We Were The Mulvaneys Part 4

Saying something of this to Marianne, who was clutching her pink-angora hands on her lap and didn't seem to hear or in any case didn't reply. The stiffness, the tension in her. Was she frightened of her brother's driving? The heavy car skidding? Beneath loose powdery snow the hard-packed snow of High Point was smooth as satin. Treacherous.

That satin dress: cream-colored, with strawberry chiffon trim:

St. Valentine's. Mrs. Glover the senior English teacher speaking coyly of Cupid, "romantic love," Eros. Does anyone know what "Eros" means?

At the curve in the road just beyond the Pfenning farm the station wagon's rear tires did spin for several sickening seconds. Patnck quickly shifted gears, pumped the brakes. He knew not to turn the steering wheel in the direction instinct suggests but in the opposite direction, moving with the skid. And in a moment the vehicle was back in control. He'd reached out to shield Marianne from the dashboard but there hadn't been that much momentum and her seat belt held her in place. He saw, though, how stiffly she held herself, oddly hunched and her mittened hands gripped together tight against her knees. Her pale lips were moving silently-was she praying? Patrick had broken into a quick nervous sweat inside his sheepskin jacket.

"Marianne? You all right?"

"Oh, yes."

"Sorry if I shook you up."

Why didn't you tell me about it then? 14'hy, not even a word?

Was it that you didn't want me to become contaminated, too?

Frankly, by this time, miles of driving, Patrick was becoming annoyed, hurt by his sister's silence. And now this silent-prayer c.r.a.p! An insult.

High Point Road, haphazardly plowed, wound along the ridge of the ancient glacial striation. Out of the northeast, from the vast

sf0 tundra of northern Ontario, came that persistent wind. Rocking the station wagon as it frequently rocked the school bus. Like ridicule, Patrick thought. Like jeering. Invisible air-currents plucking at your life.

He remembered, in ninth grade. In the boys' locker room. Boys talking of their own sisters. Maybe it was one boy, and the others avidly listening. Patrick had not been among them, rarely was Patrick among these boys but at a little distance from them, swiftly and seW-consciously changing his clothes. In that phase of his early adolescence in which the merest whisper of a forbidden word, a caress of feathers, a sudden sweet-perfumy scent, the sound of fabric against fabric, silky, suggestive-the mere thought of a girl's armpit! nostril! the moist red cut between the legs!-would arouse Patrick s.e.xually, to the point of pain. He'd hidden away in disgust, in shame. Hadn't yet cultivated the haughty Pinch-style, staring his inferiors down.

Patrick Mulvaney a genius? Come on! His I.Q. was only 151. In tenth grade he'd taken a battery of tests, with a half dozen other selected students. You weren't supposed to know the results but somehow Patrick did. Possibly his morn had told him, absurdly proud.

Not a genius but still rumors spread. Like the rumor that he was blind in one eye. Did Patrick care, Patnck did not care. Telling himself he'd rather be respected and feared at Mt. Ephraiin High School than liked. Popular!

His heroes were Galileo, Newton, Charles Darwin. The Curies, Albert Einstein. The scientists of whom he read voraciously in the pages of Scient-fic American, to which he subscribed. You couldn't imagine any of these people caring in the least about popularity.

It did upset him, though, that everyone seemed to know his secret: he was in fact blind in one eye. Almost.

Mom had surely confided in his gym teacher, when he'd started high school. She'd promised she would not but probably yes it had been Mom, meaning well. Not wanting his other eye to be injured-that would have been her logic, Patrick could hear her pleading, could see her wringing her hands. Patrick had had an accident grooming one of the horses, in fact his own horse Prince he'd loved, young high-strung Prince who was both docile and edgy and somehow it happened that the two-year--old gelding was spooked in his stall by something fleeting and inconsequential as a bird's whirring wings and shadow across a sunlit bale of hay and suddenly to his terror Patrick, at that time twelve years old, weighing not much more than one hundred pounds, was thrown against a wall, found himself down beneath the horse's terrible malletlike hooves screaming for help. His left ann had been broken and his left eye swollen shut, the retina detached and requiring emergency surgery in Rochester. Of the experience Patrick recalled little, out of disgust and disbelief. It had long wounded his pride that of the Mulvaneys he was the only one obliged to wear gla.s.ses.

