We Were The Mulvaneys

by Joyce Carol Oates

  "I see," Marianne said, confused. "I'm sorry."

  "Oh, don't be ridiculous, my dear! Go away and think about it and tell me `yes' in the morning."

  Marianne went away. But never spoke with Penelope Hagstrom again.

  Instead, in stealth, very early the next morning, she hastily packed as many of her things as she could fit into her duffel bag, and sweet-talked dubious Muffin into allowing her to close him in a cardboard box liberally pierced with airholes. There was a housekeeper who lived on the premises, who would discover the note Marianne left for Penelope Hagstrom, on the dining room table. Mess Hagstroni, I'm sorry hut Ifind I must leave, right away! No need to bother about my last-month's salary, or whatever. I thank you for your kindness and Muffin thanks you, too. Only later would Marianne recall, she'd forgotten to sign the note!

  Well, anyway. That was done.

  Unseen, Marianne slipped away from the tall shuttered palelimestone house, and hiked a mile or so into the Spartansburg downtown, carrying her duffel bag and the cardboard box inside which Muffin mewed quizzically, thinking she would buy a ticket-two tickets?-at the Trailways bus station; then got to fretting what if pets weren't allowed on the bus? She was standing on a street corner where a farmer's pickup truck waited for a red light to change, and the farmer, middle-aged, kindly faced, called over to ask did she need a ride, and Marianne said grateflilly yes she did, and climbed into the cab of the truck, tossing her duffel bag into the back and holding the cardboard box tight on her lap, and they drove off toward the country. The farmer said he was headed for Sykesville, and Marianne said that was fine. She was headachey from crying, and niust have looked a sight-but she'd done the right thing, she'd prevented a terrible misunderstanding froni taking place. She would miss Penelope Hagstrom, she hadn't had room to pack even one of the inscribed books the poet had given her, she was embarrassed of her rude behavior but she was excited, too-it was a mild showery-bright April thy, and she'd never so much as heard of Sykesville before.

  "That a cat you're carrying there, miss?" the farmer asked.

  "His name is Muffin," Marianne said. She'd been poking her fingers through the airholes in the box, and Muffin licked them with his scratchy tongue, ticklish and cool.

  In Sykesville, a country town hail the size of Spartansburg, Man- anne rented a whitewashed wood-frame cabin with a kitchen by the week at the Wayside Motor Court; got a job at a farm produce market less than a mile away by simply walking in and asking if help was needed. She would have been content to settle down in Sykesville, at least for a while, meeting new people, joining a new church, making a few friends including the wonderful woman Janie who, with her husband, owned the produce market, not much older than Marianne but already the mother of several children. And what beautiful children! There was even a young man "interested" in Marianne-in flict, two or three young men-but Marianne rarely went out except during daytime hours, and most days she worked at the market. And by midsummer she'd become increasingly distracted as Muffin began to behave strangely.

  When Marianne returned to the cabin in the early evening, instead of trotting out eagerly to greet her, Muffin didn't appear at all. Marianne would call and call him, and sometimes he'd come, and sometimes he wouldn't. One evening the womnan who owned the motor court told Marianne she'd seen Muffin descending the hill behind the cabin, where the ground was rocky, uneven, and littered with rusted cans and trash, and where, calling "Muffin? Muffin?" Marianne stumbled, trying not to give in to fear, or worse. Inside a scrubby woods, she sighted the cat, glimmering-white in the dusk, so strangely unmoving, of hardly more substance, at fifteen feet, than a scrap of paper. Why hadn't he come to her, hearing her pleading voice? Why didn't he acknowledge her now? Gazing at her instead with tawny imperturbable eyes. "Oh, what are you doing here? Oh, Muffin." Marianne waved away a swarm of mosquitoes, seeing that Muffin was sitting, or lying, in the grass, sphinx-style, forepaws neatly tucked beneath his chest, tail curving around his thin buttocks. She picked him up gently and held him. How thin he was! Yet how soft and fine his fur. He did not resist her; but neither was he kneading his paws against her as usual, nor did he begin to purr immediately.

  Up in the cabin, with shaking fingers Marianne opened a can of cat-food tuna, Muffin's favorite, but Muffin merely sniffed sadly at it, and at his water bowl; and lay down on the floor as if he were very tired. "But, Muffin, you have to eat. If you don't eat-" Marianne's eyes stung with tears.

  What had Corinne said?-You'li just have to be realistic.

