A Book of American Martyrs(122)

She could not stand on a chair to swat the flies on the kitchen ceiling. She did not dare—she would become light-headed and faint. Already she was feeling faint seeing more flies—three, four—five, six—ten—so many hateful flies in the kitchen and buzzing against the windows, ceiling and walls! Where were they coming from?

Had something died somewhere in the house, and flies were hatching out of maggots in the corpse? It was a terrible thought.

“Please God no.”

Nothing so shameful and frightening as an unclean house in which Edna Mae had no choice but to live.

In fact there was a faint, or not-so-faint smell in the kitchen, sour, unpleasant, which Edna Mae had noticed, as perhaps others had noticed, but had not wished to investigate. For there were other smells in the kitchen, and in Mary Kay’s house, that not even opening the windows could quite eradicate.

Her mother’s younger sister Mary Kay Mack had invited her and the children to live with her out of Christian charity—initially. This was what Edna Mae had been led to believe. But once they’d come to live in the house on Depot Street it had fallen to them—(mostly to the older children Luke and Dawn, at the time)—to keep the somewhat run-down house reasonably clean, and the small scrubby yard, and to haul trash and garbage to the curb for the weekly pickup. Anita and Noah were assigned chores as well. And Edna Mae had done what she could despite her health problems and the constant strain of Luther’s incarceration. In Muskegee Falls Edna Mae had kept a very clean house though the children had been young at the time—all of the relatives, both hers and Luther’s, had complimented her on her housekeeping, and on her cooking. Reverend Dennis had praised her for her “Christian optimism” and “Christian spirit” in volunteering at church as much as or more than women who hadn’t half Edna Mae’s responsibilities. Reverend Dennis had particularly praised Edna Mae for her full-time loving care of her youngest child Daphne. He had understood the terrible grief she’d felt when Daphne had been taken from them.

Nothing will ever be the same again, Reverend Dennis. That is what I fear.

But you have your other children, Edna Mae. You have your husband.

No. I don’t, Reverend.

What a strange thing to utter! Reverend Dennis had stared at her speechless.

She did not confide in Reverend Dennis further. There was no one she dared tell: her knowledge that Luther had let their little girl Daphne die in the car crash. Or rather, Luther had not protected their little girl as she’d needed to be protected. For Luther had not loved Daphne, really. He’d been embarrassed and ashamed of their youngest child because she was not “right”—as other children her age were “right”—she had seen it in his face. A man cannot disguise his emotions looking upon his own child.

As Luther was to be embarrassed and ashamed of Edna Mae after Daphne’s death. Because her grief made her sick, and less of a woman than she’d been. Less of a mother, and less of a wife. Sometimes it seemed to her—(though she told no one this, not even Reverend Dennis)—that Luther had killed two men in cold blood as a way of ending his marriage and changing his life utterly.

Now it had happened, God was punishing him for such a terrible act. But in punishing Luther Dunphy, God was punishing them all.

(Oh but that was not true—was it? Edna Mae reminded herself how at any time, at any hour, the governor of Ohio could “commute” Luther’s sentence. He could grant “clemency.” There were legal hearings, appeals. There was much work to keep lawyers busy on both sides: the side of the State of Ohio and the side of the defendant. She’d more or less forgotten exactly what commute meant—what exactly it might mean in terms of Luther’s situation—but she’d so often heard this possibility stated, by Luther’s legal team and by relatives, she had to believe it was true. Her new friend Reverend Trucross and his wife Merri consoled her: The will of the Lord at any time can alter lives. There are tempests, plagues, floods, but also harvests. Barren wombs have yielded great fruit. The Lord taketh away but the Lord also giveth.)

The problem had been, for Edna Mae and the children, how to live without Luther. Which meant where to live, and with whom. For Edna Mae could not support the family even if she’d been a nurse, and not merely a nurse’s aide. Even a registered nurse’s salary would not have been sufficient in the crisis and even if Luke had been able to help them more than he was willing to help them, once he’d begun working for the county—there was just not enough money. Edna Mae had not worked as a nurse’s aide in almost eighteen years. (She had loved the work—she had hoped someday to train as a nurse! But life had intervened.) She would have to be retrained, and be relicensed. It had not occurred to her to apply for a job at Walmart or Home Depot like Mary Kay and Dawn for she (secretly) believed such work to be beneath her. She could not return to her parents’ home though they had halfheartedly offered to take her and the children in, and she could not live with any of the Dunphys because they did not want her any more than she wanted them.

And so, Luther’s family had gone to live with Mary Kay. But soon it became clear to Edna Mae that her mother’s younger sister was a shockingly careless and indifferent housekeeper. Everywhere were dust balls, sticky floors, loose planks, stains. The asphalt-siding exterior of the house badly needed repair. The scrubby grass was always going to seed, and riddled with weeds. Trash accumulated everywhere. Even Luke commented derisively on his great-aunt’s house and had never invited any of his friends to come inside while he’d lived there.