We Were The Mulvaneys

by Joyce Carol Oates

  So, in July 1952, when Michael Mulvaney first met Corinne Hausmann, he wasn't in love with Donna what's-her-name, or any of them. He was hot-blooded, tireless, even after a day of hammering and tarring roofs in the Adirondack sun (so crystal-clear it seemed to be filtered through a pane of magnifying glass), a pumphandle of a kind wild to spurt seed, liquid seed, enough to populate a small city. Oh yes! Summers in the Adirondacks, everything is ternporary-what happiness in temporary! It suited him just fine. All he had to be cautious of was knocking up a girl, otherwise just take amid enjoy, take what you can while you can, no regrets and don't look back and after Labor Day he'd be hundreds of miles away. Hadn't his own asshole old man kicked him out, shut the door after him?- and his mother and sisters he'd thought had loved him, his sister Marian three years younger especially, and all but two brothers ceased to know him?-just wiped him out of existence, at the old man's bidding? Can't trust them, can't trust women he blamed them, the women, the most.

  Jesus! his veins beat with rage just to think of it! so he rarely thought of it, at least while sober. And when not sober Michael Mulvaney was in the presence of amorous females ninety-nine percent of the time so he rarely thought of it then, either.

  Now somehow it happened, never did figure out the connection, Michael's girl Donna was a friend of a friend of Corinne's; or, if not a friend, a friendly acquaintance. (It puzzled Michael, maybe it puzzles most men? how girls and women can befriend each other so quickly? intimately?) So after he'd broken up with Donna who'd been putting the screws on him and she'd gotten what you had to call upset, distraught, one early evening there came the tall carrory- haired girl from the hotel (Carol? Cora? Corinne?) to the boardinghouse where Michael was staying, and she bore him a message from all the girls, she said, except Donna, who didn't know anything about it. "She's so hurt! She loves you."

  Michael was so surprised, he had to take a step back.

  Stammering, "N-No, she does not."

  "Of course she does! You should hear her talk about you."

  "I don't want to hear her talk about me-I've heard it."

  "We're afraid she might hurt herself, somehow. She's a nurse, she knows too much!"

  Michael broke into a sweat, imnagimng Donna dead: the girls at the hotel accusing him, the police arresting him, his picture in the papers.

  He said, gaining a little more control, "She's exaggerating, and you're exaggerating. Donna might imagine she loves me but she does not love me-she's too shallow for love."

  "Too shallow for love! Listen to him-what an authority!"

  Corinne was literally breathless, her cheeks flushed as if she'd rubbed spots of rouge on them quickly and carelessly. She trembled with indignation, fingers and eyelids fluttering. The ridiculous braided hair weighed upon her head and slender neck like a crown of a kind a demented child might fashion and in her off-hours summer clothes-dime Store sleeveless T-shirt, blue cotton "pedal pushers" and straw made-in-Japan sandals-Corinne did resemble an overgrown child, excited and audacious and-well, dangerous. No telling what this babe might say!

  Michael took her arm, her firm upper ann in his firm fingers, led her panting and protesting Out of the boardinghouse, walked with her-who knows where: he'd have liked to steer them to one of the lakeside places where they could get beers, sit down and discuss this like rational human beings-in a park, around a kind of lagoon, where families were picnicking, barbecuing, the kids running around, people tossing bread pellets and other treats to a noisy flock of ducks, Canada geese, resident swans with their brood; l-fe as usual in the background which is usually the case when your own life is being decided without your knowing it; walked, and grew earnest in conversation, for Michael Mulvaney at twenty-three was in his deepest most secret heart a serious and not-predatory young man, perhaps not even a young man as he appeared but already beyond youth, impatient for the next phase of his life to begin. On their third or fourth time around the lagoon their attention was drawn to a tremendous squawking and wing-flapping in the water, a big white goose had gotten snarled in some nylon fishing line, his legs, webbed feet, and even his bill entangled, and Corinne cried, "Oh, look! That poor goose! We'll have to help it!"-with no hesitation, as if she'd been primed for just such an emergency, wading out into the brackish thigh-high littered water, taking it for granted that Michael, whom she hardly knew, would follow. Which, what the hell, he did. Dozens of geese and even killer swans honking, hissing, flapping their wings as these importunate strangers invaded their territory. But there was no choice, was there? Michael cursed, stumbling in Connne's wake, and grabbed the amicted bird, its eyes glaring in panic, wings flapping like a deranged windmill until Michael managed to pinion them against its sides, and deft-fingered Corinne, quicker and stronger than any girl Michael had known, managed to untangle the nylon line, maybe six feet of it, not an easy task in these circumstances, as, attracted by the commotion, a small appreciative crowd gathered on the bank of the lagoon to shout encouragement and break into cheers and applause when at last the goose was freed, and half swam half flew amphibian-airplane style to join the other indignant, honking and wing-thrashing birds at the far end of the lagoon.

