Joyce Carol Oates - We Were The Mulvaneys

by We Were The Mulvaneys(lit)

  After so long, years-this is all?

  It was not a thought Patrick could retain. He had his plan, his strategy. He would not be deterred.

  Patrick said, "Drive up ahead. See that underpass? On this side of it, turn in, drive the car up that lane, go ahead. Go!"

  For a dazed moment Zachary sat unmoving. Patrick was losing his patience. He tried to speak reasonably, "Come on, drive. You won't be hurt if you do as I say." Patrick's voice was deep, guttural, a voice to match the beard, the wool cap, the army jacket. "Come on, for Christ's sake move."

  Zachary whispered, blinking rapidly, "P-Please don't hurt me- don't shoot me-you can have my rn-money-my car-please!-I won't t-tell the police-I won't tell anyone-I p-promise--"

  There was a sharp smell of urine. Zachary had soiled himself.

  "Drive where I told you!" Patrick said. "Don't be such a coward."

  Like a disgusted elder brother, Patrick prodded Zachary with the rifle barrel. In his endlessly rehearsed scenarios of this event he would never have pleaded with his enemy, would never have touched his enemy with the gun; the Zachary Lundt of his irnagination, wily and quick as a fox, would have seized the barrel and wrenched the gun out of Patrick's grip and shot him point-blank in the face. But this was a different Zachary Lundt entirely.

  He didn't seem to recognize Patrick. His eyes brimmed with tears behind his glasses, he seemed incapable of focussing upon Patrick's face.

  "I said-don't be such a coward!"

  "Let me go-please! Don't-"

  "Drive up to that lane and turn in, now."

  Zachary fumbled at the transmission, the steering wheel as if he'd forgotten how to drive. He was sobbing to himself, his breath in shuddering gasps. But he did manage to follow Patrick's orders. He drove the Corvette haltingly forward to a lane that led off Depot Street into a desolate back lot ofjunked cars and other debris. The moonlight was vivid: the dump looked like an impromptu gathering of fantastical creatures. Hulks of rusted vehicles, part-burned mattresses, gutted sofas and chairs and broken lamps, refrigerators toppled onto their sides with doors gaping open like mouths. Patrick was reminded of Darwin's first glimpse of the Galapagos Islands, the bizarre species and subspecies of animals he saw, a young man just a year older than Patrick. What does it mean, chance has singled me out for such visions?

  Beyond the dump was a railroad embankment. A quarter mile away, the dimly illuminated water tower, MT. -PHRAIM in ghostly white letters. More vivid were scrawls emblazoned by teenagers, CLASS OF `78 in bold Day-Gb orange. Patrick wondered if anyone from the Class of'76, reckless enough to climb the tower, had left a boastful memento behind. Before tonight he might have credited Zachary Lundt and his friends with such exploits.

  Patrick's initial plan for executing justice against his enemy was to execute it here. Whatever he'd do to Zachary, he would do here. Later, he'd changed his mind. He had a new idea, incompletely formed. But this spot, hidden from the street, in a sparsely inhabited part of Mt. Ephraim, was ideal for leaving Zachary's car without driving it far. With luck, the Corvette wouldn't be discovered for a day or two. And then only because a search would be out for its owner.

  It was as if Patrick had spoken aloud. Zachary pleaded, "Don't hurt me, please?-you can have anything you want, I p-promise I won't tell anyone-"

  "Oh for God's sake shut up." Patrick was both disgusted and embarrassed.

  His nostrils pinching, at the smell of urine. Human piss so much more vile, he'd always thought, than horse piss.

  "Turn off the motor," Patrick said. Zachary obeyed, and Patrick took the keys from the ignition and pocketed them. He would toss them away somewhere, later-unless he returned to get Zachary's car and drive it to some desolate spot, maybe into a lake or a river. This was one of his contingency plans. "All right, get out," Patrick said. Keeping Zachary at gunpoint- soldier-like in resolve, he marched him back to the street. In the shadows, in the rutted lane, Zachary kept stumbling, whimpering. He seemed to have shrunken in upon himself, inches shorter than Patrick remembered, shoulders bent and his head at a craven angle. He walked like a man whose legs are about to buckle beneath him. Like an invertebrate prized from its shell, naked, vulnerable, twisting into a coil for protectioll against the touch of the dissecting knife.

  Was it possible, Patrick wondered, he himself would collapse so quickly, so ignominiously, confronted by a stranger with a gun? Is none of us any stronger, despite the heroics of TV, movies? Patrick didn't want to think so. He didn't want to think that his enemy, Zachary Lundt, whom he'd so long despised and in a way feared, was no more than this trembling whimpering boy who'd wet his jeans.

