The phone rings again. “Yes?” Eleanor’s hand trembles.
“Thirteen minutes.” (Click.)
“Thirteen minutes!” she cries. “Giovanni Bruno! Hark ye!” He is excited, alert, fingers digging into the scruff of the old armchair. She is suddenly terrified at the realization that he will say yes, they must go, that something awry could break forever the fragile circuit, that she herself really does not believe — or was that his inner voice on the phone—?
It rings again. Eleanor shies, watching Giovanni, and Clara jumps for it. “Hello, who is this?”
“Ten minutes—”
“Don’t hang up! Now listen, if you are who you say you are, and if you’re here in the room like you say you are, then you don’t need to dial our number to reach us. Even if I hang up on you, I shouldn’t be able to disconnect you, ain’t that so?”
Eleanor is breathless with the brilliance of it, awed by Clara’s majestic calm.
“Uh, the electronic mechanism is such that—”
Clara plunges her fist down on the cradle, gazes around at all present, then lifts it. She listens, smiles. They all listen: the dial tone … burrrp … burrrp … burrrp. They relax. Clara is praised. But they decide anyway to visit the hill.
Around town that night of Easter Sunday, April twelfth, the collective eye is on the hill. The great vernal celebration of the Risen Christ concluded, West Condon has no choice but to turn and face the week before them, the week of the Brunists, the prophesied end, the Mount of Redemption and of humiliation. For four straight days, the West Condon Chronicle has headlined the bizarre story. For four straight days, the city editor has exploited the event in special articles and photo features released to the world. As Vince Bonali put it, talking to his buddy Sal Ferrero one day: “History is like a big goddamn sea, Sal, and here we are, bobbing around on it, a buncha poor bastards who can’t swim, seasick, lost, unable to see past the next goddamn wave, not knowing where the hell it’s taking us if it takes us anywhere at all.” And so now, thanks to the city editor’s all-round betrayal, the leaky raft of West Condon rises on a crest, and if it cannot perceive, it is at least perceived. All the way from the Antipodes to the Balearics, Curaçao to Dahomey. Wirephotos, news stories, television and radio broadcasts, those tawdry flares that randomly light up pieces of that sea, burst now over West Condon, exposing it to all the Peeping Toms of Egypt and the Fijis, the Ganges and Hong Kong … indeed unto Zion. A month and a half ago, it was all about coalmines and violence and economics and death, and there was an innocence about it. Today it is faith and prophecy and cataclysm and conflict, and it is outrageous. Why did it happen here? How will it be stopped? Where will it end? Luckless mariners adrift, none can know.
At Easter Sunday Evening Circle at the Church of the Nazarene, Lucy Smith is telling all the girls about the lovely new tunics the Brunists are wearing now and how the prophet’s sister has neither spoken nor eaten in four days. There are rumors of something unspeakable that might have transpired between her and Mr. Miller, the newspaper editor, who has turned out to be the dark false friend that Mabel Hall found in her cards. President Sarah Baxter listens, as excited as the rest, yet oppressed by a terrible melancholy, hoping only that Abner is not listening in on them again. She feels so inadequate, is inadequate, and Abner has so reviled her for it. She liked Circle so much better when Sister Clara did everything, when she herself, like Sister Lucy now, was merely a belovèd anecdotist, free to have her tea leaves read by Mabel and to complain with the other girls about why the Circle wasn’t better than it was. Abner has grown so distant through this struggle, so austere, so crossgrained and vindictive, she feels quite desperately alone in the world with this new life stirring like a terrible condemnation in her aged womb. She cries every day. She just can’t help it. And Abner doesn’t care, he doesn’t even punish her for it. He just hates her.
Thelma Coates tells them now about Sister Clara’s travels through the neighboring counties and how, if the world should still exist in some form or other after next Sunday (they all giggle nervously), Clara has been authorized by God Himself, she says, to carry His new word and appoint His new bishops, and, what is more, Mabel Hall believes that Brother Willie may become the bishop of all West Condon, which is very exciting news.
Mildred Gray tells them how they are all selling everything they own and sharing the money as a single community, enjoying grand banquets and who knows what all, and how one night they all ate a whole leg of lamb apiece. Mr. Himebaugh, who is a very rich man, has given them all his money and is selling all his possessions and they say he is a true and living saint. Of course, she says, when it’s all over, they won’t have a stitch to their name. If they need one.
Lucy Smith then informs them with very tight meaningful lips that, speaking of not having a stitch, under the tunics all they wear is their underwear, and Sister Thelma whispers that she has good reason to believe they don’t even wear that, but she won’t say more. Utterly without any reason whatsoever, then, Sarah Baxter starts to weep uncontrollably.
Earlier in the evening, before the phonecall from the man who said he was Jesus Christ, Carl Dean Palmers has attended the Baptist Youth Group meeting. He used to be president of it and he is still very much looked up to. He is courageous in his questioning, and yet at the same time he is not conceited about being a senior and is not ashamed to believe, not ashamed to pray. Ashamed of Jesus! that dear Friend/On whom my hopes of heaven depend? Not Carl Dean! Tonight, as usual, Carl Dean has pressed the claims of his new affiliation. Reverend Cummins, who has always made it very difficult for him and has even threatened to bar him from attendance at the BYG meetings, was not there, so the eight kids who showed up were glad to listen to Carl Dean. “What have you got to lose?” he asked them. “You don’t even have to come until next Saturday, if you don’t want to, and you can all come together so you won’t feel alone. Listen, you got nothing to do next weekend anyhow. And what if it’s true? What if it really happens? You don’t want to miss out, do you?” They did not! And he reminded them how he was never one to get mixed up in anything crazy, was he? And he told them again how swell all the people were and how, if anybody in town just tried to get the least bit smart with them, they’d take care of them, and then he prayed out loud that they all find the grace in their hearts to be saved in this moment of trial, and with that they agreed to come. Saturday night. Carl Dean said he would get them all the materials they needed, and the girls promised to make the robes. They were very impressed and excited about the robes. He told them that there were many secrets they would learn, and, as a starter, he taught them the secret password and one of Mr. Wosznik’s new songs:
March on! march on, ye Brunists!
March on and fear no loss!
March on beneath thy banner,
The Circle and the Cross!