I asked, "Keeps who going? How?"

"I don't know how," Pj. said loftily, looking over my head, "-I just know it's s.e.x. Like if a man and a woman are arguing, or whatever, it isn't about money or needing to get things done or-whatever: it's about s.e.x."

Which impressed me, but also scared me.

Because as I've said, you never could trust Pinch to say what was serious, or even what was true.

But there was the time years before, when I was really small, maybe three years old, wakened at night by a bad dream or by the wind banging something against the house, I ran next door into Dad's and Mom's bedroom uninvited and unexpected and their bedside light was on and I climbed right in bed with them, burrowed against them, so focussed on my own childish fear I hadn't the slightest awareness of surprising them, annoying or embarra.s.sing them, in the midst of what I could not have named, at the time, robust lovemaking. I can remember only the confusion, the creaking of bedsprings and Dad's exclamation (I think it was "What the h.e.l.l-!") and Mom quickly pushing Dad from her, his bare sweaty shoulders and back, covered in frizzy hair, his bare b.u.t.tocks, and hairy muscular legs, both my parents breathing hard as if they'd been running. Mom gasped, "Oh Judd!-Judd, honey-is s-something wr-wrong?" trying to catch her breath, shielding herself her naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s, with the sheet, even as I continued to burrow blind and whimpering against her, and Dad flopped onto his back beside us with a forearm across his eyes, softly cursing. I said I was afraid, I didn't want to be alone, I kicked and wriggled and of course Mom comforted me, possibly scolding me a little but her naked arms were warm and her body gave off a wonderful yeasty odor. Above my head Mom whispered to Dad, "I thought you said you locked the door," and Dad said, "You locked it, you said," and Mom said, "Judd's had a scare, Michael-he's just a baby," and Dad said, "Fine! Good night! I'm going to sleep." And Morn whispered to me, and got me to stop crying, and we giggled together, and Mom switched off the light, and soon we all fell asleep together, a warm sweaty tangle. And it wasn't until years later I realized how I'd intruded upon my parents in their secret lives, and it was too late to be embarra.s.sed.

And if I force myself to think of it, maybe I'd have to admit that I'd done this more than once, as a small child. And each time Dad and Mon-i relented, and took me in. He's just a baby.

(Corinne and Michael Mulvaney were so romantic! All the while we kids were growing up, until this time I'm telling of when things changed. Mike thought they were embarra.s.sing but sort of funny, you had to laugh, smooching like kids like they were just married or something; P.J. was plain embarra.s.sed, and sulky, turning on his heel to walk out of, for instance, the kitchen, if he'd walked in upon Dad and Mom kissing, or, as they sometimes did, breaking into impromptu dance steps to radio music appropriate or not-a dreamy-dithering fox-trot, or a faster, less coordinated step, what they called "jitterbugging," poor Feathers in his cage trilling wildly. When Dad and Mom met in public, even if they'd been apart only a few hours, and where they were was a Friday night football game at the school, a hundred people milling around, Dad would greet Mom with a big grin and "h.e.l.lo, darling!" and he'd lift her hand to his lips to kiss it tenderly-even Marianne cringed at the sight, it was too, too embarra.s.sing. Once, one of Mom's women friends asked what was the secret of her and her husband, and Mom replied, in a lowered voice, "Oh, that man isn't my husband. We're just trying things out.")

Secrets! As a child you come to see the world's crisscrossed with them like electromagnetic waves, maybe even held together by them. But you can't know. Not, as kids say,for sure. And if you blunder by accident into a secret it's like you've pushed open a door where you thought was just a wall. You can look through, if you're brave or reckless enough you can even step inside-taking a chance what you'll learn is worth what it costs.

