5
Tiger Miller’s April eighth Brunist special hit the streets of West Condon like a blow in the gut. Reading it, Vince Bonali couldn’t sit down. Kept jumping up, slamming his fist into his palm, making speeches at nobody. Man! it was like somebody had dropped a bomb right on Easter, right on Christ Himself! Cavanaugh called him. “Yes, Ted, I read it. It’s awful.” He didn’t know the half of it. Cavanaugh clued him in on the stories appearing everywhere all over the goddamn country. “Jesus, Ted, it makes you sick!” But he’d never felt better. Nervous, pitched too high, feeling every minute like he had to hit out at something, but very goddamn good. Strong. In there. Knowing what he had to do. Everything seemed to be happening at once: the Committee, the Brunists, Red Baxter leading his hopped-up holy rollers all over town, Holy Week, and, as if to top it, Charlie’s expected return on Good Friday. Etta had cleaned the house all over again, fed Vince and Angie on potatoes and sausage, so she’d have money for a big Easter spread. Vince was on the move all the time. He had been appointed by the mayor to head up a special subcommittee to visit the homes of miners and disaster widows, anyone in the community apt to be contacted by the Brunists. He had had Sal and Georgie and Guido Mello to help him, along with the First Baptist minister and a couple young fellows off Main Street. They had worked hard, harder than the other three subcommittees put together, had managed to visit over sixty families in a week, getting a hundred percent firm commitments from them to turn any proselyters away from their doors, and several of them had agreed to send letters to the mayor and the newspaper. Everyone thought their subcommittee was doing a whale of a job. Ted Cavanaugh had been by his place almost every day or else had called him on the phone, mainly to post him on developments, call a few new plays, and to tell Vince what a goddamn good job he was doing. Reminded Vince of those benedictory slaps on the ass Ted used to give him on the way back to the huddle after a good offtackle play, and sometimes, talking to Ted, he almost felt his butt tingle with the great sense of inclusion. Once, Vince had happened to be out making house calls when Ted had stopped by, and afterwards Etta had told Vince that Ted had chatted with her a few minutes and that apparently he had “great hopes” for Vince. “It was those speeches did it,” she said with a big smile. She was proud as hell, Vince could tell. He had spoken at every meeting, reporting on calls and so on, and they always applauded after like hell.
Now, with the Chronicle special in the picture, Vince was invited to an emergency meeting of Committee leaders that Wednesday night. They all decided they had better try to break up the Brunists before they could get to their goddamn end. Mort Whimple refused to make any arrests yet, so Cavanaugh said they’d better go see each of them, one by one. Start day after tomorrow, Good Friday, with the weakest ones. The Halls, the Cravens and Harlowe widows, maybe Ben Wosznik. Vince went along with the idea, but he was sweating. Said he’d be tied up: Charlie was coming home that day, and, uh … But Ted said they needed him. What could he say to that?
Thursday interlude. Giovedì santo. Ninth of April. The Church was a flickering white, massed with lighted candles and white lilies. Together, they prayed to the Host. Murmur of sorrowful worshiping voices like a gently rocking sea. Angie, kneeling in simple pure white, prayed fervently at his side. Vince watched the words form in her mouth, slip through her moving lips. Their baby. She’s a good girl, God. He prayed in silence for his daughter. Barest fragrance of incense, low hum, altar radiant. Somehow, it felt to Vince like all his long life, from his boyhood to now, was wrapped up in this moment, he was all himselves at once, here, facing the Divine. Etta placed her hand gently over his. Slowly, half-forgotten words broke in on him, caught on Mama’s accent. Shadow of the priest moving among the candles, head bowed, God hovering above in the high dome like a reaching cloud. I’ve come back, Mama, he said to the cloud. “E non ci inducete nella tentazione ma liberateci dal male. Così sia.”
Outside, he was encircled by a clique of dark old ladies, anxious and peering up at him, almost like he was the priest. “I don’t know,” Vince said gently, “I ain’t superstitious. But you’re right, there sure is a funny coincidence about the disaster and Bruno’s operations.”
“Eresia!” whispered one. “Negromanzia!” muttered another in an old masculine rattle, and the other women bobbed their shawled heads solemnly, fingered their rosaries.
