Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

“Jesus Christ, what next! Vince, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Yeah?” Felt the hair on his neck stand up.

“The Meredith boy. Wes Edwards just phoned in a panic to tell me the kid has slashed his wrists with a razor. He’s in the hospital.”

“Jeee-zuss God All- mighty!” Took the wind right out of him. “Is it bad?”

“No, Doc Lewis told Wes it looked very much like the boy’s done it before. Apparently he doesn’t do it to kill himself. But we can’t let go of him now. If he got back to the Brunists, he’d probably try to make murderers of us, or worse, the state of mind he’s in. We’re sending him up to a state hospital tonight. But, listen, Vince, not a word! Miller will probably find out, but if he or anybody asks, you know nothing, okay?”

“Sure, Ted. But Jesus, what a bad break!”

“Nobody’s fault. We might even have saved the boy’s life. No telling what he might have done after Sunday night. But we don’t want Wes Edwards to get mixed up in this if we can help it, and so it’s just as well the Brunists don’t know how he ended up over there. Anyway, he’ll be up there a good while, so there’s no worry about him Sunday night. Just let’s hope Miller doesn’t get wind of it.”

Fat chance. Headlines Wednesday night: BRUNIST KIDNAPPED! COLIN MEREDITH DISAPPEARS FROM WEST CONDON! TREATED AT HOSPITAL FOR INJURIES OR POSSIBLE SUICIDE! LAST SEEN AT HOME OF REV. WESLEY EDWARDS! And so on, big scare stuff. Phone rang. Thinking it was Ted, he answered it. “Mr. Bonali, this is CBS calling. We understand you were with the missing Meredith boy yesterday afternoon, just before his disappearance. Can you tell us—?” In a panic he hung up. Jesus! Kidnapping — that’s FBI stuff, isn’t it? He told Etta to answer the phone, ask who was calling, and if it wasn’t Ted, to say he wasn’t home.

He switched on the TV and — wham! — there was Mrs. Norton’s funny little face. Every now and then, as she turned her head different angles, the floods beamed off her glasses and caused a kind of leap of light around her head. “We do not know what has happened to him. Our … sources, our sources at the higher aspects have informed us that he has fallen into the hands of the powers of darkness. We are … deeply hurt and concerned, but we are not surprised. We have all suffered threats upon our lives and upon our health. We are praying for his deliverance.”

Announcer: “Mrs. Norton, do you have any idea who these powers, uh, these powers of darkness might be?”

Mrs. Norton: “Yes!” She paused, fingering a little medallion on her breast that flicked light back at the lens like a secret code. Vince started right up in his chair, felt a cold sweat in the small of his back. She was looking right at him. “All of you!” she said.

Feeling shaky, he called Ted, and Ted told him to relax, the entire story was being released, that he himself was taking all the responsibility, and that he would be by to see him the next morning. Final meeting of the Common Sense Committee tomorrow night. That calmed Vince down — Jesus! Ted was a great guy! — but he was still pretty restless. He paced the room, trapped by the Brunists: newspaper headlines black as death, their goddamn faces on television, and — blam! — Angie threw open her door again, and there they were:

Come all ye who seek your salvation!

Come all who would stand upon God’s Land!

Come and march to the Mount of Redemption ,

For the end of all things is at hand!

So, hark ye to the White Bird of Glory …!

Ted’s message the next day, the sixteenth, was to cool it. But Vince was feeling so goddamn high, he knew it wouldn’t be easy. He had splurged on a bottle of whiskey, good stuff, in anticipation of Ted’s visit, but Ted had turned it down. Too early in the day, he said. Vince, who had already poured his own to make the offering of it more natural, felt a little awkward himself with a glass of whiskey in his hand at ten in the goddamn morning, but he lied that he usually took a bracer in the mornings. He hoped he hadn’t made some kind of mistake. Jesus! the thing hit him like seven hundred blazing bicarbonates!

Ted showed him their release on the Meredith boy. The boy had come to them, it claimed, in fear of reprisals from members of the Brunist group, whose fanaticism he had come to abhor, and had asked for protection. He had wept gratefully when Reverend Edwards, approached on the matter, had generously welcomed the boy to his own home. But, evidently distraught by the experiences of the preceding weeks and fearing that attempts might be made against his life, he had cut his wrists with a razor, although not seriously. He was now being cared for in a hospital distant from West Condon, the name of which was not being divulged for the present for the boy’s own protection. Hah! “That should keep them quiet!” Vince said.

“Well,” said Ted, “it’s mainly the truth, after all.”

“Yeah,” Vince said, remembering the hotbox. Swallowed down the whiskey belches. Wondered whether to suffer the stuff gradually, or just throw it down. “And so tonight at the meeting, you want me to ask everybody to stay at home.”

“Right. Not much hope they will, but we can try.” Ted paused, grinned. “I don’t want to give you stagefright or anything, Rockduster, but I should warn you that the meeting is being covered by radio, news chains, and television across the country.”

That put Vince at the verge of a bowel movement, but outwardly he remained calm. He even shrugged. And he was pleased that Ted still remembered his first CSC speech.

“You know, Vince, I’d like to make the meeting so goddamned straightforward, so goddamned plain and sensible, that it will bore those cheap corrupt headline-hunters to death, and they’ll pack up and get out of here.”

Vince laughed, toned it: little too harsh maybe. Didn’t know why he felt so goddamn nervous today, sensation that something was — he looked out at the big red Lincoln: it was the connection. Today they broke the connection. “I wish we could’ve stopped it, Ted.”

“So do I, Vince. But I don’t see what more we could have done. We’ve at least contained it, and even cut them down one. I frankly doubt that that little handful of people can do us much harm, no matter how hard Tiger Miller strains. Now, our main worry is just to keep everybody calmed down, away from that hill, minimize the effect Sunday, and then try to get over it. Of course, things could get worse. If they do, I’ll give you a call.”

“I’ll stay by the phone, Ted. Isn’t there anything else we can do meanwhile?”

“I don’t know what. I tried to cajole Whimple into arresting Bruno on grounds of suspected insanity, but he didn’t have the nerve.”

Vince glanced up, found Ted’s cool eyes fixed on him. He lowered his gaze, took a slow drink of whiskey. “Not a bad idea,” he said. “He should’ve done it.” Then he added: “I sure as hell would’ve.”

“Speaking of Whimple, Vince,” Ted continued, “I wonder if you’d do us the favor of asking for a vote of thanks for him tonight at the meeting, for him and Father Baglione and Reverend Edwards.”

“Sure.” Fixed his jaw in a kind of mockery.

“Oh hell, I know, Vince, they’re not the ones who have put out on this job, but that’s the game we play.” There was a pause. It was now or never. Vince gazed thoughtfully into his whiskey glass. “You might be interested in knowing, though, that they’re setting up a Mayor’s Special Commission on Industrial Planning. I’ve nominated you for a spot on it.”

Vince nodded, stroked his chin, looked up at Ted. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d like that.”