A Book of American Martyrs(191)

In a conciliatory tone the desk clerk was describing features of the “historic” Muskegee Falls Inn of which she seemed to be proud. Its restaurant, its pub, its room service. When the breakfast room opened in the morning, how late the restaurant served. Naomi listened politely, while returning to the window. She saw that the afternoon was waning. The river was luminous as shaken foil and at this distance it appeared to be without motion.

“Well, miss! It’s a nice room, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Do you think you will be taking it?”—the question was awkwardly phrased.

“No.”

Naomi heard the other draw in her breath, sharply. But she had not meant to say no, she’d meant to say yes.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry. I meant to say yes.”

In the elevator descending to the lobby neither woman could think of a thing to say.

Downstairs at the front desk Naomi provided the clerk with her name and with a credit card. It was a relief to her, though also a disappointment, that the name Naomi Voorhees seemed to make no impression.

She was given her room card. She was given a key for the minibar. She was about to leave, to bring her car around to park at the rear of the hotel, when the big-haired woman said suddenly, as if she’d just thought of exciting news, “You know—there’s some relative of Luther Dunphy we’ve been hearing about. A female boxer—‘D.D. Dunphy.’”

Naomi was intrigued. Female boxer?

“One of the Dunphys. Luther’s daughter. I think she just won some championship. Not sure but think it was in Cleveland. We saw an interview with her by accident on TV. My niece says she went to school with her.”

“Do you mean Dawn Dunphy? She’s a boxer?”

“Well, one of them is. One of the daughters.”

Naomi was mildly incredulous. Dawn Dunphy, a boxer! And on TV.

Yet, it should not have surprised her. From photographs she recalled the graceless smirking Dawn Dunphy, the murderer’s daughter whom she’d particularly hated.


IN MUSKEGEE FALLS, her compass needles spun.

She was here, at the site. Here, where the death had occurred.

Therefore, she did not want to call anyone from Muskegee Falls. She did not want to acknowledge Muskegee Falls.

She did not want to utter the words—“Muskegee Falls.”

She no longer called Darren except if it was an absolutely necessary call, and there were fewer and fewer of these. For she was a fully adult woman now. She could not be burdening her brother with his younger ghost-sister.

She did call her mother Jenna, from time to time. And (unpredictably) Jenna called her. But she did not want Jenna to know that she’d resumed working on the archive, for the archive had seemed a very bad idea to Jenna.

Please do not put me in this “documentary.” Please do not quote me.

I can’t forbid you and I don’t want to censor you. But I beg you.

Of course, Jenna did want to censor her. She had no clear idea why.

“Isn’t my grief as legitimate as yours? Why is it not as legitimate?”—she could not demand of her mother.

Instead, she would call Madelena Kein. Though she was apprehensive of what she might hear in her grandmother’s voice that might be faint, weak. Not the warm and assured voice of Madelena Kein that had long been the woman’s public voice but the voice of a woman who has been made to feel her mortality.

Hello! It’s me—Naomi.

I am in—well, that place. I am recording with my camera.

I will call you again, Lena.

I hope—I hope you are well.

Not able to bring herself to say, even in a rushed murmur—I love you.


AT 1183 HOWARD AVENUE, painted a cheery canary-yellow and decorated with colorful cutouts of cartoon animals, was the PEONY CHRISTIAN DAYCARE CENTER.

Naomi sat for a moment in the rented Nissan. Her brain felt as if a black wing had brushed over it.

“A daycare center . . .”

She thought—But he died here. In the driveway, here.

She would have to record what she found. The camera eye is neutral and unjudging.

The driveway beside the Peony Christian Daycare Center was cracked, and in cracks grew small hardy weeds like lace. There was no sign of blood in this ordinary setting, no sign of death. Too many days, years, weather had intervened.

In the camera eye, the very ordinariness of the scene would comprise a mystery. Why are we looking at this?

The neighborhood itself was hard to describe. Part-commercial, part-residential. A sprawling lumberyard on one side of Howard Avenue, a block of bungalows in tiny grassless lots on the other. A single large clapboard house with turrets and bay windows partitioned into apartments calling itself Howard Manor: Apt’s For Rent.

Peony Christian Daycare Center had a slapdash homemade look. Bright red letters painted by hand on the yellow background. The cartoon animals were clearly hand-crafted, and had large friendly brown eyes. There were no signs to indicate that the day care center was Christian. The atmosphere was lively, noisy. If you lived in the neighborhood you might smile seeing the bright primary colors every day or you might be discomforted, annoyed by such resolute and unwavering cheeriness.

Vehicles were parked at the rear of the single-story canary-yellow building. Mothers were arriving with very young children. It was a warm September morning: a number of the children and child-care staff were outside, in a small playground.