Corinne asked, more daringly, "Is it about last weekend?-the prom? Did something happen at the prom-or after?"
Marianne shook her head, not emphatically but as one might shake one's head to clear it. She was hunched in the seat, her sky blue parka zipped to her chin. A wintry light, qualified by the splotched windshield, so badly in need of cleaning, made her appear diminished, child-sized. On her lap, clutched in both hands, was her plain black simulated-leather Bible, Chickadee's Bible crammed with brightly colored Sunday school cards and bookmarks.
"Did you have a-quarrel? Disagreement? With one of your friends?"-Corinne persisted. "Honey, you can tell me."
Recalling with a sensation of dismay how, the previous evening, instead of sitting down at dinner with her family, Marianne had stammered some excuse, a headache, cramps, she'd taken a bowl of cottage cheese with mashed banana up to her room, but how could Corinne know she'd actually eaten it? And that morning, rushing at the last minute, a hurried breakfast or perhaps none at all, in the conmiotion of the morning kitchen, who could tell? And what about the previous morning?
Was Corinne blind?
"Does Patrick know? I mean-that you've been missing school, and-whatever it is, that's wrong?" Corinne spoke confusedly, suddenly furious at her son. Patrick who rode the school bus into Mt. Ephraini five mornings a week with his Sister, Patrick who might have noticed she wasn't attending classes. Even granted they were in different classes, he should have known. Damn that Pinch, so wrapped up in himselfi
If Marianne replied, Corinne hadn't heard. She was approaching a railroad crossing, braked to avoid colliding with another vehicle- winced, and waved, with a contrite smile, as someone, a man (anyone she knew?-the pickup truck looked familiar) sounded his horn at her irritably. "Ohi Sorry, honey." She looked anxiously at Marianne who was turned from her, gazing sightiessly out the side window. A hurt girl, a damaged girl. A girl Corinne didn't know.
If only she'd turn to Corinne, give the slightest sign, Corinne would have seized her in her arms and held her tight.
Instead, Coriime continued driving, bumping across the Chautauqua & Buffalo track, approaching the shabby edge of downtown Mt. Ephraim without exactly knowing where she was, now saying, in her anecdotal manner, "-Lydia Bethune-you know her!-happened to mention to me-we'd run into each other in the post office-she'd seen you in the church?-where apparently she goes?-not in school-and I said, `There must be some mistake. I'm sure Marianne is at school. She never misses a day of school.' And she said-'Well, I thought you'd want to know, Corinne. I would want to know if it was my daughter.' So I said-" Corinne's voice rushed, plummeted. As if she could not stop the flow of words, as if Marianne's silence were a space that had to be filled; the interior of the station wagon (so cluttered in the rear with family debris, it was shameful) had to be filled. She heard herself say, m a wounded tone, as one might speak to a very young child, "Now what a surprise that was, Marianne: to learn about something so private-I mean, it should be pnvate, kept within the f-rnily, shouldn't it?-from a total stranger. Oh not that Lydia Bethune is a total stranger, but-"
And on and on, breathless. Trembling, her tongue absurdly numb, cold. Though the heater was on frill blast, in her face. And she was fumbling with the radio dial: the announcer's overloud phony-excited voice reading an ad (and the announcer was Ted Wintergreen she'd known back in high school: in those days a timid sallow-skinned farm boy) was distracting. Beneath the grungy overpass and up the steep potholed hill past the Blue Moon Cafe, where, years ago, when he'd just started the business, Michael used sometimes to have lunch-the Blue Moon Special, he'd joke about, kidding Corinne she should make it at home, greasy-salty hash with ketchup, a big plate of it, absolutely delicious. There was the dilapidated rear of the old Civic Center, a brownstone slated for razing, rebuilding with county funds. (The builder was a friend and associate of Michael Mulvaney's and the understanding was, Mulvaney Roofing would get the contract.) FOR SALE/LEASE signs like sprouting weeds. So many aging buildings. Even the Odd Fellows Lodge, a "historic" local mansion donated for tax purposes-shabby amid heaps of tattered snow.
Corinne turned up a backstreet, parallel with South Main. Passing from the rear (it looked as if a delivery was being made, from a big tin-colored truck) Mulvaney Roofing. Only later would Corinne realize she'd never so much as considered saying to Marianne, Shall we go see Dad?
