WILLIAM GASS
347
hanging there, nailed; but Mr. Hess had no head for searches, he could
scarcely find his slippers , answers were out of the question , as his wife
said sometimes, no, only these same wonderments circled through
him , wooden in their wheeling as a roundabout. I've got to slow down,
Mr. Hess thought . He ran along paths in the carpet, in the tan, around
the rums of leaves and flowers . She hasn't enough blood in the narrow
channels of her flesh to pink a tear, while mine is like sand in a sand–
clock, almost wholly in my head-thick , moist, flushed, hot-or in my
feet-heavy , old, cold, quiet-awaiting the tipsy-rurvy to trickle out,
thus I alternate a lot , don't
I?
she's not the only one whose spirit's like
electric current , but alas I've none of the instant capacity of wires.
Hang in there , anyhow , Hess . Hang in. But she was having her weirds
now , the stiffish kind, and he wished she wouldn't. He could hit her
again , of coutse . He could always do that. Instead he groaned and tried
to
spin his hat upon his finger. She was ill. She was dying. So he hoped.
But she didn't have to tell fortunes. She didn't have to sit in the
kitchen with the cards spread out, absorbed by the tale they were
telling , bad news for Edgar, when he came home . She didn't have to
leave the house
to
squat on the front step , in the drive, where he would
find her making noises like a key-wound engine. Nor did she have to
disgrace his needs, throwing up her skirt quite suddenly to leave him
thunderstruck . I'll be needing lawyers, if!' m not careful. Not so heavy
with the fall of the fists, Hess , hey? he cautioned himself. No so quick
with the kick. When the jury learns what you've been through, Mr.
Hess, don ' t worry , they will give you sympathy; they'll put her beaten
body behind bars; they'll hiss when she is carried through the court .
You 've heard of the victimless crime , Hess , haven ' t you? Well, there
are crimeless victims , too . You're one of them-one of those. What 's a
paltry kick compared to the piteous smiles she's inflicted on you, the
looks thrown heavenward with such aboriginal skill and cunning with
curves they stone down later in yout living room the whole naked
length of a sofa-soft Sunday afternoon , passing through the shield of
the Sunday paper , bruising yout eyes ; or the little whimpering moues
which cower in the corner of her mouth , how about those? the glances
which scuttle away like bugs to the baseboard to wait the night, all the
tiny gnawing things she keeps about her: frightened knees and
elbows , two flabs of breast with timorous nips , disjointed nose , latched
eyes ?There are laws against that , Mr. Hess , unwritten laws, the laws of
