Origin of the Brunists

by Robert Coover

  Cavanaugh had also run into some resistance in the least-expected quarter: among Bruno’s fellow Italian coalminers. At first, he didn’t know what to make of it. Then, slowly, he had come to see that there was a kind of class embarrassment toward Bruno, and a certain amount of scarcely concealed resentment that if only one could have made it, it had to be someone like Giovanni Bruno. Unmarried. Belonged to no clubs, had no friends. Not active at the church. Maybe even a negative attitude there. Standoffish and peculiar. Well, Cavanaugh had made them forget that. He had pushed the idea that in the eyes of the world, Giovanni Bruno represented this generation’s victory over hatred and prejudice, and that they could all stand taller today, not because of who Bruno was personally or what he’d done, but because of the way others saw him. And, even more important, for the moment—no matter how arbitrary it might seem—he stood for West Condon, and they all had to help lift West Condon high!

  He had written a couple articles more or less to that effect and had planted them in Miller’s newspaper. Not that it was easy: Miller was getting hard to get along with. There was a time when Miller would have written them himself and been all too glad to do it, but something had gone wrong. Tiger wasn’t panning out. Cavanaugh had thought, back when he first got Miller to come back here, that he’d get married, settle in for good, become a leader here, mayor for awhile maybe, or even better things. He had a good head, plenty of drive and spirit, and a big following. Should have been a sure thing. Instead, he couldn’t even make the goddamn paper pay off. Oh, he’d won a number of meaningless prizes, had sold some articles nationally, had introduced a lot of spectacular though finally pretty silly innovations in the Chronicle, most of which had long since been abandoned, but the paper was losing money, and, what was far more serious, Miller didn’t seem to give a damn.

  Of course, Miller was a spoiled kid, only child, raised by his mother, pampered in school, and so his ego made it hard for him to blend in. Still given to adolescent just-for-the-hell-of-it storm-raising. His Dad was a mining engineer who was killed accidentally while trying to arbitrate a management-union struggle in the early thirties, a friend of Ted’s Dad, and maybe this had made Tiger grow up with that peculiar fascination for conflict—he always said it was what had led him into journalism as a career. Maybe Ted should have thought about all this before he encouraged him to come back and buy up the Chronicle, then loaned him the money to do it. From the day Tiger took that money, they’d been at odds. And he’d antagonized his best advertisers with tasteless stories, true or not, had ducked all responsibilities in the community, and had developed an annoying habit of mocking those very customs and traditions that most folks here revered. What was the matter with him? Maybe it was Jones’ influence. Cavanaugh didn’t know where the sonuvabitch had come from, but as far as he was concerned, he could move on any day. Jones’ irresponsible anything-goes virus could eat up a community, strike it with a kind of moral encephalitis, and goddamn it, Ted Cavanaugh wasn’t going to see that happen.

  Miller’s private life was something less than exemplary, too, and now this latest scandal involving the Cravens widow had finally got Cavanaugh to wondering if Miller might not be best off leaving with Jones on the same train. Miller had a way of always getting his prick in the wrong place at the wrong time: Jesus! when was that guy going to grow up? It worried Ted, too, that his own son Tommy admired the man so. Came from the old days when young Tiger, as athletic hero and top student, was the town prince, but now Ted wasn’t sure what lessons Tommy might be learning from the man’s gathering ruin.

  Still, on this project anyway, Miller had been cooperative enough, had run stories nightly, had done all he could to lure out-of-town—what Miller and now the whole town liked to call. “East Condon”—newsmen to the scene: the hotel was filled up Sunday night and there were even a couple national television cameras on the Bruno front lawn Monday morning. Bunting was up and a welcome sign on the front porch. Inside, neighbor women were giving the house a thorough cleaning. The outside had been freshly painted by high school students. Cheerful day, couldn’t be better. Ted had seen to it that schools and businesses would be closed for the morning, that the high school band would be on hand, and that the ceremonies would include a number of state dignitaries. Town spirit was the theme. Wes Edwards, for one, had a speech ready that was just the ticket: would call on everyone in earshot to join him in a pledge for community renewal. Edwards was a quiet intellectual guy, tremendous organizer, good golfer, moving speaker, a sharp cookie. Best they’d ever got here. Cavanaugh planned to get Bruno and his parents out of the ambulance and into the house as quickly as possible, let the girl represent the family in front of the cameras. Cute girl, shy but charming, just the right mixture of pride and humility.