Vince was still inventing excuses, when Ted Cavanaugh’s Lincoln pulled up out front the next day. Even considered beating it out the back door. Etta went to meet Ted at the door, called to Vince from the front room. Well, hell, face up to it, he thought. Wages of sin and all that shit.
He worked up a careless smile, went in, shook Ted’s hand, that of Burt Robbins, the owner of the dimestore. “Ready to go?” Ted asked.
“Sure. Say, you know, Charlie’s coming home tonight, I don’t wanna get held up or anything, it—”
“Don’t worry, this won’t take long. Who’s going with us?”
“Sal Ferrero and Georgie Lucci. Sal’s waiting at home. Georgie said to pick him up at the Legion Hall.” Which was on the second floor over Robbins’ dimestore.
“Fine, let’s go. We wanted to have a minister along with us, but they’re all tied up with the Good Friday services.”
They said so-long to Etta, hurried through the light sprinkle out to Ted’s car. On the way to Sal’s house, Ted remarked what a terrific woman Etta was. “You’re a goddamn lucky man, Vince.” Vince smiled and nodded. Be goddamn lucky to get out of this one, okay. He hoped Wanda knew enough to keep her mouth shut. They also talked about the publicity. The paper last night was even worse than the Wednesday edition, and stories, Ted said, were popping up everywhere.
They picked up Sal and drove to the Legion. The other three waited while Vince went upstairs. Pretty dead, just a few of the bachelors. He found Georgie playing poker with his old section assistant Cokie Duncan, who was as usual pretty drunk, and a few other guys. “Ready to go?” Vince asked.
“Shit, Vincenzo, I’m winning!” Georgie complained.
“Good time to quit, then,” said Vince.
“Well, excuse me, boys and girls,” said Lucci, getting up with a rueful sigh. “Gotta go burn a few crosses.”
Another guy at the table, Chester Johnson, looked up. “Oh yeah?” Split his hillbilly face into a big smile. Bad teeth, spaced widely, gave him a beat-up look.
Vince and Georgie laughed. “Shit, I think he’d really like to,” Vince said. Then he added: “Ain’t nothing. We’re just paying a couple social calls on some of the Brunists.”
“Well, goddamn, Vince baby! count me in!” said Johnson, scraping back his chair. He turned to the others. “Wanna join the party?” None did. Vince wasn’t happy, but decided not to argue.
In the car, Vince outlined the plan as Ted had given it to him earlier. Robbins inserted a couple remarks so as not to be left out. Shifty bastard with a razorsharp nose and tongue to go with it. Vince didn’t trust him, didn’t like the way he always brown-nosed Cavanaugh. “We don’t want any rough talk, any threats, or any wising off,” said Vince, turning his gaze on Johnson. “We just mean to explain in simple common sense why they’re making a mistake that is gonna hurt them and is already hurting the community. It’s Holy Week, and we wanna use the traditional feeling about it to maybe make some inroads with these people. Mr. Cavanaugh here is taxiing us around, but it’s mainly our job. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” said Johnson in that goddamn nasal country twang of his. “Anybody remember to bring the hammer and nails?” Even Cavanaugh grinned.
At Willie Hall’s place, they got literally nowhere. They stood in the light rain at the front door and talked through the screen to Willie’s wife, who said Willie was not home, while a whole goddamn bevy of women tittered and whispered in the back of the house. “We’re all friends of Willie’s, Mrs. Hall,” Vince said, “and we just stopped by here for a minute to discuss with you both about this group you people have got that is talking about the end. W
e thought if we had a little—” And she shut the door in their faces.
Back in the Lincoln, wet and disgruntled, Vince suggested they maybe should have just gone on in there. His buddies backed him up, remarking that Willie was probably in there under the bed, and they could talk him out of anything. Ted shook his head, made it clear in a word that they had to keep calm, do what they could, not worry about it if they didn’t succeed. They changed the subject, joked instead about what a big brute little Willie’s wife was.
