Abelove, however, never complained of home, family. At least not that Marianne knew. Rarely did he speak of personal matters; rarely was he critical of others, let alone scornful. F-Ic was capable of losing his temper, boiling over as he called it, impatient with the slowness or incompetence with which his ideas were executed, but he shrank from passing judgment in any categorical way-" `Let him that is without sin cast the first stone.'
Uttering these words, thoughtfully, gravely, stroking the wirygleaming blond hairs of his beard, Abelove was a thrilling presence. The only person of Marianne's acquaintance who could quote Jesus Christ's words as naturally as if they were his own.
Then one day late in the winter of 1979, Abelove's assistant Birk disappeared_"VafliSh- off the face of Earth," as Abelove said in a dazed, hurt voice. Birk, long entrusted by Abelove with crucial responsibilities- had made the early morning's round of deliveries to area stores, handed out invoices and collected revenue, returned the pickup truck to the Co-op, and vanished. Nothing appeared to be missing from his room which was a clutter of old clothes, textbooks and papers dating back nearly a decade. He seemed to have left no message of farewell. The house was in an uproar as a rumor spread that five hundred dollars was missing from the Co-op's accounts, unless it was fifteen hundred, but Abelove insisted that no money was missing at all. As the agitation peaked, Abelove called an impromptu meeting of the members, stood on the stairs and shouted for them to be quiet- to cease at once spreading such a demoralizing rumor for even if it was true, which it was not, the tacit accusation that their friend and brother Birk was a thief was unfair to Birk since he wasn't present to defend himself.
Abelove was plunged into such low spirits, so distracted for days afterward, Marianne summoned up courage to volunteer for some of Birk's duties. Abelove said, with a faint smile, "You? Why, thank you, Marianne, but I doubt you'd be capable."
True, Marianne probably didn't look capable. Not that morning, at least. In her familiar elastic-waist corduroy slacks, a moth- eaten red wool sweater rescued from the communal rag-bin, her size-five canvas sneakers faded to dishwater gray, and a Buffalo Bills cap, also from the rag-bin, covering most of her short_trimmed hair.
Marianne laughed. "Abelove, it isn't fair to judge beforehand-"
The founder and director of the Green Isle Co-op blushed, stroking his beard. If there was one quality Abelove publicly cultivated, it was fair_mindedness
Quickly then Abelove apologized. He assigned Marianne, with an optimistic smile, certain of Birk's duties. For instance, he and Birk each "expedited" deliveries to Kilburn College Food Services and to the half dozen area markets that stocked Green Isle baked goods, prepared foods and fresh produce; Marianne was to take over Birk's half of these duties. Much of "expediting," Marianne discovered, was performed over the telephone, and the telephone --5_what-_sornethuu1g magical in her hand, like a wand, or a mask. A cheerleader's bright megaphone that allowed you to speak to complete strangers in a voice not exactly your own-louder, clearer, happier, more assured. Marianne Mulvaney's shyness evaporated as soon as the party at the other end of the line lifted the receiver and said, "Hello?"
Within ten days she astonished Abelove by adding a new store to their list, a fanner's market willing to stock Green Isle baked goods to see if their customers would buy. And Marianne was enthusiastically "expediting" one or two others.
The duty of Birk's which he'd most neglected was keeping the roster of Co-op assignments up-to-date. Each member had his or her special area of responsibility but each had other, rotating duties as well. The "roster" was a large accountant's ledger in which were listed, by hand, names, duties, dates and hours (kitchen/meal-preparation / cleanup / baking / house maintenance / grounds, etc.); members con- suited the roster, or were supposed to consult the roster, to see what their duties were. They were supposed to sign in, and sign out, like employees. But Birk had disliked the task, for obviously it caused occasional friction; he'd become increasingly negligent, and many assign- ments went undone, or half-done; or were done spontaneously, as in a large family in which responsible, capable members step forward while others purposefully hold back. As soon as Marianne took over the roster, she disposed of the old ledger entirely. V/hat a dull, dreary thing! It had made Co-op duties seem like-duties! Within days there was a new roster; on a bulletin board in the kitchen, amid colorfiul decorative touches, dried wildflowers, snapshots of Co-op activities, sunburst ribbons, were smiling crayon drawings of the members' faces, and beneath the faces were notecards listing their duties, thunibtacked in place. "Oh, Marianne! Did you do this?"-how many times the identical remark was uttered, Marianne had to laugh.
