A Book of American Martyrs(38)

Are you “close” to your mother at the present time?

Do you (and your family) feel that a sentence of death is appropriate for the assassin of your father? Will such a sentence bring “closure” to you (and your family)?

Dr. Voorhees was an adamant and outspoken opponent of the death penalty—are you?





REVENGE


God help me to be strong.

Help me to be cruel like the world.


WE WERE CHILDREN made mean by grief. We were children with wizened little crabapple hearts and death’s-head grins. You would do well, if you were a nice child, to stay out of our way.


I SAID, WHY should they have a father and a mother? I hate them.

Sometimes I said, Why should they be happy? I hate them.


WE CONSPIRED TO kidnap their little wiry-haired dog who barked too much. We fantasized hiding their Airedale they called Mutt, in someplace where they wouldn’t think to look, and we would feed Mutt, and Mutt would come to love us. And Darren said if Mutt doesn’t cooperate we kill him.

Cooperate how?—(I had to ask.)

By obeying us.

Obeying us—how? (I had to ask. I needed to hear my brother articulate what we would do, to feel the thrill of knowing we might do it.) By doing what we command him, stupid. By wagging his tail and loving us.

It was exciting and alarming, to think (seriously?) of kidnapping our neighbors’ dog. For these were neighbors who’d befriended us—who’d taken pity on us, and admired our mother. At times my heart would stop, and beat hard and start again, when Darren stooped over me saying in his whisper-voice—What’ll we do? We kill him.

Kill him—how? (Had to ask.)

Same way I’m gonna kill you, asshole!

And Darren would pummel me, and slap my face once, twice, three times, not really hard slaps (of which my brother was more than capable) but swift stinging slaps of humiliation, that left my cheeks burning and made tears spring from my eyes but I did not cry.

It was crucial, I did not cry.

Of course, nothing came of our plot to kidnap Mutt. Nothing came of our wish for revenge. We were too old to be children, in fact. You would need special eyes to see how grief was rotting us from the inside-out, stunted children, ugly troll-children it would have been a mercy to shoot with a sniper’s rifle—one, two.





“EVIL”—“HEAVEN”


Good news, kids! There is no evil.”

This was the way he talked. Sometimes.

Went on to assure us there’s no Devil, no Satan, no Hell.

There is—(maybe)—Heaven but it isn’t anywhere far away or anything special.

And we demanded to know, why isn’t Heaven anything special?

(You always hear of Heaven being so special.)

And Daddy said, because Heaven is just two things: human love, and human patience.

And all love is, is patience. Taking time. Focusing, and taking time. That’s love.

This was disappointing to us! This was not anything we wanted to hear. We were too young to have a clue how special human love and human patience were, how rare and fleeting, and if Daddy might be laughing at us, you could never tell if Daddy was serious or laughing or serious-laughing, both at once.

The last time at Katechay Island.

No premonition. Not a clue.


AT THE SHORE at Katechay Island, on Wild Fowl Bay (an inlet of Saginaw Bay/Lake Huron). Not the sandy beach where people swam in warm weather but the farther beach which was coarse and pebbly and the sand dunes were hard-packed and cold even in the sun. The beach there was littered with kelp, rotted pieces of wood, long-rotted little fish and bodies of birds, scattered bones. It was a blinding-bright day to be near the water, a cold day, and a windy day, so that the water was like something shaken, sharp as tinfoil, and there was nowhere for your eye to remain, always the water was changing, and if you looked too hard, the sight of it was hurtful.

It was a hike along the shore, that last hike that no one knew was last. A two-point-five-mile hike, Daddy said.

On our hikes Daddy would announce the distance, going and returning. For some of us were not such strong hikers as others. Some of us had to be assured, Daddy would pick us up in his arms and carry us back, if our legs grew tired, if our knees buckled.

For Daddy always assured with a wink: Nobody’s going to be abandoned.

Gus Voorhees was a doctor, he favored precision. Blood tests, scans of internal organs, X-rays and MRIs. Not-knowing is not a virtue, you may pay for not-knowing with your life.

Kids, always remember: Ignorance is not bliss.

If he asked you a question, you must give a precise answer. You must not mumble vaguely, and you must meet his eye.

Hey. Look up. Look here.

Daddy was naturally a smiler. So when Daddy did not smile, you knew it.

Out of breath trying to keep up with Daddy! Sand-dune hills and little ravines, that disintegrated when we stepped near them, and pulled at our feet. Wind rushing against our faces, sucking away our breaths and making our eyes water foolishly as if we were crying.

Yet, we would keep up with Daddy. Naomi and Melissa, the little girls, determined to keep up in the wake of their longer-legged brother Darren, and Darren in the wake of Daddy who’d become distracted, forget where he was, stride on ahead.

Oh Daddy!—wait.

Wait for us. Daddy!

This day, this hiking-day at the shore at Wild Fowl Bay had not seemed like a special day. It had not seemed like a day to be remembered and so, much of it has been lost. Like tattered flags flying at the lighthouse lunch place, at Bay Point. What the flags were meant to be, you couldn’t tell because they were so faded. Daddy had driven us in the station wagon from our (rented) house near Bay City, an hour and twenty minutes drive to Katechay Island where there was a cabin we could use, belonging to friends of Daddy’s and Mommy’s who had given them the key. Except it was the end of summer, already it was late September, and the air was getting cold, even in the sun. And if the sun was obscured by clouds dark like crayon scribbles, you were made to shiver.