The Brunist Day of Wrath: A Novel

by Coover, Robert

  Tommy rises to go with him, leaving the girls to talk about what sour ungrateful assholes they’re both stuck with and why isn’t there a nice place to go in West Condon where people dress up a little. Tommy is in a foul mood and Angela has picked up on it and has become snappish herself. And at the same time cloyingly affectionate. Trying to hang on. He fumbled the big midweek bye-bye and now here he is with it all still to do. He used their religious differences, why it was best to accept the inevitable, sad as it was, they belonged to two different worlds, they should call it off now before they got too deep and it became too painful; but, trying to keep the back door open in case he got desperate before this long summer is over, he softened it with too many I love yous, and Angela was convinced they could work it out. In fact, she took it as a kind of provisional marriage proposal and said they should go talk to the priest about it and he was too drained (what a night!) to argue. In fact, while he was brooding over what he might say next (tell her he had become an atheist and his kids would have to be raised atheist? no, a mistake to mention kids at all), he dropped off and didn’t come to until after Angela had already left for the bank the next morning. She left a tissue with her lipstick-imprinted kiss on her pillow beside him. He blew his nose in it. His dad had more business meetings to attend out of town, something about seeing state officials in hopes of landing something big for the town before the Fourth, so after the pool job he had to stay home with his mother the next couple of nights, settle into summertime reruns. Which was a relief, in a way. It gave him time to think, and Angela could sense that and said on the phone he was just using his mother as an excuse not to see her, and like a fool he kept insisting otherwise and making his mother’s condition out to be worse than it was.

  But tonight’s the night. Has to be. A clean break. He’d imagined tender farewells, lingering kisses; it’s not going to be that way. He may not even get laid. Tant pis, as they say in Paris, which is where he should be tonight. Where it’s a whole lot easier than this. The only other French he knows is how to ask a girl to lie down with him, and that’s all you need. He had to coax Concetta into staying and to pay her overtime to get the night free, but she and her widow friends seem glad enough to get the work and the money his dad’s been giving him as compensation for missing out on Europe more than covers the cost. Only it’s a waste for a night like this. Except for Fleet, he hates everyone here. What is he doing in this stupid backwater? Naz Moroni was in here earlier with his demented Dagotown pals and there might have been trouble, but they had some women with them—breasty, big-nosed girls Tommy recognized from the pool—and they only made threatening and obscene gestures, which Angie insisted they ignore. If you want to take them on, Fleet said, let me know. Joey Castiglione was with them, or maybe he came on his own. Joey has the hots for Angela and Tommy wished he’d just grab Angie up and steal her away—it would have solved all his problems—but when Joey saw them there, he turned around and walked out again. Tommy thinks back on the college bars, the girls he knew up there, the class they had, and knows he doesn’t belong here. He has to figure a way out. Now.

  “You’re trying to break it off with Angie. It won’t be easy, Kit. You’re her fucking be-all and end-all. You’ll have a wildcat on your hands.” The drinks have been made and paid for, but neither of them is in a hurry to return to the table. They drink them there at the bar and order up others. Fleet will be joining them on the golf course tomorrow afternoon, though he says he hasn’t played since high school, can’t afford the club membership or green fees. Tommy wants his dad to arrange some help for Fleet and the store, at least get him a complimentary trial membership at the club for the rest of the summer. “I suppose having babies is the sore point. The Catholic thing…?”

  “No, Fleet, the problem is she expects too much. This is a summer fling for me and she wants more than that. Angela is gorgeous and awesome in the sack, but we’ve got nothing in common except for the sex.”

  “Well, anyway, that’s something,” Fleet says with a rueful sigh. And it is. Tommy has been taking a more open stance at the pool these days, wondering who might be next, but when Angela turned up after the bank closed this afternoon in her skimpy strands, she simply blew everybody else away. Eye-popping. In fact he felt a touch jealous that others could see so much of her. She’s hot. And his. Does he really want to give that up? “But I know what you’re going through, Kit. Happened to me several times with Monica. And I didn’t even have the religion hangup. Still don’t know if I did the right thing. Of course I was stuck here, had the family business on my back, didn’t have your options. West Condon and a few of the towns around, none of them any better than this one. So one thing led to another and the next thing I knew I was doing the daddy act.”

  “Right. Babies. Nasty little boogers. No offense, Fleet, but they’re not for me.”

  “Well, watch out, then. I’m sure Angie’s already thinking about what to name it. One thing about Angie, though, she’s like a lot of other Italian girls I know. Once they’ve got their name on your bank account and a bun or two in the oven, you can do pretty much what you like. My mother’s like that. My old man is famous in the neighborhood for acting out all the butcher jokes with his lady clients. A salami Casanova. Why he only has one ear, though I don’t know if it was cut off or shot off or just pulled off. But Mama doctored what was left of it, scolding him like she would a bad little boy, fed him some minestrone and a few shots of grappa and put him to bed, made him go to confession on Sunday, and things went on as normal. Not that great, never all that great, but normal. The missing ear became part of the family legend, the old man’s ridiculous virility badge.”