  Michael muttered, "Bastard didn't even thank us!"

  Corinne said, "I'll thank you, Michael Mulvaney!"

  Not a kiss, as he'd hoped, but a handshake. A good strong manto-man handshake.

  So it began: what he wouldn't have wished to call love exactly- at least not so soon. He cringed at the thought of seeming, or actually being, weak and sentimental. How'd we meet?-over agoose,for Christ's sake! In the middle of a goose-pond! No, I'm not kidding. He had to admit that this odd pushy prim (and virginal) farm girl possessed an abundance of what you'd call character of a kind he hadn't previously encountered in any female of his acquaintance; certainly not in such easy-lay girls as Donna the nursing student, nor in his own piousCatholic sisters. And character could be sexy in its own way-oh, boy!-you'd arouse opposition, resistance, for sure-nothing easy about Corinne the freckled farm girl from Ransomville, New York.

  How many times, how many years Michael Mulvaney would joke and tease about the goddamned goose, the kind of guy who doesn't let things go, but the fact was he'd been impressed by the way Corinne went for that goose to save it-hadn't been capable, you could figure, of looking the other way, passing it by like most people would. She'd recognized the situation as calling for immediate moral involvement. He, Michael Mulvaney, showered for the second time that day and dressed in clean pressed chinos and a sports shirt and new crepe-soled canvas shoes, might easily have passed by the goose-well, not easily, maybe guiltily, but, well-he could have. Probably would have. (He'd have gone to look for a park cop-maybe.) By way of this train of thought he.concluded that Corinne Hausmann was morally superior to him, as a woman should be morally superior to any man; and that this fact would be of benefit to him one day, as you might assume that the friendship of rich people might be beneficial, who knows exactly how.

  So, aged twenty-three, working at Schroon Lake for good summer wages, not a thought in the world for any immediate future that included a woman, let alone marriage, Michael Mulvaney fell in love. Hell, I was relieved it was so easy, after all. Didn't hurt a bit. There was the added enticement that Corinne confessed she'd been about to become engaged, to a fellow student at Fredonia State. Immediately Michael flared up, "Don't tell me anything about him, Corinne! Not even his name." Corinne said, astonished, "But, Michael, there isn't much to tell. Jerry is a Sweet, quiet, serious boy-he's majoring in music education, plays the-" Michael interrupted, in anguish, "Corinne, no. As long as you didn't-well, sleep with the guy-that's all I want to know." Corinne said, hurt, "But you had girlfriends, Michael. I don't expect you not to have had girlfriends!" By this time Michael was on his feet, pacing about, grabbing at his hair. He said, "Honey, what a guy does, what men do-it isn't anything like what a girl like you-your quality-does, or even wants to know about. Believe me!"-adding, excitedly, as it flew into his head," `Judge
not, that ye be not judged.' "When Michad quoted the words ofJesus Christ to her, Corinne grew grave, glowing, transfixed. (Was he conning her?-she seemed never to catch on, if that was so.) She said, taking his hand, "Anyway, I didn't love Jerry, I see that now. Oh, let me say it! What I felt for him wasn't one ounce of what I feel for you, Michael Mulvaney!" Michael's heart swelled. He said, joyously, "One iota, honey. You mean one iota. That's a helluva lot less than one ounce."

  Still, Michael was unforgiving. Stubborn as a balking goat. When, after they'd become engaged, Corinne had wanted to see her friend one final time to explain what had happened, Michael was obdurate in opposition: no. Hadn't Corinne written to the guy, hadn't she spoken with him on the phone? She wouldn't be returning to Fredonia in the fall, what difference did it make? He'd broken off completely with his ex-girifriends, hadn't the slightest interest in seeing any of them ever, ever again.

