Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

The rise at the sixth tee is not very high, but the land is flat enough around here that just getting above the nearby treetops opens up inspiring vistas. One can see much of the course, including the abandoned second nine, the pale fields beyond, something of the West Condon outskirts, even the tops of some of the structures over at Deepwater, far in the distance. Soon to be back — thank you, Lord — in safe hands. Perhaps it will bring the old economy back with it. “There’s something I have to tell you, Dad,” Tommy says at his side, and he does. Ted feels his jaw tightening, his peace evaporating. Goddamn it. “She’s lying,” he says. “Drop her now.”

The talk around the lifeguard chair near the high diving board has moved from flirtatious to outrageous thanks to Sally Elliott, who is getting her kicks out of shocking the younger set with talk about body parts and emissions and how to tell if a boy is a virgin or not. There are a lot of cute girls clustered around the chair below him. Word of his breakup with Angela has spread. “Ding dong!” Sally remarked, watching the eager Munchkins dancing around him. But most of them are pretty young and daughters of friends of his parents and he’s not as keen on cherry-picking as he once was, so he is sitting coolly behind sunglasses on his elevated chair, smiling down on the giggly fuss as one might smile at a bunch of little leaguers worshipfully trying to copy your batting stance. Probably he ought to turn off the dirty talk, but Sally’s pretty funny and the kids seem to be enjoying it. At dinner last week his dad got interested in some of the things Sally was telling him about the church camp, especially that blond kid’s kooky idea of digging an empty grave for the missing Bruno body, and he asked Tommy to keep up the connection, so he is doing so. Easy enough. Sally is about the only person in town except Fleet he can have a real conversation with, even if she does tend to get wound up and go off the deep end. Getting anything intelligent out of Angela has been like getting a love song out of a whoopee cushion.

The split has been rough, but as far as he’s concerned, it’s final. He was pretty shaken by the act Angela pulled on him at the Moon Saturday night, but gradually he is shifting it into the picturesque past. Like Mom and her photo albums. Lesson learned. Angie got very cuddly on the dance floor, clutching his neck, his ass, pressing every inch of herself against him, like she was trying to push herself inside him; she seemed wistful, almost tearful, and he began to believe that reality was finally sinking in and he was going to get that sweet I’ll-never-forget-you farewell he’d been hoping for. “I’m just so wet, Tommy,” she whispered, stretching up to nibble at his earlobe. “I want to go to the room right now. I can’t wait.” So, even though they’d just bought a new round of drinks, they said goodnight to Monica, who was all smiles, and Fleet, who winked and shrugged and raised his glass, and off they went. Her clothes were already coming off before he could unlock the door. She tore at his clothing, kissed him all over when she’d stripped him, dragged him on top of her, grabbed his dick with her hot fist and plunged it inside her, locking her thighs around his butt, and started bucking wildly against him. When he tried to pull out, she whispered: “You don’t have to anymore, Tommy. I’m so excited! I’ve wanted to tell you all night! We’re going to have a baby!” He came instantly, almost in panic, but managed to shoot most of it between the cheeks of her ass, or he hoped he did. He freed himself from her, not easy, pulled on his clothes, told her brusquely to do the same, they were going home. And then she did start to cry. Great sobbing tears. What could he do? He put his arms around her, said please, he’d need some time, he was confused, he’d have to think what to do, they’d talk about it tomorrow, and he got her dressed as best he could and out to the parking lot, where they found the car with its tires and top slashed and ugly stripes down both sides, as if someone had dragged a coin across the paint. He heard Fleet and Monica arguing as they came out of the bar and he sent Angela, still sobbing, off with them, Fleet frowning, Monica glaring fiercely at him as he handed her the leftover clothes. He eventually hitched a ride home and spent a sleepless thick-headed night, recalling all the times he’d let her talk him out of wearing a rubber, claiming it didn’t feel real, and how she liked to suck it, then jump on it at the last minute, all her sinister little tricks. What a fool. His dad was pissed off when he told him, but his opinion reinforced what he already knew: she was faking it. When she called, that’s what he told her. That she was lying, just trying to trap him. After all they’d meant to each other, he was very disappointed, didn’t ever want to see her again. Don’t call back. She screamed at him from the other end of the line, but he knew he was right. And that was it. Concetta said the phone rang a few times, but the caller always hung up; it had to be her. It’s over.

The conversation below his chair has moved from nudist jokes and the fine art of nose-picking to the subject of breasts and why boys can show their nipples and girls can’t, and in demonstration of the absurdity of this inequality Sally strips her halter off and suddenly everyone else is very silent. She likes to say she’s got breasts like goosebumps on a chilly day, but actually, after having spent so much time nuzzling Angela’s milk jugs, Tommy finds them not unappealing — small, yes, less than a handful each — but sitting prettily on her chest there in the bright sunshine like overturned teacups, firm yet soft, their little pink nipples standing at attention, belying her pretense at cool. Pretty, but not permissible. “Put your top back on, Sally.”

“I mean, what is it with nipples anyway?” she asks, and takes the finger of a boy standing there gawking and touches her breast with it. “Yeah, right, that feels okay, but I don’t know what the big deal is. Did that turn you on?” The kid is too dazed to speak, can only stare.

“Sally, you are really crazy,” says Babs Wetherwax, somewhat flushed, her hands covering her own breasts as though they were the ones on view. She probably wishes that they were. Certainly more to see.

“Seriously, Sal. There are little kids here. Cover up or I’ll have to throw you out.”

“And are guys’ nips any different from girls’?” she asks and unexpectedly reaches up and tweaks one of his. It’s like getting touched by an electric handshake shocker, nearly sends him right out of his lifeguard chair, and his yip releases the tension below him, setting everyone off to snorting and giggling again, and he can only grin as Sally blows them all a kiss and walks out, still topless, waving at the mothers and their children at the shallow end.

Tommy watches Babs follow Sally’s exit, one hand still clasping her breast, and then she turns to gaze up at him with the sort of stunned look he hasn’t seen since Angela first fell in love with him. Well, why not? Maybe just a drive somewhere, a friendly chat, try to find out how far along in the sex game she is. Even if she’s still a virgin, girls that age are often into blow jobs and finger fucks, and after extreme sex with Angela, that’s probably enough for a while. Make it clear this time that whatever happens, it’s just for fun. She’s still staring up at him, still holding her breast. He winks and grins, calls out to one of the little kids to get back in the shallow end.

He has his weekly Wednesday date at the Loin tonight with his father and he’s driving Lem’s old tangerine junker again, his Bing Cherry in for new tires and top and a paint touchup, but there’s still time and enough left in the junker to make it out to the lakes and back before supper. He figures she’ll wait for him until he closes the pool, and she does. They’ve sent another cop over at closing time. Unfortunately, it’s not the old guy — it’s Angela’s brother, Charlie. When he and Babs step out of the front gate and he has finished locking up, Charlie swaggers over, toothpick between his teeth, and says: “I’d like a word with you, punk. About your fiancée.”