Overnight, as everyone marveled, the emphasis had been switched from duties to people. The roster had been transformed into a work of art-or almost.
And wouldn't they all be eager to perform their duties, seeing the roster was so attractive?-presided over by an arc of smiling faces?
At midday meal of the bulletin board's first day, when Marianne caine rushing breathlessly into the dining room, she was greeted with applause from all her friends. And there was Abelove at the head of the table, rising to toast hcr-with a glass of Green Isle El- derben-y Wine (nonalcoholic). "To Man-anne Mul-van-ey. Expediter par excellence."
Marianne halted just inside the doorway, paralyzed with shyness. Abelove had to come to lead her to the table, to a seat beside his, his big warm hand light on her shoulder as a perching bird.
Abelove, Abelove! That was the man's true name. His first name was something odd and awkward like -`Char1esworth"-an old family name, never used by Abelove himselfi
Where Abelove's home was, his original home, no one seemed certain. He never spoke of himself. He was a man of ideas and action and he lived in the present, not the past. One of his favored sayings was, " `God culminates in the present moment, and will never be mote divine' "-was it Henry 1)avicl Thoreau? It might have been Abelove'S very voice. Past wasn't urgent, present was. Past can't be changed, present is still in the making.
Still. There were rumors. One Marianne had heard when she'd first moved into the Co_op-that Abelove had been married when he'd come to Kilburn as a faculty member, and that he had children somewhere, was maybe still married though long separated from his wife. A rumor he'd had a love affair with a (married) woman in town. A rumor he'd had a "tragic" love affair with a woman potter, now deceased, who'd lived just across the state line in the rolling Pennsylvania hills. A rumor Abelove was the disinherited son of a wealthy New England businessman. A rumor he'd been a Jesuit seminary student in the Sixties, who'd fallen under the spell of the charismatic activist Berrigan brothers. A rumor he'd been arrested more than once at antiwar rallies and had even spent some time in jail-maybe. A rumor-but Marianne laughed and clamped her hands over her ears. No morel
Once at the dining room table brash gap-toothed Beatie, who'd long had a crush on Abelove, dared to ask him point-blank where his home was, and Abelove said, frowning, "`Home'? Why, right here. Where else would it be?"
Everyone who'd heard, including Mariatme, glowed with happiness at this answer, wanting to applaud-
Keeping the Green Isle Co-op financially afloat in the wake of continual crises (the antique plumbing in what had been an old inn was always breaking down, the mausoleum_like cellar leaked as unpredictably as the roof, the chimneys backed up smoke and the furnace needed replacing and there was an invasion of brisk militant black ants-and more) was a full-time job for the Director. Abelove had had, against the grain of his own temperament, to branch out into what he disdainfully called "venture capitalism"-borrowing money from a local bank at a ridiculously high interest rate, investing in bakers' ovens, a huge kitchen range with twelve electric burners, freezers large enough to accommodate horses. Investing in fanning equipment, tons of topsoil, seedlings and plants from area nurseries. Buying a new Ford pickup! And there was insurance!- property, vehicles. And what of medical coverage?-oddly, there were frequently accidents at the Co-op, you
wouldn't believe the mishaps.
In 1976, Abelove had had to swallow his pride-"Like swallowing a large apple, whole"-and go out into the community of Kilburn in search of donors-"benefactors"-to help the Green Isle Co-op survive. He'd learned, he said, with a chagrined smile, to present his Mount Katahdin vision as if it were a commodity worthy of being supported by strangers. At least, he'd had some luck-there was indeed a small but distinguished roster of Green Isle Benefactors, most of them well-to-do widows or well-to--do elderly couples. Abelove's handsome face and earnest manner, his shimmering-blond hair and forthright gaze must have dazzled them. "`From each what he or she can give; to each, as he or she requires' "-weren't these Christ's very words, or almost?
