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

ASK DAD

No one would be able to name what had happened, or would wish to name it: rape was a word that came not to be spoken at High Point Farm.

What were the words that were spoken? I remember abuse- assault-taking advantage of-hurt. Those were words I heard, or overheard, though these too were not uttered openly (that is, in the presence of Patrick or me) as one might not speak openly of cancer, of death.

The perpetrator, who was Zachary Lundt the son of Mortonuand Cynthia Lundt, was always referred to as he, him. Unless Dad was speaking, raging. The bastard. The son of a bitch. The fucker. (When Dad had been drinking, I mean. Other times, he wouldn't be talking much at all.)

Eventually, of course, I would come to know what had happened to Marianne, or at least a certain sequence of "facts." At the time, however, as the last-born of the Mulvaney children, I was the last to know anything. And even then, such was our family speech code, I didn't exactly know. One morning, in the stable, I asked Patrick what was going on and Patrick squinted at me through his round wire-rimmed glasses, not missing a beat as he combed Prince, and murmured, "Who wants to know?" (This was a Mulvaney euphemism for "Mind your own business.") I said, "I want to know, for God's sake: what's going on, why's everybody tiptoeing around, what's wrong with Marianne?" Patrick moved to Prince's other side as the deep-chested mahogany-brown gelding shook his mane, shook and lifted his tail and released a torrent of steaming-hot piss. "I'm one of you," I said, hurt, "-why can't I know?"

Patrick peered at me over Prince's sleek ripply back. He was wearing a green wool cap yanked down over his ears that gave him a squeezed furious look and his cheeks were flushed with cold. He mumbled sullenly, "Marianne's had some trouble I guess but she's O.K. now."

"Some trouble? Marianne?"

This was just so surprising to me, I didn't know how to react.

Patrick shrugged. His face closed like a fist, that was the most I'd get from him.

I knew: Marianne hadn't gone to school lately and, at least when I was home, she seemed to be hidden away in her room, with the door closed. I thought she must be sick, but Mom assured me, with a bright quick smile, "Oh, no! Button's had flu but she's just about recovered. You know this family-" Mom's fingers were fluttering the air like deranged butterflies, "-we get sick fast, and we get well fast. She'll be returnmg to school-oh, tomorrow. Or the day after."

Mom was backing away, I tried to detain her. "Mom? How come Dad's acting so strange, too?"

But Morn was in motion. I'd caught up with her in the back hall as she was zipping up her parka, stamping her feet into whichever pair of boots happened to be handy. Grabbed her car keys, she was late for-whatever. Called over her shoulder at me, with a worried smile, "Dad's had the flu, too. `Cap'n Mulvaney'-he'll be himself again soon!"

Finally I cornered Mike. After supper one night when it was just Morn, Mike, P.J. and me at the table. Marianne upstairs and Dad away "on business" as Mom explained vaguely. We'd had a strained meal, poor Mom jumping up to answer the phone twice-three times-but it was never the call she expected, if in fact she expected any call. P.J. was brooding over something, staring into his plate as if into one of his fancy concepts-"infinity." Mike shoveled in his food with an angry appetite it seemed. He had a date that night with one of his girlfriends and near the end of the meal he was moving his shoulders twitchy and impatient as if he'd been sitting on the bench waiting to be called into the game and the waiting had gone on too long. As soon as he finished eating he was on his feet mumbling

"Excuse me, Mom! Thanks!"-and Mom looked after him hurt, like she was always looking hurt these days. Mike shaved for the second time that day; then in his room he was banging around looking for something, yanked off one shirt and put on another, combed his oiled hair compulsively staring at himself in his bureau mirror and liking what he saw, but just barely. Silky nudged against Mike's legs gazing up at him with lovelorn doggy-brown eyes, but he ignored him; I wandered into Mike's room uninvited, lounged on the bed and petted Silky, a kid brother hanging out in his big brother's room. I was too shy to ask any question of Mike that might violate the code. For instance, the kid brother is risking something just initiating a conversation with a big brother who clearly has other more significant things on his mind.

"Shit." Mike spoke softly, but angrily. Yanking off the shirt he'd just put on, pawing through his closet for something else. He'd shaved so roughly there were pinpricks of blood on his jaws. His eyes had a yellowish cast. How long he'd ignore me, I had to wonder. It was almost fascinating, like one of P.J.'s weird experiments with pond algae.

On the walls of Mike's room and on his bureau and windowsills were photographs, clippings, plaques, all sorts of memorabilia of his four years as a star high school athlete. (The big brassy shiny trophies were out in the living room, of course. On permanent display.

