Matthew, I lied. Am I not believed as one who strives to tell the truth in everything? He did not say: I am of the dark ways, preacher. He did not use those foolish words. He was merely stricken by my turns of speech and by my mad religious ways. Oh what a meager adversary after all! I could have preached in Cleveland, Matthew — in Cleveland in great cathedrals, in robes so heavy they would weary my arms. But I was fearful and vain of my righteousness, Matthew, fearful for my soul, and I came to Gilean to flee temptation, to put Satan behind me, as they say on Sunday. More terrible theology. Like Henry's in that. With my adversary, the Red Chief, all the time inside me, perched on my liver, feet crossed, meeting with the rest, making his spiel. What sayeth the psalmist? "He sitteth in ambush with the rich in secret to murder the innocent, his eyes are privily set against the poor. He lieth in wait secretly as a lion in his den; he lieth in wait to catch the poor." Poor Henry. Poor Matthew. Poor Janet. So our worthy Jerome also warns us, whose belly wants to be god in Christ's place. As I recall, it was the crotch in auntie's case. If only he could be like Splendid Turner, he thought, who had a soul like a sponge soaked in greed and fornication which Splendid simply squeezed out when he got contrite. In seminary they used to say that Jesus had an upright Peter, but I always said that swearing by that soft apostle made a limp appeal. Whoo-oo-ee. Purple thistles in dizzy rows. He laid his head against the wall, the paper wall, and shut his eyes. Dead to the thistles, the darkness, the golden wood. Musty, cool — the paper wall. If he had an eye at the end of a line and payed it to the bottom of the river, while he stared with his own pair at the sky, what sort of world would his three eyes put together? My eyes comprise… Little pimples of plaster, the weight of his body in his soles, old paper, damp paper, cold tips of finger, cloth cooling at the corners of his shoulders and elbows, vague pale rings against his closed lids…Or an eye like an aggie — rolling to the corner. To spin into illness. No, the soul a balloon. It was how much air you got. A French invention. Montpellier was it? Like the town. And then stirring behind him. And voices. He swung around. Heat rises. The soul swells and sails to heaven. Bye baby bunting. No. It is the corpse which obliges. Firm flesh refines itself to fearful fumes by water. Who was the fellow? Goes off like a cannon. The capture of Paris. A French invention. He was alive to the firelight, to the moving rows of thistles. If I kick my feet and whirl, I shall rise to the ceiling. I should have studied dancing, I move so gracefully sometimes. You're quite a sport, Furls; you can play the picnic on our banjo.
Great and mighty God, who has brought us down to the grave as careless children to the sea, bring us back from there, for now we are afraid, for we have seen our own death in the heavy water, in the sand our toes have squeezed the print of our own end…
Matthew, listen, believe in the Devil. I know you for a man who merely believes in God. Bad theology and careless observation, Matthew. You can believe me, for I have seen him. He and I are on familiar terms. He has a sharp tongue and strange ideas, like myself. We are friends in fact. Men have no other.
The shadows of the lamp were steady but the fire was like dark lace. Their voices were low and intense and filled with surprise; a continual thread of bewilderment and wonder held their words together. You are letting him die, she said, and it seemed to Furber he was hearing something that had been repeated already with an agonizing regularity, like the squeak of the rocker. Omensetter's protests were driven from him. With every word he seemed to wither and diminish. Soon speech would be beyond his strength.
… you are letting him die.
Luce—
You are.
Omensetter swayed rhythmically a moment like a bear.
I am letting him be. I am giving him a chance.
A chance to die, she said in a flat cold bitter voice.
Lucy—
She was wasted too, but like a wire. She had lost the fullness of her pregnancy; her skin was pale and drawn, her bones lay like shadows under it; even her astonishing breasts seemed drained, though with the child not feeding, they should have been swollen painfully.
. . just letting him.
There's no other way.
She rose from the rocker like an angry gesture.
Where is my husband, she said in a whisper.
Then she slid back to the chair. Tick, it said.
Omensetter squatted by her, reaching out.
She brushed at his hands as though they were bugs in her lap.
Luce—
They have forgotten the children as they have forgotten me, Furber thought. He turned toward the girls, and they froze his heart.
How can I know what to do? Fetch Orcutt? Does a hen give her eggs to a weasel?
Let him die, then.
Her fingers flew in her hair.
You'd take more trouble for a cat, she said.
There's nothing anyone can do.
He may have taken death already just from hearing you.
He mustn't.
Musn’t …
We've got to trust my luck.
We've a baby — sick. Isn't that enough? What do people do when their baby's sick? That's all I want — what anyone would want — what you'd have wanted once — nothing strange ornew or put on — just what's ordinary — decent — human. Now I look at you — the way you've been — all set on something I can't understand — so crazy — hunching in your self where I can't feel you — and I think it can't be true — your changes — they just can't be true.
I don't want to change. I'm trying not to.
I thought I knew what I loved.
I want to — I'm trying to do what I've always done—
It's worse — Brackett, will you believe me? — it's worse than losing that poor baby — losing you. But I can't trade the baby for you, can I?
Oh no — no — no trade—
You won't be the same. Is that a trade?
What's this now? I don't want a trade.
What will I do when you're dead too?
Don't talk that way.
This is the son I thought you wanted.
Don't—
We loved each other once. Why don't we feel the same love now — now when we need to? Why must we live in these lonely pieces?
We had it on my luck.
All our life till now is nothing — luck — a raindrop hitting. And our beauty? Brackett, is it a weed, annoying you where it comes up? All our life till now I could live in easy, breathe in easy — swallow easy — loving you. It was as though — as though you'd taken room in me — with that I could be happy. But it was luck, you say, just luck. And when I came to you with my arms before me like a present of flowers? And when I said sweet heart, dear love… do you remember? Never a foolish name. Dear heart, I said, dear love—
Omensetter attempted to throw himself in his wife's lap, but the arm of the rocker prevented him and his head slid onto her chest, while he flung one arm awkwardly around her.
For Henry. You are letting him die because of Henry.
No.
And you are killing me.
I love you.
You are killing them.
Lucy—
All of us.
I love you.
For Henry — is this for Henry? Did you love Henry more to kill him sooner?
Omensetter clumsily reached his feet.
Those men — they suspect you, don't they? I could see it. They hate us. Why?
I am no mur-der-er, Omensetter howled, raising his arms like weapons above his head. I am no mur-der-er! Can't you see? Should I tear away my skin? Would you see inside me then, and see how my life ceases when you speak this way to me?
The daughters stirred, beginning to weep, and Omensetter turned, remembering them. Furber extended his arms, but they careened down the hall, blindly striking the walls as they went like bewildered birds. Furber sank, groaning, to his knees.