Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

Before things got under way, Cavanaugh stopped by the hotel, hospital, school, city hall, made sure everything was ready to go. Along the way, he learned whom Tiger Miller had slept with last night. Well, hell, why not? Might be just the girl he’d been needing all along. He’d have to check her out, not a local girl, but she looked good. In fact, at the hospital, where she worked, Cavanaugh looked twice and decided she looked very goddamn good. Lay of the Year at the Municipal Hospital. Inwardly, he grinned a wry grin. That damn Jones is getting to us all, he thought.

Vince Bonali woke Monday morning, before dawn, wound up in the sheets, face sweating, eyes wet with tears, breathing like a steamboat. He’d been down in the mine and the going was tough, he was beating his way through it, smoke, dark, things tripping him up— bodies? Oh God! God Almighty! The place was all turned around, everybody had bugged out on him, lamps flicking meaninglessly, distantly, sonsabitches wouldn’t listen! “Hey, you guys! Goddamn!” He’d sidled up somehow, pulled the lights nearer, got them going right. The head, buddy use your goddamn head! “Both ways!” he’d cried, felt like he had to shout. “That way some of us’ll be chosen!” Jesus! he hadn’t meant that, he’d meant some would get out—“Get out!” He’d separated them and they’d headed off. Yet, God, it seemed all wrong! What the hell was he doing? Lights blinking down unseen channels, cut off now — all gone! He was alone! But wait! He couldn’t remember which way he’d meant to go himself! Knew before, knew one of them was wrong, but which—? “Hey, Cokie! Ange!” Tried to change the scene, knew he’d done it all before, wasn’t real, but it only got worse. Then he saw Pooch — old Pooch Minicucci! “Hey, by God! I thought you’d bugged out on me, Pooch!” Jesus, he was glad to see him! “Come on, man, it’s you and me!” He’d get Pooch out now, just tear ass down the — but what the—? Jesus Christ! The dumb bastard was jacking off! “Oh no!” Couldn’t believe it! “Hey, Pooch! What are you doing, man?” The idiot was just squatting there on a heap of gob, eyes blank like mica, prick long as a damn timber, pulling himself off! “The old snake!” roared Ange Moroni in the washhouse, big laughter booming out, and Vince laughed, everybody was laughing, and for a minute he was out of there. “Cut half of it off, maybe he could talk plain!” Jesus, that was funny! Good old Ange — but no! There he was still: “Pooch!” Pooch’s jaw went slack, twitched like he wanted to talk only couldn’t. Whole face caving in like the bones were breaking, going dark, and bastard kept pumping away with his right fist. Never saw it stiff like that before, couldn’t even see the end of it, seemed to reach right up to the—“Pooch! I ain’t gonna say it one more time! If you don’t come, man, it’s your own goddamn fault!” Jesus! Maybe he’d loosen it all, bring the whole fucking mine down! Noise of topcoal splitting, some fell somewhere. Distant screams. Vince was running, trying to run, a shifting under his feet, hollow echoing emptiness, ears ached, hard to breathe, air thick as cotton — gas! Gas! Don’t think about it, just run , man! Couldn’t see the sides, couldn’t see the timbers, machines, couldn’t see a goddamn thing. But didn’t bump into anything, going like ninety, but somehow nothing got in the way. Felt stuff brushing by, tight spots here and there, pushed, turned, faked, okay, okay, buddy, racing to beat hell, just a — hot! hot as hell! smoke! what’s that? a glow! glow ahead! fire! Wrong way, oh my God! he’d been running the wrong goddamn way! No! No! Coming, it’s coming! tried to turn back. Couldn’t turn back. Heat! Done for! Done for! Turn! Turn, goddamn it! But hard, hard to get, to get swung around. He struggled. Things in his way now. Legs heavy, tired. Goddamn tired. It was too much for one man. At his back now. Done for. Legs flabby. Out of shape. Too late. Up against a wall. Thick. Oily, like soft clay. Trapped! Clawed his way into it. Air gone. Get through! Choked.

