Origin of the Brunists

by Robert Coover

  “Come on,” said Cavanaugh to Johnson. “I think it’s better to go.” Robbins was already at the door, his eye on the dog.

  “Aw, it’s all right, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Johnson, rocking placidly. “We still ain’t found out—”

  Wosznik made a lunge at Johnson. Johnson sprang up, cocked his fist, but simultaneously the dog shot off the cot, made for Johnson’s arm. Vince was the fourth one out the door, Georgie Lucci right behind him. Sounds of scuffling behind them, snarling and cursing, table falling, a groan. Johnson stepped out, a grin on his long face. “Shit, that old mutt ain’t got no teeth, boys. Now, don’t you wanna have that talk?”

  “No,” said Cavanaugh bluntly. He was plainly sore. They found the car empty.

  “Jesus, she’s got a long walk home,” said Lucci.

  “In the rain, too,” said Robbins.

  They all stared a moment down the muddy road. They couldn’t see her. “That’s enough for today,” Cavanaugh said.

  When all but he and Robbins had been dropped off, Vince said: “Jesus, I’m sorry about Johnson, Ted. He invited himself, and I didn’t—”

  “I know, Vince,” Ted said. “Those things happen. Let’s just hope Miller doesn’t get wind of it. Forget about it.” But he knew he’d chalked up a negative, and he thought he saw Robbins grin.

  In walked Charlie Saturday afternoon, the eleventh, snapping his fingers, cap tipped so far down his nose he could’ve polished the bill with his tongue, and the door hadn’t even swung shut before he and Vince were into it again. Etta planted herself heftily between them, got Charlie maneuvered into the kitchen for a sandwich. When Vince asked him why he didn’t show up the night before like he’d said he would, all he got from the boy was a wink. A few minutes later, Charlie passed through the living room again, sandwich in hand, tipping his cap, revealing his nearly bald head, and then—snap! snap!—right on out the door.

  “Didn’t stay long, did he?” Vince remarked sourly.

  Etta sat down on the couch, big smile on her face. “Looks funny with that haircut, don’t he?”

  “Haircut can’t change a boy.”

  “Vince, you’re too hard on him. He’s a good boy.” Etta sat pleased and plump. She sighed. “I guess he’ll be a big man on the town tonight.”

  Vince saw it was silly to carp. Anyway, it was good in a way to have Charlie home. Livened up the house. He wished the other kids would come home more often. Lots of room for them now. Grandkids and all.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Jesus, he’s in trouble already!” said Vince, getting up, stuffing his feet back into the shoes.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Vincent Bonali?” asked the boy at the door. Holding a goddamn bouquet of flowers big as he was.

  “Well, yeah, that’s right,” said Vince.

  “Well, Happy Easter, Mr. Bonali!” the kid said with a big smile, and handed him the flowers.

  “What is it, Vince?” asked Etta from the living room.

  “Jesus, I don’t know!” said Vince. He lugged the bouquet into the living room. “Somebody sent us this!”

  “Oh my God!” cried Etta, jumping up. “It’s beautiful!” She came hurrying over, but she seemed almost afraid to touch it. “Does it have a card or anything?”

  Vince fumbled around the stems, found a little white envelope. “Yeah, just a minute.” Fingers unsteady. The thing had really bowled him over. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Who—?”

  “‘To the Vince Bonalis, Happy Easter! Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Cavanaugh and family.’ Wow! Whaddaya think about that!”

  Etta, speechless, took the card from him and read it. “I can’t hardly get my breath!” she said. “Why, it must’ve cost a fortune! But, but where can we put it?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. May have to build a new house just to have room for the damn thing!” Really, it was too great, it was a great thing to do! “There, let’s clear off that end table, it’s big enough, I think.”

  When Angie came home an hour later, they still hadn’t got used to the thing, still kept fiddling with it, staring at it, putting the card one place or another, walking around it. She started to tell them she’d just seen Charlie, then stopped short: “Good golly, where did you get that!”

  Vince shrugged. “The Cavanaughs,” he said as casually as he could, though he felt like a goddamn blimp in his pride.

  “Really?” Angie was tremendously impressed. “Gosh, Mom, Dad’s really getting important, isn’t he?”

  “Say, Vince, that’s some damn forest there!”