Widow Wilson they passed by, since Widow Collins was living there now. Since the fire. Ted told them Widow Collins had been somewhat deranged by her husband’s death and was a hopeless case. Widow Harlowe, who lived in the old housing development, just a couple dozen doors or so around the circle from Wanda Cravens, let them in. She kept a neat little house, in spite of a bunch of little children. “This is Mr. Cavanaugh,” Vince began, “from the bank. Mr. Robbins from Woolworth’s. The rest of us worked down in the mine, Mrs. Harlowe. With Hank. We just only wanted to have a little personal talk with you about, about Giovanni Bruno and the … his …”
“Oh, that,” said Mrs. Harlowe. “They ain’t nothin’ to talk about about that. Not less you wanna come ’n be members.”
“Well, not likely,” drawled Johnson.
“Let Vince handle it,” said Sal.
“The point is,” Vince continued, looking for the entry into this woman, “we just wonder if you fully understand the position you are putting West Condon into. Now, we all of us believe in God, Mrs. Harlowe, all of us in our own way, and we don’t mean to interfere with that belief, with your belief, that’s up to you. Only, you see, we think maybe this fellow Bruno, I mean we’ve all known him for a long time and he is a rather suspicious type, if you know what I mean, and we’re afraid he might have got some of you people off the track like. Call it the devil, call it a little strangeness, call it how you want, but, see, he might be getting you into trouble, and if he gets you in trouble, why, it gets us all in trouble.”
“Maybe,” said the widow. “But maybe it ain’t only trouble, Mr. Bonali. Maybe it really is the real end of the world. I know your Pope he don’t like it none, but we been expecting that. See, maybe it’s you all who’s in trouble.”
“If there was any reason for us to think so,” said Ted gently, “would we be here now?” Vince relaxed; somehow you always knew Ted could do the job, could carry the ball—he watched to see it happen. “Mrs. Harlowe, we’re trying to save you from shame and embarrassment. It’s not West Condon we are primarily worried about, or Bruno, or anybody else. We’re worried about you personally. You and your children and your future here with us.”
The widow weakened. She chewed on one reddish finger, stared out the window. A steady rain, now, fell in a tumbling hush on the low roof. “Well, I’ll think about it more. I know I sure do have doubts sometimes, and even when I’m talkin’ with Hank or whoever it is if it’s anybody at all, why, I’m not sure I know what I’m doin’. I’ll sure think about what you say, I promise.”
Vince and the others got up to go. Good work. But Ted remained seated, leaned his big athletic body forward. “Mrs. Harlowe, could you make a decision right now? Could you turn away from these people and join us today, now, on Good Friday, in our efforts to keep West Condon wholesome and Christian?”
The widow hesitated, twisted her thin hands, then started to cry. Vince wanted to pat her on the shoulder, tell her it was okay, let her be, but Ted waved him off. The man sat there calmly and gazed at her. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t know what to do!” she whimpered.
“Come with us. Now.” Ted wasn’t letting go.
“But the kids—”
“Do you have a phone?”
She nodded, pointed to the small passageway that led to the kitchen. Ted dialed his house, asked his wife to drive over in Tommy’s car, gave the address. Ted and Burt talked to the widow while they waited. Vince suggested he could stay with the kids while they went on to the Widow Cravens’ house, then could catch up with them there. While Ted was still considering that, Mrs. Cavanaugh arrived, smiling, to take over. Handsome woman from upstate that Ted had brought back from college with him.
On the drive around the circle to Wanda’s house, Vince broke out in a cold sweat. Just so she didn’t act too fucking friendly, but he doubted she had enough sense to fake anything. It was bad enough, but with that bastard Johnson along, just itching for comedy—damn! He chewed down hard on his cigar. Mrs. Harlowe snuffled all the way.
“This it, Vince?” Cavanaugh asked, slowing to a stop.
Vince squinted out into the rain. “Can you see the number?”
“This is the place, okay,” Johnson said.
Mrs. Harlowe seemed reluctant to go with them, but Ted hooked one hand under her arm and she had little choice. They found the door open. Wanda would probably ask him why he hadn’t just walked on in. That dumb bitch. Or: why hadn’t he been coming by? Or: we done talked all this out before, Vince hon, what’s the point a goin’ through it agin? Sal knocked. Little Davey came to the door.
“Your mama home?” Sal asked.
The little boy just stood there staring at them. Vince had maneuvered to the rear, but the two guys in front of him for some goddamn reason stepped aside. The kid fixed his gaze on Vince: right on the fly. That goddamn kid was abnormal.