  So when Corinne hesitantly suggested inviting Jerry to their wedding, as a gesture of goodwill and friendship (it was to be a small church wedding at the Ransomville Lutheran Church, all but a few of the guests Corinne's), Michael vetoed it at once. Grabbed her in a bear hug so tight it squeezed the breath out of her, kissed her and said, "Darling, you love me, Michael Mulvaney. I'll show you I'm more than enough for you."

  Is nothing lost? Corinne wondered. Twenty-four years later, thinking these things, in a consulting room in Dr. Oakley's office, she heard again her young lover's ardent voice ringing in her ears and saw again the distinct webbing of shadow and light on the wall of the room (Michael's room at the boardinghouse), the outline of a lilac tree outside the window that fixed these words pernunently in her memory.

  Love me! I'm more than enough.

  IMMINENT MORTALITY

  She would have wished him not to know. Never to know. For once he knew, once they shared the bitter knowledge, never again would he be able to look at her in the old way. The old loving kidding-around How'd all this happen? way. (Meaning High Point Farm. The kids. The animals. The whole shebang as Michael Sr. called it. Plus the mortgage.) Never without each of them thinking Our daughter! our baby girl!-eyes snatching at each other's, helpless, in fury and unspeakable hurt.

  She waited for him not in the house in the warm-lit kitchen where Patrick, Judd, the animals would be crowding her, but in the converted barn. HIGH POINT ANTIQUEs. Space heaters thrummed heroically but emitted little palpable heat beyond a few feet, their red-heated coils like X rays of raw nerves. The stark overhead light caused ugly shadows to veer upward from the floorboards. Her coldstiffened fingers moved fumblingly, varnishing the hickory armchair. Varnish fumes so sharp her cheeks were streaked with tears.

  Keep bus y!Just keep busy. Wisdom of the Hausmanns who'd been farm people for centuries.

  Marianne was upstairs in her room, sedated, calm and possibly sleeping. She was all right, she'd be all right. HEAD HEART HANDS HEALTH the watchword of the American 4-H movement HEAD HEART HANDS HEALTH and Marianne Mulvaney would be all right.

  Corinne hadn't been able to pray, not exactly. As if- if she did, she might reproach God? blame Jesus? for what had happened to her daughter? For what had been allowed to happen to her daughter? Instead the words repeated HEAD HEART HANDS HEALTH like a flashing neon sign she couldn't turn off.

  Michael was late corning home. It was dark as midnight by 7:20 when at last his headlights ascended the bumpy drive. Corinne had called him at work from Dr. Oakley's office but he'd been out, his secretary said, on a work Site miles away, a Valu-Right Drugs in a new shopping center on Route 119 where a five-man crew was putting in a hot asphalt roof. That was at 4:30. Again she'd called him froni home but he was still out. He'd told her that morning he'd be late for supper, he was meeting some men friends at the Club, the taproom. Business he'd said. But he'd be home by seven at the latest.

  She hadn't wanted to call him at the Mt. Ephraim Country Club. Hadn't wanted to risk upsetting him in front of his friends. And the situation was under control now wasn't it. Marianne safely home, upstairs in her room. Sweet throaty-purring Muffin snuggling beside her on top of the quilt.

  The wind was out of the northeast, gaining strength. A powdery glisten to the windowpanes, fine gritty sandlike snow blown against the glass. And there stood Michael in the doorway, in his good camel's-hair coat and the jaunty fedora with the tiny pheasant feather in the rim, looking puzzled, concerned. "Hon, what the hell are you doing out here? Something wrong?"

  Michael's cheeks were ruddy, healthily flushed from the cold and the two or three drinks he'd had, his eyes quick, staring. Those eyes, Corinne used to say with a shivery laugh, like X-ray eyes seeing what you'd never expect them to see.

  The varnish brush had slipped from Corinne's fingers unnoticed. She'd been squatting by the armchair on its messy outspread newspapers and now stood, trying to smile but in fact she'd begun to cry. Exactly what she'd vowed she would not do.

  "Jesus, Corinne-what is it?"

