We Were the Mulvaneys (19 page)

Those red taillights: Marianne would watch from her bedroom window. If she'd risen from bed, to stand and see. Smaller and smaller the lights like rapidly receding red suns (dwarf stars, Patrick called them) in her vision blurred with moisture until they disappeared.

Strange: how when a light is extinguished, it's immediately as if it has never been. Darkness fills in again, complete.

 

Those days when the phone rang a number of times in succession (for Dad—he took the calls in his study, door shut) and other, more frequent days when Dad was in town and the telephone never rang. Or if it did Mom might call out, in her cheery general-bulletin yodel, for anyone to hear who was interested: “Wrong-num-ber!”

There were few calls, these days, for Corinne Mulvaney, as for her daughter. What had happened, so swiftly, to their popularity? She could count her friends on the thumbs of both hands, Mom joked.

Though Mom didn't joke much, these days.

Rarely whistled, even to call the household brood to be fed.

Sometimes in an open-eyed frowning trance she'd pass by Foxy, or Little Boots, or Troy, or tremulous Silky gazing up at her with widened hopeful doggy eyes and tails beginning to thump in happy anticipation, sometimes she'd collide with one of the cats, in particular Big Tom whose aggressive habit it was to block her way in the kitchen in order to shunt her in the direction of the bowls in the cats' corner. Just didn't seem to see these creatures,
not at eye level
. “Oh, you! Hungry so soon? Didn't I just feed you?” Automatically pouring dry kibble into a bowl taking no heed of the cat or dog staring up at her in mute animal perplexity.

Yes and Feathers might burst explosively into song, aroused by the whistling teakettle, or wild birds tittering at the feeder outside the window, but he'd sing alone. His marvelous trilling rising-and-falling soprano, but he'd sing alone.

Some mornings, you'd hardly guess Corinne Mulvaney was in the house.

 

They'd asked her about Austin Weidman, how many times. And how ashamed she was, about Austin!

And about Zachary Lundt.

Can't bear false witness. Because I can't remember. If I could relive but I can't.

Playing upon her vanity. Her pride. So shrewdly. That she alone, Marianne Mulvaney, younger than he, in all ways less experienced than he, had had the power nonetheless to bring him, a sinner, Zachary Lundt, Zachary of the lank dark hair and dreamy heavy-lidded eyes, to Jesus Christ, their Savior.
Like there's the real me, Marianne, being with you brings out. Not the mean dumb asshole I usually am.

Hunched like a broken-backed snake on a step beneath her, at Bobbi Krauss's party. His thin handsome face, sallow skin and intense eyes. Unnerving to see boys in tuxes like adult men, and Zachary Lundt most of all—but then, he was two years older than Marianne. His bow tie removed and stuffed carelessly in a pocket, stiff white collar unbuttoned. Drinking beer, straight vodka, Zachary Lundt even the senior girls watched sidelong but were wary of, his reputation, tales you'd hear of Zach and his buddies, a wild circle, well-to-do kids and most going on to college though their grades were low-average and their school activities virtually nil. That gang of five or six guys hadn't exactly been invited to Bobbi Krauss's after the prom but sure Bobbi was flattered, sort of, when they showed up—Zach in his new-model Corvette (but lacking his prom date, poor Cynthia Slosson—he'd taken her home early?) and Ike Rodman in his dad's Caddy with some of the guys. They'd been drinking already, and ready to party. And right away Zach moved onto Marianne Mulvaney, staring at her, in that way she'd noticed him (impossible not to notice
him
) staring at her, unsmiling, at basketball games and pep rallies where “Button” Mulvaney and her sister cheerleaders performed. And shortly afterward they were observed in earnest conversation in the Krausses' rear hall, then seated on the stairs that led to the second floor, Marianne in her beautiful creamy satin dress with the strawberry-colored netting seated on the third step, Zach on the second, leaning on his elbow peering up at her. As if seeing in her (her heated face that felt swollen? her small so-distinct breasts in the pleated bodice he'd accidentally brushed with his wrist, handing her a drink?) a way of salvation. Salvation!

Oh how could she confess to her mother, to any of them: such shame.

Yet she'd believed him sincere. How, otherwise?—
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night scared as hell, Marianne why are we here on earth if we're just gonna die?

