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

July11, 1963

lbs., 4 oz.

brown hair, brown eyes, pug nose

PRAISE GOD THE MULVANEY CABOOSE HAS ARRIVED-

hugged or lifted. There were older women, mothers with grown children, who, to Corimne's embarrassment, burst into tears at the mere sight of her, as of memones too precious to be borne.

Those years. They'd still been young, and they'd certainly seemed to themselves blundering, humble, groping, inexperienced; inventing their lives as they went. You Mulvaneys! how lucky are you! the refrain went. (For Michael was proving himself as a Mt. Ephraim merchant, too, at this time-a dynamo of energy guiding Mulvaney Roofing.) Such pronouncements left them, Corinne in particular, uneasy, apologetic, vaguely guilty. Yes hut we don't deserve. Do we? Their beautiful Baby Marianne, their precious Patrick and Mikey-already, as in a dream, they'd harvested of their love afamily.

Lying beside her husband in bed, at night, as his breathing slowed and thickened, Corinne tried to sleep, for she was always exhausted, yet she couldn't prevent her mind from racing-flying- sorting through the memories of the day as one might rummage through a drawer in search of some utterly commonplace household object; as if searching for a clue; and suddenly, awake after all, Michael would murmur, "Of all of them"-requiring no preamble, no explanation, as if simply voicing Corinne's womes, a continuous stream of thought flowing through both mother and father, parents, "-it's her I wonder about." Her: our baby girl Marianne. (Asleep in her crib a few feet away.) And Corinne would say quickly, "Wonder what?" The more uneasy Corinne was, the lighter, more jovialjoshing her middle-of-the-night tone. Michael would say, shrugging in the dark, "Oh hell, it's hard to explain, it's a little crazy I guess- like God is trusting us with something we're possibly not good enough, not strong enough, to deserve." And Corinne would laugh, sliding an arm across her husband's burly, warm chest, feeling the prickly-wiry hairs through the thin cotton of his T-shirt and nuzzling against him. "Michael Mulvaney, what a thing to say! As if God doesn't know what He's doing. That's about the silliest thing I've heard from you, yet." Her eyes starkly open in the dark, her lips drawn back from her teeth.

And what, in this recitation of Mulvaney babies, of "Judson Andrew"? I'd almost forgotten to speak of myself. It's easy for me to forget myselfi I'm told I was a "perfectly adorable" baby, by which I think is meant a "perfectly ordinary" baby-no distinguishing features, no memorable acts. A predilection for wakefulness, a puppy- like devotion to my older brothers and sister. There are snapshots of the three of us-I mean, the four of us-in which Mikey-Junior, a husky curly-haired little boy, cuddles me, a small infant, in his arms, with a dazzling grin at the camera; there are snapshots of the four of us posed with family pets, or perched atop porch railings, or ponies-Dad or Mom steadying the smallest of us from behind, crouched out of sight. One of my favorite snapshots, which I'd stolen away with Re: when I left High Poimit Farmn, is pencilled on the back in Mom's handwriting, Chickadee & Baby Judd, Xmas 1964; it shows my beautiful five-year-old sister, all smiles and bouncy curls, posed with me, a rather odd-looking, astonished-appearing toddler in a green playsuit, posed amid a glittering mound of Christmas presents.

Marianne was "Little Mother"-helped take care of me, feed, bathe, clothe me. Morn boasted that "Little Mother" was as capable as "Big Mother" in many ways. Changing diapers, helping with toilet training. On the potty, Baby Judd had been "eager to please" and what that meant exactly, I didn't want to know. Naturally there are fewer snapshots of me than of the other babies in the overflowing faniily album, which I didn't interpret as a lack of interest in i-ne personally (I know Mom loved me, a lot) but a diminution of baby as a subject. After all, who could blame my parents? To announce my birth, Mom sent out several dozen brightly inked cards she'd made herself- depicting a cartoon caboose at the end of a long, winding freight train:

DAMAGED GIRL

I hadn't known, God help me I hadn't guessed. Yet I think it must have been partly myfi-ult. I'm her mother, it must have been partly my fault. I'm waiting, 0 God I'm hoping to understand.

St. Ann's Roman Catholic Church, at the hilly crest of Mercer Avenue, a snowy-glaring cemetery behind it, was one of the few Mt. Ephraiin churches Corinne had never once stepped inside. Not just that St. Ann's was a Catholic church (and Corinne, Protestant to her fingertips, had a nervous apprehension of the Holy Roman Faith) but, somehow, she and Michael Sr. didn't seeni to have any close friends in the parish who might have invited them to weddings, baptisms, funerals.