  Next day Marianne was fretful and distracted at work, and when she returned to the cabin it was as she'd feared-Muffin was again missing, and would not come when she called. Again she found him in the scrubby woods, except this time deeper into the woods. "Oh, Muffin. What's happening to you?" Marianne was close to tears. She picked Muffin up tenderly, hugging him to her chest. So thin! Hardly more than fur and bones. It took him longer today to begin purring and Marianne had the distinct notion he was doing it solely to humor her, to make her believe things were as they'd always been.

  Up in the cabin, again Muffin refused to eat. Sniffed at his food as if he'd forgotten what food was. And again he lay on the floor, tawny eyes going inward.

  Next day, Marianne was so distracted at the market, Janie asked her what on earth was wrong, and Marianne laughed lightly and said, "Just life, I guess." Janie had learned not to question Marianne too closely, and so asked nothing more.

  Again when Marianne returned to the cabin, she had to hunt out Muffin in the woods, more remote than ever. And again he refused to eat, turning away with a look of disdain. It seemed to Marianne that his eyes that had always been so beautiful were going flat, dull.

  "Muffin, can't you try? Oh, please try."

  Of course, Marianne had known for some time that Muffin wasn't "a hundred percent"-as Coninne used to say of an ailing person or animal-but she hadn't wanted to dwell upon it. She knew that Muffin was aging-in fact, old. Was he fifteen? Sixteen? Her mind went vague. She held him on her lap and petted him and wondered what would happen next even as her mind held to its vagueness, an upright wall of fog. She smiled recalling how, as foundling kittens never weaned, Muffin and his twin Big Torn had eaten so ravenously, and so often, everyone in the household was amazed. You would put food in the cats' plastic dishes, turn around for a moment, and next thing you knew-the dishes were licked clean, and the kittens were looking up expectantly, hungry for more. Dad marveled that the kittens ate more than he did, pound for pound. Patrick swore they were growing daily-hourly. When Morn had brought them home, from where they'd been abandoned on a country road, they'd been so tiny both could fit in the palm of her hand; at their heaviest, in the sleek, lustrous prime of mature cathood, they'd each weighed more than twenty pounds.

  Now, Muffin probably weighted no more than seven pounds. Five?

  Be realistic, Marianne.

  Yes, she knew. But there'd be time to be realistic, wouldn't there, when there was no other choice?

  S0 Marianne decided instead to take Muffin to the Stump Creek Hill Animal Shelter & Hospital, of which she'd been hearing such good things since coming to Sykesville. It was only a few miles away and next morning, early, she managed to get a ride with a local farmer, carrying Muffin not in the cardboard box but on her lap. The farmer was doubtful about just dropping her off at the end of the sandy driveway marked STUMP CREEK HILL ANIMAL SHELTER & HOSPiTA!., wouldn't she want him to conic by and pick her up, later?-but Marianne said no, thank you, she'd be fine. Walking then up the quarter-mile drive, Muffin in her arms, the two of them blinking and staring about them. A strange place-an old estate apparently, now given over to the care of animals; a broad stone house and a carriage house each weatherworn as aged grave markers, yet with bright yellow shutters and trim, and the front area overgrown and tangled as a jungle, lush with wild tiger lilies, goldenrod, and Queen Anne's lace. There were various outbuildings and sheds, and a graveled parking lot in which a half dozen vehicles were parked. To
the rear was a yellow picket fence and twin gates nl2rked ENTER and EXIT, leading to what appeared to be an outdoor zoo. Muffin's pale nose began to twitch with the raffish smell of animals. There was a sound of excited screeching, jabbering in the distance. Muffled barking. Marianne saw a gigantic bird-iridescent niidmght blue, exquisitely beautiful, with a quivering feather crown and a long tail dragging in the dust-a peacock?-ambling across the parking lot, and in its wake a smaller pure-white bird-a peahen? Farther along the lane were several deer, a small loose tame herd. Marianne stared-at least two of the deer were young bucks, with only three legs.