Driving, Patrick shut his left eye, looked with his right eye at the snowy road ahead, the waning glare of the snow, the rocky slope down into the Valley. This should have been a familiar landscape but was in fact always startling in its newness, its combination of threat and promise. He was never able to explain to anyone not even to Marianne how fascinating it was, that the world was there; and he, possessed of the miracle of sight, here. He would no more take the world there for granted than he would take being here for granted. And vision in his right eye at least. For the eye was an instrument of observation, knowledge. Which was why he loved his microscope. His homemade telescope. Books, magazines. His own lab notebooks, careful drawings and block-print letters in colored inks. The chunky black altimeter/barometer/"illuminator" sports watch he wore day, night, awake, asleep, removing only when he showered though in fact the watch (a birthday gift from the family, chosen by Marianne out of the L.L. Bean catalogue) was guaranteed waterproof-of course. And he loved his shortwave radio he'd a.s.seinbled from a kit. Plying him on insomniac nights with weather reports in the Adirondacks, Nova Scotia. As far away as the Canadian Rockies.

You could trust such instruments and such knowledge as you could not trust human beings. That was not a secret, merely a fact.

Patrick was driving his mom's Buick station wagon carefully along this final stretch of High Point Road. He was thinking that the horizon he'd grown up seeing without knowing what he saw here in the Chautauqua Valley, 360 degrees of it, was a hinge joining two s.p.a.ces: the one finite, a substance inadequately called "land" that dropped to the Yewville River, invisible from this distance, and the other infinite, a substance inadequately called "sky" overhead. Each was an unknown. Though Patrick tried to imagine the glacier fields of millions of years ago, an epoch to which had been given the mysterious name Pleistocene which was one of Patrick's words reverently spoken aloud when he was alone.

Pleistocene. Mile-high mountains of ice grinding down everything in their paths.

You could see Patrick was hurt, obviously it showed in his face. If Marianne had noticed.

Gunning the motor as he turned up the rutty-snowy dnve, racing the station wagon in the home stretch to announce Here we are! And parking noisily in front of the antique barn inside which Corinne was working. Marianne might have begun to say, "Thank you, Patrick-" but she spoke too softly, already he was out of the vehicle, in one of his quick-incandescent and wordless furies, and there came Silky exploding comically Out of the rear of the vehicle too, to dash about in the snow, urinating in dribbles, shaking his ears as if he'd been confined for days. Marianne was carrying her garment bag in the direction of the back door and somehow the plastic handle slipped from her fingers and Patrick hesitated before helping her to retneve it and Marianne said quickly, her voice quavering, fear in her eyes that were a damp blurred blue Patrick would after- ward recall, "No!-it's fine, I have it." Marianne smiled at him, unconvincingly. Her tall impatient brother loose-limbed and nerved-up as one of the young horses. "Suit yourself" Patrick said. He shrugged as if, another time, he'd been subtly but unmistakably rebuffed, turned to slam into the house, upstairs to his room, his books.

It's fine, I have it. It's fine.

FAMILY CODE.

Many things were coded at High Point Farm. Like our names which could be confusing for they depended upon mood, circ.u.mstance, subtext.

For instance, Michael Sr. was usually Dad but sometimes Curly and sometimes Captain. He could be Grouchy (of the Seven Dwarves), or Groucho (of Groucho Marx fame), he could be Big Bear, Chickie, Sugarcake-these names used exclusively by Mom. My oldest brother was usually just Mike but sometimes Mike Jr. or Mikey-Junior; sometimes Big Guy, Mule, Number Four (his football jersey number for the three years he excelled as a fullback at Mt. Ephraim High). Patrick was frequently P.J. (for Patrick Joseph) or Pinch. Marianne was frequently b.u.t.ton or Chickadee. My names, as I've said, were many, though predominantly Baby, Dimple, Ranger.

Mom was Mom except for special names which only Dad could call her (Darling, Honeylove, Sweetheart, Sugarcake). Occasionally Mom could be called Whistle-but only within the family, never in the presence of outsiders.

It was a matter of exquisite calibration, tact. Which code name at which time. Especially in Mom's case, for there were times when being called Whistle seemed to vex her and other times when it was exactly what she wanted to hear-she would laugh, and blush, and roll her eyes as if her innermost soul had been exposed.

