The Brunist Day of Wrath: A Novel

by Coover, Robert

  “I can’t, Billy Don. I’ve promised a friend I’d go for a ride with her this afternoon. But let’s meet up later. It’ll be light until nearly midnight. My folks are going out with friends and have given me the car and supper money, so instead of ice cream, we can go share a pizza or something.”

  “Well, I’ll have to miss the evening prayer meeting, but sure, why the heck not?”

  “Okay. Tucker City, in front of the drugstore at eight. Got that hole dug for your prophet?”

  “Yup. Two weeks tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like a crazy party. I may put on a party hat and sneak in.”

  “Well, huh, I wouldn’t…”

  “Yes, we heard from the governor, and I suppose we can do this, if proper precautions are taken. But, well, we, ah, treated him surgically to ease his anxieties, Mr. Cavanaugh. The patient won’t give you any trouble, but he may not be of much use to you…”

  When Debra opens up the garden shed, she notices that things have been moved around again, but the lock wasn’t broken and nothing seems to be missing. Hazel Dunlevy, who sometimes helps out, has the only other key, so when she turns up, still looking half asleep, Debra tells her about what she found and asks if she saw anyone going in or out. “No, that was probly me,” Hazel says, yawning. “I was jist only tryin’ to ease the wheelbarra out.” Hazel doesn’t do much work, but she’s good to Colin. He shows her his hands every day, and Hazel, with her dreamy freckle-faced smile, tells him something a little different each time. She likes to say that the way the lines cross in his palms is not like other people’s, meaning that he will always have a life different from theirs, and certainly that is true and does not need a palm reader to prophesy it.

  It’s a lovely day, perfect for the year’s longest, and her garden is overflowing, all their hard work of the spring now coming, literally, to fruition; but her spirits are not lifted by it. She awoke somewhat tearfully, and she is at the edge of tears still. She tries not to think about it, taking every moment as it arrives, but they could come after her, she knows, at any time. She has followed Christ’s urgent command to the letter and she is about to be punished for it. Her friends here at the camp could not be more supportive, but they, like she, are mostly penniless and living by a different law from that of the world around them. That world, finding such earnest holiness impermissible, would punish them all if it could.

  Mr. Suggs has warned her that if the Board of Deacons brings a suit against her and her husband for misappropriation of church funds, he would be happy to pay for her defense, but he did not think they could win. As an alternative, he offered her a flight to any destination of her choice, and enough to live on for a month or two. And she’s ready to leave—the camp’s not the same anymore, not since what happened to poor Elaine. She loved the time without phones or barbed-wire fences, without electricity, the deep woodsy nights unspoiled by artificial light, nothing to be heard but the owls and crickets, and all that is over, it’s time to go. But when she asked, he did not offer money for Colin and she could never leave without him. And now it’s too late. Mr. Suggs is no longer able to be of help to anyone.

  She believes she could face this ordeal with a peaceful mind were it not for Colin. A few minutes ago he brought her a little bouquet of marigolds and oxeye daisies from the field bordering the garden, gazing up at her sweetly from under his funny straw hat, and she had to stop herself from wrapping him, weeping, in her arms; she wiped the tear that did escape and smiled, though she knew her lip was trembling, and told him they were beautiful and she loved him very much. And now what will happen to him when they take her away? Can he even survive without her? Having given herself to Christ, she would now willingly sell her soul to the devil to keep Colin safe and happy. Maybe she has already done that. The therapy that he demands and needs, she is well aware, is at best unorthodox, not something she could ever talk about with others, even Ludie Belle. But when, a trembling uncertain child, he slips into her bed at night and folds himself into her and, whispering, calls her mother, it is all so clear and simple, so pure, so innocent and loving. The end is coming. She and Colin will have to face judgment. She is not afraid. She is ready. It is the impending crisis that frightens her. Perhaps she needs to get away from the camp to think about it. Find ways to prepare him for it. Take him over to the state park for a hike, or out to the lakes. A picnic maybe. Yes, she’ll pack a picnic. They’ll take a walk through the bird sanctuary and nature preserve at the edge of the lakes, have an afternoon picnic together at one of the lakeside cookout areas. She looks over at him weeding the pea patch and smiles when he looks up. And he smiles back. Her funny little nuthatch. It will be all right, she thinks. Somehow.

