Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

It is in the early morning that Vince Bonali most misses his wife Etta. Even when times were hard — during the long winter mine strike, for example — she always had a hot breakfast ready for him by the time he reached the kitchen. Sometimes little more than her German potato pancakes and homemade applesauce, made from bruised apples she bought cheap, but always delicious and satisfying. He has long since realized that she often did without so he would not go hungry. The thought always makes him tearful and does so now. This house they shared… This morning all he could find was a stale piece of bread which he toasted and buttered with cooking lard, topping it with sugar and the last sprinkle from the dusty cinnamon shaker. Etta would have been proud of his resourcefulness. But he is still hungry. He has taken his morning walk around the block, sum total of his daily exercise. He has opened his last beer and sunk back into his old porch rocker, where he now passes his days, wishing them away. Earlier last week, while things were still going well, his son Charlie bought him a quality fresh cigar, now half smoked, and he tucks it into his jowls, pats his pockets for matches. None. Have to light it at the stove. Later. He remembers when they bought this house. Such optimism then. Good job, union officer, steady pay, low mortgage. Figured on paying it off in ten or twelve years. Handy with tools, he put a lot of time and energy into the place. Rundown now. Never finished that paint job he started five years ago; it all looks the same again. The little picket fence he made lies broken and trampled. The cement Virgin, a Christmas present from Angela, leans in the mud as if losing her footing. Inside, nothing works as it should. No matter. No longer his anyway. He has refinanced it many times over just in order to scrape by and owes more now than the original mortgage. Angie’s job at the bank has protected him. That’s over. He has been notified. Papers are being served. He’s being locked out of his own house.

On his way out to the car, Ralph Tindle hears banging on the studio door. “Ralph? Ralph? Is that you?” he hears his dear helpmeet call out. He knocks on the door: “Hello? Hello?” “Ralph! He’s escaped! He locked me in! Let me out!” He knocks again. “Hello?” “Ralph! What are you doing? Quickly! He may be in trouble!” He knocks again. “Anybody there?” “Ralph! Please! Don’t be annoying! It’s urgent! I have to find him!” He smiles, locks up the house, and, humming that old Salvation Army tune, “Let Him In,” the frantic banging on the studio door playing in the background, gets in his car and drives away.

“Eh, cugino, what’s this with our ragazzo? He called. He feels you are not protecting him.”

“Charlie don’t need protection, he needs discipline. You unloaded a lotta trouble on us. He’s your fucking ragazzo, not mine. You should keep him in line.”

“Ma che minchia…? He’s apprehending a criminal, has to use a little force…”

“The kid he hit is the lifeguard at the city pool. He was just closing up.”

“That’s your story, hunh? Don’t sound very helpful, Dee. There was a broad…”

“A young high school kid. She was the one who—”

“Sua puttana…”

“No, he’s been seeing someone else.”

“Charlie’s sister, right? And he dishonored her. She’s got a bun in the oven and he’s dumping her for this new piece of ass. Hey, it’s a family thing, Demetrio, what can you do?”

“Charlie was in uniform, armed, driving the squad car, used excessive force — even if there had been a crime, and there wasn’t. He’s got a mountain of serious charges on his head right now.”

“So, what’s the kid’s price? We can take up a collection.”

“It won’t work. His father runs the bank here and everything else.”

“So, all right, we call up the kid’s old man, let him know how expensive this could be for him.”

“I wouldn’t. He’s a pal of the governor, congressmen, has a direct line to the FBI through some old college buddy. Get him into it, he might have some more questions to ask.”

“…”

“Charlie is suspended pending an investigation, but I have to fire him and bring criminal charges. If I don’t, I’ll be out of a job, facing charges of my own, and Charlie will get taken in anyway.”

“Well. You disappoint me, compagno. Ma che cazzo, maybe we could use someone on the inside…”

“As I understand it, Nick, they assume Bruno is dead, some sort of mad doctor atrocity or other, and are planning a symbolic burial out on the hill in the next couple of weeks. I figured we’d ask to have him released to us for a day and take him to his own funeral. Things are boiling up again out there, and maybe this will give them something to theologize about for a while.”

“They don’t usually like to release mental patients.”

“I think I can get the governor’s intervention on this one. Kirkpatrick has been looking for an excuse to duck out on our Fourth of July parade. This would be a useful tradeoff for him.”

“There are some risks.”

“I think we should take them. Now, what’s happening with that sonuvabitch who assaulted Tommy? The girl’s been fired and mortgage papers have been served on the father. Why hasn’t the city gone ahead with a criminal prosecution against the asswipe who’s responsible for all this?”

“I’m still checking into all the legal issues, Ted. Meanwhile he has been suspended from the police force.”

“What does that mean? I walked by yesterday and he was still in there.”

“His movements have not been restricted. If he has friends…”

“Nick, that’s not good enough. A cop in uniform beats up an innocent civilian: that’s a crime.”

“Well, I know, but it can be tricky. We can assume he’ll put up a stiff defense. Want to have everything in place before we get involved with the courts. You also asked about getting a parade permit for the Fourth. That’s been done. And the bank picnic will be set up out on the high school football field, with part of the raffle proceeds going to the school’s athletic program. Working out the contract arrangements now.”

“All right. People will want to use the unoccupied Main Street commercial properties to exhibit or sell things. Let’s offer them small grants for fixing them up. Stick a notice up on the old Chamber of Commerce windows. I’ve put Tommy in charge of the parade and the fireworks. We’ll have a small brass band for the parade made up mostly of school kids from here and the towns around, fire engines and police cars, at least one float built by the New Opportunities for West Condon steering committee, and some marching groups like the American Legion, Knights of Columbus, what’s left of the miners’ union, the Christian Patriots—”

“Isn’t that J. P. Suggs’ private militia? They’re just the Klan under another name.” “I know, Nick, but the request came through the sheriff’s office, and it seemed better to fold them into the community on the day than to exclude them, especially with Suggs himself out of the picture now. We’ll have an essay contest — what it means to be an American, that sort of thing — and I’ve got people rounding up raffle prizes.”

“You can probably get a whole bunch of shoes from Dave Os-borne.”

“Yes, he’s a problem. We have to close that embarrassment down before the Fourth. Wouldn’t want the governor to see it, if he did turn up. I was also wondering if we might make some use of the old hotel? Display the town history in the lobby or something?”

“It’s not in great shape, but I suppose it’s doable.”

“Maybe we can get the prospective new owners to put a little money into it. Nick, what do you know about that group, the Roma Historical Society?”