  Before things got under way, Cavanaugh stopped by the hotel, hospital, school, city hall, made sure everything was ready to go. Along the way, he learned whom Tiger Miller had slept with last night. Well, hell, why not? Might be just the girl he’d been needing all along. He’d have to check her out, not a local girl, but she looked good. In fact, at the hospital, where she worked, Cavanaugh looked twice and decided she looked very goddamn good. Lay of the Year at the Municipal Hospital. Inwardly, he grinned a wry grin. That damn Jones is getting to us all, he thought.

  Vince Bonali woke Monday morning, before dawn, wound up in the sheets, face sweating, eyes wet with tears, breathing like a steamboat. He’d been down in the mine and the going was tough, he was beating his way through it, smoke, dark, things tripping him up—bodies? Oh God! God Almighty! The place was all turned around, everybody had bugged out on him, lamps flicking meaninglessly, distantly, sonsabitches wouldn’t listen! “Hey, you guys! Goddamn!” He’d sidled up somehow, pulled the lights nearer, got them going right. The head, buddy use your goddamn head! “Both ways!” he’d cried, felt like he had to shout. “That way some of us’ll be chosen!” Jesus! he hadn’t meant that, he’d meant some would get out—“Get out!” He’d separated them and they’d headed off. Yet, God, it seemed all wrong! What the hell was he doing? Lights blinking down unseen channels, cut off now—all gone! He was alone! But wait! He couldn’t remember which way he’d meant to go himself! Knew before, knew one of them was wrong, but which—? “Hey, Cokie! Ange!” Tried to change the scene, knew he’d done it all before, wasn’t real, but it only got worse. Then he saw Pooch—old Pooch Minicucci! “Hey, by God! I thought you’d bugged out on me, Pooch!” Jesus, he was glad to see him! “Come on, man, it’s you and me!” He’d get Pooch out now, just tear ass down the—but what the—? Jesus Christ! The dumb bastard was jacking off! “Oh no!” Couldn’t believe it! “Hey, Pooch! What are you doing, man?” The idiot was just squatting there on a heap of gob, eyes blank like mica, prick long as a damn timber, pulling himself off! “The old snake!” roared Ange Moroni in the washhouse, big laughter booming out, and Vince laughed, everybody was laughing, and for a minute he was out of there. “Cut half of it off, maybe he could talk plain!” Jesus, that was funny! Good old Ange—but no! There he was still: “Pooch!” Pooch’s jaw went slack, twitched like he wanted to talk only couldn’t. Whole face caving in like the bones were breaking, going dark, and bastard kept pumping away with his right fist. Never saw it stiff like that before, couldn’t even see the end of it, seemed to reach right up to the—“Pooch! I ain’t gonna say it one more time! If you don’t come, man, it’s your own goddamn fault!” Jesus! Maybe he’d loosen it all, bring the whole fucking mine down! Noise of topcoal splitting, some fell somewhere. Distant screams. Vince was running, trying to run, a shifting under his feet, hollow echoing emptiness, ears ached, hard to breathe, air thick as cotton—gas! Gas! Don’t think about it, just run, man! Couldn’t see the sides, couldn’t see the timbers, machines, couldn’t see a goddamn thing. But didn’t bump into anything, going like ninety, but somehow nothing got in the way. Felt stuff brushing by, tight spots here and there, pushed, turned, faked, okay, okay, buddy, racing to beat hell, just a—hot! hot as hell!
smoke! what’s that? a glow! glow ahead! fire! Wrong way, oh my God! he’d been running the wrong goddamn way! No! No! Coming, it’s coming! tried to turn back. Couldn’t turn back. Heat! Done for! Done for! Turn! Turn, goddamn it! But hard, hard to get, to get swung around. He struggled. Things in his way now. Legs heavy, tired. Goddamn tired. It was too much for one man. At his back now. Done for. Legs flabby. Out of shape. Too late. Up against a wall. Thick. Oily, like soft clay. Trapped! Clawed his way into it. Air gone. Get through! Choked.

  “It’s okay,” Etta said.

  Vince unwound himself, still choked up, wiped his face with the sheet. “I’m sorry Pooch died,” he said hoarsely.

