward. Sunny grin and pleasant murmur. Honey bees. Storm of curses. Reluctant to touch the hot cloth, his hands hid in his lap; the raw melon waited his spoon. My toes are dry though it rains in my heart. That's the tune, all right. My shoes are shined though… The fellow was still scraping and squirming. Was he the hallfoot shuffler? Praise be, at last he's comfy… the sole's come apart. Or has it come in holes? where's the rhyme go? Damn. Dum dee. Dum dee. Lord save us, he's clearing his throat. Empty, useless curses. A scalding stream or there's no god. How'd it go? my pants are pressed, my shirt is clean? There's nothing like the old songs, but what's the good if you can't remember them. Mem. Mem. Memory.
Pike, the bearded beaver-skin prophet, scalps of the lost modestly shading his privy members, tiptoed savage-like from vale to glade, hatchet and Bible his only weapons though he held love in his teeth like a dagger, and he brought Jesus to the Indians of the Ohio country so that on Sundays they collected at the cabin Pike had built on the brow of a low hill which quietly sloped to the river close by a clearing where he'd previously set up a cross cut of saplings and a Christ formed of clay, and there the Indians, axes holstered in the earth, their loincloths dragging, knelt to pray by wringing their hands and groaning, eventually receiving a few brightly colored beads before they went away.
Reverence really. He gazed on the steaming plain… the smoke of heavy industry: meats, beans, taters… O despair. Devil take those seeds. Let them have rebirth in other bodies. Their spirits seek too swift release, all out of season and intemperate. Haunt others. Off. There were some nice pieces spotted here and there, some lovely brown birds on an ironstone pitcher. A breeze in the foliage, their heads erect, perhaps they felt the well water through the glaze. Their beaks were in line and they seemed to be actually in sight of one another. Mrs. Tightsqueeze was eyeing him. What if my thoughts spilled out, madame, what would you do? ah, what if yours did? Her dress held her fiercely braced. A regular full-bellied tumbletit, aren't you? fat of love. Oops … ah … caught. Is that mustard on the tablecloth? No ma'am, I spilled some thinking. To be a bird at the edge of the pond like these… a sweet cool breeze… the pebbles would moisten my toes… so much at ease. They've twiggy feet, and ironstone birds have no mites in their feathers. Instead I have this windy comedian beside me, and Miss Samantha getting dark. Hell's the tip of an inverted steeple. The lift's descending. Call it Furber's Fiddling Finger. Call it The Gilean Bum Hoist. Here I am and I am innocent. Butt me Billy, Billy Butter, bang me like a windy shutter. What kind of pleasure from her bony lover? Damn, what's her name? Na, na… Knox. By covertly scratching her underarm not far from the pit she caused the cantaloupe still on her spoon to roll so severely Furber feared an accident like his own. Someone said how elegant — what was? what? — while Miss Tott, sitting straight as her stoop would let her, dipped her utensil down and then away like the bucket of a ferris wheel, bracelet meanwhile shaking. A salad of canned peas and bits of cheese. Innocence no antidote. That emperor's name? he was a sixth but not the one who preferred the windup metal singing bird. Poisoned himself by bits and by degrees. Furber's gaze slipped by the tip of — how to remember it — Mrs. Knox's nose and leaped her pearly ear and swam into the space behind her. There were dogs on the wall, rusty setters smiling graciously, dead pheasants, several quail, lurching fences. Brought from abroad at conspicuous expense. English country-house and English horses. Furber discovered he hated the British. Was that a chewed on fox?… a copse of yellow furze. Oh yes I have various plans for the church. In the event… THAT… it becomes necessary… TO… BUT … far too soon to say… WHAT. Some sort of dry pod mounted on a stick spoke from the distant end. And Tott would never stop. He'd never stop. Never never never. The Chinese water torture. Dribble of reddish fruit juice on the chin of the speckled person… now she's dabbing. Young, yet ancient like his sister, he was a button collector already, a museum director, a digger of dry earth, a peeler of print from old paper, feeder upon the past, despoiler of the slain, bugger of corpses. Save oh save. Preserve. Oh redigest. And here's one that fell from the fly of Prince Albert once when bored, uncomfortable, he crossed his legs too closely at a musicale. Note the coat of arms embossed. That milkweed woman was shouting something, seeds were winding from her mouth, heads were turning, all but mine, we are in line like birds, I'm smiling, see, I understand, she nods, she understands, spoons clash, head swing to mine, I'll drop my eyes, dear god, more words and more replies. Somewhere his baby shoes are nailed to a wall, ticket attached. Ask attendant for the story. That fleshy Knox female… thoroughly middle-aged, not otherwise so huge, rather rosy-cheeked though it looks like tucks have been taken in her chin… the kind of breasts to lay a cock between. Rad he seen her husband? was he one of those in Cleveland? local chief? Try one of these, you dirty old man. God I am. Don't say old, though, it smacks of affection. You were wheezing on the station stairs. Ran to see the blue sky sickened by' the grime. If I were only a piece of cheese, I could dissove in her mouth. There it was, smearily between the trees, t:-be teetery tent-top, flying flags. Heartsfallen, I crept down — the stairs. Slink now if you like but on the bottom look buoyant. Remember, you've just been relieved. They'd fold nicely over. Rolypoly puddings. Sweet cool cream. Yes, I felt the same when Mrs. Kinsman showed me her knee. Nine operations she said. My Harpist is speaking. Indeed. Indeed. Brazenly she drew up her skirt. But how cowardly are the clergy. Nevertheless I ran my finger down a scar and nearly burst. Does it still hurt? Ah what a liar. Keep your eye on the aerial horses. And the dogs whose mouths have broken open. There goes my plate. It's been terribly hot in Cleveland. Dry. Well we've — ,the lake. And you've the river. Dry. Yes, ma'am. Dry. Like lava. Yes ma'am, indeed. Like lead in the sunlight. Yes indeed. A Prussian helmet's head. Like the river Styx. Oh like… Oh very like… they'll find us in our pederastic postures like Pompeii. Somebody called him Henry just now? who? Millicent? The milkweed virgin? Naming is knowing. I can see from here she's got bad teeth. They've a coon clearing, who's he? Madame, do you know the old tune: Golly Molly' Life is Jolly in Your Bawdy House? Her naked knee. Nicest thing about whores would be their willing suspension of taste. Samantha's sizzling sin house. Oh there's always room for improvement. Isn't there though. In all of us? Eh? Oh — room. I said there was room, said room said rrrrrooo………. ooooooooo……… oommmm. Benches would be pleasant facing the river. Shaded resting places. Comfy-dumfy. With this swelling I'll never dare rise. Kinsman's come over me. Concentrate on the panting setters. There's doubtless a town pig, the Gilean whore, outcast on the outskirts, one who's lost her way, has had hard use, now only narrowly superior to sheep, who might just welcome a regenerating screw. I'll pray for you if you'll lay for me under the green bay tree. My god Furber, you — you're brave.