Why Whistle? Because Mom had a habit of whistling when she believed herself alone, and to those of us who overheard, her wbisthng was a happy contagious sound. In the kitchen, in the antique barn; tending the animals; in her garden through the long summer and into the fall. Mom's whistling was loud and a.s.sured as any man's but with a shift of mood it could turn liquid and lovely as a flute. You'd listen, fascinated. You'd think Mom was speaking to you, without exactly knowing it, herself. Locking stanchions around the thick neck of a cow, scrubbing a horse's mud- and manuresplattered coat, fending off enraged fowl who'd hoped to hide their eggs in the hay barn, especially in the early morning when she and our canary Feathers were the only ones up-there was Morn, whistling. "Faith of Our Fathers"-"The Battle Hymn of the Re- public"-"Tell Me Why the Stars Do Shine"-but also "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas" (a year-round favorite, to Dad's exasperation)"I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles"-"I'll Be Seeing You"-"Heartbreak Hotel"-"Hound Dog"-"Blue Suede Shoes" (though Mom claimed to disapprove of Elvis as a poor moral example for the young). When she was in the house, Mom was likely to be whistling with Feathers, who, like most male canaries, responded excitedly when he heard whistling in or near his territory. Whistling was a quick expedient way of communicating with the livestock, of course: the horses whinnied alertly in reply, p.r.i.c.king their ears and flicking their tails as if to say Yes? Time to eat? Cows, goats, even sheep blinked to attention. Two deft fingers to her mouth, a shrill penetrating whistle, and Mom could bring dogs, cats, barnyard fowl and whatever else was in the vicinity to converge upon her where she stood, usually beneath one of the carports in an area designated for outdoor feeding, laughing and bountiful as the Goose Lady in our well-worn old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales.

Dad whistled, too. Hummed happily under his breath. But none of his names alluded to his musical ability or lack of ability.

Coded too were the ways in which we sometimes spoke to each other through animals. This was a means of communication that predated my birth, of course. I remember as a very young child crawling energetically on a carpet, and Dad and Mom praising me to one of the dogs-"Foxy, look! Baby is as fast as you."

Such a way of addressing one another was a witty, playful means of making simple requests: "Silky, will you trot over and ask Curly when he wants supper, early or late; and when he plans on husking the sweet corn, in any case." Or, in a raised voice, "s...o...b..ll, will you please ask Judd to come Out here and give me a hand?" It was a favored means for mild scolding: "m.u.f.fin, please ask a certain somebody"-this might be Mike, Patrick, Judd, or even Dad-"how long he plans on lounging there with the refrigerator door wide open?" Mostly such remarks were from Morn or Dad. When we kids imitated them, the code seemed somehow not to work, quite. I remember Mike furious at Patrick for some reason, the two of them riding their horses in the front drive, Patrick stiff and upright in the lead, his horse's tail flicking, and Mike calling after, "Hey, Prince: tell your rider he's a horse's a.s.s, thanks!" But both Prince and his rider ignored the taunt, breaking into a canter to escape.

Most of these exchanges, in fact, were inside our house. Now that I think of it, most were in the kitchen. For the kitchen was the heart of our household; where we naturally gravitated to seek one another out. The radio was always on, turned to Mom's hivorite Yew-ville station; there were always dogs and cats underfoot, looking to be petted or fed; of course, Feathers was a permanent res- dent in his handsome bra.s.s cage near the window. Of all the Mulvanev pets, it was m.u.f.fin the cat who was the favored medium for such exchanges; m.u.f.fin who was sweetly docile and patient and so unfailingly attentive when we human beings spoke, you'd swear he understood our words. With co'mical intensity m.u.f.fin would look from one speaker to the other, and back, and again, like a spectator at a tennis match. His tawny cat-eyes flashed sympathy, concern, It was almost possible to think, as Dad insisted, that m.u.f.fin wasn't a cat but a human being in disguise; yet, being an animal, he was ever so much nicer than any human being. "m.u.f.fin, you and I understand each other, don't we?" Dad would say, stooping to pet the cat, shaking dry food out of a box into a dish for a between-meals snack that was in fact against Mom's household diet rules just as Dad's own forays into the refrigerator between meals were against the rules, "-both of us endomorphs, eh?" Dad was growing ever more husky with the years, his muscular torso thickening, his belly pushing out over his belt; he would never be a fat man, nor even plump, for there was no softness to him, only a kind of defiant sinewy flesh. m.u.f.fin had begun his Mulvaney life as an abandoned kitten, rescued with his brother Big Tom from imminent death by starvation in a landfill off High Point Road, so tiny he could fit into the palm of the youngest Mulvaney's hand; with alarming swiftness he'd grown into a soft heavy adult male, neutered, weighing somewhere beyond twenty pounds. He was by no means a beautiful animal though his coat was silky_white, always impeccably clean, with lopsided markings like a child's drawing in orange, black, gray, brown. His head was round as a cabbage. His tail was ringed as a racc.o.o.n's. He'd been Marianne's kitten from the start, but we all loved him. Dad was a little rough showing his affection, hauling the big cat up onto his lap as he sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee and making telephone calls. It was Dad's habit to speak craftily through m.u.f.fin to certain of his sons-"m.u.f.fin, one thing puzzles me and maybe you can clear it up? Why, after I made a simple request five days ago is the tire on the G.o.dd.a.m.ned John Deere stilifiat?" The object of such remarks was usually Mike, who tended to slight his farm ch.o.r.es. So Mike would say to m.u.f.fin, with a smile, "m.u.f.fin, explain to Dad I'm just a little behind, I'm still mucking out those G.o.dd.a.m.ned stalls. Tell him I'm sorry, sir!"

