I was nine years old. Too young to know what "sex" was or even what a kid of fourteen, Pj. `s age, might imagine it was. I looked at my brother amazed. "Huh?"
"Don't you know, Babyface, everything is about sex? It's the primary law of nature of living things-what keeps us going."
P.J. was the reader of the family, hidden away much of the time with science books and magazines and his "projects"; he'd discovered biology in eighth grade, and believed that a man named Charles Darwin who'd lived in the nineteenth century had had "the answer." Half the things he said were purposefully inscrutable: you never knew if he was serious, orjust being, as we'd say, Pinch.
I asked, "Keeps who going? How?"
"I don't know how," Pj. said loftily, looking over my head, "-I just know it's sex. Like if a man and a woman are arguing, or whatever, it isn't about money or needing to get things done or-whatever: it's about sex."
Which impressed me, but also scared me.
Because as I've said, you never could trust Pinch to say what was serious, or even what was true.
But there was the time years before, when I was really small, maybe three years old, wakened at night by a bad dream or by the wind banging something against the house, I ran next door into Dad's and Mom's bedroom uninvited and unexpected and their bedside light was on and I climbed right in bed with them, burrowed against them, so focussed on my own childish fear I hadn't the slightest awareness of surprising them, annoying or embarrassing them, in the midst of what I could not have named, at the time, robust lovemaking. I can remember only the confusion, the creaking of bedsprings and Dad's exclamation (I think it was "What the hell-!") and Mom quickly pushing Dad from her, his bare sweaty shoulders and back, covered in frizzy hair, his bare buttocks, and hairy muscular legs, both my parents breathing hard as if they'd been running. Mom gasped, "Oh Judd!-Judd, honey-is s-something wr-wrong?" trying to catch her breath, shielding herself her naked breasts, with the sheet, even as I continued to burrow blind and whimpering against her, and Dad flopped onto his back beside us with a forearm across his eyes, softly cursing. I said I was afraid, I didn't want to be alone, I kicked and wriggled and of course Mom comforted me, possibly scolding me a little but her naked arms were warm and her body gave off a wonderful yeasty odor. Above my head Mom whispered to Dad, "I thought you said you locked the door," and Dad said, "You locked it, you said," and Mom said, "Judd's had a scare, Michael-he's just a baby," and Dad said, "Fine! Good night! I'm going to sleep." And Morn whispered to me, and got me to stop crying, and we giggled together, and Mom switched off the light, and soon we all fell asleep together, a warm sweaty tangle. And it wasn't until years later I realized how I'd intruded upon my parents in their secret lives, and it was too late to be embarrassed.
And if I force myself to think of it, maybe I'd have to admit that I'd done this more than once, as a small child. And each time Dad and Mon-i relented, and took me in. He's just a baby.
(Corinne and Michael Mulvaney were so romantic! All the while we kids were growing up, until this time I'm telling of when things changed. Mike thought they were embarrassing but sort of funny, you had to laugh, smooching like kids like they were just married or something; P.J. was plain embarrassed, and sulky, turning on his heel to walk out of, for instance, the kitchen, if he'd walked in upon Dad and Mom kissing, or, as they sometimes did, breaking into impromptu dance steps to radio music appropriate or not-a dreamy-dithering fox-trot, or a faster, less coordinated step, what they called "jitterbugging," poor Feathers in his cage trilling wildly. When Dad and Mom met in public, even if they'd been apart only a few hours, and where they were was a Friday night football game at the school, a hundred people milling around, Dad would greet Mom with a big grin and "Hello, darling!" and he'd lift her hand to his lips to kiss it tenderly-even Marianne cringed at the sight, it was too, too embarrassing. Once, one of Mom's women friends asked what was the secret of her and her husband, and Mom replied, in a lowered voice, "Oh, that man isn't my husband. We're just trying things out.")
Secrets! As a child you come to see the world's crisscrossed with them like electromagnetic waves, maybe even held together by them. But you can't know. Not, as kids say,for sure. And if you blunder by accident into a secret it's like you've pushed open a door where you thought was just a wall. You can look through, if you're brave or reckless enough you can even step inside-taking a chance what you'll learn is worth what it costs.
