We Were the Mulvaneys (36 page)

I knew from Patrick how he felt about the Green Isle Co-op: he disapproved completely. I should have asked Marianne more about her classes, what she was majoring in, what she planned to do when she graduated. Teach public school? High school, junior high, what? As Patrick had said, she seemed to be spending most of her time working for the Co-op. Mom should have pressed her on these matters too but of course Mom didn't. Through the afternoon Mom talked of far-flung subjects, passionately she defended Jimmy Carter's adversarial position with Congress, declaring to Marianne and me that President Carter was being “stabbed in the back” by his fellow Democrats—the United States government was at the mercy of special-interest groups, lobbies like the National Rifle Association and the American Medical Association, the automobile and oil industries, every kind of defense manufacturer, how could democracy be served?
What is democracy?
Mom demanded to know.
How can the American people be so deceived, by their own elected legislators?
Poor Jimmy Carter, practically the only honest man in Washington!

So Mom talked, talked. Until suddenly it was late afternoon, nearing dusk, almost time for us to leave.

Why, it was almost the New Year 1979!

Marianne, for her part, laughed a lot. Smiled, plucked at her short, scrappy hair. She was careful not to ask awkward questions—about Dad, or the farm. Chose her words guardedly when asking about the animals. Once, when we were alone together for a few minutes, she remarked again how much I'd grown, how “handsome” I was getting, and I rolled my eyes like any kid brother.
This is how you act, with your sister. Isn't it?

“I guess—I really miss you, Judd,” Marianne said softly. There was a look almost of fear in her face. “I wish—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But I'll probably be home this summer, for sure. Mom was saying.”

“Great.”

“Muffin sleeps curled up here, now.” Tenderly Marianne indicated the hollow of her neck and shoulder. “He's lost his extra weight. He's beautiful, don't you think?”

There was Muffin perched on Marianne's desktop, between us, looking urgently from Marianne to me, from me to Marianne. His nose was pale pink, whiskers clean and bristly-white. The tawny eyes with the black-slitted pupils, intelligent-seeming, alert. I thought—He hears things we aren't saying. Marianne petted Muffin, and his purr became a loud crackling rumble like a motor. She said happily, “He hasn't slept against my neck since he was a kitten. So it's good he's lost that extra weight.”

“He's looking great.”

“He's just the most wonderful
cat
.”

“Well,” I said, laughing, miserable suddenly and eager to be gone from Kilburn, “—they all are.”

 

Mom wanted to speak with Abelove before we left, downstairs in his office. She wanted to tell him how impressed she was with the Green Isle Co-op—such wonderful, idealistic young people. Above all she insisted that Abelove accept payment for our meal—she pressed bills into his hand with the fluttery-anxious air of a wealthy woman eager to rid herself of loose cash. “
Please
accept this, just a small token!” she begged. As if Abelove had somehow to be placated as well as paid. “You were so generous to include us at your table.”

Abelove said, with his big broad smile, “Marianne's family is family of ours. You're always welcome here. But, well—thanks!” He took Mom's money and smoothed the bills out on top of his desk—it looked like about fifty dollars. “Green Isle can use whatever donations any friends can spare. Kilburn State doesn't give the Co-op any financial support apart from leasing the property to us for a hundred dollars a year. Was it run-down, when we moved in!”

Smiling eagerly, Mom said, “Marianne was explaining—‘From each, whatever he or she can give; to each—'”

“—‘as he or she requires.'”

“Oh but you've all done such a marvelous job here! You live plainly and simply, you eat wholesome food,
no meat
—I wish I could get my husband to give up meat—you're like the early Christians. Before the sects split off, and there was so much rivalry—quarreling. I think, deep in our hearts, we
know
—we don't require theology. There's such happiness in this house, such a sense of—well, family.” Mom was worked up, spots of color in her cheeks. It was the way she'd been speaking of President Carter shortly before. “I wish I'd had such a friendly place to live in, instead of just a dorm, at Fredonia State, when I was in college. My daughter is so
lucky
.”

Luckily Marianne didn't hear this. Or Mom didn't notice me slouched and waiting outside Abelove's door. Rolling my eyes.
Geez, Mom.

It was then that Mom's and Abelove's chummy-chatty exchange took a disastrous turn. How often at this time in all our lives, conversations with Corinne Mulvaney or Michael Mulvaney Sr. took disastrous turns and you'd never be prepared.

Expansive and beaming like a man who's practiced his smile since babyhood, Abelove was seeing Mom to his door. They'd been getting along one hundred percent: Abelove was obviously impressed with Marianne's unexpectedly feisty good-sport mom in slacks, gaudy ski sweater, her hair flyaway yet not unattractive, and Mom was just perceptibly giddy in the younger man's robust masculine presence. Not a sexual energy between them, but almost. Then Abelove made the mistake of saying, “Mrs. Mulvaney, I mean Corinne—you must be very proud of Marianne. She's a special young woman. We call her our
peacemaker
.”

“Do you!” Mom said, her smile going faint. “Well. My daughter has always been a—special person.”