  Marianne let herself into the niain house, through a door marked ANIMAL HOSPITAL PLEASE ENTER. She was in a veterinarian's waiting room with a shabby linoleum floor and an oilcloth-covered counter and several slightly scummy glass-fronted cages with handmade signs ORPHANS! PLEASE ADOPT! inside which a number of small kittens slept, played with one another, stared through the glass. "Oh, look, Muffin! Aren't they sweet?" Marianne whispered. But Muflin scarcely looked, and Marianne herself could hardly bear to meet the kittens' eyes. A stringy-haired girl behind the counter, name tag RHODA, took Marianne's name and asked what the problem was, staring at Muffin, and Marianne explained, as clearly and brightly as she could, and it seemed to her, unless sh- imagined it, that the stringy-haired girl muttered, "Uh-oh," in a discouraged tone. There was no one ahead of Marianne, but the telephone rang, rang, rang for Rhoda to answer. After a few anxious minutes of studying a sunfaded poster PET OWNERS GUARD AGAINST RABIES- Marianne heard her name called, and quickly followed Rhoda into a frankly stalesmelling interior, a warren of rooms. At the end of a long corridor, as a door opened, there caine a noisy clamor of barking and yipping, before the door swung shut again. Marianne hugged Muffin tight in case lie should panic, but he didn't move, at all.

  In one of the examining rooms was Dr. West, Whittaker West as he introduced himself, an impatient-looking man of moderate height, just slightly stoop-shouldered, in a soiled white jacket and khaki trousers. He hardly glanced at Marianne and surely hadn't heard her name as in the first instant his practiced eyes moved upon poor skinny Muffin-exaniifled, assessed, made a judgment. "Your cat is seriously ill, I'm afraid. How old is he?"

  "How old? I-don't know," Marianne stammered.

  The vet muttered a skeptical reply. Brusquely he removed Muffin from Marianne's arms and set hiiii upon the examination table, peered into his ears, his eyes, his mouth with a small lighted instrument; examined his teeth; palpated his abdomen, at some length. As he cx- aniined Muffin he spoke to him, not in words but in murmurs, Hmrnm? hrnmrn? hmmm? hmmm? Marianne spoke of Muffin's gradual loss of appetite and his loss of weight, his recent, strange behavior in the woods-"He's never done anything like that before, he isn't an outdoor cat." Dr. West grunted as if he'd heard it all before, or wasn't listening. Marianne saw with disapproval that he hadn't even troubled to put on rubber gloves, like any other vet; his fingers were covered in nicks and scratches, splashed with iodine. His nails were wide and blunt and edged with dirt. His hair, thinning at the crown, was thick, lank, rather greasy at the sides of his head, that dull dun color of a deer's winter coat. Marianne said, trying to be helpful, "I think he's somewhere beyond twelve years old. His fir is so clean and healthy, isn't it? So soft." She spoke pleadingly. Dr. West did not respond. "It's hard to believe he's sick, except for losing weight. His eyes are clear. He still purrs." "His eyes are possibly turning yellow," the vet said almost carelessly. "Jaundice." "Oh, no-they've always been goldentawny. All his life." Again Dr. West muttered a skeptical, not quite audible reply. Marianne seemed to hear Be realistic. Realistic!

  Through a haze of tears Marianne saw that the examination was over, unless it had been halted midway. The vet continued to stroke Muffin, with deft, practiced fingers, and Muffin, who for all his docility and shyness had sometimes panicked at the hands of other vets, lay unmoving, splay-legged, on the crinkly tissue paper covering the tabletop. Marianne too reached out to touch him-his bony head, the soft fur covering it. She wished that Muffin would glance up at her, in recognition of her, or simple acknowledgment; but he did not. Why, he seemed almost to be siding with this stranger, Whittaker West! There was some perverse stubborn maleness to it, a subtle repudiation of her. Marianne asked what seemed to be wrong with Muffin, and Dr. West said, shrugging, "He's old. Happens to us all." Marianne said, with childlike tenacity, "But what, exactly? It has to be something" Dr. West said, "I can do a blood test, a urinalysis, but it's almost certain your cat is suffering from kidney failure. His bloodstream is slowly filling up with toxins. It's been happening for months." "Oh, but isn't there anything you can do?" Marianne asked. "Nothing I can do, at Stump Creek Hill," Dr. West said. Marianne said quickly, "Somewhere else, then? Could he be helped somewhere else?" For the first time, Dr. West looked at Marianne. She could not meet his frank, searching gaze; she was blinking tears from her eyes, frightened she might break down. How ashamed she was of herself, begging for Muffin's life as she would never have begged for her own. How Corinne would wring her hands if she knew, scolding Be realistic, Marianne. Haven't I told you and told you! Whittaker West, this stranger so familiarly kneading Muflin's fur, stroking his ears and the underside of his chin as if they were old, old friends, was looking at her sternly, saying, "An animal knows when its time has come. That's why-is it Muffmn?has been slipping away into the woods. He prefers a quiet, dark, private place in which to die. Wouldn't you? Iwould. Of course he loves you, but the part of him that loves you, or even knows you, is fading. His cat-self, his instinct is emerging. Why not let him follow his instinct? You can't be bringing him back forever, can you?" Marianne stammered, ashamed of her desperation, but persisting, "Oh, forever is such a long time. Isn't there some way Muffin can be helped, forjust now?"

