We Were the Mulvaneys (37 page)

Y
ou raped my sister
he would say.

He would accuse
You raped my sister, you destroyed my family
.

At gunpoint holding his cringing, cowering enemy
Did you think you would never be punished?

 

That winter, except on the most bitterly cold windswept days, Patrick ran, ran for miles. He was too restless to stay in his room for very long, nor even to work at the lab as he'd once done, lost in concentration, staring down into the magnified, teeming world of microorganisms. He'd grown impatient with that world which had so little to do with his own. That anonymity, so without mind or purpose save its own infinite replication.

His fellow residents at 114 Cook rarely saw him except as he passed them on the stairs, or on the front walk, a tall hooded figure in a sheepskin jacket, wool muffler drawn up to cover the lower half of his face. There were numerous fanatic runners in Ithaca: Patrick Mulvaney would not have considered himself one of them, he believed his bouts of running, sometimes twice daily, were but extensions of consciousness. Where he couldn't any longer think clearly in his cramped little room, nor in the fluorescent-flickering lab whose smells gave him a headache, he could think with enormous clarity in the outdoors, in motion.

What pleasure in his body! his young lean-sinewy body! hard muscles of his calves, thighs! and his upper arms and shoulders, from the metronome-movement of his arms! His route was unvaried so that he didn't have to think about it. So that his mind was freed to think of other things. Up Cook's steep hill to College Avenue and north on College to Central Avenue crossing the Cascadilla Creek, and downhill to West Avenue and to the suspension bridge above Fall Creek, eastward then to frozen Lake Beebe, along the icy-reed-thick shore of Lake Beebe where at dawn juncos and chickadees pierced the air with their sharp, inquisitive cries and he recalled the wild birds at the feeders of High Point Farm, waking to those identical cries, the mysterious speech of birds mixed with his childhood sleep. For miles then along the lake and as far east as the Cornell Plantations, swinging back through the village of Forest Home that reminded him, the close-built wood-frame houses, the narrow streets and sidewalks, of an older area of Mt. Ephraim near the high school where he'd walked, alone, impatient with the din of lunchtime in the cafeteria, long before
it
had happened. Long before
it
had entered their lives. And always, what solace in aloneness! in his body's rhythmic motion! Through Forest Home he followed the southern shore of the lake, curving back to the Cornell campus which he reentered below the Newman Laboratory of Nuclear Studies, ascending then through the campus which was densely built here, his least favorite part of the run, where he might see and be seen by someone he knew, his identity as
Patrick Mulvaney
thrust rudely upon him like something shoved in his face. But his steely gaze, his high-held head and unswerving forward-motion discouraged friendly greetings, if any were imminent. And so back to Cascadilla Creek and down College to Cook. By this time perspiring, exhilarated and exhausted. And filled with hope.

Running revealed to him such truths!
Each moment in time has been one of wonder and dread and not-knowing.

 

At the end of March, from a public telephone in Ithaca, Patrick called the Lundts, in Mt. Ephraim. It was five in the afternoon of a weekday. A woman answered on the fourth ring. Patrick introduced himself as a high school friend of Zachary's, naming a name (“Don Maitland”) that might sound plausible to Mrs. Lundt, for there was in fact a “Don Maitland” who'd been on the periphery of Zachary's circle, and Patrick guessed the young men wouldn't be in contact, not after several years. Patrick asked for Zachary's address, telephone number, and so forth, and Mrs. Lundt provided the information readily enough, yes he was at SUNY Binghamton, yes studying business administration, no he wouldn't be graduating this year he'd taken a couple of semesters off but he was serious now, working very hard and she and her husband expected Zachary to get his degree possibly as early as next spring. Mrs. Lundt was pleasant-voiced, polite enough to ask “Don Maitland” how he was, what he was doing, and Patrick provided a plausible response, “Don Maitland” too had dropped out of school for a while but was back now, at Oswego Tech, studying electrical engineering. He asked, “Will Zachary be home over spring break? Around Easter?” and Mrs. Lundt said, “Certainly, yes,” and Patrick said, “Great! Us guys can all get together, then, like last time,” and Mrs. Lundt said, with a mild motherly laugh, “I'm sure you will.”

Patrick might then have said good-bye and hung up. But he heard himself ask, with sly naiveté, “How's that girl of Zach's?”

Mrs. Lundt was immediately guarded. “Which girl?”

“I don't remember her name, exactly. A Tri-Delt, I think, at Binghamton. Blond—kind of tall—”

There was a moment's silence. Then Mrs. Lundt said, coolly, “If it's the girl I'm thinking of, I don't know.”

Patrick said, with boyish admiration, “Zach's always been lucky with girls. Since junior high. When he wants them, he gets them; when he's done with them, they disappear. Us guys always tease him—what's he got that we don't?”

Mrs. Lundt laughed. Was “Don Maitland” flirting with her? “What do you know, Don, that I don't know about Zachary?”

Patrick said, “Hey, I don't want to be telling tales on Zach. Forget what I just said, Mrs. Lundt.”

“
I
don't know what Zachary's private life is.
I'm
only his mother.”

“Hey, that's what my mom says. I mean—about me.”

Patrick and Mrs. Lundt laughed together. Patrick said, “Well, Mrs. Lundt—thanks! I'll be calling Zach, and I'll sure be looking forward to seeing him in a few weeks.”

“—one of them, a girl named ‘Joellen'—do you know her, or about her?”

“Who?”

“‘Joellen' something. I don't remember the last name.”

“Maybe. From Binghamton? In a sorority?”

“
She
had her nerve. Calling
here
, wanting to speak to
me
.”