This other time I'm thinking of, when Mike Jr. was a senior in high school, and a star player on the football team, his picture in the local papers often and the name "Mule" Mulvaney famous in the county-I did barge in on a secret, sort of. Dad was talking to Mike and P.J. in the family room, the door shut against intrusion (you'd have to know that our family room door was never shut, I'd have thought there wasn't even a door to the room), and I came downstairs and overheard just enough to arouse my curiosity, something in Dad's usually congenial jokey voice that was low and earnest and quivering with emotion and exciting because I understood this was not for Ranger's ears. I went to crouch by the door and pressed my ear against it. Dad was saying, "-I don't care who the girl is. What her reputation is, or people say it is. Or she herself thinks it is. No sons of mine are going to be involved in behavior like that. If anybody's treating a girl or a woman rudely in your presence-you protect her. If it means going against your friends, the h.e.l.l with your 'friends'-got it?" Dad's voice was nsing. I could picture his creased forehead, the set of his jaws, his eyes that seemed, at such times, to snap. Just-snap! You'd feel the sting of his glance like a BB pellet in the face.

Now I know it must have been Della Rae Duncan Dad was speaking of, in such outrage. Word was spreading through town, half the Mt. Ephraim football team had "had relations" with the drunken girl, after the Rams had won the Chautauqua County high school championship.

Finally Mike was allowed to speak, pleading, "But I wasn't with those guys, Dad! I d-didn't know anything about it until afterward." Dad asked skeptically, "Oh yes? How long afterward?" and Mike said, "I-don't know, exactly." "An hour? Five minutes?" "Gosh no, Dad-the next day, I guess." Mike's voice was weak and scared and I'd guess he might be lying. Or maybe Dad just scared him so, he was breaking down. It was fascinating to me to hear my big brother Mule speaking to our father like a small child-like me, aged ten. The thought came to me Don't we ever grow up? For some weird reason this was consoling.

They talked a while longer, Dad and Mike, and finally Dad relented, saying, "All right, Mikey. But if I ever learn you were involved, even just that you knew, at the time, I'll break your a.s.s. Got it?" Mike murmured, "Yes sir," like he was grateful! All the while P.J. must have been sitting there, stricken with alarm and embarra.s.sment, only fifteen at the time and not what you'd call "socially mature" for his age-Dad must have figured he was old enough to learn certain facts of life, even if they didn't immediately apply to him.

Dad said, winding things up, "O.K., guys! Enough for one day.

Any questions?" Mike and P.J. murmured no. "Just so you know your old man loves you, eh? Just so you know."

I hurried out of Dad's way, hiding around a corner, and after he'd left I tiptoed back to the doorway, and there were my brothers standing with a shared look as of witnesses to an accident. They didn't see me but I didn't hide from them, exactly. Mike was wiping at his eyes, kind of solemn but excited, shaking his head, "-You can't lie to Dad, it's the weirdest thing. I mean, you can try, but it doesn't work. It's like he knows. It's like he can hear what you're thinking. He al- ways understands more than I tell him, and more than I know."

Pj. had removed his gla.s.ses and was polishing the lens on a shirttail. He said petulantly, "I don't know anything about it! Why am I being blamed?"

Mike said, "You're not being blamed. Blamed for what? I'm not being blamed, am I?-not that I deserve to be, I don't."

P.J. said, "Those guys are your friends, not mine. I don't even know what they did."

"Well-I don't, either."

"Yeah, I bet."

"I don't." Mike was pacing around, running both hands through his hair. He looked a little like Dad, from the back. He said in a rueful voice, "It's a funny thing, how you always know more than you say. I mean-a person does. What you say is always less than you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said! Like if I say, 'I went out with the guys, we went from point X to point Y, from point Y to point Z'-well, I'm telling the truth, but I'm saying less than I know."

P.J. looked confused. As if Mike was saying things of the sort Pj. was known for, and Pj., thrown in the position of listener, was at a disadvantage. "But-why?"

Mike said excitedly, "Because to say a thing is just to state a fact. If I say, 'My name is Mike Mulvaney' I'm saying a whole lot less than I know about myself, right? It's impossible to say who I am, where'd I begin?-and where'd I end? So I wind up saying my name."

Pj. said, "That's true about any statement we make, isn't it? We never tell as much as we know."

"Right! So we're lying. So almost every statement is a lie, we can't help it."

"Yeah. But some statements are more lies than others."

