On hilly Ca.s.sadaga Street just inside the town limits there was Dr. Oakley's old gray_shingled house. Corinne parked, and half walked half carried sobbing Marianne inside and explained to the astonished nurse-receptionist that her daughter needed immediate medical attention. And of course Dr. Oakley the Mulvaneys' old friend took Marianne into the back at once, before the half dozen other patients seated hushed and staring in the waiting room. (Corinne, accompanying Marianne into the rear, had no time to take notice of these staring witnesses except one or two were familiar faces, from P.T.A. perhaps, acquainted with the Mulvaneys, surely. And so this episode, Corinne Mulvaney bursting into Dr. Oakley's office with her hysterically weeping young daughter, would be murmured of, spoken of, relayed by telephone and in person like an electronic news bulletin flung in myriad directions simultaneously through Mt. Ephraim before Michael Mulvaney would have heard of it himself.)

In Dr. Oakley's consulting room, as Corinne would tell Michael that evening, Marianne grew calmer. It was a familiar place, and Dr. Oakley urged her to sit, offered her a tissue, spoke comfortingly to her. Corinne pulled up a chair close beside Marianne's and held her hand as she spoke. Marianne's face was streaked with tears that glistened like acid and her skin was drained of color and she could not bring herself to look at Dr. Oakley behind his desk, nor at Corinne. She said in a small almost inaudible voice that she'd been "hurt."

"Hurt, Marianne?" Dr. Oakley asked. "How?"

The other night, after the prom. Very late after the prom. It might have been three o'clock in the morning.

"And where did this happen, Marianne?"

In a boy's car. In a-she couldn't recall exactly-parking lot somewhere. Behind some buildings. By a row of Dumpsters. She'd been drinking, and she'd been sick. Her memory was confused and she would not wish to speak in error.

"Who was the boy, Marianne?" Dr. Oakley asked quietly. "What did he do to you?"

Marianne didn't reply at fimt, then said, in the same near-inaudible voice, that she did not wish to say the boy's name. She did not believe that what had happened had been his fault to any degree more than it had been her fault. She'd been drinking at the party, and she had never been so sick in her life. She had made a mistake to drink and believed that friends had warned her but she could not remember clearly. She could not remember much of what had happened and even the memory of the prom itself had become blurred like a dream you know you've had yet can't recall. It was there, it was real, yet she had no access to it. And she did not wish to speak in error.

Dr. Oakley said, frowning, "But something was done to you, Marianne? You've been-'hurt'?"

There was the evidence she'd discovered, Marianne said slowly, of certain injuries. On her body. She had struggled with him, the boy whose name she did not wish to say, but he'd ripped her dress, and might have struck her-unless she'd fallen, slipped and fell in her high heels, on icy pavement. Trying to run from his car. It had been very cold and windy and she didn't know where her coat was and she'd been sick. She had never been drunk before but believed that that was what had happened to her-she'd been drinking something made of orange juice and she'd been warned but had not listened, or could not remember having listened, and could not remember who'd warned her. She did not wish to name any names and to involve her friends or anyone for no one was to blame except possibly herself. She might have been running and stumbling from the boy's car because she was going to be sick. Ashamed to be sick, vomiting in his car. She'd believed they were parked in the LaPortes' driveway because the boy had said he would drive her there but apparently they were somewhere else and she could not say where. Afterward, he had driven her to the LaPortes'. Yet she could not speak in absolute certainty about any of this: whether in fact the boy had said he would drive her to Trisha's house or whether she had misunderstood. For the past few days she had been praying and meditating upon what to do, and she had decided she must do nothing, for it was she who had made the mistake and not the boy and she must not bear witness against him. And Marianne began to cry again, helplessly. And Corinne hugged her, herself in tears, as Dr. Oakley looked on, and Corinne wept, wept as if her heart had broken. And Marianne sat stiff yet unresisting, allowing her mother to embrace her but not returning the embrace until, after a short while, Marianne said calmly, looking now at Dr. Oakley, "I'm ready to be examined now, Dr. Oakley, I guess."

Dr. Oakley's nurse escorted Marianne into an examining room and Connne would have accompanied them but Dr. Oakley suggested it might be better if she waited here. And Corinne waited, and after what seemed like a very long time Dr. Oakley reappeared, and his expression was grim, sympathetic-"It appears that your daughter has been s.e.xually abused."

Corinne was on her feet, anguished. "Oh G.o.d. Oh Jesus. She's been-raped?"

Dr. Oakley paused. Licked his lips. His thick bifocals, which left such deep indentations on the bridge of his nose, reflected an opaque light. He held a sheet of paper in his tremulous hands and frowned at it, as if his own handwriting perplexed him. "There is evidence of 'forcible penile penetration,' yes. The hymen has been ruptured and there are bruises and lacerations in the v.a.g.i.n.al and pelvic area and bruises elsewhere-thighs, abdomen, b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It's been several days since the a.s.sault and so there wouldn't be-I'm sure-" and here Dr. Oakley, the most gentlemanly of elder men, faltered, "-any traces of s.e.m.e.n remaining. But I've taken a smear, and we'll see."

"Raped? Marianne?"

"Corinne, she doesn't say-that. She hasn't said that, dear, you see."

"But of course that's what it is, Dr. Oakley! Rape."

