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.