  “Yeah, well, I told Ted he didn’t need to go to so much trouble this year, just a few samples off the shelves down at his store would do fine, but I guess he didn’t hear me.”

  Greatest Easter of all time.

  Angie and Etta passed round the coffee and sweet rolls, some thirty or forty people milling through the old house. Place looked shipshape, too. Etta had worked hard getting it ready for Charlie. Outside, the front was brightly painted and grass was poking up. Vince caught Angie’s eye, winked at her. He felt very damned proud of her. This after-Mass breakfast had been her idea.

  “Ready for the Second Coming, Vince? Just got seven more days, you know.”

  “Now, you know I’m always ready, Joe. But me and Georgie here, we’ve talked it over, and we’ve decided not to hold it for a little while longer yet. Still too many of you sinners around.”

  Vince had really enjoyed church this morning. First time he had really felt one hundred percent at home since he’d started going back regularly. Even Charlie had consented to come along, remarking in his fashion that it was a good place to search out skirts. He’d made a big splash, too, polished and shined to a spit, and Vince saw that the Marines had been good for the boy, had slapped his burgeoning beergut back flat again and given him a new stature. Angie, full of ideas, had made a cutting from the bouquet and fashioned corsages for Etta and herself, and then, just before Mass, all excited over her project, had gone along with Vince to buy the sweet rolls and to borrow an extra percolator from the Ferreros.

  Mass itself had been something extraordinarily beautiful, he’d forgotten it could give a man so much pleasure, so much peace. His conscience completely clean, he had entered into this day of Christ’s Rising with unchecked enthusiasm. Afterwards, Father Baglione had singled him out and, in front of everybody, had thanked him for his recent good works. His thick strong hand on Vince’s shoulder, he had looked up with dark searching eyes. “Dio vi benedica, Vincenzo,” he had said gravely. A wonderful old man.

  “Mr. Bonali, we think it is an excellent fine thing you are doing with this, how you call, Common Sense Club.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Abruzzi. I really appreciate your support.”

  Etta moved with surprising grace among the people. She never failed to have something to say, and folks even seemed to seek her out. Cavanaugh was right. She was a great woman.

  “Where’s Charlie? Didn’t I see him at Mass this morning?”

  “Yeah, but the experience was too much for him. He was afraid he might get his halo bent around such a big crowd.”

  “How’s he getting along in the Marines?”

  “All they were able to do to Charlie was shave his head, but after Charlie the Marine Corps will never be the same again.”

  A big turkey was roasting in the oven in Charlie’s honor, stuffed with apple dressing. Whipped potatoes, turkey gravy, hot rolls, big green salad. A man had to arrange his life, by God, so that no matter how great the present was, there was always something better sitting out just in front.

  “Thanks for having us over, Vince. Nice idea!”

  “Don’t think a thing of it, Dom. Collection plate’s there beside the door.”

  It wasn’t until after two that the last of the stragglers pulled out. “Man, that was some breakfast,” said Vince. “I thought I was gonna have to invite them to stay overnight.” He kissed Etta’s cheek. “Charlie here?”

  “Not yet,” s
he said. “I told him about two or so.”

  “You said noon. Well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s his tough luck. What do you say, Angie?”

  “Second.”

  “There, baby, you’re outvoted.”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes yet anyway. I’ve still got to mash the potatoes and put the rolls in the oven to heat.”

  Angie settled down on the floor to read the funnies from the city paper, while Vince thumbed through the sports section, glanced at the news headlines. Angie had nice legs. Lot of action in that blouse, too. She’d do all right. She was a great girl. Vince noticed a small boxed-in article at the bottom of the front page on the Brunists. Made them out to be a lot more than they were. Well, let them come and see for themselves. When they find out how Miller has been hoaxing them, maybe they’ll string the bastard up.

  At three, Etta came in looking down in the mouth. “I’m afraid it’s all going to spoil,” she said.

  “Well, hell, chicken, let’s eat without him.”

  “That’s what I say,” said Angie.

  Etta stalled. “Just a couple more minutes,” she pleaded.

  Vince stood up, put his arm around her. “Come on, Mrs. Bonali, I’m starved. If we don’t start now, I’ll have to eat those flowers. It will still be good when that boy gets here, no sense ruining this banquet for all of us.”