Now on Fifth, passing the YM-YWCA with its new, spiffy fascade fronting an old stone building of the 1 940s. Corinne recalled how, a lifetime ago, when she'd been a young teenager, she'd used sometimes to swim in the dank chlorine-smelling bluish water of the Ransomville YM-YWCA pool on one of her infrequent outings in town. If you were a country girl, a farmer's daughter, you valued such outings in ways no Ransomville children did. What thrilled you-a gift from providence!-was just routine to them, taken for granted. Boring, even. Like graduating from high school (Corinne Hausmann was the first in her family), like insisting upon going to college at Fredonia (what an audacious step that had been). With a pang of sentimental, embarrassed affection Corinne saw herself hurrying along the street, a tall lanky rawboned girl with cheeks that looked perpetually windburned, bright eyes, heart brimming with excitement for-oh, everything! For life. For love. Falling in love. Marrying, and having babies.
All that, in her shyness, so doubtful of herself, Corinne Hausmann had known could never happen to her.
Marianne had taken a much-wadded tissue out of her purse and was wiping her nose with it surreptitiously. Cormne restrained herself from saying, in her practiced-mom's way, take a fresh Kleenex out of my purse, please. Instead she looked at Marianne with a smiling frown, not wanting to appear anxious. All this while she'd been chattering, had Marianne even listened?
"Honey? Please? Look at me-what is it? Are you sick? Is it the-flu?" She paused, hopeful. How her mind was set to run, run with this new, plausible notion. "Some new strain of flu has been going around town, I guess. Plus strep throat. Strep throat is dangerous. Shall we take you to see Dr. Oakley?"
Dr. Oakley was the Mulvaneys' family doctor, a gentlemanly old G.P. they'd been seeing forever. Just the thought of Dr. Oakley was a solace-wasn't it?
Marianne murmured quickly, "Mom, no."
"But if you're not feeling well, honey? You certainly don't look well. I mean-you don't look like yourself."
"I don't want to see Dr. Oakley."
"But-" Corinne felt as if she were sinking, drowning, "-what's wrong?"
Marianne shook her head with surprising stubbornness, swiping at her nose with the wadded tissue. "I-I just don't feel like being in school right now."
But that isn't like you. I know my Marianne and that isn't like her. Instead Corinne said, "But to behave so secretively, hiding away in a Catholic church of all places!" The attempt at a joke fell dismally flat. "Well. I think we're going to see Dr. Oakley before we go home. I think that's best."
"Mom, no. Please." A look of panic registered in Marianne's sallow face. "I just-I just want to go home, Mom. I'll be all right if- I can just go home."
"You're sure?" Corinne said doubtfully.
"Yes, Mom. Oh yes."
Corinne's mind ran with this new thought: bringing her daughter home to make her well again. Was it that simple?
She drove, nervously humnung to herself. Possibly she wasn't aware of humming to herself. Or of repeatedly touching her chin, her nose. Her nose itched' The sky overhead was a harsh deep blue tracked with filmy clouds like cobwebs: reminded her of a Certain corner of the antique barn, back behind stacks of furniture she hadn't been able to reach, to clear of cobwebs, in a long time. The sun was bright but seemed to give no warmth. Over the radio came one of those earnest-sadistic announcements of "bitter cold" impending- wind from the northeast out of Canada, expected low minus twelve degrees Fahrenheit and a wind-chill factor of minus twenty-five. But how cozy the Mulvaneys would be, at High Point Farm. Dad could make a fire in the big fieldstone fireplace in the living room, Marianne could c
url up on the sofa with a book, Muffin in her lap, Troy stretched on the floor in front of the sofa. But no: if Marianne really had flu, she had better stay upstairs in her room. Warm as toast in her flannel nightgown in her pretty white-rattan bed beneath the hand-knit quilt Corinne had found in a Chautauqua Falls secondhand shop. Such beautiful, fine work! A rag-quilt of dozens of squares, rectangles and oblongs, a rainbow of colors. Just because it badly needed dry cleaning, no one had cared to buy it, probably hadn't even exanuned it carefully until sharp-eyed Corinne Mulvaney came along. She would always recall Marianne's surprise and pleasure opening the present, for her thirteenth birthday: Oh Mom! It's so beautiful! Oh thanks! And a hug and a kiss for Mom, and a sly-teasing query, Did you sew it yourself, Mom?-so all the family laughed, including Mom.