“Uh-oh,” Patrick said sympathetically. “When was this?”

“About six weeks ago. I mean the calls started then. She'd call any time—7
A.M.
, 10
P.M.
, once 2
A.M.
! Of course we'd just hang up. We were thinking of changing to a private number. But finally I guess she was discouraged, she stopped. ‘Joellen'—something. I'm sure she wasn't a college student really.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“I most certainly did not! Not after a few seconds, the first time. When I realized who it was and what she wanted.”

“What did she want?”

“—to tell lies, slander about my son. To
accuse
him—to his own mother.”

“Accuse Zach of what? Geez.”

“Oh—who knows?
You
know what girls can be like, a certain type of girl, chasing after boys. You must have the same problem?”

Patrick laughed. “Well, Mrs. Lundt, like I said—I don't have Zach's luck, I'm not what you'd call good-looking like Zach.
He's
got some way about him, just walks into a room…” Patrick's voice trailed off in admiration.

Mrs. Lundt said pleasantly, “Well. Zachary takes after his father. When Mort was young, I mean. And had his hair. But Mort, goodness, was never like Zach! He didn't have his poise. But of course things are changed in America now. After the Sixties.”

“Yeah. People say.”

“As early as eighth grade, girls were chasing Zach. Calling him at home here. Imagine—a girl of thirteen calling a boy at home. When I was in school, we'd have been mortified to do any such thing. We'd have died of shame.”

Patrick chuckled sympathetically. “Yeah. My mom. too.”

“We got him his own line, finally. Mort said—‘Self-defense.'”

“I remember a girl, senior year. She wasn't a girlfriend of Zach's exactly, but—”

“Oh, there were so many. We didn't always approve.”

“A cheerleader, I think—”

“Some of them were so brazen, you wouldn't believe it.”

“This girl made some crazy accusation about Zach?—after a prom?”

“I don't remember that.”

“We were all at a party, at Bobbi Krauss's, she tried to say us guys weren't invited but we
were
. And—whatever happened afterward, after this girl left with Zach, wasn't too clear.”

“No. I don't remember.”

Mrs. Lundt was speaking quickly, anxiously. About to hang up and Patrick didn't want to arouse her suspicion but he heard himself say, incensed, “This girl's dad, he was a farmer or something?—he came to your house? Zach told us, he was scared as hell.
You
called the police, though, Mrs. Lundt—”

Mrs. Lundt said, in a low rapid voice, “I—don't remember exactly. It was a confused time. The man was drunk and violent and threatened to kill my husband and son—”

Patrick said, “Hey look, us guys were all on Zach's side. For sure. If it'd come to a—you know, trial—we were going to testify for Zach.”

“Oh, yes. We so appreciated it, Mort and I. We were so terribly upset. But the girl
was
lying, and exaggerating, and nothing came of it.”

Patrick said, incensed, “Zach always knew he could count on his buddies. We didn't need for any lawyer to talk to us, to tell us what to say.”

Breathless Mrs. Lundt said, “Oh yes, Mort and I did appreciate it—your loyalty. It was a terrible, terrible time—”

Patrick said, “Hell, Mrs. Lundt, if there's anybody a guy can count on, it's his buddies.”

“We were terrified that madman—the father—would come back here, and—do something violent. The police said they couldn't keep him in custody and he wouldn't listen to reason.”

“Geez. Whatever happened to him, and the girl?”

“The girl moved away, thank God. Her family sent her away. The man—I'm not sure.” Mrs. Lundt was breathing quickly, audibly. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears. “I think I'm going to have to hang up now.”

“Hey, I'm sorry if I upset you, Mrs. Lundt. I didn't—”

“I'm going to hang up now. Good-bye, Dan.”

Patrick said, “Thanks for Zach's number, Mrs. Lundt. See you!”

As if he'd been in terror of a bridge. A suspension bridge for instance. Fear of stepping out onto it, a narrow high-swaying bridge like the one across Fall Creek. And to his astonishment he discovered no danger in it—none at all. Crossing the bridge scarcely aware of what he did and he was safe on the farther side.

 

Hard to believe that Patrick Mulvaney was making such mistakes.

Three times, before Thanksgiving, he'd changed his research topic for his senior honors thesis in biology. First he'd been working on a problem of membrane biogenesis, then on a problem of invertebrate genetics, both topics suggested to him by his supervisor Professor Herring. But he couldn't maintain his initial interest. He tried, tried very hard. He understood that a young research biologist must work under the guidance of his elders. You're part of a team, you do what you're told and don't question why. But Patrick became discouraged and impatient, tossed away his data.

His third topic was more theoretical than the first two, and would involve massive amounts of reading in areas new to him, and less lab work. This was an application of mathematical game theory to Darwinian evolutionary theory. Patrick wanted to analyze the concept of the “forced move” in evolutionary design: the biological imperative in which, in order to survive, a species must adapt along a line of X and no other. (Examples were parasites that become exclusively dependent upon a single host-species, the phenomenon of English sparrows dependent upon areas of dense human habitation, short-term gestation in certain species, long-term gestation in others, odd features like eyes on stalks, or recessed eyes, exoskeletons, minute brains.) The “forced move” was a metaphor from chess. You make your move as a species in crisis, brilliant, desperate, lucky or doomed—you have no choice. In retrospect, if you survive, it could be hypothesized from a future vantage point that you'd “adapted” to an altered environment. You'd exercised biological “specialization.” The record might seem to show, or one might argue it did show, an unconscious DNA-design. Purpose, intelligence.

Unless the record argued utter randomness, chance. In which case species survival isn't an essence of species but mere accident.