We Were the Mulvaneys (22 page)

Dear God, please no.

I'm not young enough, or strong enough, this time.

It was Corinne's belief, never shared with anyone, that she'd had to struggle for her husband's very soul, those years. A shudder ran through her—how close she'd come to losing Michael to that filthy black muck.

Yet, she had to admit, there'd been a certain shabby glamor about Wolf's Head Lake, and the Inn, in the days they'd all been young, and good-looking. An erotic undercurrent to virtually every exchange between a man and a woman not married to each other. The sexy
beat! beat! beat!
of the jukebox in the barroom. The Wolf's Head Inn was a country tavern built on a promontory above the lake, a boat-rental concession operating out of its ground floor. (How the Mulvaney children loved those leaky, cumbersome rowboats, clamoring to be taken out Sunday after Sunday! The memory made the corners of Corinne's eyes crinkle—that blinding glare on the lake at sunset. A ghost-pain darted between her shoulder blades. Until Mikey-Junior was old enough to be trusted with a rowboat and the younger children, it fell to Mom to take the crew out, while Dad drank beer and played cards with his friends on the Inn veranda. You could hear them laughing and hooting like hyenas a hundred yards out on the lake.)

Inside, the Inn was dim-lit on even the sunniest days. There was a long battered bar that put Corinne in mind, fancifully, of a locomotive. There were flyspecked screened windows overlooking the lake, there were unfinished floorboards littered with cigarette butts and package wrappers by the end of the night. And the smell!—her nostrils pinched at the memory. Sharp, distinctive, unmistakable: beer, tobacco smoke, disinfectant-and-stale-urine at the rear, where His and Hers rest rooms opened off a dank alcove. Yet the Inn had a seedy glamor, your heart quickened when you stepped inside. There was a small dance floor, there was an ever-glowing jukebox. How many nickels Corinne had dropped into it, herself! Every other song you heard was Elvis Presley. Playful-rowdy Elvis (“Hound Dog”), dreamy-maudlin Elvis (“Heartbreak Hotel”), sexy-seductive Elvis (“Love Me Tender”). Corinne had been a dreamy young wife in her twenties, she'd drunk beer, too, till her head swirled and she laughed at the slightest provocation. A quick squeeze of Michael's fingers on her wrist could send a tinge like electricity to her groin—oh, yes!

Wolf's Head Inn, Wolf's Head Lake, NY
—discovering the matchbook in Michael's trouser pocket, the crude logo of a wolf's head in silhouette, brought this back to Corinne, with a shiver.

Of course, the lake
was
beautiful. All of the rural Chautauqua Valley was beautiful. Back in the Fifties there had been relatively few cabins, cottages, cheap motels at the lake (development was to come, with a vengeance, in the Seventies) and you could walk without distraction along the shore, through the pine woods, gazing across the placid surface of the lake to the dense woodland on the opposite shore a mile away, lifting into the fir-covered Chautauqua foothills and the slate-blue hazy mountains beyond. Of course, the children loved it. Of course, it was their favorite, favorite place. And Michael's.

Yet Wolf's Head Lake had seemed to Corinne a place of surprises and danger. She was a young mother, she exaggerated—maybe. Much of its shore was rocky and unsuited for swimming; even at the periphery of the main beach, where a lifeguard was on duty, you sometimes stepped into repulsive soft muck like quicksand. A quick storm could blow up, turning the water into harsh choppy waves; if you were in a rowboat halfway across the lake, and if the wind was coming at you, the return could be desperate, and exhausting. Or, on hot, muggy days, the lake glittered sickly-slick, like molten plastic. There were ugly stinging flies, clouds of droning gnats and mosquitoes. Even (thank God, Corinne had never actually seen one!—she'd never have stepped into the lake again) water snakes, in the wilder inlets. And wasn't the sunshine harsher at Wolf's Head Lake than at home? All the Mulvaneys had suffered sunburn at one time or another, even Michael Sr. who tanned darkly. Once, Button was five or six, playing on the beach and wading in shallow water one afternoon for hours, and the sky had been pebbled with cloud and yet, by the end of the day, she was whimpering in pain—her slender shoulders and back flaring lobster-pink, burning to the touch. And there were so many loud, rough, combative children at the beach, running and splashing in the water, tossing sand, mouthy boys whose every third word was a profanity. And the girls!—young teenagers in flimsy bathing suits flaunting their remarkable little bodies, plastic sunglasses and bright makeup worn even in the water, precocious hussies eyeing Corinne's own Mikey-Junior when he'd been no more than twelve! Just as their mothers and older sisters frankly eyed Michael Sr. who was so good-looking.

