The Brunist Day of Wrath: A Novel (69 page)

Glenda stared at her for a short time with her one eye, which reminded Debra all too much of the elephant’s eye in her dream. The little sitting room was hushed except for the crowded breathing. Then, showing her gold tooth in a smile that was not really a smile at all, she said it was funny how the real innards of a dream get hid away in the pictures, like pride here in the peacock and shame about that or about something worse, what with all those unnatural colors, and the sadness of knowing too much or maybe having too much known about you and what a burden all this hidden knowledge was, as big as an elephant, crushing the pretty flowers with its big feet—Debra thought the elephant was funny!—but the relief of knowing that whatever the elephant knows will not be revealed, meaning the fear that it will be, which goes together with the secret lies when naming the birds, which usually stand for one’s thoughts in dreams. And also how the most important things in dreams are not so much what is there as what is not there, like there are no human beings here in this Heaven, for example, and no children, or even any common animals like dogs or cats, they not being included with spiders and snakes amongst God’s lovable creatures. There’s a lot about money here, she went on to say, and Debra felt certain there was nothing about money at all, Glenda’s remarks about the green grasses being the color of money and also the green grasshoppers with those beady eyes like little warning lights, or even sparks of hot hidden passion, being just completely crazy, even though Debra had to admit she herself had said the bright orange daisies were like coins she couldn’t pick up. It occurred to her that the orange daisies might have been inspired by the flowers printed on her missing underpants, but she wasn’t about to say so. Glenda went on about the orangeness of those daisies, saying that that color, as everyone knew, was associated with the reproduction, daisies themselves being signs of indecision and of being loved and not being loved, and then about her desire to string them together in a chain the way cells get strung together, but her inability to do so, if she tried they’d just die like they always do, and Debra simply had to tune out because she knew what the woman was getting at and it was very cruel. By this time she was close to tears and having a difficult time stopping her lower lip from trembling and was sorry she had come to the caravan and will never do so again. She could not look at the other women, feeling like they were seeing clean through her, like she didn’t have any clothes on, or skin either, just a shriveled heart with pins in it. But Glenda, still staring at her with that one eye, and sliding her tongue over her gold tooth as if to polish it, went on about how feeling at peace with yourself in a dream always means just the opposite, and when she discovered Heaven was actually true, it really meant she did not believe it was, and when, like the daisies, she wanted to be loved for her own sake, it meant she felt she was not. As for the black soil, black always has to do with depression, sadness, and despair, she said, and sometimes hidden desires. “And, well, we all know what dirt means in a dream. And they’s worse things, like what is it you are kissing and what’s your hand doing down there in that wet black dirtiness, but I won’t say them.” But she already had. Debra mustered a kind of smile and a faint trembly thank you, and without looking at anybody, fled to her cabin.

Now, as the sobbing diminishes (Colin will be back soon, she has to get control of herself), she sits up on her bed and blows her nose and sees that Ludie Belle is sitting there on a kitchen chair; she must have forgotten to latch the door. “Go away,” Debra whimpers, her voice just a squeak squeezing out of her clenched throat. “Please. Go away.”

“I won’t be a tiddly,” Ludie Belle says. She holds what looks like an old tattered school notebook and is wearing her half-frame reading spectacles. “My Aunt Pearl gimme this on her death bed. It’s her own way a thinkin’ on dreams. It was near all she had and she desired me to have it. I don’t hold to the belabored unpuzzlin’ a nighttime fancies, which seems to me is mostly made-up stories that don’t make no more sense than the dreams theirselves, so I ain’t never hardly looked at this since she gimme it, but after that little opry over to Mabel’s, I figgered it might throw some luminations on things, like them butterfly wings a yourn done to your purty garden. Aunt Pearl was a sweet ole thing who was always lookin’ on the bright side, much like as you do. We all got doubts about what’s gonna happen to us when we die, but your dreams a Heaven are like a way a reinfortifyin’ your faith and hopes, and meadows and flower gardens is all about tranquility and happiness and bright promises for the future. That’s how I parse out what she’s writ here, for she had a trick a dreamin’ a Heaven too, I only hope she got there. As for daisies, Aunt Pearl was simply crazy about ’em and always hopes to see ’em in her dreams, she says, on accounta they betoken innocence, simplicity, cleanliness, all them things we useta know and still hanker after, cleanliness bein’ about the most we can respire to when the years’ve rid us of the rest. Orange ain’t got nuthin t’do with makin’ babies, not accordin’ to Aunt Pearl, but signifies friendliness, courtesy, a lively personality, and a out-goin’ nature, and that sounds like you down to the ground, don’t it? Maybe she dreampt a orange daisies, too, cuz she was of the same type. And black ain’t all bad neither. If the feeling in the dream is joyful, like it is in yourn, then blackness can signify a aptitude for godly self-sacrifice and seein’ inta the future to go long with it. To dream of a kiss, Aunt Pearl says, betokens love, affection, harmony, and contentment—listen at that!—and what you’re kissin’ ain’t nuthin dirty neither, it’s nature itself, which you love more’n nobody I know.” Ludie Belle folds up her spectacles and drops them in a skirt pocket and goes to the sink to get a glass of water. “Glenda was bein’ spiteful and they warn’t no call for that, but she has got difficulties of her own. Her husband Welford cain’t stop hisself playin’ round, you probly noticed, and so Glenda’s got a natcherl gredge over most single ladies.”