Sal beat on the door again.
“Must be out,” Vince said, and turned as if making to go.
“I don’t know, I think I hear somebody in there.” Probably pulling some pants on. She slouched around in almost nothing most of the time, he’d noticed.
Georgie knocked, shaded his eyes, tried to see in. “Should we just go on in?”
Before Vince or anybody could say no, Chester Johnson jerked open the screen door, pushed past the kid into the house. Almost like he’d been here before, too. Old buddy of Lee’s maybe. Robbins and Cavanaugh edged down off the porch with Widow Harlowe, and Vince followed. Johnson came out. “Ain’t nobody in there ’cept another little kid,” he said.
“Let’s go,” said Cavanaugh. Vince was ready, damn near flew to the car. Oh man! he was glad now he’d been going to Mass! The worst was over. Vince noticed Ted was starting to keep his eye on Johnson. Seemed a little pissed off.
When Widow Harlowe learned that their next call was upon Ben Wosznik, she went white and trembly, said she wasn’t feeling good and wanted to go home. Ted used the old arguments again, but this time they didn’t seem to work. Vince guessed she was scared of old Ben. Maybe what he’d heard about the whips was true. When Ted drove on out of the housing development anyway, and toward the edge of town where Wosznik worked an acre or two, she almost got hysterical. Ted told her she could stay in the car if she wanted to, and finally she calmed down.
Wosznik welcomed them warmly, invited them into his shack to have a hot cup of coffee, get out of the rain. Big heavy-shouldered man, a little stooped now, the still-impressive remains of a powerful though very mild-mannered guy. Vince remembered the man from the days of the union struggles: quiet and easygoing, but one of the toughest bravest bastards in the movement. He could’ve gone places in the union, but always joked that he didn’t have the brains for it.
“Well, what brings you boys around?” he asked, smiling good-naturedly. There was no place to sit down. Just a stove, a table, a rocker, and a cot, and the cot was taken up by a big dog, an old gray German police, who had Wosznik’s sense of aging power, but not his friendliness. Johnson settled into the rocker, while the rest stood. Wosznik put a kettle on for coffee.
“Ben, we just come by, as old friends,” Vince began, “to—”
“Wozz, old buddy,” Johnson cut in from the rocker, “why are you fuckin’ around with them goddamn loonies anyhow?”
Wosznik frowned, looked down at Johnson, then around at each of them. “Well now,” he said, “I don’t like you talking about my friends like that. They’re fine people, kind and since
re, and I don’t think you’ve got any call to come in here and—”
“Mr. Wosznik,” said Ted, calming the scene down, “you’re right. Mr. Johnson was not speaking for the rest of us. Our only hope was that we might, as men, talk this thing over, using the common sense and good will that God gave us to—”
“Well, now as you mention that, Mr. Cavanaugh,” said Ben, “I should tell you that’s exactly why I’m associated with these people. We all thought it was a little funny that you folks should call yourselves a ‘common sense committee,’ when it was just that, common sense, that you was forgetting to use. Now, not one of you has had the common sense to come hear first what Mr. Bruno has to say. Not one of you has had the good will to listen to the other side of the story. Not one of you had the common sense to find out what it was poor Mrs. Norton believed before you went and fired her from the school.”
“Maybe,” said Burt Robbins, talking up for the first time. “But there’s no need to now. We’ve read all about it in the paper. And now you’d just have to be pretty crazy to—”
“Just a minute now, Burt,” Ted interrupted. Robbins’ neck had started to go red, his face to blanch. Vince felt a smug pleasure at Robbins’ comedown. “Well, then, why don’t we talk about it right now, Mr. Wosznik?”
“I’d be glad to, Mr. Cavanaugh, on account of I think—”
“Listen, Ben,” said Johnson, grinning from the rocker. “Let’s not shit around. How many of those broads you been screwin’?”
Wosznik suddenly stood very goddamn tall and wide. “Get out!” he rasped. “Get outa here!”
Cavanaugh interceded. “Wait a minute, that’s not what—”
“Get out!” The old man was really riled. The police dog lifted its head, snarled. Very deep in the throat.
“Now hold on, old buddy!” Johnson grinned. “That ain’t no goddamn way to talk with old friends!” Maybe he didn’t see the dog.