Urging her to drink the “orange juice cocktail” he'd made for her so delicious “screwdriver” somebody called it she'd never tasted anything quite like it, better than champagne, sweeter than champagne she'd had several times, far sweeter than any of Dad's and Mom's beers she'd sipped out of curiosity, and her throat was parched from the hours of dancing, she was so dizzy so happy! (But wait: was this at Bobbi Krauss's or was it possibly at Glen Paxton's—had they gotten to Glen Paxton's, at all? She would not recall afterward.) Austin Weidman was whining he had to leave by 12:30
A.M.
to take Marianne to the LaPortes' so that he could get home by 1
A.M.
which was his curfew (they laughed, laughed at him—a 1
A.M.
curfew, for a senior boy) and kept hovering in the rec room doorway his bow tie crooked, his dirt-colored hair stringy where it had been fine and feathery at the outset of the long evening and his eyes behind thumb-smudged lenses aggrieved. Zachary said politely he'd drive Marianne to the LaPortes' where she was spending the night with Trisha (who'd already left the party) and Marianne stammered blushing not knowing what to say and there was the sick look in Austin Weidman's face as if he'd been kicked in the belly as it began to sink in at last how he wasn't wanted. Chewed-looking lips, black plastic glasses like his father's. If you looked at him head-on you saw he was a nice-looking boy but who wished to look at Austin Weidman head-on? He had dabbed a sort of flesh-colored ointment over a pimple on his chin, and sweating had made it run. His breath too had a medicinal odor, like tooth fillings. He believed himself in love with Marianne Mulvaney, though he hadn't dared tell her, or anyone. Hoping instead to impress her, bragging, as an adult man might brag, about “future plans”: he intended to be a dentist like his father, here in Mt. Ephraim; their sign would say T. W
EIDMAN
, D.D.S. &A. W
EIDMAN
, D.D.S., F
AMILY
D
ENTISTRY.
At the prom Austin had danced awkwardly with Marianne, perspiring, staring at her in wonderment and holding her loosely, as if he feared stepping on her delicate size-six satin pumps with his size-twelve black leather dress Florsheims—but he'd stepped on them anyway. Marianne had spent much of the time talking and laughing with her own circle of friends, as Austin looked on smiling, like an elder brother. And of course she'd danced with other boys all evening. Lots of other boys.

Marianne! I need your help, you're the only person who can help me.

Touching her knee, his warm fingers on the smooth satin skirt, lightly, as if merely in emphasis as he spoke, spoke with such urgency, and a sudden sensation swelled like a balloon between her legs.
Will he kiss me? Is that what will happen next?
But he did not kiss her. Perhaps seeing something in her face, her startled eyes, that dissuaded him. He leaned close to her, his elbow now on the step beside her, looking up at her speaking quietly, earnestly and she'd sat transfixed staring at him not daring to speak nor even to breathe.

The only person, the only person who can help me.

Immediately afterward, or was it much later?—Marianne was laughing so hard, tears leaked unbecomingly from her eyes. Rock music—Mick Jagger's brawling voice—was deafening, so loud you couldn't hear it.
Beat beat beat
burrowing into the heart like heart-worm. They were in the Krausses' rec room where in summer glass doors slid open onto a flagstone terrace and a pool overlooking the Country Club golf course—Marianne had come swimming here a few times, though she wasn't a close friend of Bobbi Krauss, one of the glamorous senior cheerleaders. It was time to leave, time for the next party—where? Zach's friends who were all seniors Marianne didn't know were laughing saying piss-pot Weidman had gone home in his old man's piss-pot Dodge which was a car that for some reason elicited derision. Marianne's friends were gone. Zach was red-faced losing his poise muttering in an undertone
Fuck off, assholes!
when his drunken buddies tried to detain him and Marianne at the door, tugging at Marianne's arm, even her hair, and at Zach who shoved them away laughing and angry.
Hey can we come along? Hey Zach: ain't gonna forget your buddies are you?
—bawling like hyenas.

The first stab of nausea hit her,
Oh! oh God!
as Zach, cursing under his breath, carried Marianne's coat, helped her walk to his car, her knees weakened suddenly so he had practically to support her. Helped her climb into the freezing car not seeing or not caring how her skirt was caught in the door when he slammed it shut. Marianne swallowed down bile, gagged, choked. Where was her little beaded purse, with tissue in it? Something hot and stinging spilled from the corner of her mouth as Zach gunned the Corvette motor, jerked away sliding from the curb. Marianne's head rolled on her shoulders like crockery.