That way, infuriating to Corinne, signaling
Hey: look at me, here I am!

At Wolf's Head Lake, Corinne had been made to realize a truth that seemed to have eluded her until then—it's one thing to marry a man, and another thing to keep him.

That time, late one Sunday evening, the children ready to go home for hours, even Mikey-Junior drowsy, falling asleep in the back of the station wagon, and Corinne, exasperated, went back into the Inn another time to get Michael, only to discover him with scrawny platinum-bleached-blond Leonie Hawley giggling like idiots on the dance floor, all but necking!—as Corinne would accuse Michael afterward. Michael and Leonie pretended absolute innocence, of course. But Corinne knew,
of course she knew.
Her husband and that flirty brazen woman, an obvious attraction between them, everyone else knew including Haw Hawley, how shameful! There was Leonie with her wide-innocent eyes, there was Michael guilty-defiant, his face darkening with blood. Driving back to High Point Farm the elder Mulvaneys had quarreled while the children slept, or pretended to sleep, in the back of the station wagon. Michael, his voice slurred with drink, became increasingly defensive, angry—“Your imagination is working overtime, sweetheart! And I don't like to be spied on.” Corinne said, “Damn you, Michael Mulvaney, do you think I'm a complete fool?”—pausing to draw breath, not knowing if she was about to burst into tears, or laughter, “Or an incomplete fool?” Harsh horsey-sounding laughter erupted from her throat, but Michael, grim behind the wheel, didn't join in.

Following that, Corinne rarely went back to Wolf's Head Lake with the children. Or, if she did, it was just for the day—swimming, boating. For a while Michael went on his own, hanging out at the Inn, then gradually he stopped going, too.

These were the early years of Mulvaney Roofing's prosperity. The Mulvaneys made new friends in Mt. Ephraim, a new class of friends. Everyone liked Michael Sr., and most people came to like Corinne, once they adjusted to her quirky mannerisms, her odd admixture of shyness and brashness. Michael was one of those persons who, entering a gathering, make people smile in anticipation—like switching on a light, Corinne observed, in a dim-lit room. Men gravitated to him to pump his hand, women's fingers fluttered to their hair and their mouths shaped quick smiles. An up-and-coming Mt. Ephraim businessman who worked, sometimes, a twelve-hour day, rushed home to rapidly shower, shave, get dressed in suit, white shirt and tie, and rush out again to attend a meeting of the Mt. Ephraim Chamber of Commerce, the Mt. Ephraim United Way, or, with Corinne, the P.T.A.

A new adventure, and the Mulvaneys thrived.

So it happened, Michael saw his Wolf's Head Lake friends less and less frequently. He'd already given up hunting, though he kept his guns and his membership in the Sportsmen's Club. Where once he'd seen Haw, Wally, Rick, Cobb and the rest every week or so, now he saw them every six weeks, every three months, every six months—there just wasn't time. If the Mulvaneys gave a big party, their July cookout for instance, Michael would invite the Wolf's Head Lake crowd—maybe. (Corinne wisely didn't say a word. Her strategy was to let Michael see how his old friends simply didn't fit in with the new.) Once, Michael told Corinne how he'd run into Rick Shires at a farm supply store and Rick had seemed almost shy of saying hello to him, as if he'd feared Michael might snub him—“I felt so damned guilty, should've suggested we go somewhere for a drink, but—” Corinne said consolingly, “Rick must know you're busy, honey. I'm sure he understood.” Another time, only a few years ago, Corinne hadn't relayed to Michael how she'd run into Haw at the Kmart on Route 119, shocked to see how ravaged and gray-balding he'd become, wearing bifocals, his drinker's face a cobwebby map of broken capillaries, yet pushy with Corinne, on the edge of nasty. Corinne asked how was Leonie? and Haw said sarcastically why ask
him
, they'd been divorced for five years and never saw each other. (Maybe Corinne had heard this, she couldn't recall! So embarrassing.) After a few awkward minutes Corinne backed off, with the vague murmur that she'd tell Michael they met, maybe they could get together sometime that summer, and Haw virtually snorted in derision, made a gesture with his arm that was meant to indicate Mt. Ephraim and said, “
That's
where the money comes from, eh?” Winking, and smirking, as, wounded as if Haw had spat in her face, Corinne limped away.

