Robert Coover - The Brunist Day of Wrath

“That’s right. New Opportunities. You know, for West Condon. What do you think?” Ted’s tenth or twelfth call of the morning. He can’t even remember who he’s talking to now. Probably someone on the city council. The voice on the other end sounds like it’s coming out of a windy cave. Archie Wetherwax up a phone pole, maybe. Who will beg off so that he can stay home and play with his model train set. Nothing happening out on the bank floor this Saturday morning. Nothing at all. “We hope to acquire some new properties, see if we can lure some corporate and industrial investment to the area.” He’s still making swirly shapes with his penciled doodles like some kind of weird flowers, but now, whenever lines cross to create closed spaces, he finds himself blacking them in. Well, he’s an old guy with a lot of history, and she’s just a kid. He’s known all along there’d be no long-term gain. It was more like a casino night: fast, fun, full of calculated risk, empty-handed at the end. But he hadn’t realized her leaving, though it had to happen, would hit him so hard. “Yes, those fanatics are part of our concern, too.” It’s the priest he’s talking to now. Key ally. So wake up. “They’re responsible for a lot of our troubles here, Father Baglione, and we want them to move on before things get out of hand again.” He’s had his fair share of casino nights, but mostly out of town, while attending board meetings or sales conferences, pursuing investments, and the returns have been minimal but no debts or regrets, no troublesome residue. As a reliable donor to Republican party campaigns and a local organizer and counselor, he also gets invited from time to time to Governor Kirkpatrick’s hunting parties (have to call him), and there are always lots of women around there, too. Short-term investments with little or no payback, just a pleasurable way to get rid of excess capital. That of the pocket, that of the loins. One of his upstate partners has shown him how to make most of it tax deductible. He even includes condoms among his promotional supply expenses, buys them by the carton. “You saw last Sunday the problems we face, Connie.” The Lutheran minister has agreed to replace Wes Edwards at the Rotary Club and Ted wants him to focus his introductory remarks on the new action committee and its challenges. “We have to come together as a united citizenry, and we might as well start praying for it at the Wednesday luncheon.” In all his previous affairs, it has always been easy come and easy come again. So what’s different this time? Well, he has fucking fallen in love, that’s what. “Goddamn it, Jim, that’s stupid! I ask you what you think of our New Opportunities for West Condon idea and you can only make a lame joke about nude opportunities?” He hangs up on the drunken sonuvabitch with a bang, which causes the little Bonali girl out on the bank floor to start and glance his way. He shrugs and winks solemnly, turns away, recalling Stacy’s mimicry. He’d brought up the idea of her taking over Jim Elliott’s job, but she only laughed and then did an exact imitation of Elliott’s stupid look, his dumb remarks. To prove, she said, she’d be perfect for the job. He’s crazy about her. Never thought it could happen again, never wanted it to happen, and it did. She has brought something magical into his life. It’s as though he’s been spared from following poor Irene into the grave. An illusion, of course. Like religion, as Stacy would say. Though she believes in love like others believe in Jesus. He called his old fraternity brother up at the business school to ask if he’d seen her or heard from her. No, but he had another sharp student he might like. He was sorry he’d called. “Nick works for the bank, Burt. Guy I met at a business meeting up in the city. I don’t think he even goes to church.” It’s nickel-and-dime Burt Robbins he’s talking to. He’s telling him about his city manager idea and Burt has asked him if he thinks it’s smart to hand over that much power to the Italians. He says the mayor won’t like it. “The mayor told me he wanted to quit.” That surprises Burt, but Ted doesn’t say more, changes the subject, says he has been on the phone to a couple of old profs and may have found a good candidate to replace Edwards at the church. “Young fellow named Jenkins. Something of a scholarly type, like Connie Dreyer, but said to be good at reaching out to the community and building consensus.” Got the impression talking with him that he was something of a naïve ditherer and probably not even a golfer, but they’ve got to get a body in the pulpit soon, reopen the church before the doors rust shut. Ted has chewed his pencil through to the lead. He snaps it in two. Relax. She’ll be back, she needs him, she can’t stay away. He’s arrogant enough to believe that. Meanwhile, the break is a good thing. Instead of an idle drive in the country, he’s getting a lot of work done. He calls Lem Filbert to apologize for having to let his sister-in-law go, but it was a very serious matter. “She took advantage of my wife’s incapacities.” Lem says he hopes the crazy bitch ends up in the fucking clink and stays there, he’s fed up with her religious wackiness and she needs to have her ass kicked. Lem’s a good man and Ted tells him so while thinking about Stacy’s sweet little behind, so arousing when she turns it toward him. Lit softly by the fading light coming through the motel window. To be kissed, not kicked. He asks when his car will be ready and Lem says he plans to finish the painting this afternoon. Should be dry by Monday, looking like new. “No hurry, Lem. No use for it until then.” But, no, it’s not a good thing. He’s in pain. He imagines the drive. The sun. Her smile. Her hand in his lap. It’s a long long way from May to December… He’s not a hummer, but now he’s humming. There you go. Though that one’s about growing old. The days dwindle down to a precious few… He takes a deep breath and presses on with his NOWC calls (ah, damn the world and the way time fucks us!), trying to get his mind off her, and while he’s got Judge Altoviti on the phone, he inquires about Concetta Moroni, the woman he has just hired, sight unseen, as a home care worker. Altoviti says she’s a strong, reliable, big-hearted woman who was widowed by the Deepwater blast and could use the work; so, good, he’ll stick with her. Not all news is bad. Irene has become an evangelical; now she can become a Catholic. Just to be sure, he calls Nick Minicozzi upstairs and asks him to do a background check. “And while you’re at it, you might try to get me a rundown on the bank’s investments in Deepwater or in any of its managers, outstanding loans, that kind of thing. I think we put some money into a gasification project of theirs. Bad field position, but until that deal is signed and sealed, we still might have a play or two left in our locker.” September… November… When Nick asks, he says, “I may come out for a late nine.” Vince Bonali’s daughter, who gave him the Moroni connection, is doing some quiet housekeeping behind the counter, filling the time until they close at one. Then she’s off to the house to help out with Irene. Ted’s well aware he has set Tommy up with an in-house lay today, though he apparently needs no help. Consolation for dragging him back from university. The girl is cute, though far beneath Tommy. Should he call her father about NOWC? No. Lesson learned. He has just taken a grip on the phone to call Dave Os-borne at the shoe store, thinking about Stacy showing him the shoes she’d bought there (even her feet he loves, and the way she stands and walks on them, the way she turns the soles up when—), when it rings. Almost as if by grasping it he has triggered it. If you hold the blackened doodles to the light just right, they shine like silver. He hangs up with a whispered I-love-you and calls the garage. “Listen, Lem, if its drivable, I might take the Lincoln out for the weekend after all and bring it back Monday. Yeah? Great.” He signals to the staff to lock up. To fall so hard. And feel so good.