Corinne wondered; Did Marianne have a special friend in St. Ann's?-was that the connection?

She parked the station wagon hurriedly in front of the church, one wheel up on the curb and she hadn't even noticed. Thank God, her husband wasn't a witness. Thank God, the church parking lot was almost empty, no mass at this hour of niidafternoon, no one around. Corinne hoped. She brightened at the thought that the heavy wooden doors were probably bolted shut from the inside.

St. Ann's Church was large by Mt. Ephrairn standards. Dark red brick, weatherwom; aged, but dignified; bell tower overhead. Mourning doves fluttered about its eaves and their droppings were like ossified tears, streaking downward. The church was in an affluent residential neighborhood in north Mt. Ephraim, attractive treelined streets of single-family dwellings in acre-sized lots. A neighborhood in which many members of the Mt. Ephraim Country Club lived. Corinne felt a tinge of old, automatic dismay and had to check herself. There came Michael Sr.'s laughing-chiding voice in her head: Look, kid, you re one of those people yourself

It occurred to Corinne, a bit desperately, that the LaPortes lived only a block or so away. Trisha was Marianne's closest friend. Might that be the connection?

A stained-glass rose window overlooked the sidewalk. Corinne had a love of stained glass, especially old pieces. So beautiful, if skillfully executed, especially seen from inside a building, sunshine behind it. Maybe that was what attracted Marianne to a Catholic church?-things to see? Stained glass, statues. Altars decked with gold leaf The somber little wood-frame country churches to which Connne took her children (the First Church of Christ of South Lebanon was their current place of worship) were all so plain and spartan and scrubbed-looking. Not much for an adolescent imagination to seize upon. But wasn't that the point, after all?

Jesus is a spirit in us. Not an object to behold.

Corinne tried one of the heavy doors, cautiously-it opened. Her heart was beating painfully. She stepped inside the dim-lit vestibule and a sweet-rancid odor made her nostrils pinch. Incense. An undercurrent of mildew. That unmistakable smell of so-aged-itcan't-really-be-cleaned--any-longer linoleum tile. As if rehearsing a way in which to speak of this adventure, a way of most artfully recounting it to make her listeners laugh, Corinne thought ftliy, you know right away it isn't one of our churches, it's one of theirs!

In a flash it came to her: of course she'd known something had been wrong with her daughter, these past few days. Something notright. Since Sunday. Since the telephone call. A mother always knows, can't not know. But Connne had been so busy, hadn't gotten around to investigating. And hadn't she always been proud she wasn't the kind of mother to "investigate"-on principle. Iwant my children to trust me. To think of tne as an equal.

A cruel counterthought mocked No, you're just afraid of what you might discover.

A new church is always forbidding and St. Ann's with its high ceiling and ornamental interior seemed to Connne not-welcoming. There were statues positioned along the walls, statues meant to represent Jesus, His mother Mary, and other saints-richly robed, life-sized, Caucasian. To be worshipped as pagans might worship: the eye fastened to an object, confused about what an object is. And the spirit indwelling. Near the back of the church was a miniature side altar before which votive candles had been lit, their flames flickering. An elderly woman knelt before this altar, head bowed, whispering prayers with a rosary clutched in her fingers. Up the wide aisle, at the front, was the main altar, prominent as a stage, glittering with gold or gilt; draped in satiny white, with much ornamentation, and vases of flowers beginning to wilt. Overhead was a large cross upon which was impaled Jesus Christ, crowned with thorns, dabbed with blood, a dark-haired dark-bearded tender-eyed Savior, contorted in an ecstasy of suffering. Corinne stared. The wonder and honor of the crucifixion swept over her anew.

Jesus forgive us, we know not what we do.

In fact, St. Ann's was not deserted. There were several persons scattered amid the wooden pews. At the far right, in a slanted net of pale amber light from a stained-glass window, sat Marianne. She was wearing her sky blue parka, the hood lowered; her hair was unkempt and her head sharply bowed, a hand lifted to her eyes. It looked as if her lips were moving silently. Corinne tiptoed to her and leaned over. "Marianne?" she whispered, straining her mouth in a smile. "Honey-?"

It was as if she'd shouted into the girl's ear. Marianne started, drawing back. Her eyes were puffy-lidded and glassy and she seemed scarcely to show, in that first instant, any sign of recognition.