Joyce Carol Oates - We Were The Mulvaneys

by We Were The Mulvaneys(lit)

  Sable interrupted, "Oh, for God's sake, `Mulvaney' is such a well-known name around here, you'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to have heard of it."

  But Corinne persisted, "-Yet Sable never set eyes on any of us, in person. All those years."

  "Until you, sweetie," Sable said, winking.

  She gave Corinne's fluttery hand a tap and the women laughed, laughed.

  When I arrived at Alder Creek it wasn't yet 3 P.M. and already cars, pickups, even bicycles were parked everywhere in the drive amid on the grassy lawn. So many! What was Mom thinking of, calling this a family reunion? Scram, Mom's and Sable's antic beagle, came rushing at me, barking and sniffing excitedly, tail thumping. The first people I ran into were the Plucketts, hauling enormous watermelons up the drive-Jimmy Ray and Nanci and their three freckle-faced teenagers so alike in appearance I could never tell them apart-but the Plucketts, sunny, good-hearted people, wouldn't have expected me to remember their names, just called Out, all smiles, "Judd, hello! Happy Fourth ofJuly!" The next people I ran into were my gorgeous sister-in-law Vicky, Mrs. Mike Mulvaney Jr. with the caramel-colored hair-very pregnant-again-and her little girl Chrissy, my firstborn niece, for whom my heart always gave a lurch. Vicky cried, "Judd, aren't you looking handsome!" standing on tiptoe to give me a breathy little kiss, her basketball-belly poking against me, and I lifted Chrissy in my arms with a mock grunt-four years old already, what if she'd forgotten her Uncle Judd she hadn't seen in a year?-but she hadn't. And where was Mike?-playing softball, Vicky said, in the goat pasture. And there were damp smeary kiddy-kisses from two-year-old Davy, Mike and Vicky's other child, and there came rushing at me my sister Marianne in STUMP CREEK HILL yellow T-shirt and shorts, baby Molly Ellen in her arms, and three-year-old Willy toddling behind, and we hugged, and kissed, clutching at each other as always as if in the other's absence each of us had imagined catastrophes, and these phantoms to be laughed eagerly away, dispelled like bad dreams in daylight, and we exchanged a minute's quick news, and I saw that Marianne was in the prime of her young womanhood, the color restored to her skin, a fullness to her face, the stress lines eased, the liquidy yearning in the eyes eased, now she was thirty-four years old, and married, and a mother, and a devoted worker at Stump Creek Hill Anitnal Shelter & Hospital, and her life independent of all Mulvaneys if she should wish it. And what a husband she had!-I didn't always get along with bluff opinionated Whit West, but I admired him immensely. I asked, "Where's Whit? I don't hear him," and Marianne laughed, poked me reprovingly in the chest, and said, "He's on the phone. We haven't been here an hour-have we, Willy?-and already Whit is checking back. He was up late doing emergency surgery on Smoke-remember Smoke?-one of our black bears-an appen- dectomy. Oh but Judd," Marianne said, just remembering, "-he's here, he's actually here. And he has a girl." Marianne pointed toward the pasture where a rowdy game of softball was in progress.

  I didn't need to ask who he was.

  I said, "So Mom was right."

  Marianne said, "Isn't Mom always right?-I mean, when she's serious."

  Trembling with excitement I dumped my bushel basket of sweet corn and groceries onto the nearest picnic table, and snatched up a beer from an ice-packed tub, and hurried to the pasture behind the blue ALDER ANTIQUES barn where Effie and Eddie the coarse-haired black goats were watching the game, in a shady corner. I took my place beside them, climbing onto the fence. Of the fifteen or sixteen players, adults and teenagers, I recognized ahnost no one at first. I felt a pang of hurt, childish disappointmeilt_Why had Mom promised a Mulvaney family reunion, when so many strangers were being invited, too? I hoped that no one would sight inc and invite me to join the game.