“Your daughter possesses a remarkable purity of heart. She has faith in God and in mankind, in equal measure.” Abelove's voice dipped warmly, like a preacher's. “She just requires a little more faith in herself.”

Marianne was out of earshot, still; down the hall, talking with someone.

Mom said sharply, pressing a hand against her heart, “What? I don't understand.” She drew herself up to her full height, stood staring eye to eye with the startled young man. “I'm not in the habit of discussing my daughter with strangers, Mr. Abelove.”

Abelove blinked at my mother, surprised. He tried his smile again, easing it out like something on a leash. “But, Mrs. Mulvaney—Marianne is not a stranger to any of us.”

“
You
are a stranger to me, Mr.—oh, that silly made-up name!” Mom's fingers lifted fluttering to her hair. “Please, this conversation has gone on long enough.”

Mom walked quickly away, snatching at my arm in passing. Abelove rolled back onto his heels like a boxer who's taken a hard, unexpected punch to the midriff. He looked at me pleadingly but I just glowered at him, “Good-bye! Thanks for lunch!” and stalked off after my mom.

 

Coatless in the thin, freezing wind, her eyes shifting, Marianne kissed us good-bye, hugged us and wept and made us promise we'd stay overnight next time we visited Kilburn, by then the weather would have turned warm. I'd slid behind the wheel of Mom's Buick station wagon which was looking kind of grim these days, rust-flecked, low-slung, one of the rear windows mended with masking tape. I was impatient to get out of Kilburn: the sky had darkened in rapid, shifting patches, like a jammed-up ice floe. By the time we reached the foothills of the Chautauquas and twisty-treacherous High Point Road, it would be dark as midnight. Marianne was asking Mom another time to please say hello to Dad, and give him her love, and tell him she was thinking of him all the time; and the same to all the animals! And—did Muffin look all right? or did he look, maybe, a little thin? and Mom said brusquely, “When cats age their kidneys start to fail, you know that. Toxins build up in them and they lose their appetites, even the big, husky eaters, and they lose weight and you'll have to be realistic, Marianne. Muffin isn't a young cat any longer. He must be—how old?”

Taken by surprise, Marianne blinked at Mom. “I—don't know. Six years? Seven—?”

“That cat is eleven if he's a day,” Mom said severely. “You'll just have to be realistic, Marianne.”

I ducked my head, couldn't look at my sister's face.

Backing the station wagon then out of the deeply rutted driveway, skidding briefly on an icy patch and then we were on the road aimed for home even as Marianne ran after us in the driveway to stand at the road waving eagerly, braving the wind, a small lone rapidly vanishing figure in the rearview mirror.

“M
ainly what I'll need from you, Judd, is one of the guns. From out of Dad's cabinet.”

I murmured
Yes, all right
.

“One of them is Dad's .12-gauge Browning shotgun I've never fired. I held it once in my hands, though. It's heavy—lethal. Double-barreled. It could blow a man's head off at close range. Also there's the .22-caliber Winchester rifle of Mike's—remember? He got me to shoot it a few times. Target practice back of the barns. I remember Mike was surprised, I actually hit the target—beginner's luck, he said.”

I didn't remember this. I'd have been too young. My brothers wouldn't have wanted me tagging after them. Or maybe it had never happened? I had the idea, if I telephoned Mike at the Marine base in Florida, he'd laugh and deny it.
What, Pinch? Blind in one eye? He couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

Patrick was saying, marveling, “It's strange to be talking like this Judd, isn't it? But it seems right. I've been more at peace since I've started planning what has to be done. Other things, that used to crowd my mind, make me anxious and keep me awake—they've fallen into perspective now, they've lost significance. Is it the same way with you?”

I murmured
I guess so
.
Right!

If I spoke so, aloud, it must have been true.

Patrick said, “I couldn't go on with my life. My ‘normal' life. Until justice is executed. Until our enemy is punished.”

Each time Patrick spoke with me on the phone, through December, January, February, his plan for the
execution of justice
seemed more defined, elaborate. It was as if, away in Ithaca, he was contemplating a map on his wall the details of which he could only hint at, to me. He had scheduled the
execution
for April, at Easter when he assumed Zachary Lundt would be home in Mt. Ephraim. Patrick's plan was to surprise Zachary after dark, take him away at gunpoint, preferably in Zachary's own car. There was a place Patrick would force Zachary to drive (he wasn't sure he wanted me to know where, just yet—didn't want me “incriminated” unnecessarily) where they would be isolated and where whatever was to happen would happen. “I'll demand from him an acknowledgment of guilt. Yes, he raped my sister. Yes, he's a rapist and a liar, he's evil and deserves to be punished. You can believe in evil apart from the devil. There's no Satan but there
is
evil. Evil is genetically programmed into our species, like our rapacity against nature, our greed and superstition and stupidity—I mean, the inclination. We have a choice of activating the evil within, or not. We have free will.
I
have free will, and so does Zachary Lundt. He chose evil, he destroyed my family and he has to be punished.” Patrick spoke matter-of-factly. I listened mesmerized by these words which were like no other words ever uttered to me in my life. “I don't mean that I'll use the gun. I might be forced to, if he refuses to come with me. I'm aware of the danger—a bullet or bullets could be traced. So if it's an actual execution, if it comes to that,” Patrick spoke quickly but calmly, “—I'll use a knife. Maybe I'll let him live and be disfigured. I might castrate him, like a pig. I'm not sure. I haven't decided. I've chloroformed and dissected plenty of lab specimens. But I'll need a gun, Mike's rifle let's say, so that Mike has a hand in this, too, as I think he'd like, don't you? I need to let Zachary Lundt know I'm serious, in the first few seconds. That's the crucial time, when he could call for help, or try to escape.” Patrick paused. The northeast wind sweeping across the Valley that sounded like a waterfall down the roofs and sides of our house seemed to be inside the telephone line, making my brother's voice shimmer and echo. “Judd? You're still there?”