  Knocking out the little back window was easy enough, and she threw some towels over the bottom of the frame, but it has taken forever to get rid of all the jagged splinters on the sides and top so as to be able to crawl out of the garage without getting carved up, and even then, in her desperate haste, she misses one small shard, which snags on her artfully torn Mary Magdalene costume and adds an incidental rip down the back. Prissy Tindle races to the house for a quick change and also some chocolate cookies and a glass of milk, but finds the doors locked. That Ralph! Her car raincoat is in the studio, where she took it off last night, and she does not want to crawl back through that window, so she’ll just have to worry about it later. No time to lose!

  “The Brunists think their guy is dead, done in by the Jews and atheists who control mental hospitals, so they want to hold a ceremonial mock-burial for him. They don’t know where the body is, so they’re going to bury a mine pick and one of their tunics, a flashlight and other weird stuff that was never his but is now.” They are rolling along through a countryside much prettier than that around West Condon, on their way to a river town on a bluff that Stacy has visited before, a favorite spot of hers and one of her present love’s holy places, though she doesn’t say so. Stacy has told Sally about Ted’s plans to bring the brain-damaged prophet of the cult to his own funeral and said she wondered what all that was about. “The problem is: Mr. Bruno isn’t dead,” Sally says. “So your boss has got up the bright idea of surprising them by bringing the deceased to his own wake.”

  “The way you say it, you don’t think it’s going to work…?”

  “They won’t believe it. They don’t want to believe it, so they won’t believe it. They’ll figure he’s a ringer, just another dirty trick.” She fumbles about in the glove compartment for a matchbook, lights up again, blows the smoke out the open passenger window. Sally is a tall, gangly girl, rather plain but in a dramatic way, with a darting gaze, no makeup, and snarly hair. She says she likes to wash her hair, rub it roughly with a towel, and then, without looking in a mirror, let it dry any which way. A new hairdo with every shampoo. Not your everyday romantic heroine. Her breasts under her T-shirt, which today reads GOD DOESN’T BELIEVE IN ME EITHER, don’t amount to much, but she goes braless, unwilling to make them amount to more, as though to say she doesn’t give a damn. But smart and funny. Certain guys would go for her. Some girls, too, probably. “So, tell me,” Sally says, “how are you getting on with the big cheese you work for?”

  “I don’t think I can do that.”

  “I think you can, Maury.”

  “Why don’t you have your fucking city manager bust him? I’ll bet a nickel he’s dragging his heels, too, ain’t he, Ted?”

  “Maury, you and Dee either arrest Charlie Bonali and bring criminal assault and battery charges, damn it, or I’ll personally see to it you’re jailed for corruption and racketeering.”

  “What the hell you talking about? Put in an honest day’s work around there, what do you get? A knife in the back. Anyhow, I might prefer jail. Stay healthier that way.”

  “Let me warn you, Maury. This is becoming a federal case. The FBI is taking an interest. They’ll have some tough questions to ask. I’ll see you over at Mick’s. We’ll talk about this.”

