A Book of American Martyrs(35)

I smiled to recall that afternoon with the children. It was rare for us to be alone together in such a way. The saleswoman asked their names and proudly I told them—“Luke—and Dawn—and Noah—and Anita . . .” And another time, it seemed to me that there was someone missing, that took my breath away so that the saleswoman waited for me to continue to speak and the children were made uncomfortable.

But they’d been well behaved at the mall. Not like those children who run wild, screaming and colliding with shoppers.

They would wear their new sneakers home, and I would take the old sneakers home in boxes. The sneakers were bright-colored.

Thanks, Daddy! These’re cool.

Then, I took them for ice cream. It was almost 5:00 P.M. Edna Mae was not to know. It is a precious sly thing, to have a secret from the children’s mother.

I realized then, I had seen in a dream-vision my own grave marker, the night before. It was confused in my memory with the grave of the Holy Innocents Preborn Children of God in the cemetery in Illinois but I had seen it clearly—Luther Amos Dunphy 1960—but then, I had not seen the date of my death. Instead of a numeral engraved in the stone there was a blur.

And so I had known, God would not relent. God would direct me to the execution. It would be done, there was no turning back.

The Mossberg shotgun, that my grandfather had left to me years ago, I had also prepared the night before. This heavy gun I had not fired in twelve years I had cleaned, but I had not yet loaded. For even so recently I had thought, God might relent. Also, you must never keep a loaded weapon in a household with children.

Hands so shaky, fingers so numb I could hardly fit the shells inside.

Such moisture in my eyes, I could not see clearly. A moment’s panic at the thought that, at the crucial instant, I would not be able to see my target clearly.

Recalling how when I had hunted with my father, uncles, and cousins in the woods outside Sandusky, and had been so eager to keep up with the men, and so fearful of their scorn, I had more than once misfired this very shotgun and sent buckshot into an open field missing the target—in that case, a pheasant.

Other times, I had hoped to bring down a deer with a rifle shot. But I had only (once) wounded the animal, and had been badly shaken by the sight. Mostly, I had not fired at all.

To aim at, to shoot at, a human being standing only a few yards away—God, help me! God give me strength.

By this time I was trembling so badly, I could barely maneuver the zipper of my black nylon jacket.

At last ascending the stairs to the kitchen, and switching on the overhead light. This too for the last time! On the refrigerator were crayon drawings by the younger children, I had not really seen before—giraffe, elephant, tiger. (Whose were these? Anita’s? Why these animals? Suddenly, I wanted so badly to know.) And there the linoleum floor worn thin at the sink and at the table, I had promised Edna Mae I would replace, but had not.

Hurriedly drinking from a quart milk container. I could not risk any food, even cereal, for fear that I would become nauseated.

My black nylon windbreaker, that fell to the knees, and would hide the shotgun. Or, would hide the shotgun as much as required. For I would not be closely observed by many, until it was too late.

A work-cap pulled down low onto my forehead. It is a habit I have, the rim leaves a red mark in my skin Edna Mae had once rubbed with her fingers, to smooth away.

On the kitchen phone, that is an apricot-colored plastic wall phone, quickly I called Ed Fischer at his business number which I knew he would not answer, at this early hour. Telling Ed that I would not be able to come to work that day for a reason I would explain later.

Not wanting to think how Ed would react, when he heard. How the others on the crew, my friends I had known for many years since moving here, would react when they heard.

A sensation of hope came to me, that I often felt at such times, stepping outside and breathing in the air of early morning. Today it was a cold sharp air. There is a pleasure too in turning the ignition and hearing the motor come to life, and thinking of how, in a car, you could drive for thousands of miles along highways—to California, and Alaska . . .

The summer I’d spent with relatives in Mad River, working on their dairy farm, I had first wanted to drive with my high school friend to Alaska and work on the salmon fishing boats there. But our plans hadn’t worked out.

In that, the hand of God had guided me. I had not known at the time.

Driving to the Broome County Women’s Center along the familiar route. Two point six miles. And this too, for the last time. My heart clutched to see at an intersection ahead, a pickup truck braking to a stop at a stop sign.

As I was arriving earlier than usual at the Women’s Center, there were more places to park closer to the Center.

Since the vandalism committed against the Center this past summer, no parking was allowed on the street near the Center. The Center’s windows had been shuttered. There had been red spray paint on the walls, that had been power-washed away, or painted-over. Baby killers. Burn in Hell. I had not been involved in these acts committed by certain members of the Army of God whose names were to be kept from Reverend Dennis, for the Reverend’s good.

At this hour, 7:20 A.M. there were few protesters. But there was Stockard standing on the sidewalk at the front, in conversation with five or six protesters, who had come to the site in a minivan, from Springfield. I did not know their names but knew their faces and knew them to be Catholics. In the way that Stockard spoke with them, and their deference to him, I felt again that Stockard had been a priest, and was not now a priest, and I wondered at this, but it was too late for me to inquire.