William H. Gass [Gass - In the Heart of the Heart of the Country

WILLIAM H. GASS (b. 1924) is an essayist, novelist, and literary critic. He grew up in Ohio and is a former professor of philosophy at Washington University. Among his books are six works of fiction and nine books of nonfiction, including On Being Blue (1976; published as an NYRB Classic), Tests of Time (2002), A Temple of Texts (2006), and Life Sentences (2012). Gass lives with his wife, the architect Mary Gass, in St. Louis.

JOANNA SCOTT s most recent novel is De Potters Grand Tour. Her other books include the novels Arrogance, The Manikin, and Follow Me and the story collections Various Antidotes and Everybody Loves Somebody.

I

Big Hans yelled, so I came out. The barn was dark, but the sun burned on the snow. Hans was carrying something from the crib. I yelled, but Big Hans didnt hear. He was in the house with what he had before I reached the steps.

It was the Pedersen kid. Hans had put the kid on the kitchen table like you would a ham and started the kettle. He wasnt saying anything. I guess he figured one yell from the crib was enough noise. Ma was fumbling with the kids clothes which were stiff with ice. She made a sound like whew from every breath. The kettle filled and Hans said,

Get some snow and call your pa.

Why?

Get some snow.

I took the big pail from under the sink and the shovel by the stove. I tried not to hurry and nobody said anything. There was a drift over the edge of the porch so I spaded some out of that. When I brought the pail in, Hans said,

Theres coal dust in that. Get more.

A little coal wont hurt.

Get more.

Coals warming.

Its not enough. Shut your mouth and get your pa.

Ma had rolled out some dough on the table where Hans had dropped the Pedersen kid like a filling. Most of the kids clothes were on the floor where they were going to make a puddle. Hans began rubbing snow on the kids face. Ma stopped trying to pull his things off and simply stood by the table with her hands held away from her as if they were wet, staring first at Big Hans and then at the kid.

Get.

Why?

I told you.

Its Pa I mean

I know what you mean. Get.

I found a cardboard box that condensed milk had come in and I shoveled it full of snow. It was too small as I figured it would be. I found another with rags and an old sponge I threw out. Campbells soup. I filled it too, using the rest of the drift. Snow would melt through the bottom of the boxes but that was all right with me. By now the kid was naked. I was satisfied mine was bigger.

Looks like a sick shoat.

Shut up and get your pa.

Hes asleep.

Yeah.

He dont like to get waked.

I know that. Dont I know that as good as you? Get him.

What goodll he be?

Were going to need his whiskey.

He can fix that need all right. Hes good for fixing the crack in his face. If it aint all gone.

The kettle was whistling.

What are we going to do with these? ma said.

Wait, Hed. Now I want you to get. Im tired of talking. Get, you hear?

What are we going to do with them? Theyre all wet, she said.

I went to wake the old man. He didnt like being roused. It was too hard and far to come, the sleep he was in. He didnt give a damn about the Pedersen kid, any more than I did. Pedersens kid was just a kid. He didnt carry any weight. Not like I did. And the old man would be mad, unable to see, coming that way from where he was asleep. I decided I hated Big Hans, though this was hardly something new for me. I hated Big Hans just then because I was thinking how Pas eyes would blink at meas if I were the sun off the snow and burning to blind him. His eyes were old and theyd never seen well, but shone on by whiskey theyd glare at my noise, growing red and raising up his rage. I decided I hated the Pedersen kid too, dying in our kitchen while I was away where I couldnt watch, dying just to pleasure Hans and making me go up snapping steps and down a drafty hall, Pa lumped under the covers at the end like dung covered with snow, snoring and whistling. Oh hed not care about the Pedersen kid. Hed not care about getting waked so he could give up some of his liquor to a slit of a kid and maybe lose one of his hiding places in the bargain. That would make him mad enough if he was sober. I tried not to hurry though it was cold and the Pedersen kid was in the kitchen.

He was all shoveled up like I thought hed be. I shoved at his shoulder, calling his name. I think he heard his name. His name stopped the snoring, but he didnt move except to roll a little when I shoved him. The covers slid down his skinny neck so I saw his head, fuzzed like a dandelion gone to seed, but his face was turned to the wallthere was the pale shadow of his nose on the plaster and I thought: well you dont look much like a pig-drunk bully now. I couldnt be sure he was still asleep. He was a cagey sonofabitch. Hed heard his name. I shook him a little harder and made some noise. Pap-pap-pap-hey, I said.

I was leaning too far over. I knew better. He always slept close to the wall so you had to lean to reach him. Oh he was smart. It put you off. I knew better but I was thinking of the Pedersen kid mother-naked in all that dough. When his arm came up I ducked away but it caught me on the side of the neck, watering my eyes, and I backed off to cough. Pa was on his side, looking at me, his eyes winking, the hand that had hit me a fist in the pillow.

Get the hell out of here.

I didnt say anythingmy throat wasnt clearbut I watched him. He was like a mean horse to come at from the rear. It was better, though, hed hit me. He was bitter when he missed.

Get the hell out of here.

Big Hans sent me. He told me to wake you.

A fat turd to Big Hans. Get out of here.

He found the Pedersen kid by the crib.

Get the hell out.

Pa pulled at the covers. He was tasting his mouth.

The kids froze like a pump. Hans is rubbing him with snow. Hes got him in the kitchen.

Pedersen?

No, Pa. Its the Pedersen kid. The kid.

Nothing to steal from the crib.

Not stealing, Pa. He was just lying there. Hans found him froze. Thats where he was when Hans found him.

Pa laughed.

I aint hid nothing in the crib.

You dont understand, Pa. The Pedersen kid. The kid

I shittin well understand.

Pa had his head up, glaring, his teeth gnawing at the place where hed grown a mustache once.

I shittin well understand. You know I dont want to see Pedersen. That cock. Why should I? That fairy farmer. What did he come for, hey? God dammit, get. And dont come back. Find out some shittin something. Youre a fool. Both you and Hans. Pedersen. That cock. That fairy farmer. Dont come back. Out. Shit. Out. Out out.

He was shouting and breathing hard and closing his fist on the pillow. He had long black hairs on his wrist. They curled around the cuff of his nightshirt.

Big Hans made me come. Big Hans said

A fat turd to Big Hans. Hes an even bigger turd than you. Fat, too, fool, hey? I taught him, dammit, and Ill teach you. Out. You want me to drop my pot?

He was about to get up so I got out, slamming the door. He was beginning to see he was too mad to sleep. Then he threw things. Once he went after Hans and dumped his pot over the banister. Pad been shit-sick in that pot. Hans got an ax. He didnt even bother to wipe himself off and he chopped part of Pas door down before he stopped. He might not have gone that far if Pa hadnt been locked in laughing fit to shake the house. That pot put Pa in an awful good humorwhenever he thought of it. I always felt the thought was present in both of them, stirring in their chests like a laugh or a growl, as eager as an animal to be out. I heard Pa cursing all the way downstairs.