  “Sure,” said Etta.

  “Etta?”

  Alongside him, her big hind end turned toward him, his wife grunted.

  “Etta, I ain’t never going back down there again.”

  And then he was able to sleep. Slept like a log. When he finally did wake up, Etta already had breakfast ready for him. Over his eggs, trying to remember his dream, he asked, “Where’s the kids? Angie off to school already?”

  “No school today,” Etta reminded him. “Both she and Charlie were up early. I think they were going over to Tony and Emilia Bruno’s house. Their boy is coming home from the hospital today, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. That’s today,” Vince said. “Think I’ll drop over there too. They’re shelling out a lotta dough and maybe they’ll have some left over.”

  Etta took that crack in grim silence. She was down to just about nothing in her grocery budget. But, by God, things would be different now. Once he’d got him a good job, never mind what, just so it wasn’t coalmining, they’d never have to fret these long layoffs again. He felt strong, left with his shoulders squared.

  Townsfolk had already massed up on the Bruno front lawn when Vince arrived. Bright sun, though the day was crisp, holiday air. Shops, school, everything closed. Vince moved around, talking with old buddies, joking about Bruno. Still, there was nothing sour about it, and everybody was feeling good. Mort Whimple, the mayor, arrived in a new black Chrysler, accompanied by Father Baglione, some state politicians, and one of the Protestant ministers. TV guys dollied around on the sidewalk, shooting everybody. Jesus, the crowd was really big! Officials from the Red Cross, the UMW, the coal company, members of the city council, and representatives from other civic organizations pulled up behind the Chrysler. Vince said hello to his alderman Joe Altoviti, and they kidded around a little.

  A sign on the mayor’s car said: GIOVANNI BRUNO—WEST CONDON SAYS—GET WELL SOON!!! Everybody cheered as Whimple, in his trademark tweeds and sportshirt buttoned at the neck, moved among them, flanked by the congressmen, the whole group smiling toothily in all directions. Whimple was a homely little guy, used to be fire chief, and before that a car salesman. Vince found himself with a big smile splitting his own face. A piece of the high school band arrived, tooted a bunch of marches on the lawn. Lot of excitement. Well, in spite of everything, by God, it was a great goddamn town, and when the chips were down—

  Then a distant siren alerted them, drew shouts from the crowds. The band broke off, then started up again. The dignitaries, with self-conscious shrugs and private jokes nobody could hear, arranged themselves on the front porch, while the cops, Dee Romano, Monk Wallace, and old Willie, cleared the sidewalk. Vince helped. He felt a part of it. The sun shown bright and here in the crowd there was a warmth. A couple ladies appeared at the storm door, noses pressed on the panes, neighbor women. Probably had got the house ready. The band played “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Vince saw Georgie Lucci’s face grinning at him, and he grinned back. Everybody was grinning. The siren was getting louder. All necks craned toward the siren now. It was like a distant cry of good cheer, yet an anxious one, too—always something of terror and the unexpected in the pitch of an ambulance siren.

  Then it swung up, bright white. The music was loud and there was a lot of noise, a lot of enthusiasm. They brought Bruno out on a stretcher. Poor guy looked scared to death. Television cameras were grinding away. Vince saw Tiger Miller, the Chronicle editor, popping photos along with all the other newsguys, gave him the nod when he chanced to glance his way. Vince had not been too hot on this big show for Bruno, but Miller in his paper had made it seem almost reasonable. Bruno’s family, his folks and his kid sister, walked beside the stretcher. Vince hadn’t seen old Tony in years and he was shocked by what he saw. Trembling, a sickly white, nearly blind old man with a bandaged nose. Had to be helped along. And he used to be such a tough hard-fisted bastard. What was worse, the poor old guy had wet his pants. It was embarrassing, but people overlooked it. Tony’s wife was small and wizened, looked now like a lot of old ladies who had lived on too long.

  The kid sister received the check, represented the family during the big ceremonies. She did a good job of it. And Vince thought, If everybody in the goddamn country is going to be looking at West Condon, it’s sure a helluva lot better to have her up there than her brother. He realized he still wasn’t too happy about its being Bruno. The speeches were full of praise for West Condon’s great community spirit and its stamina. Whimple, the congressmen, Ted Cavanaugh, the preacher, everybody scored the same theme. The band played the high school fighting song. Vince remembered with pride those team huddles, back when Ted Cavanaugh captained the squad and ran his famous offtackle plays over Vince, remembered the slaps, the spirit, the power, how they spat water and dug in their cleats and pounded away. Jesus, it’s a great place! he thought, and he knew then he was right in getting out of the mine, right in coming topside to play a real part, knew by God he’d make it.