  Reluctantly, she let herself be led along to the table. It was all decked out with candles and fancy napkins and the best table linen. A little American flag in the middle. The front door opened. “There he is!” they all cried at once.

  “Charlie! that you?” called Vince.

  “Yeah!”

  “Come on! You’re late for dinner!”

  Charlie appeared in the doorway. “Jeez, I can’t stay. Got a date with a very fine number, a real pro-test-ant type. Man! Just whack me off a hunk of that bird, Mom, and stick it between two pieces of bread.” He turned, humming, snapping his goddamn fingers, and went into the bathroom.

  She’s going to cry, thought Vince. Goddamn that little shit. Etta picked up the carving knife, sliced a thick slab of breast off the turkey, carried it to the kitchen. “Mayonnaise, Charlie?” she called, voice constricted, trying to hold up.

  Vince shoved back his chair. Time to meet that boy head on. At the bathroom door, he lifted his hand to knock, then decided just to barge in. Charlie was sitting on the can, still wearing that goddamn cap tipped down on his nose. “Charlie, you get in there and you have dinner with us!”

  “Jesus, old man, c’mon! Can’t you see I’m taking a crap?”

  “I don’t give a damn what you’re taking!” cried Vince. He tried to swallow down his fury. “Now, you look! Your Mom fixed a special meal today, just for you, boy, she’s been planning it for two weeks, and I’m going to see to it that you eat it, you hear?”

  “Look, at least close the door, hunh?”

  “Now, when you’re done, you get coming!”

  Charlie unwound a big wad of toilet paper off the spool. “Okay, okay,” he grumbled, “only just let me wipe my ass in peace, okay?”

  In the kitchen, Vince found Etta spreading mayonnaise on a slice of bread. “Now, you put that away, damn it! That boy’s gonna have dinner with us today, or, so help me God, he ain’t never gonna step foot in my house again as long as I live!”

  “Please, Vince. Don’t shout.” She was already starting. Big wet tear rolling down her round cheek.

  “Well, okay,” he said, feeling clumsy and hurt and angry all at once. “But I mean it.” Angie stood in the doorway, her face pale, her lip turned down. “Now, don’t you start, too,” said Vince. The front door slammed. Vince ended up eating Easter dinner alone.

  6

  Who? Jones, Duncan, Fisher.

  Poker game.

  Day of the Bunny and the Risen Son.

  Legion Hall, over the Woolworth.

  Nothing else to do till traintime.

  How? hmmm. Inebriatus. With large coins. Very large coins. But not large enough, no. And with very limber preadamite pasteboards. Jones with four of the prettiest boys in his hand he has seen all night.

  “This place is deader than my hotel,” observes Wallace the red-eyed Fish, he of the shiny pate and pink dewlaps. “Where is everybody?”

  “Must be Sunday,” responds Dune the droop. “Raise ye three.”

  “So it is,” Jones informs them, consulting his timepiece. “Five of the clock.”

  “Aha,” says Wally wagging head wisely. “Morning or evening?”

  “Make it five, then,” ups the looselimbed Duncan, shoving two coins additional into the pot with his elbow. “Of the cock.”

  Fisher squints through blooded orbs as Jones meets five, raises five. “Fuck you, dear Father!” he declares parsimoniously and folds. “It is finished!”

  “You are risen,” Jones reminds the remaining bettor.

  Coke calls.

  “Four infant jesi,” announces Jones the eternally damned, spreading his jacks with ritual flourish. “Read ’em and lament!” Rakes in the gold and silver as Coca Dunca blasphemes beneath breath.

  Jones deals, Dune reels, Fish spiels: “I thirst.”

  Jones passes jug, coolly faces five: two Negroid damsels, the anus of spades, and a twosome of nondescripts. It is then he, Jones, who advances three pieces of silver, and it is they, Duncan and Fisher, who, emitting bodily threats, respond in kind.

  Further negotiations are momentarily interrupted by the pitter-patter of boots on the stair.

  “Hark!” soundeth Jones. “One comes!”

  “Get some more money in this fucking game,” smirks Fish, spreading cruel innkeeper’s lips in undisguised avarice.

