STORIES
William Gass
I WISH YOU WOULDN'T
Mr. Hess said, his hat turning slowly between his knees. His wife lay
sick in a chair, quite silent. Mr. Hess was leaning forward, his weigh ton
his forearms, hat hanging from the pads of his fingers, carpet across his
eyes.
Urn,
he thought. Aah. His wife tipped back in the lounger , rigid
as always, her risen feet in a V. Mr. Hess , however, sagged in contrast,
his whole weight pressing against his thighs above his knees, brown hat
dangling between his trousers. His missus stretched out staring at the
ceiling in order not to see, and he couldn't endure that either. The
canary, or whatever the hell it was , rattled its beak and then
shrieked ... shrieked and rattled its beak. Hess moved his shoes
to
stand inside the florals. The venetian blinds were scratched, though
you couldn't see the scratches in the shade they threw . Their shadows
simply said how crookedly the slats hung. What
to
do? although the
question required no answer , hurrying after itself with furthermore of
itself like a second hand. He had sucked the center from that old
cliche :
andtime lay heavy on his hands.
Dust sank through the light
to
snow his shoes-the air so thick, the fall so fast-while whatever it
was-canary bird , cuckoo-rapped its beak along the bars till Hess
remembered boyhood pleasures too ... with a pang like the smart of a
stick. What? what? what
to
do? Thin tan lines flew parallels inside his
suit no matter how he moved, but his wife could barely stretch herself
about her bones . Mr . Hess was afraid she had cancer-something, at
any rate, lingering and serious. Her skin was a poor color and she was
wasted as an ad for famines . Maybe her mind had been affected by the