This, Mike didn't seem to hear. He'd stopped his pacing and was looking toward the doorway, not seeing me; his face glistened with sweat but he sIniled suddenly, as if something had just become clear. "It's weird, man-it's like a discovery to me. It means I'm not going to be telling much of the truth through my life, or even know what the truth is. And, for sure, I'm not going to be able to tell Dad anything he doesn't already know."

P.J. snorted with laughter.

Later I found Mom out in the antique barn and asked her what was going on, what had Dad been talking about with my brothers, and Mom said she had no idea, none at all-"Why don't you ask Dad, Ranger?"

I asked Marianne instead. She didn't know, she told me quickly.

Not a thing.

THE REVELATION.

"Corrinne! h.e.l.lo."

Wednesday morning, a harried errand-morning, and there was Mrs. Bethune the doctor's wife approaching Corinne, with a smile and a wave of greeting, in the Mt. Ephraini Post Office. Not one of Corinne's women friends.

Keep in ,notion, don't slacken and you'll escape Corinne instructed herself, smiling vaguely at Mrs. Bethune even as she lifted a hand in an ambiguous gesture-h.e.l.lo, or hasty good-bye?

Lydia Bethune was one of the inner circle of the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, to which the Mulvaneys had belonged for the past three years; always perfectly dressed and groomed, one of that species of attractive, capable women whose very being seemed a reproach to Corinne. For an ordinary weekday morning in Mt. Ephraim, Lydia was wearing, not woo1 slacks and a soiled parka, like Corinne, but a lovely soft russet-dyed rabbit-furjacket, one of those unspeakable "fun" furs, and expensive-looking leather boots that shone as if they'd been polished only minutes before. Her hair was beauty-salon frosted-blond, cut stylishly short; her makeup was impeccable: thin smile-lines radiated outward froni her pmnk-lipsticked mouth like m.u.f.fin's whiskers, that seemed to quiver with emotion when he looked up at you. Lydia was a familiar Mt. Ephraim presence, active in charities including of course the hospital women's auxiliary of which Corinne was a member; her daughter Priscilla was in Patrick's cla.s.s at the high school, a flashy girl with a sullen smile-pretty enough, Corinne granted, but thank G.o.d not hers.

The inward-swinging door of the post office kept opening, customers kept coming in, Cormnne's escape was blocked. No choice but to stand and chat with Lydia Bethune who was a nice woman, a well-intentioned woman, but who carried with her an aura of perfumed complacency that set Corinne's teeth on edge.

"Corinne, how are you?"

"Oh, well-you know, busy."

"Bart says he sees Michael at the club often, on the squash court especially, and I have lunch there sometimes, about once a week. But we never see you there."

Corinne murmured a vague apology. True, she rarely went to the Mt. Ephraim Country Club, despite the ridiculous six-hundreddollar yearly dues Michael paid. She wasn't a woman who golfed, in wanner weather; she had no use for the tennis courts, or the indoor or outdoor pools; if she wanted exercise, she had plenty of houseand farmwork to do. Above all, she wasn't a woman who "lunched"; the thought made her smile. Dressing up to have expensive lunches, with drinks, with women like Lydia Bethune and her frmends!-not quite Corinne Mulvaney's style. Ever few weeks, Michael insisted that they have dinner on a Sat.u.r.day evening with one or two other couples, or maybe Sunday brunch, with the children, but that was about the extent of Corinne's involvement. And even then she went reluctantly, like one of her own adolescent children dragooned into something against his will, complaining that she hadn't the right clothes to wear, or her hair wasn't right, or she had nothing to say to those people.

Don't be ridiculous, Michael chided, we're those people ourselves.

Lydia Bethune was chattering, smiling-a smile that made Corinne uneasy, it looked so forced. "Priscilla says Marianne was so pretty at the prom. I saw the pictures in the paper-"

"Oh, yes." Corinne's cheeks burned. Her daughter was so much Corinne herself, how could she accept such a compliment?

"I hope you took photographs?"

"Well-yes."

"And-" Lydia was a bit rattled, breathless, "-how is your family?"

"My family?" Corinne drew a blank. "Why, the last I knew, they were fine."