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.