  After the ceremonies, everybody still milling around, not wanting to go home and lose this thing, Vince ran into Barney Davis, the mine manager. Barney asked him if he’d mind delivering the charity drive checks to Cravens’ widow and Minicucci’s folks. Vince said okay, make a nice farewell gesture.

  “What do you mean, farewell?” Davis asked.

  “I’m getting out.”

  “What? You mean you’re quitting the mines?” Davis laughed. “Shit, Bonali, it gets in the blood. You can’t quit easy as that.”

  “Yeah? Well, watch and see, Davis.”

  Davis laughed again. “I’ll believe it when I see it in the Chronicle,” he said.

  4

  Once a day, six days a week and sometimes seven, year in, year out, the affairs of West Condon were compressed into a set of conventionally accepted signs and became, in the shape of the West Condon Chronicle, what most folks in town thought of as life, or history. Compactly folded into a soft, damp, aromatic pouch, it fluttered onto porches nightly, was gathered in by the several citizens to easy chairs and kitchen tables, there to open its petals like the proverbial lotus, providing, if not exactly wisdom, at least plenty to talk about and maybe a laugh or two. That its publisher and editor, Justin Miller, sometimes thought of himself as in the entertainment business and viewed his product, based as it was on the technicality of the recordable fact, as a kind of benevolent hoax, probably only helped to make the paper greater, for it was certainly true that although the Chronicle was as old as West Condon and as much father of the town as child of it, it was only when Tiger came home to take it over that it became a real institution.

  Miller himself was something of a local institution even before that, having been the greatest athlete to pass through West Condon High School. Small towns like West Condon seldom reached the state basketball finals, but Miller had taken them there twice, to this day a kind of Golden Age to the town’s middle-aged and old-timers, a legend for the young: number 14: jersey retired. He had, meanwhile, captained both the track and baseball teams, edited the school paper, presided over his class twice, made mostly A’s, and, surprising no one, vanished from the premises immediately after graduation. Nobody asked why he left: anybody with any sense did. So, his extraordinary decision to return a few years later, giving up his freewheeling life as a correspondent in orde
r to resuscitate the defunct Chronicle, had come like a breath of new life: hey! Tiger’s back in town! things are moving again!

  And there were prodigies: the highway was widened by the state, two mines resumed operations awhile, and a new factory making plastic toys was established on the outskirts, though this operation later folded. The newspaper, of course, was great, if Tiger had anything to do with it it had to be great, won a lot of prizes, put West Condon on the map. The basketball team won the conference title and Tiger started up his semipro baseball club, never had a losing season. And whenever the town fell into the dumps, people looked to the Chronicle, counted on Tiger to pull them out, and he usually did.

  So now their communal eye was on the Chronicle again. Deepwater No. 9, last mine in the area to keep operating, was closed since the disaster, and rumor was, it was going to stay that way. No new industry, business was poor, and people were moving out again. Hard winter. But was Tiger still with them? Most folks thought so, but there were bad signs. Rumor was that the paper was losing money, and Miller didn’t seem to care. Some of the Rotary Club meetings had been treated pretty unpleasantly, punch lines left out of speeches, names misspelled, that kind of thing. The traditional Christmas spirit had got knocked, too, when Miller started running parodies of the best-loved Christmas songs and gave the Yuletime charity activities almost no space at all. Some said, that’s the trouble with Miller, he keeps going soft just when you expect the best of him. A lot of jump, but not much of a miler. It was still a matter of town curiosity that Miller had led the basketball team to State his sophomore and junior years, but had been unable to get them past the regionals his senior year. Some said he was screwing around too much that year; others thought they saw “some spark go out of him,” as though he’d become just plain bored; others blamed the coach. And that was why, while most people saw his return to take over the Chronicle as a heroic kind of yea-saying, if not indeed an act of grace, there were those, even then, who wondered if Tiger might not simply have run out of wind out there in the world and returned to rest up awhile in a place where heroism was still possible without sticking to training rules.