  "At the most, he probably wouldn't live for more than another six months," Dr. West said reluctantly. "And it's expensive." "I have money saved," Marianne said eagerly. She knew she didn't look exactly prosperous- in her rumpled T-shirt and denim cut-offs and Sandals, summer wear for working at the farm market, but she'd brought along her wallet, thick with bills; her hands shook as she fumbled for it. "I could pay you ahead of time, Doctor. Oh, don't let him die!" "I can't do the procedure here, we don't have the facilities. There's a clinic in Pittsburgh that might do it-a kind of dialysis. Bloodcleansing," Dr. West said. And Marianne said, her eyes shining with hope, "How soon can it be done, Dr. West? Today?"

  There was a moment's silence. Marianne distinctly heard the vet grinding his teeth.

  Finally he said, with a sigh, curtly, "You're in luck, miss. I happen to be driving to Pittsburgh later this morning with a van of ailing animals and I can take Muffin along. The procedure will involve not less than forty-eight hours and It isn't guaranteed- understand? You should be prepared for never seeing your cat alive again."

  Marianne tried a smile, wavering and uncertain. "Oh, I'm prepared," she said brightly.

  That lilting insincere brightness on the edge of despair: how like Corinne Mulvaney she was sounding!

  So she said good-bye to Muffin, who scarcely responded, and hurried out. Thinking then that she should have left a deposit, a down payment, how would Dr. West know he could trust her?

  * * *

  In a daze then, vaguely smiling, Marianne wandered back through the parking lot, hoping for another glimpse of the peacock and his hen, and the herd of deer. There were chattering guinea hens and a high-stepping bantam rooster running loose, there was a scrawny black tomcat with two half-ears sunning himself on the hood of a battered Chevy pickup. Marianne petted him, daringly- you never can tell, with a strange cat-but he merely blinked at her, lazy and content. It was a heating-up sort of August morning, the kind that begins damp and almost cool and turns baking by noon. A happy, hopeful day. No ticket seller at the ENTRANCE gate, just an orange plastic container STUMP CI-EEK HILL ANIMAlS NEED ALL YOU CAN GIVE THEM! so Marianne took a five-dollar bill from her wallet (yes, she'd saved plenty
of money working as Penelope Hagstrorn's assistant) and pushed it into the slot. The pungent smell of animals drew her. Manure and hay, that just-slightly-rancid-pleasurable smell. A sharper smell-what was it? the antiseptic spray they'd used, at the farm, when the cows calved?-but this was sweeter somehow. And someone had been mowing deep grass, a wet green pungent smell, laced with wild onion.

  How much larger the Stump Creek Hill shelter was than Marianne had anticipated!-it must have covered acres. Visitors were starting to arrive, mothers with young children, retired-looking older couples. Not a very prosperous zoo, sort of shabby and blurred at the edges. Weeds poked through the sand paths, there were tall oaks badly in need of trinuning. Droppings underfoot from the stray wandering tame deer, buzzing with flies. Marianne read a sun-faded poster; Stump Creek Hill is the only federally and state-licensed zoo in the United States dedicated to the care of sick, injured, abandoned and elderly wildlife and domestic animals. Founded 1974 by Whittaker West. YOUR DONATIONS GREATLY AI'PRECIA TED! Marianne wandered from one animal compound to another, enthralled. She had never been in such a place before, nor had even heard of such a place. Her parents had taken them to zoos in Port Oriskany and Rochester, but those were very different-somehow so sad, you ended up wanting to leave early. But the Stump Creek Hill zoo was like home.

  Each of the animals had not only a name but a story. There was King Sheba the mountain lion, mistreated as a cub in a Florida safari zoo and "retired" now to Stump Creek Hill-a huge-headed sand- colored cat with sleepy eyes, an enormous nose, matted mane.