This other time I'm thinking of, when Mike Jr. was a senior in high school, and a star player on the football team, his picture in the local papers often and the name "Mule" Mulvaney famous in the county-I did barge in on a secret, sort of. Dad was talking to Mike and P.J. in the family room, the door shut against intrusion (you'd have to know that our family room door was never shut, I'd have thought there wasn't even a door to the room), and I came downstairs and overheard just enough to arouse my curiosity, something in Dad's usually congenial jokey voice that was low and earnest and quivering with emotion and exciting because I understood this was not for Ranger's ears. I went to crouch by the door and pressed my ear against it. Dad was saying, "-I don't care who the girl is. What her reputation is, or people say it is. Or she herself thinks it is. No sons of mine are going to be involved in behavior like that. If anybody's treating a girl or a woman rudely in your presence-you protect her. If it means going against your friends, the hell with your `friends'-got it?" Dad's voice was nsing. I could picture his creased forehead, the set of his jaws, his eyes that seemed, at such times, to snap. Just-snap! You'd feel the sting of his glance like a BB pellet in the face.
Now I know it must have been Della Rae Duncan Dad was speaking of, in such outrage. Word was spreading through town, half the Mt. Ephraim football team had "had relations" with the drunken girl, after the Rams had won the Chautauqua County high school championship.
Finally Mike was allowed to speak, pleading, "But I wasn't with those guys, Dad! I d-didn't know anything about it until afterward." Dad asked skeptically, "Oh yes? How long afterward?" and Mike said, "I-don't know, exactly." "An hour? Five minutes?" "Gosh no, Dad-the next day, I guess." Mike's voice was weak and scared and I'd guess he might be lying. Or maybe Dad just scared him so, he was breaking down. It was fascinating to me to hear my big brother Mule speaking to our father like a small child-like me, aged ten. The thought came to me Don't we ever grow up? For some weird reason this was consoling.
They talked a while longer, Dad and Mike, and finally Dad relented, saying, "All right, Mikey. But if I ever learn you were involved, even just that you knew, at the time, I'll break your ass. Got it?" Mike murmured, "Yes sir," like he was grateful! All the while P.J. must have been sitting there, stricken with alarm and embarrassment, only fifteen at the time and not what you'd call "socially mature" for his age-Dad must have figured he was old enough to learn certain facts of life, even if they didn't immediately apply to him.
Dad said, winding things up, "O.K., guys! Enough for one day.
Any questions?" Mike and P.J. murmured no. "Just so you know your old man loves you, eh? Just so you know."
I hurried out of Dad's way, hiding around a corner, and after he'd left I tiptoed back to the doorway, and there were my brothers standing with a shared look as of witnesses to an accident. They didn't see me but I didn't hide from them, exactly. Mike was wiping at his eyes, kind of solemn but excited, shaking his head, "-You can't lie to Dad, it's the weirdest thing. I mean, you can try, but it doesn't work. It's like he knows. It's like he can hear what you're thinking. He al- ways understands more than I tell him, and more than I know."
Pj. had removed his glasses and was polishing the lens on a shirttail. He said petulantly, "I don't know anything about it! Why am I being blamed?"
Mike said, "You're not being blamed. Blamed for what? I'm not being blamed, am I?-not that I deserve to be, I don't."
P.J. said, "Those guys are your friends, not mine. I don't even know what they did."
"Well-I don't, either."
; "Yeah, I bet."
"I don't." Mike was pacing around, running both hands through his hair. He looked a little like Dad, from the back. He said in a rueful voice, "It's a funny thing, how you always know more than you say. I mean-a person does. What you say is always less than you know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said! Like if I say, `I went out with the guys, we went from point X to point Y, from point Y to point Z'-well, I'm telling the truth, but I'm saying less than I know."
P.J. looked confused. As if Mike was saying things of the sort Pj. was known for, and Pj., thrown in the position of listener, was at a disadvantage. "But-why?"
