Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

“Yes, they’s something like that, I think. But you mean … you mean, you reckon Abner’s jealous of—? But Ely … he’s passed away, Abner ain’t got cause to—”

“True, Mrs. Collins, but you live still, and, through you, in spirit, lives your good husband yet. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes. Yes, I allow it is. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” For the first time, the vague hostile rumblings of the past month, especially those touching her leadership of Evening Circle, began to make sense to her. Why hadn’t it occurred to her before?

There was a silence, then, as they drank their coffee. Clara began contemplating the bitter walk home to their empty house. Mrs. Norton glanced over at Giovanni from time to time, and, absently, Clara soon found herself doing the same. What? Did she expect something? Marcella poured more coffee. And then the doorbell rang. Everybody started, looked wonderstruck at each other. Marcella went to answer … and returned with Betty Wilson!

Betty burst weeping into the room and came to take Clara’s hands. “Oh, I’m sorry, Clara! Lord, I jist don’t know whatever come over me! I was skeered is all! It was — oh, Clara, please, I’m—”

“That’s okay, Betty,” Clara said. “I almost felt like goin’ out on myself myself.” With that, everyone smiled a little, and Betty stopped her crying. “How about a cup of coffee?”

“Well, I …” Betty wiped her eyes, glanced around her now, uneasy in the presence of these strangers. “Ifn you think … ifn you think it’s all right …”

“Of course it’s all right, Mrs. Wilson,” Mrs. Norton said warmly. “We’re happy you have come back. It’s a very good sign.” Dr. Norton carried over a chair. Marcella brought coffee.

And then it happened.

Giovanni Bruno lifted his hand.

Mrs. Norton, with a gasp, flew to the foot of his bed.

Dr. Norton stood rigidly, expectant.

Marcella set the coffeepot down, slipped over by the bed.

Weak but yet resonant, Giovanni Bruno’s voice entered the still room for the first time: “The coming … of … light!”

Mrs. Norton drew a quick sharp breath. Clara stood, felt Betty and Elaine fearful at her side. “When?” asked Mrs. Norton.

There was a long pause. Giovanni’s eyes moved among them, returned to stare upon Mrs. Norton. “Sunday …” he said, “… week.” He dropped his hand.

Clara started to speak up, to ask what this was about, but Mrs. Norton held up her hand for silence. “The coming of light?” she repeated, and Giovanni nodded. “Sunday week?” Again, he nodded. “Giovanni Bruno, hear me! Is there anything … is there something more?” A pause. And then he shook his head no, the first time Clara had seen him do so. The movement made his hair splay out on the pillow, and Clara was astonished to see how really long it had grown. Mrs. Norton relaxed, but when she turned from the bed to face them, Clara saw tension and worry on her face still.

“What is it?” asked Clara, though she had already begun to grasp it. Though frightened, she was ready: she had been tested, she realized, and found true.

“I don’t know exactly, Mrs. Collins.” Then: “May I”—she fingered a small gold medallion that hung around her neck on a chain—“may I explain something to you?”

Clara nodded. She sat, in awe, but feeling Ely close at her side once more.

Vince Bonali stopped up at the Eagles one night for a whiskey, keeping nothing at home but beer these lean days. From the minute he walked into the place, he was reminded of old Angelo Moroni, and from then on he couldn’t get his mind off him. They had gone to school together, hunted women together, broken into mining and drunk together, were best men at each other’s weddings, had worked their ways up simultaneously to be facebosses out at Number Nine. And they had always teamed up to play pitch and pinochle. Ange with his hat tipped down to his nose, Vince deadpan with a mouthful of cigar, unbeatable goddamn combination: that was mainly what hit him when he walked in.

Sal Ferrero was shooting pool with Georgie Lucci. Vince carried his whiskey over, sat down on a stool to watch. They bandied sober hellos around. Sal and Angie and he used to make a trio, ever since Sal married Ange’s sister. In recent years, Sal only worked as a repairman in the mine, and in a different section at that, so they’d kind of split apart, but family functions always saw them together again, and he and Sal had seen a lot of each other since the disaster. Sal was a small wiry guy, kind of Jewish-looking, but a good goddamn man, knew how to joke around with the best of them, always on hand when help was needed. He was one of the first guys down into the mine after the explosion, told Vince later he’d mainly gone down to look for him and Ange. He’d found Ange, okay. Lucci was one of the four guys in Vince’s gang who’d panicked after the blast and run out without knowing where they were going. Lucci and his buddy Brevnik had lucked out. Lee Cravens and Pooch Minicucci had gone the wrong way. Tomorrow, Vince had to deliver the relief checks to their families. Happy Valentines. He didn’t look forward to it.

“Want in?” offered Sal, straightening up. He had just muffed a shoo-in on the ninespot.

“No, thanks,” said Vince. “I get a bigger charge outa watching the exhibition.”

“Then keep your eye on this’n, Vincenzo old culo,” growled Georgie down the length of his cue. With a soft thuck , followed by a tight pair of clicks , he pocketed both the nine and the fifteen, then proceeded to clean the table.

Sal plunked a half dollar on the table while Georgie was still lining up the last ball. “Never could do any good on Friday the thirteenth,” he said.

So it was, Friday the thirteenth.

“Find anything yet?” asked Georgie, leaning into his shot.

“Not yet.” Vince had found himself caught up in an odd sense of nervous exhilaration the past week or so, but it was starting to fade on him. What kicked it off was saying out loud what he’d wanted to say for thirty years: he was through with coalmining. He’d put in a couple applications around town, talked to different people, boasted how he was commencing the new life, fifty years or no. Everybody’d agreed that yes, by God, he was doing the right thing. Took a lot of nerve to try to learn new tricks when you were staggering into your second half century, too; they all appreciated that. In fact they sometimes harped on it so much, Vince would get a little jittery. Just what the hell could he learn to do? he’d ask himself; then, just as quickly, he’d shove the dumb question aside: let’s see what they ask him to learn first.

Georgie plucked the coin off the felt, emptied the far pockets as Sal racked. “I hear Guido Mello got on at the garage where Lem Filbert’s working,” he said, and chalked his cue.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Vince said. He’d tried there, asked too late. Awful lot of guys seemed to have the same idea he had.

Vince’s kids, the two still at home, Charlie and Angie, had showed right off they were pleased, had talked up the change, they made big plans for the future. Charlie, actually getting halfway friendly to him for the first time in the kid’s useless life, would flash his big toothy smile and ask from time to time what had turned up. Vince always returned the boy a healthy line. Give the kid a little ambition by example. Began to consider taking him fishing when spring came on, Charlie had never taken an interest like the other boys, go upstate for a couple days maybe, sleep out. If he’d just stop snapping his goddamn fingers.

Georgie broke the racked balls with a tremendous splat . Vince himself preferred to break soft, but Lucci liked the wide-open game. “Pretty big show last week,” Lucci said.