  The radio station guy and his friends have left and the other two are singing “Always.” Angela probably requested it. It means: Turn off the bull, heart of my heart, and come dance with me. When Duke told them “White Dove” was no longer in their repertoire, he and Angie switched to this one as their private theme song. Partly because of the pun that referenced their lovemaking: “I’ll be loving you: all ways…” So here we go. Dance and yap a while, get potted, ship Fleet and Monica back to their babysitter, retire to the room at the back and get it over with. That’s the plan. Doesn’t work out that way.

  Sunday is a day of prayer, of communing with the Maker of All Things, and Ted Cavanaugh is now approaching that weekly communion here on the gentle climb to the sixth tee. Church is a civic duty; here, faith is personal and real. His general feeling of well-being has been enhanced by a birdie on the fifth and what promises to be a splendid round on a splendid day, one that displays for all to see God’s goodness. Others are usually aware that he likes to be by himself at this time and they draw back into conversations of their own, but this afternoon his son chooses to tag along, probably with the intention of asking some favor or other for his old high school teammate. Young Pete is a decent golfer and the Piccolotti Italian Market is doing about as well as any other business in town; Ted will probably grant it. They can become the chief supplier for Concetta’s restaurant when it opens. She can feature the famous Piccolotti salomeats, as they call them, as an antipasto. He would rather Tommy put this off for another hole and allow him his traditional moment of quiet privacy here, but among his many blessings, in fact chief among them, is his youngest son. Maybe he can express to him something of the feelings aroused by this rise at the sixth tee; perhaps they can even pray together in a manly way.

  Tommy skipped church again this morning, as has become his habit; his excuse has usually been that he has to stay home with his mother while Concetta is at Mass, but today Irene’s new Catholic friends organized a wheelchair and transport for her and took her with them. More remarks to face down at Mick’s, no doubt; she’s becoming the town laughingstock and dragging him onstage with her. The boy came home late last night without his car. He hasn’t yet told him why. He’s doing a lot of drinking. Ted hopes he hasn’t wrecked it. Probably just too drunk to drive. A rare act of wisdom. The Presbyterians gathered
once more this morning in ever diminishing numbers at the Trinity Lutheran Church, where Ted was at last able to announce the arrival the week after the Fourth of July of their own new prospective minister, the Reverend Joshua J. Jenkins. Jenkins, trying too hard to please, told him on the phone his sermon that Sunday would be on “the intentional community,” which he said was an old Presbyterian topic having to do with the role of churches in communicating “social location” in pluralistic, democratic, ethnically diverse, and loosely structured American society. Ted said he thought that would be over everybody’s heads and suggested something more about what Reverend Jenkins hoped to achieve here in his ministry, and eventually they agreed the title of his sermon would be “An Old Evangel for a New Day.” Much better.

  The whole week has gone gratifyingly well. The backhoes have been removed from the mine hill, plans for the big celebrations on the Fourth have been launched at today’s meeting, three of the boarded up stores on Main Street have been opened up this afternoon and a cleanup is underway, the governor has tentatively agreed to fit West Condon into his Independence Day schedule, and a sign has gone up on the old derelict hotel: FUTURE SITE OF THE ROMA LIBERTY HOTEL. A tourist attraction in the past, it could be again. He has met with most of the town’s church leaders, encouraging them to focus their sermons during the run-up to the Fourth on West Condon as a traditional American Christian community, under the theme of “One Nation under God,” and obtaining their tacit support for the moves the city is making against the cult.

  The only setback has been Abner Baxter’s attempted escape from jail last night. Back at the third hole, while Tommy was dealing with a difficult lie in the small copse dividing the third and seventh fairways and young Pete was over there helping him decide what club to use, Nick Minicozzi, the fourth of their foursome, filled him in on the events as he understood them. Apparently, when they brought Baxter his supper, he just pushed his way past everybody and stalked out, saying they had no right to keep him. When they tried to stop him, he became difficult and finally had to be physically subdued by Chief Romano and young Officer Bonali. In the process he took something of a bruising, mostly caused by his own thrashing about, and the doctor had to be called. An ambulance, too. Ted asked Nick about Bonali, Tommy having had some negative things to say about him, and Nick said that Charlie was a strong young lad with military training, a bit too aggressive maybe, but given the times it was probably good to have him aboard. “Yes,” Ted said, “that’s what I’ve been thinking, too.”

  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 gawki
ng 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.”