“It’s okay,” Etta said.

Vince unwound himself, still choked up, wiped his face with the sheet. “I’m sorry Pooch died,” he said hoarsely.

“Sure,” said Etta.

“Etta?”

Alongside him, her big hind end turned toward him, his wife grunted.

“Etta, I ain’t never going back down there again.”

And then he was able to sleep. Slept like a log. When he finally did wake up, Etta already had breakfast ready for him. Over his eggs, trying to remember his dream, he asked, “Where’s the kids? Angie off to school already?”

“No school today,” Etta reminded him. “Both she and Charlie were up early. I think they were going over to Tony and Emilia Bruno’s house. Their boy is coming home from the hospital today, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right. That’s today,” Vince said. “Think I’ll drop over there too. They’re shelling out a lotta dough and maybe they’ll have some left over.”

Etta took that crack in grim silence. She was down to just about nothing in her grocery budget. But, by God, things would be different now. Once he’d got him a good job, never mind what, just so it wasn’t coalmining, they’d never have to fret these long layoffs again. He felt strong, left with his shoulders squared.

Townsfolk had already massed up on the Bruno front lawn when Vince arrived. Bright sun, though the day was crisp, holiday air. Shops, school, everything closed. Vince moved around, talking with old buddies, joking about Bruno. Still, there was nothing sour about it, and everybody was feeling good. Mort Whimple, the mayor, arrived in a new black Chrysler, accompanied by Father Baglione, some state politicians, and one of the Protestant ministers. TV guys dollied around on the sidewalk, shooting everybody. Jesus, the crowd was really big! Officials from the Red Cross, the UMW, the coal company, members of the city council, and representatives from other civic organizations pulled up behind the Chrysler. Vince said hello to his alderman Joe Altoviti, and they kidded around a little.

A sign on the mayor’s car said: GIOVANNI BRUNO — WEST CONDON SAYS — GET WELL SOON!!! Everybody cheered as Whimple, in his trademark tweeds and sportshirt buttoned at the neck, moved among them, flanked by the congressmen, the whole group smiling toothily in all directions. Whimple was a homely little guy, used to be fire chief, and before that a car salesman. Vince found himself with a big smile splitting his own face. A piece of the high school band arrived, tooted a bunch of marches on the lawn. Lot of excitement. Well, in spite of everything, by God, it was a great goddamn town, and when the chips were down—

Then a distant siren alerted them, drew shouts from the crowds. The band broke off, then started up again. The dignitaries, with self-conscious shrugs and private jokes nobody could hear, arranged themselves on the front porch, while the cops, Dee Romano, Monk Wallace, and old Willie, cleared the sidewalk. Vince helped. He felt a part of it. The sun shown bright and here in the crowd there was a warmth. A couple ladies appeared at the storm door, noses pressed on the panes, neighbor women. Probably had got the house ready. The band played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Vince saw Georgie Lucci’s face grinning at him, and he grinned back. Everybody was grinning. The siren was getting louder. All necks craned toward the siren now. It was like a distant cry of good cheer, yet an anxious one, too — always something of terror and the unexpected in the pitch of an ambulance siren.

Then it swung up, bright white. The music was loud and there was a lot of noise, a lot of enthusiasm. They brought Bruno out on a stretcher. Poor guy looked scared to death. Television cameras were grinding away. Vince saw Tiger Miller, the Chronicle editor, popping photos along with all the other newsguys, gave him the nod when he chanced to glance his way. Vince had not been too hot on this big show for Bruno, but Miller in his paper had made it seem almost reasonable. Bruno’s family, his folks and his kid sister, walked beside the stretcher. Vince hadn’t seen old Tony in years and he was shocked by what he saw. Trembling, a sickly white, nearly blind old man with a bandaged nose. Had to be helped along. And he used to be such a tough hard-fisted bastard. What was worse, the poor old guy had wet his pants. It was embarrassing, but people overlooked it. Tony’s wife was small and wizened, looked now like a lot of old ladies who had lived on too long.