Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

The guard duty bull, like the periphery fence Pach’ has been helping to put up, the barbed wire, the alarm bell, the secrecy, are all part of the sicko camp paranoia. As if the rest of the world cared fuck-all about them. Some of the people in town have been a nuisance, but the novelty is wearing off. And as for the bikers, they made it plain last night that they were clearing out and nothing to come back for. Secrecy. It’s like it was at the beginning when they were meeting in the Bruno house and had all those secret passwords and signs and prayers about the One to Come that they weren’t supposed to tell anyone about. At the Wednesday night prayer meeting, Billy Don took some stick from the older people for hanging out with the college girl, whom he said he was only trying to convert, staring daggers meanwhile at Darren for ratting on him. Elaine’s mother (Elaine wasn’t there; neither was Junior Baxter) said that even if his intentions were good, she did not believe that girl’s were, and he should not risk the safety and security of the rest of the camp by exchanging private information with outsiders and unbelievers. All this was apparently because of a town cemetery tour the three of them had taken earlier that afternoon, looking for the grave of Marcella Bruno. They didn’t find it, but Billy Don told him later they did find an empty grave that might have been hers with two golfballs in it like dropped eyeballs. The main subject of the prayer meeting was the announcement of June 7 as the date for the groundbreaking ceremonies for the new Brunist Tabernacle of Light to be built on the Mount of Redemption. Pach’ will miss that one. The choosing of the date had something to do with one of Bruno’s prophecies as well as something the boys saw that day in one of the cemeteries and what Darren called, rather ominously, “certain other developments.” Nods around the room, muttered prayers. Crazy.

Darren’s effort to break up Billy Don and the college girl made Pach’ wonder, so he asked him if Darren had ever made a play for him and that so confused Billy Don that Pach’ figured he had done and that Billy Don wasn’t sure what to do about it. He told him a little about Sissy without admitting to anything, but Billy Don didn’t want to hear about it and changed the subject. That’s probably when he started in about those firelight skinny dancers from Florida, which Pach’ also found tempting and wished he’d been around for, recalling those nights around campfires dressed in nothing but Brunist tunics and underwear. Once upon a time.

His own underwear is freshly laundered, thanks to Ludie Belle — she might have guessed he’d be heading off soon, she does always seem to know what’s happening next — and he’s wearing one of Wayne’s warm hand-me-down flannel shirts with reinforced elbow patches. New patches on the knees of his jeans, too. When he took them off for Ludie Belle to mend, she remarked quite plainly on the size of his cock, which she called his Old Adam, saying she supposed it gave him bragging rights in the shower room, but probably it could sometimes be a nuisance, too, and he said that it was. Such conversations were never easy for him, but with Ludie Belle they seemed almost natural, and they didn’t even cause his acne to flare up. She could talk about such things and about the love of Jesus all in the same breath, which she sometimes did at prayer meetings when things got dull. It was Ludie Belle who brought up Elaine without his even mentioning her name (this did cause his face to heat up), telling him he should not expect too much. “The child is greatly confused.” She did not imply he should give up and leave, but she did not imply he should stay either.

He turns over the panel truck engine, giving it a bit of throttle, and while letting it warm up, scrapes the dead bugs off the windshield and hangs the toe-touching naked lady over the rearview mirror again. The old van has had some hard miles, but it’s ticking along well enough, ticking being the right word for the sound the tappets are making. He’ll drop by Lem’s for a final tune-up and a cup of coffee before he hits the road. Lem has been letting him earn beer money this week at the garage whenever he’s been able to break away from the camp, but there’s not enough business there for a full-time job, as Lem never fails to lament, and anyway Pach’ does not want to waste any more time around here; this story has ended. Some in the camp have probably wondered what he was up to, rolling out from time to time in this old newspaper rural delivery van they still associate with the cult’s Judas (that evil rag is dead and they’re not, as they like to point out), but the black grease on his hands and clothes told them clearly enough where he’d been, and he was able to bring back some gum and candy for the kids, a little act in part to impress Elaine, though it flew right past her. Pach’ is a hard worker, always has been. Even in prison he worked hard. Lem appreciates that, as do Ben and Wayne out here at the camp. Main difference is that Lem’s garage is a crossroads to everywhere — anybody might stop by, even people off the highway — while out here it’s almost like crawling inside your own body, and it makes him realize how unnatural this past week has been for him. Being cooped up all those years has made him the sort of ramblin’ man Duke and his woman were singing about last night at the motel, and of all his skills, moving on is what he does best. He came back here chasing a fantasy — a fantasy just as stupid as religion is. He got rid of that one, now he’s done with this one as well. No more pipe dreams of any kind; he’s a free man, freer than he’s ever been. Or so (the light is on in the Collins trailer and he wonders if she’s wondering where he’s going) he keeps reminding himself.

Among Lem’s customers yesterday was Moneybags’ old man, in to pick up his Continental after its final paint job, Lem having told Pach’ about the beating it took one night from the biker gang, pointing out where all the dents and dings had been. Couldn’t see a single one. Lem’s good. Not that he makes anything at it. He’s keeping everyone’s car on the road but barely ekes out a living, surviving mostly on bank loans. From the pit where he was lubing an aging Olds, Pach’ watched the banker. Looked like a guy who never sweated. The sort who did all his work with a nod or two and people jumped. Strong hands, big shoulders, slumping a bit, thick neck and wrists, a guy comfortable with his weight. His brat’s a wimp by comparison. Pach’ ran into Moneybags himself at the Moon last night. The sonuvabitch called him Ugly as if they were still back in high school. Probably thought he was being friendly. Pach’ wanted to paste him one, but the dumb fuck was not worth the trouble. Moneybags was there with his old high school piece and a couple of other wops. They made a date to meet at Lem’s this morning, so if the jerk shows up maybe he’ll get another chance to offer him a knuckle sandwich. For old times’ sake. Certainly he has a few things to tell the smug bastard. Wake him up to the real world.

Pach’ had been sitting there at the bar with three bikers, who were drawing a certain amount of attention. Warrior Apostles, as they called themselves on their studded black jackets. Decorated with dragons, swastikas, American flags, the face of Jesus. Wearing bandannas around their heads and ear studs. One of them had a patch on his jacket with what looked like Brunist symbols. Though the Baxter kid was not among them, he knew who they were, knew about all the trouble they’d caused, about their killing of Ben’s dog, their trashing of the camp, and so on, but he was drunk and past caring about all that shit and settled for a quiet bull session, fantasizing for a moment about another kind of life. If somebody had tried to throw them out, he would have taken their side as another outsider, and he rather hoped that might happen. Needed a good brawl to get his head straight again. Take on the fucking world. Didn’t care for the spic with the greasy duck’s ass hairdo, reminded him too much of the prison trusty who called him “Tonto” and tried to rape him, and the one who did all the talking was like a raw nerve with a loose mouth at the end and an unwashed mop of hair on top, a cranked-up badass who’d as soon knife you as say hello; but the hairy one with the midget face and no ears was half real and they got on all right. Talking with him, Pach’ could see that bikers had less lonely lives than he had, stuck as he was in his cage, as they called it. He asked them what they were doing hanging out in a shithole like this, and they said they were just passing through, be gone before sun-up. When the hairy one left, Pach’, dough running out and well plastered, left too. They exchanged grunts out in the parking lot and headed off in opposite directions, Pach’ passing a car that came barreling up the narrow road with its lights off. He flashed at it. Caught a glimpse of a fat guy hunkered over the wheel. Hard to tell. No lights on top but might have been heat.