Mike said excitedly, "Because to say a thing is just to state a fact. If I say, `My name is Mike Mulvaney' I'm saying a whole lot less than I know about myself, right? It's impossible to say who I am, where'd I begin?-and where'd I end? So I wind up saying my name."
Pj. said, "That's true about any statement we make, isn't it? We never tell as much as we know."
"Right! So we're lying. So almost every statement is a lie, we can't help it."
"Yeah. But some statements are more lies than others."
This, Mike didn't seem to hear. He'd stopped his pacing and was looking toward the doorway, not seeing me; his face glistened with sweat but he sIniled suddenly, as if something had just become clear. "It's weird, man-it's like a discovery to me. It means I'm not going to be telling much of the truth through my life, or even know what the truth is. And, for sure, I'm not going to be able to tell Dad anything he doesn't already know."
P.J. snorted with laughter.
Later I found Mom out in the antique barn and asked her what was going on, what had Dad been talking about with my brothers, and Mom said she had no idea, none at all-"Why don't you ask Dad, Ranger?"
I asked Marianne instead. She didn't know, she told me quickly.
Not a thing.
THE REVELATION
"Corrinne! Hello."
Wednesday morning, a harried errand-morning, and there was Mrs. Bethune the doctor's wife approaching Corinne, with a smile and a wave of greeting, in the Mt. Ephraini Post Office. Not one of Corinne's women friends.
Keep in ,notion, don't slacken and you'll escape Corinne instructed herself, smiling vaguely at Mrs. Bethune even as she lifted a hand in an ambiguous gesture-hello, or hasty good-bye?
Lydia Bethune was one of the inner circle of the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, to which the Mulvaneys had belonged for the past three years; always perfectly dressed and groomed, one of that species of attractive, capable women whose very being seemed a reproach to Corinne. For an ordinary weekday morning in Mt. Ephraim, Lydia was wearing, not woo1 slacks and a soiled parka, like Corinne, but a lovely soft russet-dyed rabbit-furjacket, one of those unspeakable "fun" furs, and expensive-looking leather boots that shone as if they'd been polished only minutes before. Her hair was beauty-salon frosted-blond, cut stylishly short; her makeup was impeccable: thin smile-lines radiated outward froni her pmnk-lipsticked mouth like Muffin's whiskers, that seemed to quiver with emotion when he looked up at you. Lydia was a familiar Mt. Ephraim presence, active in charities including of course the hospital women's auxiliary of which Corinne was a member; her daughter Priscilla was in Patrick's class at the high school, a flashy girl with a sullen smile-pretty enough, Corinne granted, but thank God not hers.
The inward-swinging door of the post office kept opening, customers kept coming in, Cormnne's escape was blocked. No choice but to stand and chat with Lydia Bethune who was a nice woman, a well-intentioned woman, but who carried with her an aura of perfumed complacency that set Corinne's teeth on edge.
"Corinne, how are you?"
"Oh, well-you know, busy."
"Bart says he sees Michael at the club often, on the squash court especially, and I have lunch there sometimes, about once a week. But we never see you there."
Corinne murmured a vague apology. True, she rarely went to the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, despite the ridiculous six-hundreddollar yearly dues Michael paid. She wasn't a woman who golfed, in wanner weather; she had no use for the tennis courts, or the indoor or outdoor pools; if she wanted exercise, she had plenty of houseand farmwork to do. Above all, she wasn't a woman who "lunched"; the thought made her smile. Dressing up to have expensive lunches, with drinks, with women like Lydia Bethune and her frmends!-not quite Corinne Mulvaney's style. Ever few weeks, Michael insisted that they have dinner on a Saturday evening with one or two other couples, or maybe Sunday brunch, with the children, but that was about the extent of Corinne's involvement. And even then she went reluctantly, like one of her own adolescent children dragooned into something against his will, complaining that she hadn't the right clothes to wear, or her hair wasn't right, or she had nothing to say to those people.
Don't be ridiculous, Michael chided, we're those people ourselves.