Thinking in triumph,
At least I have saved him from you. From turning into you.

Or had she only postponed Wolf's Head Lake in their lives?—that nightmare vision of Michael Mulvaney sinking to his armpits, to his chin, sinking helplessly in that soft filthy black muck.

 

How obsessed poor Michael had become, with
it
.

In the winter and spring of 1976, how heavily
it
weighed upon all their lives.

Though with the therapist Jill James, and, to a lesser degree, with her minister and his wife, and one or two women friends (yes, they'd begun to drift back—hesitantly), Corinne could discuss what had happened to Marianne, or what had probably happened, she could not, would not, utter the word
rape
; would have denied ever uttering it in Dr. Oakley's office. What had happened to their daughter was
assualt, molestation,
occasionally
sexual assault.
To Michael, who had a difficult time speaking of the incident at all, and whose resistance to speaking of it seemed to be increasing with the passage of time, it could only be referred to as
it
.

The way, Corinne understood, you don't speak of
death
to grieving people. If you wanted to speak to them at all, you had to discover other words.

What frightened Corinne was the change in Michael. Where once he'd been completely reliable, now he was unreliable. Oh, he might be telling the truth about where he'd been, working late—then again, he might not. (It was turning Corinne into the kind of wife who checks on her husband continuously—discreet telephone calls to his office, questions innocently posed, pockets searched. How could this be happening to high-minded Corinne Mulvaney!) Michael's moody silences, his nocturnal prowling, drinking, compulsive smoking. His mysterious telephone calls. His short temper with his sons. (Never Marianne. He was stiffly smiling, cordial and distant with her.) And his new habit of secrecy, that alarmed her the most.

What was he planning?

After that terrifying night he'd rushed to the Lundts' house and was arrested, might have been charged with assault, fined or sent to prison—that episode so like a nightmare Corinne could barely force herself to recall it—she hadn't been able to shake off the conviction that something worse was to happen. She tried not to let her imagination run wild, didn't want to make herself ill with worry. (Of course, there were days when Corinne
was
ill with worry. But she meant to keep going just the same.) Yet it was impossible, in weak moments, not to envision an alternate scenario: if Eddy Harris hadn't been at the Lundts' to stop Michael in his rampage, he might have done more than only crack Zachary Lundt's ribs and bloody his face against a wall. He might have done as much to Mort Lundt, too.

My husband is not a violent man, he is not a murderer.

Dear God, You know his heart. Help us!

She'd called Eddy Harris, out of desperation that night. She lived in dread she'd have to call him, or other police officers, sometime again.

Neither in reproach nor in gratitude had Michael ever mentioned to her the fact she'd called Eddy Harris to head him off. It was as if he'd forgotten.

Had she betrayed him, in his eyes?

I only did it because I love you,
she prepared to tell him.
Because we aren't that kind of people.

Imagining his reply,
Aren't we? Who says?

Especially disturbing, yes and infuriating, was Corinne's discovery that Michael was making secret decisions that involved them all. Decisions involving money—God knows how much! Without giving so much as a hint of his intentions, Michael met several times with a Yewville attorney named Costello, of whom Corinne had never heard. She learned of this simply by chance, overhearing a telephone conversation. When she confronted him, Michael said evasively, “Hell, Corinne, a man can always use a lawyer. These are litigious times in the U.S. of A.”