Dr. Oakley was shaking his head, visibly nervous, frowning at the report in his fingers. He was a man whose courtly, warmly gracious manner could sometimes shade into awkwardness-he was an old-style general pract.i.tioner, of an era that preceded what he perceived as trendy psychologies, "therapies." He said, careftilly, "I've prescribed painkillers for your daughter, and something to help her sleep. She's a brave young woman, and it may be that you and-and Michael-need to listen to her, and not-" again he paused, with a fastidious licking of his lips, "-do anything rash."

These things Corinne reported to Michael in as calm and measured a voice as she could manage. She dreaded his rage, his terrible temper that erupted rarely, yet with alarming force. -f he b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I'll kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.d! she'd antic.i.p.ated his words for hours. Tell me who it is, I'll kill him!

Yet, initially, what frightened Corinne more, Michael took the news as one might take news of one's imminent mortality. He did not interrupt, he did not speak at all. He was having difficulty breathing and grasped at both her hands, his face suddenly ashen, eyes an old man's eyes, watery and incredulous. He seemed to have lost his balance-stooped, and swayed-sat heavily on an upended wooden box. One of his gloves had fallen from his overcoat pocket and his jaunty fox-colored fedora lay on the floorboards at his feet. Quickly, pleading, thinking he niight be having a heart attack or a stroke (his blood pressure was high-oh why hadn't she remembered!), Corinne said, "Michael, darling, it's all right-she's all right. Marianne's very brave, and Dr. Oakley says she needs to rest-she wasn't hurt badly, really!-1 mean-" Crouched in Michael's arms, the clumsy embrace of his arms in the sleeves of the camel's-hair coat, pressing her anguished face against his.

They looked up, to see Patrick bareheaded and shivering in the doorway, staring at them. His voice quivered with boyish reproach and alarm. "Dad? Mom? What's wrong? Why're you two out here?"

EVERY HEARTBEAT!.

That time in our lower driveway, by the brook. I was straddling my bike staring down into the water. Fast-flowing clear water, shallow, shale beneath, and lots of leaves. Sky the color of lead and the light mostly drained so I couldn't see my face only the dark shape of a head that could be anybody's head. Hypnotizing myself the way kids do. Lonely kids, or kids not realizing they're lonely. The brook was flowing below left to right (east to west, though at a slant) and I stood immobile leaning on the railing (pretty d.a.m.n rotted: I'd tell Dad it needed to be replaced with new planks, we could do it together) until it began to happen as it always does the water gets slower and slower and you're the one who begins to move-oh boyl we-ird! scary and ticklish in the groin and I leaned farther and farther over the rail staring into the water and I was moving, moving helplessly forward, it seemed I was moving somehow upward, rising into the air, helpless, in that instant aware of my heart beating ONEtwothree ONEtwothree! thinking Every heartbeat is past and gone! Every heartbeat is past and gone! A chill came over me, I began to shiver. It wasn't warm weather now but might have been late as November, most of the leaves blown from the trees. Only the evergreens and some of the black birches remaining but it's a fact when dry yellow leaves (like on the birches) don't fall from a tree the tree is partly dead. A light gritty film of snow on the ground, darkest in the crevices where you'd expect shadow so it was like a film negative. Every heartbeat is past and gone! Every heartbeat is past and gone! in a trance that was like a trance of fury, raging hurt Am I going to die? because I did not believe that Judd Mulvaney could die. (Though on a farm living things are dying, dying, dying all the time, and many have been named, and others are born taking their places not even knowing that they are taking the places of those who have died.) So I knew, I wasn't a dope, but I didn't know-not really. Aged eleven, or maybe twelve. Leaning over the rotted rail gaping at the water hypnotized and scared and suddenly there came Dad and Mike in the mud-colored Ford pickup (Might as well buy our vehicles mud-colored to begin with, saves time, was Dad's logic) barreling up the drive, bouncing and rattling. On the truck's doors were neat curving white letters sweet to see MULVANEY R0OFINC; (716) 689-8329. They'd be pa.s.sing so close my bike might snag in a fender so I grabbed it and hauled it to the side. Mike had rolled down his window to lean out and pretend to cuff at my head- "Hey Ranger-kid: what's up?" Dad at the wheel grinned and laughed and next second they were past, the pickup in full throttle ascending the drive. And I looked after them, these two people so remarkable to me, my dad who was like n.o.body else's dad and my big brother who was-well, Mike Mulvaney: "Mule" Mulvaney- and the most terrible thought came to me.

Them, too. All of them. Every heartbeat past and gone.

It stayed with me for a long time, maybe forever. Not just that I would lose the people I loved, but they would lose me-Judson Andrew Mulvaney. And they knew nothing of it. (Did they?) And I, just a skinny kid, the runt of the litter at High Point Farm, would have to pretend not to know what I knew.

THE a.s.sAULT.

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 embarra.s.sed, hesitant. "Michael, hey-how's it going?"

"What the h.e.l.l 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.ds 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 h.e.l.l'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 circ.u.mstances, 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 gla.s.ses 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 h.e.l.l 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 G.o.dd.a.m.ned son, he hurt my daughter, my little girl, last Sat.u.r.day night. Hurt her!-ahused her! Do you know about it, Mort? Did the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d? f.u.c.ker! Get your a.s.s 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-a.s.sault."

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. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d! 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 gla.s.ses 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.