  Jim Elliott, always Mickey DeMar
s’ first customer of the day, is having an encounter with Jesus Christ, who has come in and introduced himself and asked for an egg sandwich. “Give us this day our daily eggs,” he said. This is not something he has expected. Jesus does not call him Jim, he calls him Paul. Saint Paul? Good grief. This is ridiculous. Or maybe it is not. Is he Paul or was he ever? His memory is not too good, especially after a few. It’s possible. What isn’t? He decides to go along with Jesus, raising his glass of gin to him (hmm, empty; he signals Mick for another). Why not? No skin off his back, as the saying goes. Which is a strange one, now that he thinks about it. They flayed a lot of guys back then. Roman fun. Was Paul one of them? Is this guy dangerous? He is wearing shiny gold lamé slippers like foot halos, which definitely look right on him and convince Jim that he is who he says he is. More or less. What does that mean, “more or less”? Well, he looks the part, but what is he doing here? This is not his time and place. Is it? What the heck is happening? Jim sees that his glass is already half empty. Jesus must be helping himself. Good for him. He slides the glass toward him and asks Mick for another for himself. Mick does not know what to make of all this. Jesus calls him the Good Samaritan and Mick shrugs and rolls his eyes. “I got a feeling I ain’t gonna get paid for that sandwich,” he says in his squeaky voice. “Don’t worry,” Jim says grandly. “It’s on me. Not every darned day you get to buy Jesus Christ an egg sandwich.” Not that the fellow is all that appreciative. “You’re the spooky con artist who invented all those lies about me,” he says. “Who, me? Never!” “You repackaged me and sold me on the international market as some kind of alien-from-outer-space carnival act. Eat the flesh and drink the blood,” he says, tapping his gin glass, and Mick refills it. “You made all that up, you deceitful quack!” “Listen, gosh darn it,” Jim says, his dander rising, “I don’t care if you are Jesus Christ. I’m not gonna take this lying down!” But, after his abrupt and ill-timed lurch from the stool, that’s exactly the circumstance in which, a moment later, he finds himself, his head hurting from where he banged it on the way to the floor. He could get up. Probably. But it’s not worth it. “Shut up,” Jesus is saying overhead. “I know he’s not Paul. You think I’m crazy? It just feels good to let fly from time to time.” Mick says, “I didn’t say nothing,” and Jesus says, “I know that, I wasn’t talking to you.” Oh oh. Another one of those. This town is full of them suddenly. Is it catching? Jesus drinks off his glass of gin and then slugs down Jim’s as well. Car doors slam outside. Voices. “I tell you the truth,” Jesus says, hovering above him, his bright robes fluttering, “it is—to quote that whimsical mental case, John, who was pretending to quote me—to your advantage that I go away.” And, sandwich in hand, he exits by the back door as the mayor and his pals come in by the front. “Well, if that’s not the berries,” Jim says, holding down the rising and falling floor with both hands, and is greeted by the newcomers in the affable manner that is their daily lunchtime custom.

  “We won’t have to do this soon, will we, you naughty little pooper?” says Dot Blaurock while changing Johnny in one of their many little Chestnut Hills homes. Jesus is already in the neighborhood, wandering around, appearing and disappearing. It’s happening. The latter days, the end times: she’s in them. And she has been chosen. “Go forth and prophesy,” he said. Well, if Johnny could keep his diapers clean for five minutes she would. A kid with dirty diapers does not help to draw a multitude. When she raced back to the camp to tell everyone like Jesus told her to, no one believed her. What’s that line about a prophet in your own county? It’s true. Deaf ears. Well, tough luck for them. Out at the other campsite, Abner Baxter’s people were more willing to listen. “I was watching them all the time,” she said, “and suddenly they weren’t there anymore.” They nodded at that but wanted to know more about that woman who was with him. In all the pictures of the Rapture, Jesus is strictly on his own. She might have been Mary Magdalene, Dot said, but she wasn’t sure. She didn’t look well. Maybe she was somebody who’d just been resurrected from the dead.

  Her older kids rush in now with the news that they saw Jesus at the shoe store downtown. “What were you doing in the shoe store?” she wants to know. She can’t keep track of them. She should stand them in the corner for a while just to know where they are. But the corners in this place aren’t all that habitable. Isaiah’s going to have to open up a new one for them.

  “We got a job! Look!” Mattie shows her a stack of flyers announcing a closing down sale. “When we’ve put the rest of these on everybody’s porches, we get some candy and more new shoes! Gotta go, Mom!”

  Doors open at noon, the fliers say. It’s almost noon now.

  When the banker reaches Mick’s Bar & Grill, he finds it empty, except for the former Chamber of Commerce secretary on the floor, drunkenly crooning a Sunday school tune. Even the proprietor is gone. Then he spies the flyers on the tables. The sonuvabitch, knowing he’s facing foreclosure, is spitefully stripping the store of any recoverable equity. The bank can put a stop to that.

