Robert Coover - Origin of the Brunists

“Good time to quit, then,” said Vince.

“Well, excuse me, boys and girls,” said Lucci, getting up with a rueful sigh. “Gotta go burn a few crosses.”

Another guy at the table, Chester Johnson, looked up. “Oh yeah?” Split his hillbilly face into a big smile. Bad teeth, spaced widely, gave him a beat-up look.

Vince and Georgie laughed. “Shit, I think he’d really like to,” Vince said. Then he added: “Ain’t nothing. We’re just paying a couple social calls on some of the Brunists.”

“Well, goddamn, Vince baby! count me in!” said Johnson, scraping back his chair. He turned to the others. “Wanna join the party?” None did. Vince wasn’t happy, but decided not to argue.

In the car, Vince outlined the plan as Ted had given it to him earlier. Robbins inserted a couple remarks so as not to be left out. Shifty bastard with a razorsharp nose and tongue to go with it. Vince didn’t trust him, didn’t like the way he always brown-nosed Cavanaugh. “We don’t want any rough talk, any threats, or any wising off,” said Vince, turning his gaze on Johnson. “We just mean to explain in simple common sense why they’re making a mistake that is gonna hurt them and is already hurting the community. It’s Holy Week, and we wanna use the traditional feeling about it to maybe make some inroads with these people. Mr. Cavanaugh here is taxiing us around, but it’s mainly our job. Any questions?”

“Yeah,” said Johnson in that goddamn nasal country twang of his. “Anybody remember to bring the hammer and nails?” Even Cavanaugh grinned.

At Willie Hall’s place, they got literally nowhere. They stood in the light rain at the front door and talked through the screen to Willie’s wife, who said Willie was not home, while a whole goddamn bevy of women tittered and whispered in the back of the house. “We’re all friends of Willie’s, Mrs. Hall,” Vince said, “and we just stopped by here for a minute to discuss with you both about this group you people have got that is talking about the end. We thought if we had a little—” And she shut the door in their faces.

Back in the Lincoln, wet and disgruntled, Vince suggested they maybe should have just gone on in there. His buddies backed him up, remarking that Willie was probably in there under the bed, and they could talk him out of anything. Ted shook his head, made it clear in a word that they had to keep calm, do what they could, not worry about it if they didn’t succeed. They changed the subject, joked instead about what a big brute little Willie’s wife was.

Widow Wilson they passed by, since Widow Collins was living there now. Since the fire. Ted told them Widow Collins had been somewhat deranged by her husband’s death and was a hopeless case. Widow Harlowe, who lived in the old housing development, just a couple dozen doors or so around the circle from Wanda Cravens, let them in. She kept a neat little house, in spite of a bunch of little children. “This is Mr. Cavanaugh,” Vince began, “from the bank. Mr. Robbins from Woolworth’s. The rest of us worked down in the mine, Mrs. Harlowe. With Hank. We just only wanted to have a little personal talk with you about, about Giovanni Bruno and the … his …”

“Oh, that,” said Mrs. Harlowe. “They ain’t nothin’ to talk about about that. Not less you wanna come ’n be members.”

“Well, not likely,” drawled Johnson.

“Let Vince handle it,” said Sal.

“The point is,” Vince continued, looking for the entry into this woman, “we just wonder if you fully understand the position you are putting West Condon into. Now, we all of us believe in God, Mrs. Harlowe, all of us in our own way, and we don’t mean to interfere with that belief, with your belief, that’s up to you. Only, you see, we think maybe this fellow Bruno, I mean we’ve all known him for a long time and he is a rather suspicious type, if you know what I mean, and we’re afraid he might have got some of you people off the track like. Call it the devil, call it a little strangeness, call it how you want, but, see, he might be getting you into trouble, and if he gets you in trouble, why, it gets us all in trouble.”

“Maybe,” said the widow. “But maybe it ain’t only trouble, Mr. Bonali. Maybe it really is the real end of the world. I know your Pope he don’t like it none, but we been expecting that. See, maybe it’s you all who’s in trouble.”

“If there was any reason for us to think so,” said Ted gently, “would we be here now?” Vince relaxed; somehow you always knew Ted could do the job, could carry the ball — he watched to see it happen. “Mrs. Harlowe, we’re trying to save you from shame and embarrassment. It’s not West Condon we are primarily worried about, or Bruno, or anybody else. We’re worried about you personally. You and your children and your future here with us.”

The widow weakened. She chewed on one reddish finger, stared out the window. A steady rain, now, fell in a tumbling hush on the low roof. “Well, I’ll think about it more. I know I sure do have doubts sometimes, and even when I’m talkin’ with Hank or whoever it is if it’s anybody at all, why, I’m not sure I know what I’m doin’. I’ll sure think about what you say, I promise.”

Vince and the others got up to go. Good work. But Ted remained seated, leaned his big athletic body forward. “Mrs. Harlowe, could you make a decision right now? Could you turn away from these people and join us today, now, on Good Friday, in our efforts to keep West Condon wholesome and Christian?”

The widow hesitated, twisted her thin hands, then started to cry. Vince wanted to pat her on the shoulder, tell her it was okay, let her be, but Ted waved him off. The man sat there calmly and gazed at her. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do!” she whimpered.

“Come with us. Now.” Ted wasn’t letting go.

“But the kids—”

“Do you have a phone?”

She nodded, pointed to the small passageway that led to the kitchen. Ted dialed his house, asked his wife to drive over in Tommy’s car, gave the address. Ted and Burt talked to the widow while they waited. Vince suggested he could stay with the kids while they went on to the Widow Cravens’ house, then could catch up with them there. While Ted was still considering that, Mrs. Cavanaugh arrived, smiling, to take over. Handsome woman from upstate that Ted had brought back from college with him.

On the drive around the circle to Wanda’s house, Vince broke out in a cold sweat. Just so she didn’t act too fucking friendly, but he doubted she had enough sense to fake anything. It was bad enough, but with that bastard Johnson along, just itching for comedy — damn! He chewed down hard on his cigar. Mrs. Harlowe snuffled all the way.

“This it, Vince?” Cavanaugh asked, slowing to a stop.

Vince squinted out into the rain. “Can you see the number?”

“This is the place, okay,” Johnson said.

Mrs. Harlowe seemed reluctant to go with them, but Ted hooked one hand under her arm and she had little choice. They found the door open. Wanda would probably ask him why he hadn’t just walked on in. That dumb bitch. Or: why hadn’t he been coming by? Or: we done talked all this out before, Vince hon, what’s the point a goin’ through it agin? Sal knocked. Little Davey came to the door.

“Your mama home?” Sal asked.

The little boy just stood there staring at them. Vince had maneuvered to the rear, but the two guys in front of him for some goddamn reason stepped aside. The kid fixed his gaze on Vince: right on the fly. That goddamn kid was abnormal.

Sal beat on the door again.

“Must be out,” Vince said, and turned as if making to go.

“I don’t know, I think I hear somebody in there.” Probably pulling some pants on. She slouched around in almost nothing most of the time, he’d noticed.