  Still Zachary was begging, "Don't hurt me, please"-Patrick shut him up by prodding him between the shoulder blades with the rifle barrel. They were in the street, which was deserted, no light except moonlight and that light interrupted, as filmy clouds were blown across the moon's bright face. At an intersection not far away a lone car stopped for a red light. Patrick half hoped the car would turn this way-quickly he'd discover how he would handle the emergency situation, hiding the rifle by holding it lengthwise against his body, commanding Zachary Lundt to behave as if nothing were wrong. Would Zachary have had the courage to run for help? It might be his only chance to escape. Yet, Patrick guessed, Zachary wouldn't have the courage. Helplessly he'd watch the car pass, meek in the face of another's power over him.

  But the car continued through the intersection. The Street remained empty.

  At the Jeep, Patrick ordered Zachary to get into the driver's seat, he was driving. "Ever handled one of these before?-you'll learn."

  Zachary stared at Patrick, cowering. "W-Where are we going? What do you want with me?" His face was oily with sweat and his glasses were crooked on his face. Though he stared at Patrick, it did not seem that he recognized him; terror had blinded him. "Please let me go! I)on't hurt me! My parents are waiting at home for me! They'll give you anything you want-they'll pay you anything you want-oh please, sir-please"

  Patrick said contemptuously, "I've got other plans for you. Rapist."

  How many times, countless times since October he'd heard the voices. His, and his enemy's.

  Say it: I'm a rapist.

  I'm a-rapist.

  Say it: I deserve to be punished.

  I-deserve to be punished.

  Say it: I deserve death.

  And here Zachary Lundt would stare at him speechless. In knowledge of what was to come: his just punishment.

  Beyond that, however, the vision was unclear. Patrick wasn't sure where it might lead. The knife. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But possibly just his fists, he'd never used his fists against any person, a few times in exasperation shoving at his older brother Mike who'd shoved him, much harder, back, but never his fists, not Patrick Mulvaney. Yet he might-he would-how badly he wanted to!-strike his enemy, smash his enemy's mouth. Malicious grinning mouth he'd seen in the corner of his eye, how many times in the corridors of the high school, on the stairs, in the locker room, Zach Lundt and his friends, yes and other guys too, hinting of "Button" darmgly in Patrick's presence, punching one another's biceps in glee, bursting into ribald jeering laughter. Almost out of earshot the coarse voices Look she asked for it, drunk Out of her mind and all over Zach beyj-'ing for it, got what she deserves she was drunk trying now to blame Zach but we were there, we saw unless Patrick imagined them, in his pride bearing himself tall, impervious to the presence of such others, inferior in every way to a Mulvaney. But he had not imagined the ugly drawings and block letters MM: MARYANN MULVANY. MMMMM SUCKS COCK. He had not imagined these, or his deep abiding shame, valedictorian of the Class of 1976, scholarship to Cornell, state science prize, aren't we hot shit his classmates mur-. mured of him, laughing behind their hands. Mulvaney, Mu!vaney- look, he's a Mulvaney.

  In a rage, in his dream he'd begin to beat Zachary Lundt, as Zachary fell to the floor he'd kick him, kick him with booted feet, heard the crack of bone, the cartilage of the nose, saw the b
right blood-but immediately the vision began to fade. As soon as he touched his enemy, the vision began to fade. Like a dream of what- ever ferocious intensity, dissipating upon waking, dissolving even as the dreamer tries to retain it, with what yearning, what hunger.

  On the way into the country, north on Route 58, and following the Yewville River, as terrified Zachary Lundt drove the Jeep un- steadily, between thirty and thirty-five miles an hour, Patrick thought of such things. Executing justice. At )ast. He deserves-a?! I can give him. Patrick had to force himself. His rage at Zachary Lundt seemed to have faded. Almost, he felt sorry for Zachary. How beaten, how defeated! Crotch of his jeans dark with piss. The smell of it. His backbone curved, teeth chattering. He's already bc-n p-wished, exposed a voice advised Patrick. But this was not Patrick's plan.

  He would not, he vowed he would not be deterred fromii his plan.