  It is noon in West Condon. The sun will never be so high in the sky again for another year. It drenches the town’s unkempt streets in an all but shadowless light. As the solstice is associated with the birth of John the Baptist, it is sometimes said to be the day that Salome lifts her veil, and indeed nothing is veiled. One’s own shadow is just a small black puddle underfoot, the size of one’s girth. Children play at trying to jump out of it. Under this saturating midday light, a crowd is gathering on Main Street, where crowds have not been seen for years. Many are clutching flyers announcing a closing down sale at Dave Osborne’s shoe store. First two pair free. Others are there by word of mouth or by announcements on the radio or flyers posted on shop windows and telephone poles, hoping they don’t need the flyers as vouchers. There are large hand-painted signs taped to the door and front walls and a tumble of laceless shoes in the window, but the store is locked. People press up against the window, peer in under cupped hands, knock on the front door. More are arriving every minute, trying to squeeze in toward the front. The shop owner appears in the inner dimness, waves at them, points at his watch face, holds up two fingers. “Two minutes!” someone shouts over his shoulder at the restless mass, and his shout is repeated by others. The owner is standing on the stepstool he uses to get down shoe boxes from the top shelves, trying to adjust something overhead. Changing a light bulb, maybe. Or hanging decorations. His movements are explained by those in front to those behind. Tied and netted around his legs like clownish pantaloons are all the debris of his trade: shoe horns, foot measuring devices, boots, floor mirrors, shoe-shine paste and fluids, and thick bouquets of shoes with their tongues hanging out. He is holding in his hand a colorful strand that some recognize as the rope he has been braiding out of shoestrings, and this amusing explanation is offered to the others pressing round. The shop owner steps down, pushes the stool back a yard or two, steps back up on it, loops the shoestring rope around his neck and jumps off. He swings toward the window, his feet belting the plate glass with a blow that causes the crowd to fall back, swings back into the dimness again, his hands reaching reflexively for his throat, then dropping away, swings forward and kicks the window again. At first his eyes bulge, staring fiercely at all those in the street as he swings, feet striking the window ever less resoundingly, then they cloud over. This seems to last forever and no one speaks under the noontime sun. There are soft thumps and then there are none. The banker arrives and kicks at the window and right behind him come the town cops. They smash their way in (people are screaming now, shouting, issuing astonished expletives, pushing forward for a better view or else backing away in horror) and cut the shoe salesman down. A siren can be heard like a howl of grief or anger. The crowd parts for the approaching ambulance. Inside the store, the police officer, Louie Testatonda, picks up a brown paper bag on the counter next to the cash register and asks: “What the hell is this?” A child rushes in, snatches it from his hands, dashes out again. “Stop her! She’s stealing
the evidence!” he cries, but the child is gone.

  Lucy Smith was getting her hair done in Linda Catter’s Main Street beauty shop when some noisy little kids came by with the shoe store flyers. Linda said she hadn’t been able to afford new shoes for over three years and that this was her chance, so they dashed over, mid-perm, Lucy’s hair still in curlers and wrapped with piled-up wet towels. Well, what they witnessed was not gratifying and certainly there were no new shoes to be had, though Lucy saw people running away with armloads before the police locked the place down. When the poor man kicked the window, Lucy nearly fainted, and she still feels sick. As soon as they cut him down, Linda ran back to her beauty shop to call everyone she knows, and Lucy followed her there on shaky knees, sinking back dazed and nauseous into her chair in front of the mirror. Where now she sits, staring aghast at the pasty white face staring back under its thick white turban and looking only half alive, listening to Linda tell and retell her grisly tale. Lucy recalls her last visit to Mabel Hall’s caravan, when Mabel turned over the card of the Hanged Man, next to the Tower card. The Hanged Man was hanging by one foot, not his neck, and he looked quite peaceful with his legs crossed like he was sitting upside down watching TV, but the Tower was being struck by lightning and exploding apart and people were falling or diving out to die on the rocks below. It was quite terrifying, really. Mabel said it meant that there is a great calamity on the horizon, but one must surrender to the inevitable—something like that. But how does one know what’s inevitable and what’s not? If something is after you, can’t you run away? Maybe it’s like in dreams, when you want to run but can’t. Lucy was frightened then and she is frightened now. Was what just happened the calamity? Or was it only the card before it? Between Linda’s calls, she asks if she can please phone her husband. “I was so scared, Calvin,” she tells him. “Pray for him,” Calvin says calmly. “He was not a practicing Christian, but he was a good miner and a good man. I owe my life to him.”