“No, I…” But then she recalls certain scenes in the garden, outside the public shower and privies, here in the cabin when Welford was plumbing in the running water, once down by the creek. She always thought of it as just harmless teasing, his way of being friendly, and she was flattered by it and usually joked back because that seemed the natural thing to do and because she is nice to everybody and does not like to disappoint them. Glenda was never far away…

“Here,” says Ludie Belle, fishing a little white pill out of her pocket and handing her the glass of water. “Swaller this and see ifn it don’t perk you up a tad.”

Debra feels like throwing her arms around Ludie Belle and weeping again, but Colin comes in the door, and with one glance at her, his eyes start from their sockets in alarm like they always do and in his high-pitched voice he demands to know what’s the matter, why is she crying? “I’m not crying, Colin. It’s just the hay fever. You know, like sometimes down at the garden? Ludie Belle brought me an antihista-mine and has just been helping me with the menus for next week. Put on your working shorts and we’ll go down and pick some fresh lettuce and celery and spring onions from the garden for tonight. Also some carrots and new potatoes for the Sunday roast, and we’ll see what else is ready.”

“Fetch me up some cowcumbers and peas and slathers a young sparrowgrass, Colin,” says Ludie Belle. “I’ll see if I ain’t got the makin’s for my mama’s sparrowgrass casserole.” And she winks and blows a kiss from the door, Colin in his eagerness having already dropped his trousers where he was standing and rushed into his bedroom looking for his gardening shorts.

Pat Suggs is no dreamer. If you ask him if he ever dreams, he will say he never does. Nevertheless, he is dreaming. He is in his office at South County Coal, where he trains his Christian Patriots, and they are waiting for the Christ’s arrival. Others are also present—fellow Disciples, or maybe interlopers. It doesn’t matter. It will all get sorted. His humanist adversary, the moneylender, is here. Likewise, the excommie Red Baxter. Sent his boys in years ago to teach that splenetic troublemaker a lesson, but they came back with their own knees broken instead. Next time that won’t happen. He is now Christ’s warrior, not merely a patriotic businessman, and he will be ruthless. The moneylender is out of his water here and he knows it. He has withdrawn to a far wall and looks shrunken, a defeated man. But Pat knows he must not gloat or things could turn around. Pride before a fall. Pat knows the proverb, can quote it whole, even in a dream: Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall. He has used that line when bringing other proud men to their knees, and he will use it again as he quietly and humbly sees to the merciless scourging of the smug banker. Pat knows he is dreaming, so he reasons these things out as he goes along; that way, he’ll be rid of it all on waking up, the lessons learned, but the dream forgotten as if never dreamt. Wosznik, Shawcross, Appleby, others from the camp are here as well. Disciples or friends of the Disciples. But which one, he wonders, looking around the room, will be the Betrayer? Baxter, Cavanaugh may be enemies, false apostles, but they are who they are, nothing up their sleeves. Puller? That new Patriots recruit, Dunlevy? His eye falls on Ben Wosznik. Constancy incarnate, so he’s always thought. Not unlike the Disciple Peter. But there is something tainted about the man now. As if he were harboring a wickedness in his bosom. Or at least a weakness, which in holy battles can be worse than sin. That damaged girl. In Pat’s mind, by choice or fate, she has become an agent of the dark side. What happened to her must have been deserved, or was at least necessary. Part of the divine plan. And for her now, Ben has abandoned everything else. So what is he doing here in the mining office? This dream suggests he will return to the camp, but his presence here may only be to reveal his true role. Having figured this out, Pat decides to erase the dream, wake up, get dressed, have his customary oatmeal breakfast, and go out to the camp. There’s a meeting scheduled, a service, a Sunday buffet, plans to be made for next week’s temple dedication ceremonies.