After that, Marianne didn't remember.

 

You Mulvaneys think you're hot shit don't you.

No. She didn't remember.

 

Always, you maintain your dignity.

Monday she'd be returning to school, she was determined.

It was still February, that morning, barefoot, in her flannel nightgown, Marianne descended the stairs quietly, making her way through the slumbering house drawn by the bitter cold, thin whistling wind. All night dreams had cascaded at her like snow avalanches in the mountains. She wasn't taking the chunky beige pills Dr. Oakley had prescribed to
aid sleep
nor was she taking the sleek green-and-black capsules Dr. Oakley had prescribed to
help restore appetite
(like Mom “restoring” one of her “antiques”?) but that was Marianne's secret, one of her secrets.

At the rear of the house, she looked out to see—yes, the space where Dad's pickup was usually parked, in front of the garage, was empty. A light burned there, Mom had left on all night. He hadn't come home.

(Of course, there were reasons why Michael Mulvaney Sr. sometimes stayed overnight in Mt. Ephraim, usually at the Odd Fellows Lodge where there were two or three rooms available for members. Treacherous driving conditions—hadn't it been snowing hard the night before?—it was snowing now, in snaky coils and tatters blown against the windows, drifting up against the back porch where, only yesterday, Patrick and Judd had shoveled.)

“Dad, I'm sorry”—her lips moved, she wasn't sure if she'd spoken aloud.

She had opened her heart to Jesus, and He had consoled her. Yes it was Marianne Mulvaney's fault that
it had happened.
But it was not her fault that she could not
give testimony, bear witness
against the boy who was her assailant.

Strange to be awake at this hour, and downstairs, alone. The big old farmhouse creaking in the wind. How many people had lived here, died here. Since 1849. You thought such thoughts in solitude, before dawn. Before the life of the household began. Now there was only the wind, and the
tick-tick-ticking
of a dozen clocks to indicate that Time is a joke, doesn't exist. Yet you need to believe.

The first time Trisha came to stay overnight at High Point Farm, when they were in fifth grade, she'd said, shivering wide-eyed
Oh! is it like this all the time, doesn't it scare you, Marianne?
as if the wind in the chimney were a ghost, hoo-hoo-hooing through the night. Marianne had laughed, feeling flattered, superior. Everything at High Point Farm was special, even a ten-year-old knew that.

It was true she'd be returning to school. Next week. That was arranged. First, she would have to meet with Mr. Hendrie the principal of Mt. Ephraim High and Mrs. Langley the guidance counsellor. Marianne and her parents, that is. At least Mom, if Dad refused to come. There were so many rumors circulating, Mr. Hendrie had told Mom, so many unverified, disturbing things being said. About Marianne, and Zachary Lundt. And a group of seniors involved in drinking, late-night partying…sexual misconduct. Mr. Hendrie and Mrs. Langley hoped to discuss these matters before Marianne resumed classes and Mom would be involved, of course. Marianne had the idea that her mother had already spoken with Mr. Hendrie and Mrs. Langley on the phone at length, possibly she'd even gone to see them. Marianne didn't ask, and didn't know.

There was also the therapist “Jill James” recommended by the minister of the little country church in South Lebanon. “Jill James”—she insisted you call her that, no formalities—was a Christian therapist, a rarity in our secular times, with a master's degree in adolescent and family counselling from the State University at Port Oriskany. She was Mom's age, maybe older, stout and big-boned with a broad, shiny face colored like Crayola and a handshake brisk and hearty as Dad's. Her office at the Eastgate Shopping Center was bright cheery colors, too, hanging ferns and macramé on the walls and piped-in soothing music. Marianne had seen “Jill James” just once, and was scheduled to see her again, this very day. She'd prepared certain words she must say, repeat, offered like small semi-precious gems, all she had to offer.
I don't remember. I'm as much to blame as. I was drinking, I'm so ashamed. My pride and vanity. Can't bear false witness.
“Jill James” had her own words to offer, of course. For that was what they did, adults: uttered their words prepared beforehand, as you uttered yours.