That was a lovely memory. A memory to be treasured.
Yes, Marianne would doze up in her room, and Muffin beside her. Corinne would bring her hot soup (chicken-corn chowder?- so rich, so delicious) and buttery baked rolls and a tall glass of milk. Marianne no longer drank milk, no longer ingested enough calcium, Corinne was sure. That might be part of the problem. Vitamin deficiency. Obviously the girl had allowed herself to become exhausted, pushed herself too hard. Those school activities! The cheerleading alone was terribly time-consuming. (Corinne's mind was working rapidly now, constructing a narrative, an anecdote. She'd be on the phone telling her women friends for days.) Oh and you know what teenaged girls are like-dieting continuously. So self-conscious, such emphasis upon being thin. Marianne had never been thin as a young girl, but entirely normal according to the weight charts. So she'd allowed herself to become run-down, her resistance weakened. So she'd caught this flu that's making the rounds. And the excitement over being elected to the Valentine's Day prom court-the only nonsenior to be elected. You know what high school celebrity can be-exhausting!
Why hadn't I seen the signs, have I been blind? Am I blind?
And this Weidman boy, what was his first name, an awkward, well-intentioned and stiffly courteous boy, who'd written that pathetic but somehow pushy, aggressive letter to Marianne-was he possibly in love with her? Exerting pressure on her emotionally? Marianne was not the type to speak of such things, she'd worry she was betraying the boy's confidence. But if the boy was pursuing her, so much more doggedly than other boys had pursued her, Marianne would be terribly distressed. Nothing worried her more than the possibility she'd hurt someone's feelings. But why didn't Patrick seem to know about any of these things?
Corinne depended upon her second-oldest child to inform her of "situations." He'd long been her ally, in his prickly way. A kind of miniature adult as he'd grown up, surrounded by children and childish behavior. (Yes, Dad and Morn frequently behaved childishly. That was a fact.) Corinne wondered if in all families of a certain size and heft there are those who, regardless of age, know; and those who carry on obliviously, happily, because they don't know. The blissful well-being of the latter depends upon the complicity of the former--but what if the complicity breaks down?
Corinne was leaving Mt. Ephraim, picking up speed. This familjar reassuring route. Like a horse knowing its way home. Past the Eastgate Shopping Center (where Corinne had intended to shop, at Kinart and T-J's, no time for that now) and the fast-food restaurants, gas stations, car wash. (Oh, she'd promised the family she would have the Buick washed, hadn't she. Well-another tune.) There was Spohr's, Hendrick Motors, Harvey's Fence City. Country Club Lane and Hillside Estates-expensive houses looking like cardboard in their snowy nearly treeless lots. In the front yard of a rundown old Victorian farmhouse once owned by friends of the Mulvaneys, now rented by strangers, was a red Olds Cutlass sedan FOR SALE!
BARGAIN! resembling an older beat-up model of the very car Mike Jr. had bought, and was making exorbitant payments on each month, to his dad's disgust. Thank God Route 119 was reasonably dry and clear, they'd be home soon. Out here, you could breathe! Snowy fields stretching away for miles like the tundra, stubbled with broken cornstalks. You never outgrow the landscape of your childhood, Corinne supposed. What's oldest in your memory you love best, cherish. She hoped she and Michael had provided their children with a landscape that would accompany them all their lives. A solace, a comfort.
If in fact they actually left the Chautauqua Valley. But why? Why would they ever leave?
Corinne was about to ask Marianne what sort of soup she'd like when they got home, there was chicken-corn chowder left over in the refrigerator, always more delicious the second time, how's about that?-turning to Marianne with a smile, but seeing the girl's face registering horror. What? What was wrong? Corinne was confusedly aware of something dashing in front of the station wagon at the crest of a hill-a gray-funy shape blurred with speed-and before Corinne could think to brake the vehicle's front wheels ran over it with a thud-and beside her Marianne began to scream, and scream.