When he arrives at the camp, however, there’s no one there. The place is a shambles. He checks the Meeting Hall: no buffet tables have been set out. It’s as though the camp has been abandoned for some time. It’s eerie, but there’s probably an explanation. The Rapture? He discounts that. They might all be over on the mine hill, but why would they go there without telling him? Have they all been arrested? If so, he’ll have work to do. Ely Collins’ death message is still hanging by the fireplace. For some reason, that’s reassuring. But then he sees the prophetic date has been changed from the 8
^th
to the 30
^th
. That was yesterday. He has missed it. For a moment his heart sinks. Then he realizes that the changing of the date is nonsense. He is still dreaming. Nearly got fooled. He wakes up again, dresses, has his usual bowl of hot oatmeal, waits until he is able to use his own toilet, and goes out to the camp in time for the Sunday morning service.

When he arrives, he feels like it’s the second time he’s come out here this morning; he dismisses the feeling. There’s a cheery freshness to the place this summery morning, but they’ve fallen behind in their projects, he knows, missing the energy and discipline brought to them by Ben and Clara. That damned Puller. The sheriff waited too long to go after the motorcyclists, and see now the consequences. Puller has an official story about the death of that mop-headed biker, and then there’s the one suggested by the since-repaired dent in the right front fender of his police car. No matter. They’re gone. But so are Ben and Clara. He has an uneasy feeling about Ben this morning for some reason. Some new awareness dawning about where the man’s priorities lie.

The church service, he learns, is being held up on Inspiration Point. After checking in at the Meeting Hall kitchen, where the ladies are busy preparing the Sunday buffet (he can smell roast pork), he makes his way up there, speaking with people as he goes. Both Wayne Shawcross and Welford Oakes acknowledge that they will see him later, before lunch, in the church office. Mrs. Edwards, about whom he is seriously concerned, will be there, too. No, no news from Ben and Clara. He remarks that there are more people here than he expected and learns that some of those chased out are drifting back by day, still feeling a part of things. Some help out, some don’t. On his way past the cabin refurbished for the two office boys, he sticks his head in. Already looking too much like some kid’s college room; he’ll have to speak with them about that. There’s something odd about the blond one, though he’s smart and people seem to be taking his arcane decodings seriously, especially with regard to something that’s supposed to happen next weekend. The other one is useful and willing but without much spunk and not completely reliable. Some folks, he thinks, are born to backsliding. Sooner or later they’ll both have to leave the cabin and it will become the official church office.

Outside the sickbay cabin, he nods to Rumpel and Dunlevy, members of his Christian Patriots organization, but not of the camp executive committee; he keeps the two things separate. Both former soldiers, they were with him at the cemetery yesterday for the Patriots’ Memorial Day services, a holiday too much ignored in this country. Dunlevy is a jack of all trades, useful in many ways, but only up to a point. Hard to know for sure what’s boiling underneath Rumpel’s thick skin, the one they call Hunk, but he is, at least on the surface, a simple man, blunt and mostly unthinking. He’s strong and he takes orders well and is a good rifleman, has his own arsenal. Both men were useful in clearing illegal Baxterite squatters off the new trailer park and campsite a few days ago, and he has more projects for them this week.

Cecil Appleby, the beekeeper, conducts this morning’s service on the Point. Reluctantly, as always; he’s no showboat. When ye pray, use not vain repetitions as the heathen do—that’s his style. Shawcross reads the scripture, Hall spouting a few spontaneous verses of his own, and that southern couple, L’Heureux and his woman, are there to lead the singing. Not sure about them. Especially the man, who croons religious songs like they’re love songs and earns his living singing in bars. The woman is more interesting, has some kind of special connection. They may or may not stick, but for the moment they bring a certain quality to these occasions. While Appleby leads them in prayer, staring at his gnarled hands as though the text were written there, Pat gazes across the way at the mine hill glowing in the morning sun. He sees it not so much as a holy place now as a building site. He can see the temple sitting there, but there are still problems to resolve. Pat has learned a few things about Appleby. The man has known tragedy. Apparently he struck and killed a child one day while driving. He was in real estate then, beekeeping just a hobby, and he was on his way to view a new property, probably hurrying to beat a competitor there. He got jailed briefly for involuntary manslaughter, gave up real estate afterwards. Gave up driving, too—his wife does all of that now. He took up carpentry, what he calls the Master’s trade, instead, and got good at it, it being part and parcel of his faith. Kept the hives, added to them, and the two of them became beekeeping nomads, chasing the seasons, picking up carpentry work on the side. Found his mentor in Ben Wosznik. Not because of Wosznik’s preaching, which is minimal, but because of his singing. Appleby doesn’t exactly preach either, he merely leads them in prayer, speaking quietly, sincerely, urgently to Jesus and God. Pat has taken a liking to him. Reminds him some of Ely Collins. Ely exhorted more, Appleby keeps more to himself, but he has Ely’s quiet eloquence. Innate wisdom. Like Ely, he is who he is and is trustworthy to the core.