  The pitcher was a stranger, or so I thought, one of Sable Mills' younger relatives?-in dark glasses, sinewy-lean and about my age, but fitter than I was, with hard tight compact arm- and shoulder- muscles, ropey-muscied legs gleaming fuzzily bronze, his hair sunbleached and shaggy to his shoulders-My God could this be Patrick?-my own brother?-the thought flashed to me yet somehow in the excitement of the niomnent did not adhere. All eyes were on this man as with almost ritualistic earnestness, in the midst of much joking, laughing, clowning about of the players, he pitched underhand the dazzling-white softball to a figure crouched at bat-Sable Mills, herself-an energetic and feisty figure, yet not much of an athlete-Sable with her brassy hair newly cut in a virtual flattop, a wicked silver clamp on one ear, in black sleeveless sweater and matching jodhpurs that fitted her wiry body as if she'd been poured into them like melted wax. The pitches came courteously and it almost seemed unnaturally slow as if the ball were floating through a substance niore solid than air yet managed to drop as it neared the plate in such a cunning way that Sable swung the bat with a grunt and missed, and a second time swung and missed, and the call was "Two strikes!"-the umpire was a neighboring farmer, an oldish man with a Father Time wispy beard and an air of quirky authority-and with the third pitch either Sable or the pitcher had so adjusted to each other that Sable was able to swing the bat and actually strike the ball, sending it scuttling at a sharp angle along the third-base line, an easy catch for a lanky teenaged boy (a second cousin of mine, a Hausmann from Ransornville) who scooped it up barehanded and pitched it to the first baseman, a stout white-whiskered fellow whom I recognized as an antique shop proprietor in Mt. Ephraim, clearly not much of an athlete either as to groans and cheers he fumbled the catch, the ball bounced from his awkward hands and rolled away even as, with much attendant squealing, clapping, cheers Sable rushed to first base there to stand panting and triumphant. I saw Mom in center field-no mistaking that silveryglittery hair-Mom in sunflower-print culottes and sandals-clapping, crying, "Hooray, Sable! Show these kids!" For her age, Corinne Mulvariey was in fact something of an athlete, capable and lithe and smart about conserving her energy. My eye snagged on the second baseman, or -woman-a petite dark girl, a stranger I was sure I'd never seen before, in fact like no one I'd ever encountered in the Chautauqua Valley, with olive-pale skin and perfect features and a Greek sailor cap tilted seductively over her forehead, though she was dressed like any teenager in T-shirt, jeans, sneakers without socks. Next at bat was a boy of about twelve, another of my distant cousins, the horsey-faced Hausrnann look, amid he seemed shy, so the pitcher sent several teasing-slow underhanded balls in such a way as to allow him, too, to connect on what would have been the third strike-a POP fly, unluckily, which the pitcher himself easily snatched from the air. By this time I'd been drawn into the mood of the game, cheering and clapping at virtually all the plays without discrimination. (I'd just noticed a familiar face among the specta- tors-was it "Aunt" Ethel Hausmann? Her hair now steely-gray, her figure grimly turnip-shaped in slacks and loose-fitting shirt but she appeared to be in a genial mood as if determined to have a good time.) There was a murmur of excited expectation as there came trotting to the plate my big brother Mike!-handing his beer can to a bystander as he took up the bat with a flourish and balanced it on the palm of his hand, "Mule" Mulvaney soaking up the quick round of applause, and gentlemanly-charitable enough, since he was prob. ably the only real athlete on the field, to volunteer to bat southpaw. The lanky pitcher shoved his dark glasses against the bridge of his nose-his face was suntanned, lean-Patrick? was it possihle?my brother who'd scorned all team sports ?-and coolly studied his formidable opponent. People were trailing over fr-ui the house to watch- Marianne with her children, Vicky and children, Chrissy running crying, "Dad-dy! DAD-DY!" Even Effie and Eddie who'd been imperturbably munching grass paused to watch.