  Indeed, such is the case: it is the jester Chester Johnson with ready if not ample funds. “By God!” he cackles. “I thought I seen a light on up here!” He is welcomed with tripartite joy: one rumbling belch apiece. “How many days you guys been up here?”

  “Yea, unto forty-two generations,” returns Jones and, retiring the two nondescripts from further participation, prepares to offer seconds. Of the which, Dune reluctantly accepts an individual, whilst Walleye petitions with desperation for four.

  John’s chestless son, stirring the straw on knobby skull, lifts from the fundament two empty flagons bearing birds sinister, then two more, scrutinizes with beady balls. “Man! you guys done put it away!” is his typically superfluous commentary. Bald Fish produces a fifth fifth still vivifiable. This he straightarms into lean eager face, the which releases: “Well, by damn now! Whose party?” Jones nonchalantly slides four coins forward, covering the misfortune of two new nondescripts.

  “Lou’s,” reveals the multiloquent hotelier, meeting the challenge of four.

  “His last night in town. Wants some spendin’ money to take with him up to the big city,” is the more complex revelation of Cokedunk the old minero, and likewise replies with four, adds three.

  “Hey, no shit, Lou baby? You all buggin’ out on us?” interrogates Johnson, and tips bottle greedily in apparent fear of an immediate exodus.

  “The eight thirty-five,” says Jones, meets three, farts, raises four. “Passage is procured. It is a matter now of history.”

  “Aw, shit, I ain’t got nothing,” Fisher the flushed and fleshy affirms and fades.

  Dune eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Jones, eyes cards, eyes Johnson slaking interminable thirst, eyes own terminable funds. “I gotta piss,” he trows and cedes. Jones gathers.

  “Tonight! Well, what the hell, Jonesy? You git a offer summers or somethin’?”

  “Cheese, old comrade, I have been fired.”

  “Fired!”

  “Fired. Dismissed. Bounced. Cashiered. Exiled. In brief, this is farewell. Summarily, I have been passed the shaft.”

  Fisher flings five to each while curses are laid upon the head of Just-in Miller. Jones discovers two hoary old studs and a pair of sevens, promising, if not the end, at least an in. They wait. Duncan, however, returns not. Che
ster, still motile, investigates. “He’s sawin’ ’em off on the crapper” is his not overly voluminous report, and once again they are three.

  Hands pass.

  Fog descends.

  Gains are lost.

  Heads weigh and sag.

  “Hey, Lou baby,” reaches Jones from afar the seedy voice, “I ain’t anxious to see ye cut out, man, but it’s eight-thirty.”

  Jones, with incredible fortitude, stands. Straight proceeds he unto the crapper, deposes the Duncan, and employs the venerable instrument. Returns.

  “Say, listen, Fish, let’s us see old Jonesy off, whaddaya say?” It is the irrepressible Johnson, as usual, talking.

  Fish, bleary, seeks Johnson’s face, nods, and “Great idea!” cries before collapsing backwards to the floor.

  “Well, Jonesy,” Johnson concludes, “it’s you and me.”

  “Never, my friend, have the prospects been more cheering.”

  Concludes, of course, is imprecise. That lean sonuvabitch never concludes. Unto the frugging station he without cease declaims. He has employed Good Friedegg in visitation upon the Brunuts and must intricately reveal the data of his consequent sainthood. “You’re leavin’ this fuckin’ town jist in time, Jonesy. It’s the goddamn end a the world in jist seven days.”

  “West Condom, Cheese, is not the world.”

  Soggy and lumped stand Jones and Johnson afoot the termite-crudded platform, awaiting Old Destiny. She arrives with a wheeze and a blackgrease groan at 9:17.

  Jones boards her, as Johnson fades in a chorus of effusive well-meaning obscenities. “We’ll git ol’ Tiger for ye, Jonesy!” is the last he hears. The old girl leaps forward with a jolt, topples Jones over possessions. Fat conductor splits worthless goddamn sides in contemplation of the Fall. Jones recovers, shoves bill into laughingbuck’s quaking midriff, “Just plant those bags somewhere,” he belches, “and cram it.” Then, briefcase under arm, he lurches, pissed, to club car.

  Jones alone.

  Meditation.

  Festival still of the goddess Eastre, last year of our Lord.

  Destiny’s club car.