Lydia Bethune was chattering, smiling-a smile that made Corinne uneasy, it looked so forced. "Priscilla says Marianne was so pretty at the prom. I saw the pictures in the paper-"
"Oh, yes." Corinne's cheeks burned. Her daughter was so much Corinne herself, how could she accept such a compliment?
"I hope you took photographs?"
"Well-yes."
"And-" Lydia was a bit rattled, breathless, "-how is your family?"
"My family?" Corinne drew a blank. "Why, the last I knew, they were fine."
What an awkward encounter. Connne stood miserably balancing a heavy grocery bag in the crook of one arm and her catchall tote bag crammed with library books in the other. Her parka hood had slipped so she had to tilt her head at an angle to look at Lydia Bethune; if they were to continue their conversation, she really should lower the hood, out of courtesy. Oh but she yearned to escape! Lydia had dredged up another subject, a mutual woman acquaintance who'd just had a cyst removed from a breast, and Corinne murmured yes Florence was lucky it had been benign, trying to back off, edging toward the door. She glanced at her watch and gave a little cry of alarm-"Oh, my God! The parking meter!"
So Corinne made her escape, probably rather rudely. She heard Lydia Bethune call "Good-bye" after her but she did no more than waggle a hand, not glancing back.
Now what had that been all about? She discovered she'd been perspiring inside the nylon parka. Damp circles the size of silver dol- lars had formed on the palms of her hands.
Not those kind of people. We're not!
Everyone and everything associated with the Mt. Ephraim Country Club made Corinne uneasy. And when she was uneasy she was resentful, even angry.
She hadn't wanted to join, of course. It had all been Michael Sr.'s idea.
Already Michael belonged to the Mt. Ephraim Chamber of Commerce, where for years he was one of the younger, more vigorous and more active members, and he belonged to the philantrophic-minded if not very effectual Mt. Ephraim Odd Fellows Association, and he belonged to the Chautauqua Sportsmen's Club for "social and business" reasons, but for more years than he would have wished to acknowledge (at least fifteen) he'd wanted very badly to be invited to join the Mt. Ephraim Country Club which was the most "selective"-the most "prestigious"-certainly the most expensive-of all; where the richer, more prominent and influential of local citizens belonged, some of whom Michael Mulvaney did in fact count as friends, or anyway friendly acquaintances-the Boswells, the Mercers, the Maclntyres, the Spohrs, the Lundts, the Pringles, the Breuers, the Bethunes. There were not many prominent families in Chautauqua County, still fewer in Mt. Ephraim, but Michael Mulvaney knew them, knew the men; they knew him, and liked him; it wasn't really an exaggeration to claim they were all equals. This, Michael felt strongly in his heart. He deserved to be a member of the Mt. Ephraim Country Club. He deserved the privilege of playing golf there if he wished, of bringing his family to the Sunday brunch buffet, of having dimmer in the elegant atrium dining room overlooking the golf course, of playing poker with like-minded friends, of watching his children play tennis on the courts, of dropping by af
ter business hours for drinks, a cigar, in the Club's Yankee Doodle Tap Room. Strictly for business Michael insisted, but Corinne understood this was only part of her husband's motivation, and surely not the largest part.
Oh, she should have been more syinpathetic!-Michael Mu!vaney, a disowned son of a Catholic working-class family in Pittsburgh, had reimagined himself as a small-town American businessman who owned property, had money and influence, was "known" and "liked" and "respected" in his community. He'd been a loner in his late adolescence, and was now a "family man." If he'd never be one of the wealthier citizens of Mt. Ephraim and vicinity he had a chance of becoming one of the "well-to-do"-"sornething of a country squire." Or, if not quite even that, at least a friend, a friendly acquaintance, a social equal of such. At first Corinne in her awkward way tried to tease him-"Darling, aren't we enough for you? Your family, your animals? High Point Farm and its debts?" But Michael had only grimaced, hadn't laughed. Nor was he in a mood to be consoled when, year following year, into the 1970s, on or about March 12, the membership committee of the Club proposed its candidates for balloting, and Michael Mulvaney was overlooked.
We Were The Mulvaneys Page 12