I said
Sure
.
Sure Patrick!

Gripping the telephone receiver so tight, my knuckles were waxy-white.

“You'll get Mike's gun for me, won't you? You'll bring it to me? And some ammunition, just in case? Somewhere we won't be seen.
I
can't be seen. Anywhere near Mt. Ephraim, I mean. I'll need to be in two places at once, because I can't be caught and what I'm going to do can't be repeated. It's an experiment that can be performed only once.” Patrick spoke in measured, thoughtful sentences. He was both my older brother P.J. whom I adored and feared and someone I didn't know, whose face I could not imagine except for the squinty left eye, the glasses shoved against the bridge of his nose. “You'll have to unlock Dad's cabinet with his key, you can't force it. If you force the lock—well, you can't. We'll find some other means of getting a gun.”

I was staring at the shadowy corner of the room where Dad's cabinet was. One of Mom's “antiques” with a glass front, made of a hardwood riddled with knots like eyes.

I told Patrick
yes
.

“So—what's your weather like there?”

Weather? I listened: wind. Possibly snow. It was 3:10
A.M.
and I was speaking to Patrick ninety miles away on the phone in the family room, in the dark and with the door shut and Troy sleeping and wheezing contentedly at my feet. Upstairs, Mom was sleeping. She'd taken a long hot bath at eleven and I was pretty sure she was sleeping. I didn't know Dad's exact or even approximate whereabouts but I reasoned that if he drove up the driveway his headlights would precede him and I'd have no trouble escaping back upstairs to my room.

“It's a blizzard here,” Patrick said. He sounded pleased.

Patrick reiterated that his plan for Zachary Lundt was just about complete in his mind but he hesitated to inform me of many details because he wanted to spare me involvement more than was necessary. He was certain he would not be caught by police, whether Zachary Lundt lived or died
he
would not be caught, still he was anxious to protect me, his brother. He said, with an air of regret, “No human action can be one-hundred-percent predictable. The future just isn't
there
, to be predicted.”

I swallowed hard. Told Patrick I wasn't afraid. I would do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

“It's a matter of simple coordination. You'll meet me at X, and you deliver the gun and ammunition. Mike's .22, my good-luck rifle. The only gun I've ever fired. You return home immediately and you stay home and you're totally uninvolved. Next thing you know you'll be hearing from me, you can pick up the rifle at Y, and return it to the cabinet. It won't be fired, I'm sure. If I realize I have to—well, kill him—hurt him—I'll use a knife. Just an ordinary steak knife. I'll buy one weeks ahead of time at a hardware store here—just a knife. Something that can't be traced. But I might not hurt him actually. Unless it happens. He'll be a coward, he'll beg for his life. He won't put up a fight. I know him. I know all of them—Zachary Lundt and his friends. They were going to lie about Marianne, to protect him. I wish I could punish all of them but I can't. Not just his friends but his father, too. And Dad's friends.”

The bitter intonation of
friends
. The way Patrick spoke the word, curled his lip in disgust like Dad.

I whispered agreement. My voice was quavering. I felt a deep shuddering thrill as of someone in love, the first terrible time when you don't know it's love.

I thought,
I have a brother! I am a brother! This is what it is—to be brothers!

Often when Patrick was about to hang up he would change his mind and leap onto another subject. The way, with a wildfire, a wind-borne spark can leap ten, fifteen feet in an instant, to start a fresh blaze. “Judd? You know how in evolutionary theory intelligence isn't a cause of nature, but only an effect, an accidental effect?—that's a hard concept to believe, I mean really. I've been arguing about it with my professors lately. I mean, I do believe, of course, but—”

I was dazed with exhaustion. Just five minutes of Patrick wore me out. Worse than mucking in the barnyard in ninety-five-degree heat. Worse than any memorization of equations in chemistry, physics. I was ready to burst into laughter. I was ready to ask why you couldn't believe anything you wanted to believe, wasn't it a free country? But I knew this was an ignorant response that would disappoint my brother.

I said
I guess so Patrick
. Said
I don't know
.

There was silence at the other end of the line. Just the wind that had gotten into the telephone somehow. I could imagine my brother's squinty eye, his look of exasperated patience. All Patrick wanted was someone, a brother, worthy of him. I can see that now. I must have disappointed him, for all my good intentions.