  The pitcher wound up like an elastic knot, unleashed himself and the initial pitch, though underhand, flew across the plate conspicuously faster than the pitches directed at Mike's predecessors, and Mike swung, swung hard, and missed, coloring and laughing good-naturedly, leaning over to spit on the ground in mock-macho style, returned the bat to his shoulder with a determined look and again the pitch came flying fast, deviously dropping just as it crossed the plate, and again Mike swung a
nd missed. "Mule" Mulvaney, soon to he forty: how was that possible? He'd been discharged several years before from the Marines with the rank of sergeant and was now a civil engineer with the state of Delaware, living with his family in Wilmington, husband and father and upstanding American citizen it would seem; something of a stranger to me now though I'd visited him and his family a few times in thelr upscale residential neighborhood, and saw him at least once a year in the company of Morn. Mike was still good_looking-what girls call, so vulgarly and poetically, a hunk-though his jowls had thickened and his fading-brown hair was receding severely from his forehead; not a heavy man but bee-g-solid in the torso and abdomen in the way of a former athlete now easing into middle age. His skin burnt red as if with sun though he was genial, grinning. Another time the pitcher wound up, lanky and sinuous, and the ball came flying-"Too wide, outside! Ball one!" declared the umpire. And the next pitch too was declared a ball, and may even have been one. And the next pitch flew unerringly toward the plate-which was, in fact, a paper picnic plate- and Mike swung the bat with blind impulsive faith and there was a crack! as bat and ball connected and for a fraction of a second the ball seemed virtually to pause in midair before sailing up, up, up-as Mike began to run-and finally down into a grove of trees on the far side of the pasture, where squealing children ran to fetch it. There were manic cheers, applause as Mike trotted like royalty around the bases, blowing kisses to all, paused to take up Mom's hand and kiss it in the outfield, trotting then to third, and home, and my eyes seized with moisture thinking How like Dad! for it was as if Michael Mulvaney Sr. at the age of almost-forty had appeared before us, the glinuner of the man at least, the hazy sunstruck aura out of which Mike Jr.'s features smiled in triumph. So Mike trotted home, carrying Chrissy from third base, and I was whistling and applauding with the others, for so spectacular a home run in Mom's and Sable's goat pasture was something of an occasion, after all. I shaded my eyes then studying the stranger who was the pitcher standing abashed now but grinning, a good sport, too, as Mike trotted back to home, hands on his lean hips, the lenses of his dark gasses winking, and of course it was Patrick, who else but my lost brother Patrick? By this time Mom had seen mne and cried, "Judd! There's Judd!" and Patrick turned blinking to see me, and ran over at once, and grabbed me in a bear hug like no imaginable gesture of Pj.'s, still less Pinch's, saying, his voice choked with emotion, "Jesus, kid! You're all grown up."

  Ringing the cowbell!-there on the hack veranda of the clapboard farmhouse on the New Canaan Road, her hair turned completely silver and glittering like mica, braided into a single thick plait swinging between her shoulder blades, there was Corinne Mulvaney, sixty-two years old! Laughing like one of her own grandchildren, the color up in her cheeks, tugging the cord of the old gourdshaped cowbell to summon us all to eat, at last.

  It was nearing 6:30 P.M. but still bright as mnidday except in the shadows beneath the tall chestnut tree- where picnic tables had been set, covered in bright American-flag paper runners. Fourth ofJuly but no fireworks, no "explosive devices"-Mom and Sable had insisted. Just red-white-and-blue napkins, streamnerS. Tiny American flags fluttering from the veranda. Scram, in a deliriuni of joy at so many children, so much loving attention, wore an American-flag kerchief around his neck.

  There were Whit and Marianne playful as newlyweds overseeing the grilling of hamburgers, hot dogs, and spicy Italian sausage at the pit barbecue, and there were Mom and Sable overseeing the preparation of chicken pieces brushed with Sable's Texas Hot Sauce, at the portable grill. On the buffet picnic table were enormous bowls of homemade salads, a platter heaped with raw vegetables beautiful as works of art-bell peppers, tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, zucchini and yellow squash from Morn's garden. There were platters of freshbaked breads, muffins, biscuits. Ethel Hausmnann's pineapple-glazed Virginia ham that must have weighed twenty pounds. A small gang of us husked the ears of sweet corn I'd brought, and my perky sisterin-law Vicky and I boiled them in the kitchen, in immense pots of water on Mom's and Sable's old-fashioned gas stove. Vicky set the timer-"Eive minutes exactly- Overcooking makes corn mushy." Vicky had a bossy-flirty manner I'd have adored if I had been the type to fall in love with an older brother's wife. Saying, as we waited for the timer to ring, with an air of one imparting a secret, "Judd, I just can't get over your brother Patrick! He isn't at all what I'd expected." I asked, curious, what she'd expected, what Mike had led her to expect of Patrick, and she said, "Well, I guess I expected someone not so-Mulvaney." I asked, "But what is Mulvaney?" for the concept was genuinely baffling to me. Vicky said, stroking her belly that was so pert and round beneath her buttercup-yellow materrnty smock, and fixing me with a look as if I nuist be joking, to ask such a question, "Why, you. All of you."

  There were twenty-seven of us, adults, children, babies in high chairs and on laps, beneath the tall chestnut trees behind Mom's and Sable's house. The sky overhead glowed with a warm sepia cast as if flames licked beyond the scrirn of cloud. Barn swifts soared and darted overhead-they nested under the eaves of the outbuildings, Mom explained, dozens of them, and neither she nor Sable had the heart to run them off.

