Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

“It has been a long time since the last inventory, Ted, but the mine owners promised to check it. They are probably nervous about it and may try to cover it up.”

“Nervous?”

“Well, they still own the mine and could be held responsible for leaving such hazardous material unsecured. Especially if it were to be employed in a crime.”

“That could be useful, Nick. The city is backing out of the purchase of the hill, at least at the current asking price, so we may have to try to stop this sale some other way.”

“We have grounds for any number of temporary injunctions. I think we can keep them from taking the hill over for a year at least. Don’t know, though, if we can keep them off it at the same time.”

“And what about the sources of the cult’s money? Where is it all coming from? Have you looked into our own church accounts?”

“I have. Mrs. Edwards seems to have funneled most of the church’s income from the sale back into the camp. Presumably for a Presbyterian halfway house for troubled teenagers, which she’s allegedly building out there. Should be easy to go after her. Getting the money back is another matter. She has also cleaned out her husband’s accounts. Completely illegal. He could sue her.”

“Wes is not part of the real world, Nick. I’m still working on getting him committed. For his own good as much as ours. But there’s talk about their having the wherewithal to build a church on top of that hill. Where the hell did they get it? Can’t be from the camp sale. Suggs again?”

“Well, I’ve hesitated to tell you, but you may be buying it for them.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was asking myself the same question: How can they pay for this? So I went scouting around through accounts, looking for large withdrawals and I think I found what I was looking for. It’s bad news, Ted. It’s your wife.”

“What? Irene?”

“Over the past few months she has been moving her funds into a separate account in a bank up in the city. And from there it has almost certainly gone straight into the cult account.”

“But she’s bedridden! How—?”

“Well, she has a telephone. Gave a corporate tax lawyer up in the city power of attorney, and he set it up for her. Know a guy named Thornton? Edgar Thornton?”

“Yeah, I know him. Thorny. Irene’s old college beau before she met me. A Deke.”

“A what?”

“Fraternity guy. Different fraternity. Jesus. I can’t believe this. Can we put a restraining order on the transfer? Non compos mentis, and all that?”

“Probably too late. It’s already gone. Some of it may have been handed over in cash.”

“Or freeze the Brunist accounts?”

“We can try. It’ll be a painful thing, you know.”

“It’s already painful, Nick. Right this minute, I’m having trouble breathing.”

“Eh, ciao, bello. Howza lawr’n-order racket?”

“Had to shoot a stray dog week before last. How’s things up in the big city?”

“Ah, you know, Demetrio, wine, women, and song, the usual stronzata. I miss the old neighborhood.”

“Sure you do.”

“Ascolta, cugino, I’m calling about a hometown boy there, see if I can’t do him a favor since I owe him one. Un buon ragazzo, Charlie Bonali, Vince’s boy — you know him?”

“I know him.”

“He’s a little hard up just now and could use a job. I thought you might have something there for him.”

“Well, there is a police job opening up here, I think, but—”

“Now ain’t that amazing! I thought there might be. And you got problems. You got some lunatic Jesus freaks down there.”

“They’re outside town and so far they mostly been only bothering each other. But—”

“But you never know, right? Those people are completely pazzo!”

“They’re a bit weird.”

“I know, I gotta deal every day here with spics and sambos and dumb hillbillies, all of ’em mostly bombed outa their dim little melons, either with dope or that yelling they call praying. Count yourself lucky! But you’ll like Charlie. He’s big and he’s brave and he takes no shit from nobody.”

“Well, he can come in for a—”

“Except you’n me, right? Shit from you’n me he takes like ice cream.”

“There are other guys running this town. I don’t have the final say who—”

“Right, you got that tinhorn ex-shoe salesman down there, what’s his name, Cass-hole?”

“Yeah, the mayor.”

“I hear he’s been muscling in on our neighborhood, squeezing our people with some kinda fucking protection racket.”

“He’s been campaigning.”

“Well, he won’t be doing that no more, capitano. And you just tell him who you want. I got a feeling he’ll be open to suggestion.”

“I don’t know. The mayor’s got some powerful backers. The bank, for example. And the bank has recently hired a sharp new lawyer who seems to have his eye on just about everything.”

“Nicky Minicozzi, you mean. Yeah, we call him Mini-cazzo. Nicky does what we tell him. Hang loose, cugino. Go to Mass. Pray for our souls.”

“Sure, Dad. If it’s important. I was hoping to stay up here at the fraternity house through graduation. There are a lot of parties going on this weekend. People I may never see again.”

“I know, Tommy. But I do need your help.”

“Is Mom worse?”

“Well, yes and no. But I’ve had to fire the home care nurse and the new one can’t start until next week, so I’m all alone here.”

“What did she do? Steal something?”

“I… I guess you could say so.”

“Dad, you don’t sound good. Are you all right? Dad?”

“I know. It’s all right. Angela told me. She said she’d helped you find the new person.” All week long she has been thinking about leaving. Ever since the night his car was attacked and he got home and found his wife so ill. It was her fault, really, and she has the feeling others think so, too. There is a scandal of some sort brewing and she is afraid of it. But now, just hearing his voice (he is apologizing for missing their traditional Thursday night together; he seems quite shaken and says he needs her more than ever, and she can hear the need and how much older his voice sounds, and it tugs at her), she knows she can’t go. Not yet. Night of a full moon. She’ll eat alone in her room, unable to bear the smirks of the motel staff. “Tomorrow’s out, too, damn it,” he says. “But Tommy’s coming down from university, so Saturday looks good. We can take that drive we talked about.” He looked absolutely stricken while talking on the phone in his office today, and when she brought in some documents for him to initial, she asked if something was wrong. He nodded, then shook his head sadly, as if it were all beyond him. Her heart was racing but he assured her it had nothing to do with her. He has asked her, more than once, about becoming the new Chamber of Commerce executive director, saying that he needed her business and personal relations skills in that job, her youthful enthusiasm, and, well, yes, her beauty, and though they might see a little less of each other, it would spare them the awkwardness of working together at the bank, but she has always made it clear that when her internship at the bank is over she is leaving. And then they both are sad for a while. “Hello? Stacy? Is Saturday okay?” She felt guilty about keeping him late that night, but she just couldn’t let him go. Somehow it seemed like the last night, and at the door, when he was kissing her good night, she knelt and pulled his pants and shorts down and there went another half hour, and he probably didn’t even know as he pressed his fingers into her hair that she was crying a little. She felt so awful the next day when she heard, she even packed her bags. But then just sat staring at them. The only god she has left from her Quaker childhood is love and he’s not always a friendly god, sometimes even kind of scary, more like a demon, really. When little Angela asked her what she believed in, she joked that she was a holyroller for love, but what she didn’t say was that if religious faith was a kind of dangerous madness, so too was love. “Hello? Are you there…? Stacy…?” “Yes. All right. Saturday then.” “I’m doing all I can.” “I know. I love you. And thanks for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”