  His plan how like an artwork he'd created, out of his guts, the anguish of his Mulvaney pride. He, Patrick, fussy P.J., intolerant touch-me-not Pinch his family had loved to tease, gazing in rapt fas- cination at the German woodcut of the huntsman he'd affixed to the wall of his room. The tall handsome manly blond youth with his rifle lifted to his shoulder, aiming at a magnificent black-curly rain with extraordinary horns. The finely drawn mountams, clouds that seemed somehow alive, quivering grasses, hidden hare in the foreground, all of Nature a setting for that moment when the huntsman pulled the trigger of his rifle-or did not pull it. In adolescent ardor Patrick stared, stared. He had never understood the nddle of the drawing and he had never understood why he seemed to care so much about it.

  Signs flashed by in the darkness, illuminated by the Jeep's bright headlights-SLOw CURVE 35 mph-STEEP GRADE TRUCKS USE 1OWE- GEAR-YEWVILLE 65 mi. They were about ten miles north of Mt. Ephraim. To the right the Yewville River was dark, near-invisible behind dense banks of trees. This was not an area Patrick Mulvaney knew well yet unhesitating he'd instructed Zachary Luridt to drive north on Route 58. Chance follows design. Yet how much more readily than Patrick had imagined. Those many weeks of running in Ithaca. in air so cold it pained his lungs, as if preparing himself for an extraordinary test of strength, he'd believed his enemy would he cullfling, dangerous, a match for him. He could not have guessed that the abduction would be so easy. Zachary Lundt who'd had such power over him, and over Marianne, ruining the happiness of their lives, so unresisting! It was as if Patrick had strode up to a door and knocked on it, hard, and-the door swung open.

  Both the Jeep's front windows were rolled down, chill fresh air rushed in, to dissipate Zachary Lundt's stink. Panic-stink, not just urine but sweat. Oily beads of sweat rolled down his narrow face. Yet Zachary seemed to be trembling less now, he'd entered a secondary state of terror, a suspension of logic. In childlike obedience to his captor he sat gripping the steering wheel tight, his hands near the top of the wheel, leaning far forward and squinting out the windshield in a pose of utter unswerving concentration. Without hesitation he'd followed each of Patrick's commands, driving them out of Mt. Ephraim and into the countryside. Patrick was sitting with his back against the passenger's locked door, the rifle in his lap, aimed at Zachary Lundt's head. The dead-white face, beaky nose, slightly receding chin. He thinks -f he obeys me he won't be hurt Patrick thought. The thought revolted him as if it were an acknowledgment of his own weakness.

  Patrick said, "Up there, that gravel road, see?-turn off."

  Zachary did as he was told. Braked the Jeep carefully, slowed and put on the turn st-nal turning off the highway onto a badly puddled gravel road hardly wider than a cow path, leading into the wilderness. Where did he think he was being taken? What could he envision for himself that would not be disastrous, in such desolation, alone with an armed man? Yet he did as Patrick instructed. Murmuring what sounded like Yes, yes sir. Like an animal hypnotized by its predator, a rodent about to be swallowed by a boa Constrictor, putting up no resistance to its fate. As if the throbbing protoplasmic life of the prey had already been assimilated by the life of the predator, in allegiance with its terrible hunger.

  Patrick thought I won't weaken. I won't be deterred.

  The bog. The dying trees denuded of leaves, peeling bark the color of damp newsprint. Smell of rot, sewage. It was only midApril and so the teeming thrumming life of the bog had not yet begun yet there was an atmosphere of density, crowdedness; as if invisible, ravenous shapes, all mouth and gullet, hovered near. How quickly a body would decompose here, Patrick thought. It was the t-rst he'd had this thought.

  "Do you know where this is?" Patrick asked, almost casually. He didn't want his deep guttural voice to weaken, with excitement. He didn't want to sound like a college kid, a boy Zachary Lundt's age. "Do you know who I am?" But Zachary seemed not to hear. All his concentration went into driving: wincing as the Jeep, even with its shock-absorber tires, lurched and bucked. "I know who you are-Zachary Lundt. That's why you're here."

  The Jeep continued, slower and slower, until the gravel road became a spit of muddy land between stretches of bog and Patrick said, poking Zachary's shoulder with the rifle barrel as if to wake him, "Shut off the motor, we're here."

  Zachary did so. Patrick pocketed the keys. It was very quiet now that the Jeep's motor was turned off and in that quiet Zachary had begun to cry again, softly.

  The Jeep's headlights were still on, illuminating a cattail-choked marsh that stretched into darkness punctuated by slivers of light reflected in water. Patrick climbed out of the Jeep and switched on the flashlight. "Get out, Don't look back, Lundt, just walk."

  Zachary climbed down uncertainly from the Jeep. He was sobbing, wiping his face on his sleeve. He whispered, "No, please- don't make me-"

  "Walk. If you can get to the other side, you can live."

