"Oates, Joyce Carol - We Were the Mulvaneys" - читать интересную книгу автора (Oates Joyce Carol)

Pj. said, "That's true about any statement we make, isn't it? We never tell as much as we know."

"Right! So we're lying. So almost every statement is a lie, we can't help it."

"Yeah. But some statements are more lies than others."

This, Mike didn't seem to hear. He'd stopped his pacing and was looking toward the doorway, not seeing me; his face glistened with sweat but he sIniled suddenly, as if something had just become clear. "It's weird, man-it's like a discovery to me. It means I'm not going to be telling much of the truth through my life, or even know what the truth is. And, for sure, I'm not going to be able to tell Dad anything he doesn't already know."

P.J. snorted with laughter.

Later I found Mom out in the antique barn and asked her what was going on, what had Dad been talking about with my brothers, and Mom said she had no idea, none at all-"Why don't you ask Dad, Ranger?"

I asked Marianne instead. She didn't know, she told me quickly.

Not a thing.

THE REVELATION

"Corrinne! Hello."

Wednesday morning, a harried errand-morning, and there was Mrs. Bethune the doctor's wife approaching Corinne, with a smile and a wave of greeting, in the Mt. Ephraini Post Office. Not one of Corinne's women friends.

Keep in ,notion, don't slacken and you'll escape Corinne instructed herself, smiling vaguely at Mrs. Bethune even as she lifted a hand in an ambiguous gesture-hello, or hasty good-bye?

Lydia Bethune was one of the inner circle of the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, to which the Mulvaneys had belonged for the past three years; always perfectly dressed and groomed, one of that species of attractive, capable women whose very being seemed a reproach to Corinne. For an ordinary weekday morning in Mt. Ephraim, Lydia was wearing, not woo1 slacks and a soiled parka, like Corinne, but a lovely soft russet-dyed rabbit-furjacket, one of those unspeakable "fun" furs, and expensive-looking leather boots that shone as if they'd been polished only minutes before. Her hair was beauty-salon frosted-blond, cut stylishly short; her makeup was impeccable: thin smile-lines radiated outward froni her pmnk-lipsticked mouth like Muffin's whiskers, that seemed to quiver with emotion when he looked up at you. Lydia was a familiar Mt. Ephraim presence, active in charities including of course the hospital women's auxiliary of which Corinne was a member; her daughter Priscilla was in Patrick's class at the high school, a flashy girl with a sullen smile-pretty enough, Corinne granted, but thank God not hers.

The inward-swinging door of the post office kept opening, customers kept coming in, Cormnne's escape was blocked. No choice but to stand and chat with Lydia Bethune who was a nice woman, a well-intentioned woman, but who carried with her an aura of perfumed complacency that set Corinne's teeth on edge.

"Corinne, how are you?"

"Oh, well-you know, busy."

"Bart says he sees Michael at the club often, on the squash court especially, and I have lunch there sometimes, about once a week. But we never see you there."

Corinne murmured a vague apology. True, she rarely went to the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, despite the ridiculous six-hundreddollar yearly dues Michael paid. She wasn't a woman who golfed, in wanner weather; she had no use for the tennis courts, or the indoor or outdoor pools; if she wanted exercise, she had plenty of houseand farmwork to do. Above all, she wasn't a woman who "lunched"; the thought made her smile. Dressing up to have expensive lunches, with drinks, with women like Lydia Bethune and her frmends!-not quite Corinne Mulvaney's style. Ever few weeks, Michael insisted that they have dinner on a Saturday evening with one or two other couples, or maybe Sunday brunch, with the children, but that was about the extent of Corinne's involvement. And even then she went reluctantly, like one of her own adolescent children dragooned into something against his will, complaining that she hadn't the right clothes to wear, or her hair wasn't right, or she had nothing to say to those people.

Don't be ridiculous, Michael chided, we're those people ourselves.

Lydia Bethune was chattering, smiling-a smile that made Corinne uneasy, it looked so forced. "Priscilla says Marianne was so pretty at the prom. I saw the pictures in the paper-"

"Oh, yes." Corinne's cheeks burned. Her daughter was so much Corinne herself, how could she accept such a compliment?

"I hope you took photographs?"

"Well-yes."

"And-" Lydia was a bit rattled, breathless, "-how is your family?"

"My family?" Corinne drew a blank. "Why, the last I knew, they were fine."