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

But Mort Lundt is afriend of mine.

Amid a rush of emotion almost too powerful to be borne, that was the first thought that came to Michael Mulvaney Sr.

Reckless and desperate he drove, that night, giving no warning to the Lundts, into Mt. Ephraim, at high speeds along the icy roads, to the Lundt home (whose fieldstone ranch house, on Elrnwood Lane near the Country Club, he'd visited as a guest once or twice)-arrived at about nine-thirty, in a light snowfall, to find a Chautauqua County sheriffs vehicle parked in the driveway. And there was Eddy Harris, one of the deputies, an old friend of Michael's, waiting for him.

Michael bounded out of the Ford pickup without shutting the door behind him, coatless, bareheaded, and Eddy Harris quickly climbed out of the cruiser to meet him. Eddy was embarrassed, hesitant. "Michael, hey-how's it going?"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Corinne called me, she told me you might be headed here. You got a problem, eh?"

Michael saw someone at the Lundts' front door, a tall figure- Mort Lundt. He said, excited, "Not me, it's those bastards in there who've got a problem," pushing past Eddy who tned to block his path, "-I'm going to have a little talk with them."

Eddy said, taking hold of Michael's arm, "Just a minute, Michael-" and Michael shrugged him off, furious. "Who the hell's side are you on?"

The door opened, and Mort Lundt called out shakily, "I'm not afraid to speak with him, Officet We can clear this up right now."

Michael Mulvaney Sr. bounded up the steps, ignored Mort Lundt's extended hand. How strange for the two men, accustomed to handshakes, warm and even effusive greetings, encountering each other in such very different circumstances, to be sizing each other up flow! Michael Mulvaney was an inch or so shorter than Mort Lundt but some thirty pounds heavier and in every way more physical, more intense; adrenaline, thrumming through his veins, gave him a heated energy, a clammy-white radiance to his face. The men were approximately the same age, approaching fifty, but Mort Lundt with his thinning filmy-gray hair and bifocal glasses appeared older, more tentative. He shrank back from Michael as if he feared a blow to the face. Michael cried, "Right! Right now! And where's your son? He's the one I've conic to see."

Mort Lundt said, stammering, "Zachary is-isn't here right now."

"The hell he isn't! We'll see about that."

For some five or ten minutes the men stood talking disjointedly together, in the Lundts' foyer. The sherifFs deputy remained close by, not involved in the conversation but listening. Mort Lundt, by training an investment banker, by temperament a man given to excessive courtesy, tried to speak rationally, calmly, though his voice cracked; Michael spoke loudly and not always coherently, as if, as it would be said of him afterward, he'd been drinking. Mort acknowledged that yes, he'd heard some disagreeable things about a parry after the prom the previous weekend, he'd heard there'd been "underage drinking" and some "pretty wild behavior" and he'd questioned his son, and disciplined him: Zach was grounded for six weeks, denied the use of his car, an 8 p.i-i. curfew. Michael interrupted, "Your goddamned son, he hurt my daughter, my little girl, last Saturday night. Hurt her!-ahused her! Do you know about it, Mort? Did the little bastard tell you that?"

Mort protested, "Please d-don't call my son such-"

Michael cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted into the interior of the house, "Are you listening, you little bastard? Fucker! Get your ass down here or I'll come get it!"

"Just a minute, Michael-"

"Michael, wait-"

Both Mort and Eddy tried to restrain Michael, and he threw

them off, staggering, fiu-ious. He said to his friend Eddy, "You! Call yourself a man of the law! You should be arresting this kid for abuse-assault."

Shortly after this exchange, Zachary Lundt appeared on the stairs. He wore bleached jeans, a Grateful Dead sweatshirt. His long, lank hair fell forward into his eyes. If he'd meant to confront Michael Mulvaney defiantly, or even bravely, resolutely, all strength drained from him as Michael bounded to the stairs, grabbed him by the arm and began to shake him. "Bastard! Punk! What did you do to my daughter! I'll kill you-"

Mort Lundt and Eddy Harris intervened. Michael shoved at both men, striking Mort on the side of the face and sending his glasses flying; in the struggle, Zachary Lundt slipped, fell, would have fallen onto Michael except Michael seized him in a bear hug, cracking several ribs, and flung him against a wall where his nose was broken, bloodied.

It had all happened so swiftly! In another part of the house, Mrs. Lundt was frantically dialing the Mt. Ephraim police.

THE PENITENT

They said, Tell us.

She said, Only what I know.