What worried him, Abelove confessed, was that he might start to enjoy seeking wealthy benefactors. For it turned out he had a talent for it-"Where talent takes us can sometimes be dangerous!"
Of his several years as an assistant professor of psychology at Ku- burn College, Abelove rarely spoke, and then only with embarrassment. (Birk, who'd been one of his students, had said that Abelove was a wonderful lecturer-"Unforgettable") He'd had to quit his position of privilege when it became clear to him that the process of evaluaring-"grading"-his fellow human beings was inherently cruel, an intellectual extension of the cruelty of Darwin's "natural selection," the survival of the fittest, extinction of the weak. Abelove believed passionately in what he called Anti-Darwinism-"Because we are human beings, and endowed with spirit, in place of mere appetite, we can counteract nature. We can help the weak, and thereby help ourselves. All good rebounds. There is no paradox."
These words rang in Marianne's head, for Abelove spoke them often. All -c,'ood rebounds. There is no paradox. What profound insights! She was sure she understood what Abelove meant, yet when she re peated these statements to Patrick, he'd naturally questioned her immediately-"JuSt what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Fixing her with his Pinch-squint. And, faltering, fumbling, she hadn't been able to explain. AU good abounds, there is no paradox.
It was true, wasn't it?
And was Marianne in love with Ahelove, like so many of the others?
Most of the young women of the Green Isle Co-op, and several of the young men?
Sometimes she thought yes, sometimes no. It was true her heart fluttered_absurd'Y, literally!-When he smiled at her, shone his eyes at her, pronounced her name--"MarIan-" Sometimes, as if it were a poem he'd just invented, so n1clodic-"Mari-afl- Mul-van-ey." Except he smiled at just about everyone in the same way, when he was in a brimming-haPPY mood at least, and pronounced their names in that way. He smiled at Teardrop the mixed-breed spaniel who was always wetting, in nervous sparkling flurries, the downstairs carpets-"Tea- drop! Uh-oh! Maybe we should change your name to something othem than `Tear'?" He smiled at Muffm who mewed at him across a distance of ten or more feet, tail hoisted upright, ears pricking, eyes tawny-wide and alert. What a kindly sight, Abelove pausing in his rushing-about to hunker down to pet Mufrmn-"MUf-fiflo Muf-fin. Handsome boy!" Of course, Muffin adored Abelove. Flopped down shamelessly at Abelove's feet, rolled over to expose his dazzling_White stomach for tickling. Marianne watched, biting her lower lip. It made her-well, anxious-her nerves tightening_Watching the shimmering-blond, husky Abelove tickle Muffin, stroke the cat's uplifted chin with strong, deft fingers. And how Muffin purred! There was something frantic in such happiness.
Marianne watched- She laughed at herself-a schoolgirl crush, and she wasn't a schoolgirl any longer. Marianne Mulvaney was a young womat1 of twenty- And not so young any longer.
THE PILGRIM
So, of home, and of family, Marianne Mulvaney never spoke. If her friends in the Green Isle Co-op speculated about her, and whispered of her behind her back, she wouldn't have known, would she?-she couldn't believe anyone would care much, anyway. Out of obscurity I came. To obscurity I can return.
Except, this. Late one afternoon in May 1979 as Marianne rushed into the house, returning from a ten-hour stint at the Green Isle outlet in Kilburn (she was "acting manager" there until Abelove could get someone to take over permanently) and frantic to study for her Introduction to English Literature final exam scheduled for the morning after next, a worried-looking Felice-Marie told her that an unknown woman had called and asked for her, not five minutes before. "But she was breathing so strangely, and I guess crying, and sounded angry-I couldn't understand much of what she said."
