Brr-ackett.
Oh? Brackett?
Yes.
Really? Well. I'm happy to know. A thing like that. What, by the way, did his daughter say he was sick of?
She didn't say. Or I don't remember.
She didn't say. That must be it. Your friend, after all. If she had said, you would remember. Too bad. At a time when all hands — except mine, I fancy — were badly needed, eh? unfortunate moment for it. Well illness will. You'd think she might have said. Friend and employer. How did she put it?
… don't remember… upset.
She was upset? Why? Did it seem serious?
No — I–I was upset.
Oh? So you didn't ask.
She didn't say. Not serious.
But not upset herself? Childlike? Gay?
No — not — perhaps, a bit… natural.
At having to lie?
What?
That.
You're crazy—
We're where we began. You should go out. To see him. Friendly interest. I'm quite sane. And in the future—watch.
Furber gathered his collar together across his neck and stepped out into the street. A din.
Do not judge me harshly, Matthew, he said. I work as I can for God.
Shivering, Furber presumed a breeze. A large pale smiling moon.
gull pelican coot kite
Mind, Matthew, he said, turning toward the doorway and Watson's form looming in it, if you notice anything, remember it. The yeast, you know. But don't worry about me. I'm sound.
loris lemur
He struck his chest. Godhead. Balloon. Yeast can be killed.
sparrow, sparrow
He went to tiptoe, releasing his collar, about to continue, when Watson drew the doors in with a squeal and hid himself behind them.
a lion cheetah goose, the cat stork jackal plover
toucan giraffe, bat newt fox
finch lynx that skink
cow hog ass ox
4
Here the ladies and the gentlemen were, bumping through the door, lining up in. his study. Such brazen cheek. Standing in rows — Furber had difficulty, now, remembering who'd been the spokesman or even if there'd been one since like rubber dolls they'd all squeaked — requesting — nod-bobbing — but not exactly begging, not at all respectful — squeezing in his study — nerve, nerve, nerve — they said, while folding elbow into elbow — ah, the brass — that they required from him a more moderate tone.
Here the ladies were and there the gentlemen, very stiff and embarrassed, entering. They nodded vaguely, smiled wanly, looked elsewhere. The ladies first and then the gentlemen — all catty-cornered. Fast old friends, they scarcely knew one another. They ought to be ashamed, it was shameful work, a shameful business, yet they warmed to it — never a great deal — yet they warmed, they warmed enough. A more moderate tone. They were Greeks, were they? these? this stingy beaked crowd? Dorcases maybe. More like. Well this is an honor, ladies. Sorry I can't ask you to be seated. Quite a pleasure, gentlemen, indeed.
The recollection shattered him. He swirled in his room like a storm of snow, striking the wall without feeling. For the Christmas season, for the joyous time, it was their desire that he should put on flesh and a red coat, cry ho ho ho from the pulpit. There would be snow for Christmas and the light sound of bells, and caroleers would gather at the comers of hospitable houses. How he'd had to struggle to hide his surprise and his dismay. For the birthday of the Christ, these words were in their mouths, these words-now. Wet, red, howling, He arrives in the world. We are ready, oh mewling King, they say, for tables of food and newly molded candles and finely burning fires, for red wool stockings and sweet wine and burned beer.
Jesus — may You remember, though so small a God, Your giant father through this time.
The words popped from their rounded cheeks like halfeaten figs while their small eyes roved up and down searching for something unwashed on his person, their jaws revolving slowly on the sounds of moderation Furber turned to hisses in his own mouth now, and their fat moist palms gesturing at their ears to hear no evil, begging him to protect the young at least for the joyous season, season of their Redeemer, their dear Saviour, their sweet Lord. Well it was not his Redeemer; it was not his Saviour or his Lord. He bit his hand in helplessness and anger. Had his ministry been to swine and cattle; had it been to dogs and horses, goats and sheep? Now it seemed it had — or worse — was still to people: to Missus Valient Hatstat, rings glittering across her knuckles, her throat roped with clicking beads; and to Missus Rosa Knox, her flesh straining to be peeked, her cheeks dimpled, hair in knots; and to Missus Gladys Chamlay, parrot-eyed, head cocked, a purple birth smear sloping down her neck; and to Miss Samantha Tott, the doggerel muse — what did her children sing?
Miss Samantha Tott
if she were straightened out
would be found to possess
beneath her dress
as long a crack
as the Erie track
… anyhow, a lover of the Psalms; and to all those others, with their husbands or their brothers, invisible, behind them, making cautious music for the joyous season, for the season of the Lord's delivery — augh! I shall be sick, Furber thought, I'll vomit in a moment, I surely shall — or I shall weep.
His ministry. Out the window the Ohio crept between the trees and a pale sun softened the snow beneath them. He could, he thought, have preached in Cleveland to a congregation from brick houses — to beautiful women on wealth and evil. The rich will pay to have their souls revealed. He could have had tea in the great houses; drank tea poured from sculptured silver pots to porcelain cups as light as flowers. There would have been cloths of linen and plates of cakes and tiny sandwiches arranged in tiers. He would have sat by the window in a deep chair with laughter and wit like a light around him though he was dressed in his deep gown of disaster. There would be silk falling from full bosoms, silk shimmering in the firelight and reflected in the windowpane, and his eyes would fill with the white arms and bare shoulders of women and his nostrils with the delicate fragrances of their powders and perfumes as they fluttered near him whispering. Thirty boys would compose his choir, each richly arrayed. Stained glass would color all the lights and the air would be fused with singing. Well-robed acolytes would serve him as he raised the silver chalice to his lips and blessed its scented wine. Stately they would bear before him down the aisle the cross of burnished silver with Christ wrought beautifully upon it at the moment of His cry. Worshipers when they entered would display the reverent knee and when he mounted to the pulpit he'd lift his eyes and see the dust-filled traceries of light just beneath the dome while his hands ran on rich woods like olive, teak, and ebony. At each step the voices of the choir would rise and swell until he turned, left hand lightly on the massive book, right hand high toward heaven, when they would marvelously burst to silence.