  Was there another side? The headlights, Patrick's flashlight, the mottled light of the moon seemed to illuminate the same expanse of bog, replicated out of sight.

  "W-Why? Why are you doing this to me? I don't know you-"

  "You know me, sure you do."

  "1-I don't. Please-"

  "Rapist. Raped my sister. Now you know."

  "Your sister? -Tho-"

  "Now you know!"

  "I never-never raped- Who?"

  "There've been so many, is that it? So many girls?"

  Patrick began shouting, "Just walk, Lundt. You son of a bitch, you filthy bastard, ruining people's lives, a coward like you, filth like you, you don't deserve to live, you're filth and you belong in filth, get going Isaid." Patrick jabbed Zachary between the shoulder blades with the gun barrel, forcing him forward into the bog where he stumbled, whimpering as if desperate now to escape. Up to his ankle- in the soft black muck, then to his knees. It was cold: his breath steamed. Patrick shouted at him, cursed-"You bastard, keep going- Don't look back or I'll blow your head off." He watched as, aboul fifteen feet out, lunging forward, Zachary fell; trying then like frenzied animal to crawl forward through thistles, reeds, cattails

  Patrick heard bubbles softly popping, the Hack muck stirred to life, sucking at Zachary. Was it possible, as in his nightmare? The bog was quicksand? Zachary's terrified voice was barely audible. "Help!-help me-"

  Patrick cried, raising the gun, "Help yourself, you son of a bitch! Rapist!"

  Elsewhere, the bog was still, silent. A faint wind through the trees, what remained of the trees. Bearing an odor of rot.

  Beginning to slant in the sky, the bright moon, mad-glaring moon, past which strips of filmy cloud were blown.

  Patrick thought He knows who I am, sure.

  Patrick thought I have executed justice.

  Patrick thought What an awful way to die.

  En that instant changing his mind, as if a key had turned in a lock, abandoning his plan though not immediately understanding that this was so. He'd sunk to his heels, squatting in the muddy soil, aware suddenly of his breath steaming, hands pressed against his ears so he wouldn't have to hear his enemy pleading for his life. Let him die let him st-ffocate in filth
it's what he deserves: rapist! Murdeyei! Shutting his eyes tight, rocking on his heels as if mourning his own impotence, his failure for the object of his hatred wasn't the young man sinking in the bog but the high school boy of years before, smirking, conscienceless, a coward unknown to himself, unexposed and arrogant. And that object, that enemy Patrick could not reach. Rocking in anguish on his heels as once, a child of two or three, he'd seen his own father in what unimaginable extremity of emotion, what unarticulated anguish, having to put down a young filly who'd shattered both forelegs in a freak accident. This memory was so old, retrieved from so great a distance, a fossil record of Patrick's soul, Patrick was astonished-had he forgotten so much, even as he prided himself, above all the Mulvaneys, on his extraordinary powers of mind? He thought I love my father, how can I hate him?

  It came upon him in a flash: he didn't want anyone to die, not even his enemy.

  He pushed through undergrowth, spiky reeds and cattails, approaching the struggling figure from higher ground. How like a giant slug, a mud-creature, feebly flailing, its head and face mired in mud. Patrick snatched up a fallen tree limb about four feet in length and held it out to Zachary-"Hey! Lunch! Take hold! I'll pull you out." Zachary was so exhausted, or dazed, he didn't respond at once, until Patrick continued to shout at him; lifting, then, his head with an effort. His pale face, mottled with mud, seemed on the verge of dissolution, like tissue in water. His glasses were gone and his eyes, rapidly blinking, looked both enormous and blind. He lifted his right arm with great effort, straining to close his fingers around the tree limb, but he was inches short. Patrick said, disgusted, "Grab hold for Christ's sake! God damn you!" But Zachary couldn't grab hold, his fingers flailed helplessly, so Patrick had no choice but to step out into the bog, his feet immediately sinking in the soft bottom, he was wearing boots but only to his ankles and the mud came to midcalf, loathsome cold muck seeping into his boots. He muttered, "God damn you- God damnl Fucket God damn!" leaning out as far as he dared, knowing the soft shelf of land would drop away sharply, he held the limb out trembling to Zachary who again tried to reach it, too weak to lift his arm for more than a few seconds at a time. Zachary was sobbing, moaning. Patrick inched farther out. His face was contorted in rage, self_disgust. He could not believe he was doing this! He, Patrick Mulvaney- Rescuing Zachary Lundt! After all he'd vowed, his proud plan of executing justice.