Marianne halted in her tracks, tasting cold. "A-woman? Crying? Who?"
"Well, I just don't know," Felice-Marie said apologetically, frowning at something she'd written on a scrap of paper. "I don't think it was your mother-I've met her, I wouldn't forget her-but it was somneone that age, sort of. `Hahn'-'Hann Eschl'?-she was crying and she sounded almost angry, seemed to think I was you though I'd explained I wasn't. I'd guess maybe someone in your family has-" Felice-Marie paused, sucking at her lip, not wanting to say died.
Marianne said, " `Aunt Ethel.' That's who it was."
Heart knocking against her ribs like a wide-winged bird desperate to escape confinement, Marianne rushed to the phone in the parlor, and dialed Ethel Hausmann's number, and to her dismay the phone rang, rang. Oh please answer! Oh don't let it be- Even in the exigency of such distress Marianne was clear-minded enough to reason that whoever had died, it could not have been Michael Mulvaney Sr-for Aunt Ethel would not have wept for him. -Morn. Dear God, don't let it be Mom! A sickening realization swept over her, how she'd disappointed Corinne: every turn of her life since Valentine's Day of 1976, she'd disappointed her mother, wounded her mother deeply and now-what if it was too late to make amends? She hung up the phone, and with shaking fingers dialed again, this number she'd memorized years ago and would never forget though the several times she'd called Ethel Hausmann since leaving Sala- mnanca, the older woman had been guarded and evasive speaking to her-maybe fearing Marianne was calling to ask for money? (And Marianne couldn't very diplomatically begin a conversation by quickly explaining, "Aunt Ethel, I don't want a thing from you, honestly! I'm just calling to say hello-" as she'd told Patrick who, in any case, hadn't been sympathetic-"Why call that old sourpuss `aunt,' anyway? What's she to us?" in that sneering Pinch way, as if he was jealous of his sister calling anyone but him.) The phone rang-eight, nine times. Then on the tenth ring it was picked up, and there came Ethel Hausmann's breathless, excited voice- "Hello? What? I'm just leaving the house! It's an emergency, who is this?"
"Aunt Ethel? This is-"
"-4/ho? What? `Aunt Ethel'-? I'm nobody's aunt! I'm just leaving the house! I can't talk flow!"
"-this is Marianne. Oh, what has happened?"
"Marianne." Ethel Hausmann came to a full stop, panting into the phone receiver. "Oh, yes-I called you. I'm just leaving the house, driving-by myself-to Ransornville-but maybe I should wait until tomorrow morning? All the family is there, they need me, but I've never made the trip after dark, only by day-I'm driving alone-what if my car breaks down?-the funeral is day after to- morrow, at eleven-" Ethel Hausmann spoke in the fevered highpitched voice of a spinster lady to whom nothing has happened in a very long time. Marianne thought, dazed: Ransomville. Not High
Point Farm. She felt weak with relief, then guilty, at her relief She managed to interrupt Ethel Hausinann to ask who had died, and Ethel said, with grim satisfaction, "Your Grandmother Hausmann." Marianne murmured, "Oh!-" her eyes welling with tears, for though she and her grandmother had not been close, Ida Hausmann was Corinne's mother, and Corinne would surely be upset. "Yes, my Aunt Ida is dead," Ethel said. "Seventy-nine years old! A stroke, they said, just this morning! She was chasing some stray cat away with a broom and-gone! Like that! My mother died the same way, so suddenly__I mean, it was slow for a long while-then, at the end, so sudden-twelve years ago next week. Now it's like it's happening again, Marianne, only with her sister. My aunt. And Uncle Will has been dead for just years. Your mother was on the phone saying `That generation is nearly vanished, Ethel-who will take their place
s?' We're next, I suppose. Oh, it's a terrible, cruel thing- first you're young, and that takes up such a long time you think it's forever, then suddenly you're not young, and you never get used to it-and, oh dear, there's just the one way out."
Joyce Carol Oates - We Were The Mulvaneys Page 39