  He came to her, she fumbled to take his hand. Michael's hand she'd long ago teased was the size of a bear's paw. It came to her then-when there was disturbing family news (Patrick's terrible accident with his horse had been the worst, but there'd been others- oh, others!) it fell to Corinne the mother to inform Michael the father. How Corinne came by such knowledge, such cruel expertise, was a mystery. Softly she said, "It's Marianne, darling. Something has happened to her."

  "Marianne? What? Where is she?"

  She gripped Michael's hand tighter, to steady him. There was no way to say this, yet she would find a way.

  "She's all right now-she's upstairs in her room. I mean, she isn't in danger, and she isn't ill. But something has happened to her."

  That sick, sinking look in Michael Mulvaney's face. He was a man, he knew.

  The father of a seventeen-year-old daughter. He knew.

  After the front wheels of Corinne's station wagon ran over the creature, there was nothing for her to do except make an emergency U-turn on the highway and speed back into Mt. Ephraim, to get medical help for Marianne who was sobbing convulsively-choking, breathless, hysterical. Hyperventilating! Corinne was in such a distraught state she hadn't seen what she'd hit-thank God she hadn't had an accident, swerving and weaving on the highway as she tried to comfort, with one groping hand, the weeping, thrashing girl in the seat beside her. Like a woman in a dream she sped back into Mt. Ephraim tapping her horn to clear a way for herself when necessary. In the exigency of her need, her need to get help for her daugh-. ter, she might have struck other vehicles, pedestrians-might have killed Marianne and herself both. God help us, God take care of us. God we are in Your mercy.

  What had she struck back there on the hill, a dog?-but the creature had seemed too small for a dog, and wrongly shaped. A cat? It hadn't a cat's shape, either-more like a raccoon, bulky and waddling side to side in that way of raccoons-but you rarely saw a raccoon in winter, still less in bright daylight.

  On hilly Cassadaga Street just inside the town limits there was Dr. Oakley's old gray_shingled house. Corinne parked, and half walked half carried sobbing Marianne inside and explained to the astonished nurse-receptionist that her daughter needed immediate medical attention. And of course Dr. Oakley the Mulvaneys' old friend took Marianne into the back at once, before the half dozen other patients seated hushed and staring in the waiting room. (Corinne, accompanying Marianne into the rear, had no time to take notice of these staring witnesses except one or two were familiar faces, from P.T.A. perhaps, acquainted with the Mulvaneys, surely. And so this episode, Corinne Mulvaney bursting into Dr. Oakley's office with her hysterically weeping young daughter, would be murmured of, spoken of, relayed by telephone and in person like an electronic news bulletin flung in myriad directions simultaneously through Mt. Ephraim before Michael Mulvaney would have heard of it himself.)

  In Dr. Oakley's consulting room, as Corinne would tell Michael that evening, Marianne grew calmer. It was a familiar place, and Dr. Oakley urged her to sit, offered her a tissue, spoke comfo
rtingly to her. Corinne pulled up a chair close beside Marianne's and held her hand as she spoke. Marianne's face was streaked with tears that glistened like acid and her skin was drained of color and she could not bring herself to look at Dr. Oakley behind his desk, nor at Corinne. She said in a small almost inaudible voice that she'd been "hurt."

  "Hurt, Marianne?" Dr. Oakley asked. "How?"

  The other night, after the prom. Very late after the prom. It might have been three o'clock in the morning.

  "And where did this happen, Marianne?"

  In a boy's car. In a-she couldn't recall exactly-parking lot somewhere. Behind some buildings. By a row of Dumpsters. She'd been drinking, and she'd been sick. Her memory was confused and she would not wish to speak in error.

  "Who was the boy, Marianne?" Dr. Oakley asked quietly. "What did he do to you?"

  Marianne didn't reply at fimt, then said, in the same near-inaudible voice, that she did not wish to say the boy's name. She did not believe that what had happened had been his fault to any degree more than it had been her fault. She'd been drinking at the party, and she had never been so sick in her life. She had made a mistake to drink and believed that friends had warned her but she could not remember clearly. She could not remember much of what had happened and even the memory of the prom itself had become blurred like a dream you know you've had yet can't recall. It was there, it was real, yet she had no access to it. And she did not wish to speak in error.