THE LOVERS
They'd met in the summer of 1952, at Schroon Lake in the Adirondacks. Corinne was waitressing at a resort hotel, Michael had summer employment with a local construction crew. It had not been love at first sight except as each would insist afterward. Perhaps Corinne was telling the truth-she'd flushed and stammered in Michael Mulvaney's presence when they were first introduced. My God, of course I knew! How could I not know! Michael would recall and retell with zest, how many times, how he'd first laid eyes on his wife-to-be in a loose, giggly group of girls, summer employees at Schroon Lake including the girl with whom he'd been "involved" at the time. (Michael Mulvaney's second "involvement" of the summer, in fact-and the season had scarcely begun by July 1.) Hey sure I knew! One look, even with that hair of hers, I knew.
Though had he noticed her at all, really? A shy, awkward girl who wore her carroty-fair frizzy hair in tight, tidy braids wound around her head like a maiden in a Grimm fairy tale. Too tall for his taste-nearly his own height, five feet nine. (Short men go for short women, no mystery why.) Corinne Hausmann was twenty years old, a college girl at Fredonia State with a 3.7 (out of 4) average, yet she might have passed for fifteen. Not a very experienced or selfconfident fifteen. Rangy and rawboned and disappointingly smallbreasted, freckled as if someone had playfully splattered paint drops across her, face and forearms especially. No need to ask if she was a farm girl! Her smile was slow and shy as if there were something shameful about her teeth (only a slight gap between the two front teeth) and her fingers and eyelids were fluttery, her laughter breathless. Clear wide luminous-blue eyes given to shifting evasively when anyone, a young man for instance, a good-looking darkly tanned sexually aggressive young man for instance like Michael Mulvaney, stood too close, or spoke too pointedly.
Well, I was afraid of you! I couldn't help it.
Hey, I was afraid of you-the virgin milkmaid!
And Michael would laugh, laugh. Happy-hyena laugh, you had to love him. Poor Corinne blushing to the roots of her carroty hair.
The truth was that Michael Mulvaney, when he'd first met his wife-to-be, was crazy about a girl named Donna whose last name he'd quickly forget but not his wild adventures with her, making love where and whenever they could, often in risky places like the backseat of a stranger's fancy car, in a just-vacated room at the hotel, on an isolated stretch of beach. This was not an era in which good girls or even not-so-good girls succumbed to sexual pressure from men but Donna (froni Glens Falls: "speedcar capital of New York State") was a notable exception. She too was a college girl, a thirdyear nursing student at Cornell. Liked to drink and got high- "high" not "drunk" which didn't sound so good-and meltingly amorous. How could Michael Mulvaney keep sweetly shy Corinne Hausmann in mind, or even, to be frank, remember her name, overwhelmed as he was by Donna? Her supple hips and pelvis, her bold exploring hands, her astonishing mouth that was so ardent, beyond even his lurid ex-Catholic-boy fantasies-Michael was prone to fall into an open-eyed stupor in the midst of work (roofs his specialty, from the start: being short-legged, compact, deft and muscular, with a strong tolerance for working in the sun
, had its distinct advantages) contemplating Donna, the night-before and the nightto-come. He wasjust twenty-three years old and had been living on his own, parentless, family-less, for the past five years. His "real" life. He was a fast, reliable worker but clearly too smart to remain only a worker, you'd naturally give Michael Mulvaney more responsibility than you'd give the rest of the crew who were older, dumber. It helped that he was in peak physical condition (he swam, he dived, loved to show off at the lake) so he could subsist on four or three, occasionally two, one or even no hours of sleep, after a night of drinking and lovemaking with Donna before showering and hurriedly shaving and dressing and beginning the next long, so very long (you had to be at the work site by 7:30 A.M.) workday.
He'd have to adnut: his attitude toward females, especially college females, was predatory. It wasn't just the Fifties, it was Michael Mulvaney. He bore a grudge against his several sisters for reasons we won't go into, still more against his mother about whom he'd never speak, so don't ask. But college girls! He resented them almost as much, and as unfairly, as he resented college boys, contemptible in his mind as mere boys while he, on his own for years, was a man.
Also he was determined he'd make his way with no need for a college degree or any of that.
We Were The Mulvaneys Page 15