WILLIAM GASS
345
illness, too; that would explain the peculiarities of her behavior.
Change of life, he'd heard , often did them funny . He felt that he
should get her to a doctor. A doctor-he pendulumed his hat-a
doctor , yes, that was his duty. The doctor would report upon her.
Smiling gently, rimless-eyed , he'd write her up as dying. Then he'd
instruct Mr. Hess in the society of symptoms which his wife's disease
had founded. They always turn queer in a case like this, the doctor
would say ; oh they go strange, sometimes very early. We suspect, the
doctor would say-my science does, you understand-that there's a
kind of signal to the future in it. Poor things, he'd say, they 're done for
from the first: an abnormal placenta, don't you see, pressure from a
pelvis that 's too small, or some slight chemical disturbance, sudden
stress , internal turbulence or organ tumble, a quiet slow infection , and
it 's all over: sizz-z-z-z until the air's out ; so don't heavy your head any
further with it, Mr. Hess , don't dent your hair, not even by a hat 's
weight , none of it's your doing, she was born at half eleven in her
life . . . chew this bit of candy here to sweeten up your teeth, possess
yourself in patience . . . death should follow shortly now , though her
soul can only seep away, not fly , it has so little stamina. You've no
young children , I suppose, Hess , have you? and I trust you ' re well
insured. Ha ha , Mr. Hess thought . Ha ha . And he solemnly prayed for
his wife 's demise . Too weary for hate or even malice, he certainly
didn ' t feel ashamed; foreign, rather,
to
remorse or any sorrow. She was
sick enough to be lots better dead. That was a fact, god's truth. Hess
wished her speedy passage
0'
er the great divide as he wished, week–
ends, for green golfing weather. It was reflexive , a wish as mild and
futile as it was heartfelt and desperate, because he ' d given up golf, as
he'd given up bowling. Laid to rest , he'd want the shoveling cere–
mony, please , run through just once again. The disappearance of her
bier beneath the earth was a constant longing like the thirsty for
another dram. His hat dropped softly to the carpet , quashing an edge.
He slid his right arm forward to recover it. Only a doctor , only a
definite " soon she must die ," could give him hope , for his own
heaviness was overcoming him. Every day he hung a little lower on
himself. It grew more difficult
to
rise in the morning, lift himself from
chairs or slide from cars, even stir at all , accomplish stairs or carry any
trifling action to completion , and the blood which fell out of his heart
was siphoned back painfully. But she would never submit herself
to
