A Book of American Martyrs(12)
Yet worriedly the boy persisted—“Is Mawmaw OK?”
“Mawmaw is tired. And I am tired, son. Don’t tempt me!”—still in a jovial voice though the boy understood the look in my eyes, of warning, of love laced with warning, or warning laced with love; and quickly he drew away, and returned to the room he shared with his younger brother, barefoot and silent as if indeed my hand had been raised against him which it had not.
It is a terrible responsibility to be the progenitor of new life. In a dream it came to me years ago after the first of them was born—Increase and multiply is the curse of humankind.
But this was not the (recognizable) voice of the Lord, or of Jesus. It was a (possible) voice of mockery, to test Luther Dunphy who had aspired to be a minister in the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus and was on trial at that time.
In our bedroom removing Edna Mae’s clothing with clumsy fingers. Beneath the raincoat my dear wife had not been naked (as I had feared) but wore a soiled flannel shirt that might’ve belonged to one of the older children, and a soiled corduroy skirt that looked as if it had been retrieved from the dirty-clothes basket, no stockings or socks and her undergarments (which I would not remove) were grayish from many launderings and loosely fitted her shrunken frame.
Since Daphne, my poor dear wife has lost fifteen pounds at least. While I have gained weight in my torso, a fatty tumor like a fist encasing my heart.
Clumsily too I pulled Edna Mae’s cotton nightgown down over her head and for a moment the nightgown was caught, and Edna Mae struggled weakly against me, her face hidden. Too late seeing that the nightgown was inside-out. But already Edna Mae had slumped back on the bed and into a light doze, openmouthed. A string of saliva on her chin. I would help her into the bed and draw the bedclothes up upon her and pray that we would get through this night for these were nights that seemed dangerous to me, in the nights, weeks, months after Daphne when there was yet indecision as when a jury is deliberating a verdict regarding you but which you do not fully comprehend.
The bedroom was dim-lit. On my knees I prayed beside the bed. It is my habit at such times—the oldest prayer of my childhood which I had been taught to repeat in echo of my father’s voice Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . .—for such words are a consolation as whiskey had once been a consolation.
In the dark for some time I lay awake beside my dear wife. I was very exhausted and yet could not seem to sleep for my body felt large and clumsy to me, and I needed to shower, for my body smelled of sweat, yet there was no time now, the hour was nearing 2:00 A.M. My (right) foot on the gas pedal ached from the pressure and became a foot-cramp—(for I suffer from foot-and leg-cramps often in the night). The interstate highway was rushing at me but dimly illuminated in the headlights of my vehicle and it was not clear—(in my anxiety, I did not wish to experiment by turning the wheel)—if my hands gripping the steering wheel possessed any power to “steer” the vehicle or whether the wheel was a false wheel provided for me to (falsely) placate me. As when it was said of the lifeless child She is with the angels now.
And yet, it was the father who said these words, was it?—for it was my task to bring the news to the other children.
“Your sister is with the angels now. There is no need for tears.”
Like fingernails scraped on a blackboard, the sound of tears. Such a sound is not bearable.
There had come Edna Mae’s muffled voice to the children somewhere upstairs that they must not cry, they must not cry for crying would displease their father, if they had to cry they must hide away to cry or wait until their father was not within earshot did they understand?
The muffled aggrieved yet practical-minded female voice, of which I was not (altogether) certain, that I had heard it or imagined it, nor the children’s voices in reply, I did not seem to hear.
So tired! It is that state when tiny stars and the faces of strangers seem to rush at us behind our closed eyes.
Yet it was not comfortable in our bed where the bedclothes had come to smell of our bodies and the ooze of grief. And the ooze of anger. And disgust. For it had fallen to me lately, to change the bedclothes, when my poor dear wife could not remember if she had changed the bedclothes or not, when obviously she had not, nor had my poor dear wife remembered to bathe herself as once she had been so fastidious, she had laughed at herself. And now, days passed and (it seemed to me) Edna Mae did not change her undergarments, and she did not wash or even, at times, brush her hair.
Explaining to the children that their mother was very tired. Their mother was prescribed medication which made her tired and so they must take care of Mawmaw, at this sad time in our lives.
Our bed was “queen size.” Yet my feet pushed against the end of the bed, and were always tugging out the sheets there. I would lie on my side facing away from Edna Mae, and my eyes shut tight. In this position I felt like something that has toppled over in the cemetery, that had fallen from one of the larger gravestones, heavily into the grasses and could not be righted again. And Edna Mae beside me, not on her side facing out but on her back, which was not a good position, for on her back Edna Mae would breathe irregularly, and wetly, beneath the white-wool quilt Edna Mae’s mother had knitted for us for a wedding present, that she had explained was a diamond stitch, and that had once been so beautiful, it seemed amazing to me that my motherin-law had knitted it and I had known myself blessed, that Edna Mae’s family would accept me as their son though (it was clear to me if not to them) Luther Dunphy was not worthy.