A Book of American Martyrs(135)
BUT THAT NIGHT Jesus visited Luther’s cell. Wakened from sleep by a presence close by Luther did not sit up in his bed but all of his senses were alert and sharpened.
Softly Jesus said Think again, Luther.
Jesus said You are strong enough now, Luther. Strength is required to utter words that, while untrue, will bring peace to troubled souls.
IN TOLEDO he’d slept in the woman’s bed. Smelling of the woman’s body, and hair shampoo, or oil. And the pillowcases smeared with the woman’s makeup, that was disgusting to him so that when he believed she would not see, he turned over the pillow.
But the other side of the pillow was unclean, too.
HE HAD NOT really spoken to them. The women in Toledo.
He had brought his anger to them. Swollen and throbbing with yearning his anger he’d brought to them to discharge his hot infuriated seed into them as they lay beneath him locking their arms around him unknowing of the fury in his soul, the terrible boredom that is beyond fury.
How bored he’d been at the Seminary! Boredom like a gigantic yawn to distend his mouth, his jaws. Boredom colossal enough to annihilate the world.
He’d resented the old men who had blocked the doorway to his ministry. Not giving Luther Dunphy their blessing, that Luther might spread the word of Jesus like a wildfire eating up the hearts of strangers.
I wanted only to be Your servant. I do not understand why that was denied me.
He had not really spoken to the woman but had only just pretended to speak. He’d told her that he was studying to be a minister, that he was a roofer, and a carpenter, and yes he was married and he had children. But he had not spoken to her of himself as she’d spoken to him telling him of her ex-husband who had beaten her and shamed her and made her crawl until one day she had risen to her feet with a vow of never again to crawl before any man. And she’d told him of a child who had died of some childhood illness—measles. In his male vanity and cruelty he’d shut himself off from her. He had wished to think of her as a fallen woman, a whore, a slut with dyed blond-streaked hair and a negligee of some flimsy material of the hue of naked skin through which he could see the shadowy nipples of her breasts and the shadowy pubic-hair patch at her crotch. She’d been kind to him only just lonely. A man is fearful of lonely in a woman. She’d prepared meals for him more than once and he had eaten at her table more than once hungrily and with gratitude as he had lost himself in her body and in her embrace more than once and with gratitude. She’d said, I miss not having anyone to cook for. I miss not having anyone to take care of. Her smile was marred by a crooked front tooth. Her eyes were hazel-colored like Edna Mae’s eyes as he remembered them when Edna Mae had been a girl and so much in her had been a surprise to him.
When the woman drew her fingertips across his face he’d stiffened for he did not like such familiarity. When she’d caressed the birthmark he’d slapped away her hand with a curse.
JESUS SAID It is the act of a Christian to take on remorse that is not his, that the suffering of the world be lightened.
HE HAD LOST COUNT of the days. His ten-counts he did without thinking for his lungs and his muscles had memorized precisely each ten-count of the vigorous exercise routine but he had lost count of the days for the days fell beyond the narrow confine of his cell.
His cell. So he’d come to consider it.
Yet now, Reverend Davey came to see him in this cell each day. Or was it, twice a day: morning and evening.
Earnestly Reverend Davey told him: “Prayer is like a feather.”
Reverend Davey’s eyes were the eyes of birds quick-darting in damp sand, long thin sharp beaks poised to jab.
“Think of a beautiful white feather. A large feather—like a hawk feather if a hawk could be white. Think of God’s hand and the white feather on the palm of His hand. And each prayer is a feather, that is light, weighing almost nothing. But each feather is precious to God. And the feathers accumulate, in the palm of God’s hand. So the prayers accumulate, and one day you will see, Luther—I have faith in this, deep in my heart—”
Luther thought—The governor will commute your sentence.
“—you will be with our savior in paradise.”
Confused, Luther smiled. He was not sure what Reverend Davey meant, for all along he had known that he would be greeted by Jesus in paradise. He had never doubted.
Yet, the death warrant was served. A frowning young bald-headed prison official from the warden’s office whom Luther had never seen before brought the document to Luther Dunphy to deliver by hand one morning after breakfast which was congealing oatmeal, just-slightly-“off” milk, a sprinkling of sugar and a small paper cup of sugary orange juice.
There was no mistake that the death warrant was meant for him for Luther Amos Dunphy was prominent on the document that bore a gilt replica of the Seal of the State of Ohio.
“Is that me?”—Luther spoke naively, puzzled.
Dazedly his eyes scanned the printed words. There appeared to be breaks between words and within words, like wormholes in wood.
. . . her eby ordered that the de fen dant L uther Amos Du phy who h as adjud ged GUILTY OF CAPITAL MUR DER as charge d in the indict men t and w ose p nishm ent h as been as sessed by t he verd ict of the jur y and ju dgment of the court a t Death sh all be kep t in cust dy by Aut hority of t he Oh o Depa rtment of C rimin al Justice unt il the 4th day of March 2006 upo n which day at the Oh o Dep artment of Crim ina l Justice at the hour of 7 P M in a chamb r designat Ed for the p urpose of Execu tion, the said Author ity acting by and thr ough the Execu tioner design ated by the Warden, as prov ided by law, s hereby comm anded, ordered nd direc ed to carry out his senten ce of Death by intr venous inject on of a subs tance or su stanc es in a lethal qua ntity adju dged suffic ent to cause th Death of the afores aid Luth er Amos Dunphy un il the sa id Lu ther Am os Du phy is Dead.