There was a protocol to such exchanges, a logic to the most cir- c.u.mlocutory of maneuvers. When the code was broken the effect was like a slap in the face. That time Marianne entered the kitchen so quietly I didn't know she was there at first, this would have been early evening of the day following Valentine's Day, early evening of the Sunday she'd been at the LaPortes'. Less than twenty-four hours after it had happened to her and in that limbo of time when none of us had any idea, any suspicion. I was humedly finishing one of my household ch.o.r.es, cleaning out some of the acc.u.mulated magazines, newspapers, mail-order catalogues from the kitchen alcove, and Mom was tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a half dozen plants she'd brought to set on the table, whistling under her breath, and I heard her say in her bright- flirty voice, "Feathers!-what's this I've heard about a certain someone not getting to church this morning?" There was a moment's startled silence, I turned to see that Marianne had come in. Her back was to me. She wore jeans, a sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled roughly back in a ponytail. She said, so softly I almost couldn't hear, "I-I think it's cruel for that poor bird to be caged his entire life so that selfish human beings like us can be entertained by him. I think it's a sin."

Morn was so surprised, the shears slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

Not just that Marianne of all her children had spoken these harsh words but that Marianne had broken the code. When Mom or Dad addressed you by way of an animal, you always replied the same way. Yet, suddenly, Marianne had not.

Moni said, defensively, drawing herself up to her full height as if her very integrity had been challenged, "Why, b.u.t.ton- What do you mean? Feathers is a canary bred for the cage, and so were his parents and their parents going back for generations! Feathers wouldn't have any life if he hadn't been bred for the cage. He was born in that cage, in fact. You could say that the cage is Feathers' life. And it's a lovely nineteenth-century bra.s.s cage, an antique." Mom's voice was tremulous with hurt and indignation, as when she argued politics with Dad, rising on the reverential word antique.

Marianne said, almost inaudibly, "Mom. It's still a cage."

Turning then, with a sigh of exasperation, or a m.u.f.fled sob, taking no heed of me but hunying out of the kitchen before Mom could protest any ftirther. Morn and I stared after my sister in mutual astonishment as she pushed blindly through the swinging door into the dining room, and was gone.

Did you know, Marianne: how by breaking the code that day, you broke it forever? For us all?

DIRTY GIRL.

Mike MulvaneyJr. was a senior at Mt. Ephraim and he was on the football team and some of his buddies were Involved with the girl but he had not been involved. "Mule" heard all about it, for sure. But he had not been involved.

J4'hat can you expect of a girl like that. That kind of a girl. Her mother, her sisters. County weU-re. Runs in the family.

What the Mt. Ephraim guys did after the last game of the season. Three or four guys on the team and some older guys who'd graduated the year before. Sure, they were all friends of Mike Mulvaney's but Mike Mulvaney had not been one of them, that night.

Getting a r.e.t.a.r.ded girl drunk. Doing-you know, things-to her,

Hey:she isn't r.e.t.a.r.ded. 14/ho says that?

The whole family, the Duncans-the mother's an alcoholic, she's got Indian blood. Cotnesfro-n the Seneca reservation.

That's not what I heard. I heard the y're-you know, Negro.