  Whit West rose to propose a toast to Corinne Mulvaney and Sable Mills and all the Mulvaneys present-naming us in turn, insisting we rise blushing in our places-and all the Hausmanns present- five, no six Hausmanns: how had Mom talked such unsociable folks into coming here today?-and the toast included, too, relatives of Sable Mills-of whom there were a half dozen-and people who'd come a long distance-who, in fact, had come the longest distance?-Whit West peered out among us like an affable just slightly bullying master of ceremonies until Patrick laughingly volunteered, "Katya and me, I suppose"-and we all applauded.

  No wonder I was a little drunk, such a hunmiing buzzing day! Cicadas shrieking out of the trees like an aberration of the inner ear.

  Thinking How did we get to this?-how do we deserve this?

  In late October it would be five years since Dad died. Five years.

  For Mike's and Marianne's children, who'd never known their grandfather, a lifetime.

  Someone poked my shoulder, I turned and there came Mom, Marianne, Vicky and Sable bearing candlelit cakes, and everyone sang "Happy Birthday" loudly and it took me a beat or two to catch on- what was this? Feebly I protested my birthday wasn't until the eleventh but no one paid the slightest heed. What amazing cakes were presented to mne-a three-tiered chocolate fudge, a carrot-pumpkin-gingeryogurt pound cake (Whit West's special recipe), an angel food with stiff sculpted egg-white frosting, and a strawberry ice-cream cake in a heart-shaped tin. Each cake glimmered with candles-thirty? Which added up to a phantasmagoric one hundred twenty? "God, amn I this old?" I groaned. Much laughter, as if I'd meant to be funny. I stood swaying at my place at the table, cheeks burning with self-consciousness, dazed, disoriented, I'd suspected nothing, not a thing, hadn't given any thought to my upcoming thirtieth birthday except a twinge of dread. Once you turn thirty in. America, you really are not a kid any longer. No more excuses! Now came a flurry of kisses aimed at my face, Mulvaneys and others, my little nieces and nephews held up for special hugs-"Say `Happy Birthday, Uncle Judd!' "-"Say `I love you, Uncle Judd!' "- and a succession of blinding Polaroid flash-shots-"For posterity," Whit, whose camera it was, said, "-and to prove that you Mulvarmeys all exist in the same time frame."

  Witty Whit West! How well my brother-in-law knew us.

  I was equal to the task, but just barely: blew out every candle of the one hundred twenty. I was applauded, cheered. I was prevailed upon to speak and I stood mute and blushing and stammered finally, "-Thanks! I'll never forget this., I guess," and they applauded anyway, as if I'd been brilliant. My head was buzzing like a hornets' hive, a roaring in my ears that was happiness on the brink of passing over into something else-terror, paralysis. Morn must have seen it in my face, that happiness that's almnost too much to bear, she stood beside inc lifting her glass, voice rapturous, "I'm just so, so happy every one of you is here! It just seems so a
mazing and wonderful and, well, a miracle, but I guess it's just ordinary life, how we all keep going, isn't it?"-suddenly stammering herself, and sniffing, and everyone laughed and quickly applauded and Sable leapt to her feet raising her glass, too, and cried, "You tell `em, sweetheart! You're the girl who knows."

  It was so, as Vicky had said. Patrick had become a Mulvaney at last, in his long exile from home.

  Unless it was California that had loosened and lightened him? Even sun-bleached his hair that grew long amid shaggy to his shoulders. Tanned him dark as a walnut from spending so much time outdoors he said, backpacking imi the mountains of northern California, hiking along the Monterey Coast. He and Katya had made the journey east on Patrick's 1988 Honda in a looping route up through northern Nevada and Utah and southern Wyoming, taking fifteen days. He had a month's leave from the Berkeley Institute of Child Development, where he was assistant to the director; he'd developed a technique for treating autistic children, and seemed to be, so far as I could gather, a licensed physical therapist as well-"Our work is continuously experimental, and evolving, there's no point in trying to define it." Katya was a graduate student in mathematics at UC-Berkeley, the Russian-born daughter ofJews who'd been allowed to emigrate out of the Soviet Union in the mid-Sixties, both of them scientists at Cal Tech. When Patrick introduced me to Katya, she smiled shyly at nie from bemmeath her oversized Greek sailor's cap, lovely thick-lashed black eyes, and said, "Oh, Judd!-! have heard so mnuch about you, from Patrick."