"MULE" MIJLVANEY MOST IMPROVED ATHLETE 1971, MT. EPHRAIM CHAMBER OF COMMERCE SPORTS NIGHT. MULE MULVANEY OUTSTANDING SENIOR ATHLETE MT. EPHRAIM HIGH 1972. And more.) As a small kid I'd been in awe of my big brother Mule in his football gear, snug-fitting pants, maroon number four jersey bulked up with padded shoulders. That shiny helmet that makes players look like astronauts. We younger kids knew the players didn't have those bodies really, so padded-up, yet we reacted as if they did-so strong-looking, so confident. That was why seeing one of the players suddenly fallen and writhing with pain on the football field, like the time Mike was struck down with a broken ankle, was such a sobering sight, a ten-i-ying sight I'd remember vividly all my life. There were cries, screams. The referee's frantic whistle. Dad already pushing his way through the crowd, descending the bleachers, and Mom on her feet crying, "Oh Mikey! Oh no!"

Mike Mulvaney was ranked one of the two or three best football players who'd ever graduated from Mt. Ephraim High, but it was generally acknowledged that his playing was erratic, reckless. He'd suddenly lose control and judgment and that's when he would get hurt. Luckily his injuries were mostly minor. What was said about him, in print and word-of-mouth, was what a "great sport" he was. Never played dirty like some of the others, never complained bitterly after a losing game. In interviews, Mike graciously attributed his sportsmanship to "ideals fostered by my dad and mom." He gave credit to Coach Hansen. He gave credit to his teachers, his minister. You'd have thought he was one of the "good, Christian" boys but the real Mike was rowdy and irreverent. When the Mt. Ephrairn Rams lost a game, which was rare, it was Mike who cheered the other guys up, and Mike who dared tease Coach himself, a bull-like local character with a notable tendency to turn sullen and morose if things didn't go quite as he wished. "Hey, Coach: lighten it!" Mike once yelled, in my hearing, "-here today gone tomorrow, what the hell?" As if this were a happy insight. And Coach and others standing around looked at Mike and laughed.

His senior year of high school Mike had offers of football scholarships from Michigan, Minnesota, Notre Dame, Colgate as well as each of the New York State universities, couldn't make up his mind for weeks then settled on SUNY Buffalo but didn't return after the first semester claiming college wasn't for him, and that included college football. Maybe the coach there didn't appreciate him? Maybe the university was too large? Maybe his grades, in business administration, weren't good? Whatever, Mike returned home and started work immediately at Mulvaney Roofing with Dad. Dad had wanted Mike to get a college degree but, frankly, he admitted he couldn't see how a diploma would make the slightest difference if you knew what you were doing in your trade and if you did it better than anyone else.

That was his formula for success. The formula that had worked for Michael Mulvaney Sr.

Finally Mike glanced at me, not glowering exactly but not smiling either. I took this as an invitation to speak. I said, "Is something going on with Marianne?" Mike was roughly zipping up a blue velour sweater, a gift from his girlfriend Trudj, and said, hotly, "Yes, something's wrong. Something's pretty fucking goddamned wrong." He turned back to his mirror, peering critically at himself. "Some son of a bitch hurt her, some guy at the school." This was such a surprise to me, so astonishing, I stanmiered, "Huh? Who?" and Mike said bitterly, "Some guy. In P.J. `s class. Some cocksucker's gonna pay for it." "But-what did he do?" I asked. Mike was running his comb another time through his curly-kinky russet-brown hair; then he slipped the comb into his back jeans pocket, like a secret weapon. He said dismissively, "Ask them. They don't want me to talk about it. To anyone." "But who was it, Mike? What happened?"-I was excited, scared. I was old enough to know of certain ways in which a girl could be hurt by a guy (I knew what rape was, more or less) but it was difficult for me to comprehend that my sister Marianne, my sister everyone liked so much, especially guys at the high school, could have been hurt in such a way.

Mike left his room, went to grab a parka from a bed in the back hall."Mike, hey-why won't anyone talk about it? Why's it such a secret?" I asked. Mike stomped his feet into leather boots, taking his car keys out of his pocket and impatient to be gone. At the door he paused, looked at me, considered how to reply, his eyes narrowed and damp like Mom's as if he, not Marianne, had been the one to be hurt. Whatever this obscure and mysterious hurt was.

He said, "Ask Dad."

BOYS WILL BE BOYS!

A morning in March, room 209 of Mt. Ephraim High: