A Book of American Martyrs(66)

Each of us in turn our mother hugs, tremulous, kissing us haphazardly, like a drunk woman, so we shrink from her, in fear. How can it be, this woman is our mother—we do not want this distraught woman to be our mother.

We do not want to be the children of such a mother, and we do not want to be the children of disaster.

“Something has happened to your father . . .”

We stop hearing. We do not hear.

Your father. In Ohio.

Shotgun attack. This morning.

Shot down in driveway.

Assailant in custody.

We hear some of this. We do not hear—(we are certain)—any words that resemble Your father is dead.

Inside the house there are two uniformed police officers. They greet us solemnly and we see in their faces unmistakably—Your father is dead.

Yet, this is not revealed to us. It is believed to be a good idea to take us into another room, while our mother speaks with the officers.

Soon then, it is revealed that our mother is preparing to be driven to Muskegee Falls, Ohio. She speaks evasively saying that she will be “seeing” our father there and that she will call us as soon as she can.

Is our father in the hospital?—we ask.

Evasively our mother says yes, she thinks that our father is “in the hospital”—but she isn’t sure.

There are “conflicting reports.” She is “waiting to hear.”

A friend is driving her to Ohio, one of the (male) volunteer escorts at the Port Huron Women’s Center. It is astonishing to us to learn that they are leaving as soon as the friend arrives.

We beg our mother to let us come with her. Even Darren begs but our mother says no.

Oh honey not a good idea. Not right now.

Someone will take care of you.

The phone rings. Ellen Farlane answers it and when she places the palm of her hand over the receiver and tells our mother who is calling our mother shakes her head sharply—No.

(Who is it? Why won’t our mother speak to him? The fleeting thought comes to us, the caller might be our father and in her distraught state our mother is making a terrible mistake.)

We follow our mother upstairs into the large bedroom where she stuffs things hurriedly into a bag. It is the sort of haste for which our mother often scolds us and some of these items—wallet, car keys—fall onto the floor. We ask our mother why can’t we go with her, we want to go with her, we want to see Daddy and our mother shakes her head—No.

Darren says, “He’s dead isn’t he?”—but Naomi speaks over her brother saying, “Is Daddy in the hospital? Is that where you are going?”

Evasively our mother shakes her head as if she hasn’t heard us. She’s unsteady on her feet and so when she descends the narrow steps to the first floor Darren follows close behind her prepared to grab her arm if she falls.

Downstairs, the phone rings again. The police officers have stepped outside, we can hear the frantic squawk of the police radio.

Ellen Farlane tries to get our mother to drink a glass of orange juice before she leaves for Ohio—a half-glass, at least—but our mother can only bring the glass to her lips, and then lower it.

Someone gives her an apple, out of a bowl on the table.

This is a bowl of Macintosh apples, which are Daddy’s favorite apple. Children like Macintosh apples less, the skins are so tough, and get stuck between your teeth.

Take the apple, our mother Jenna is urged. Try to eat the apple in the car.

At another time we would be bemused, such things are being said to our mother by strangers in our kitchen.

There is something astonishing about it, the things that are said at such times.

I will call you. Someone will call.

Arrangements have to be made. I have to be there.

Don’t be afraid—I will be thinking of you.

The plan seems to be that we will stay with friends in Ann Arbor named Casey. Then, in a day or two, our mother would join us.

Then, the plan is that we will be driven to Birmingham, to stay with our grandparents for a few days.

A few days! This is upsetting.

We don’t want to stay with our grandparents in Birmingham if our father isn’t with us. This would not seem right.

In pleading voices we ask why we can’t come with our mother to Ohio and our mother says more sharply that that is not a good idea.

There are many things she has to do in Ohio, our mother says. But maybe after that. Maybe in a day or two . . .

Our mother’s voice is hoarse, almost inaudible. The pupils of her eyes are tiny as pinpricks. Still she hugs us, or tries to—Darren edges away, shrugging her off. Melissa is eager to be held but Naomi is stiff, resistant.

Our voices ask, what has happened to Daddy? Is Daddy—hurt?

Is Daddy in the hospital in Ohio?

Is Daddy—

(The voices do not say dead. It will be months before the voices can say dead.)

Our parents’ friend arrives to drive our mother to Ohio. We are kept in another room, we are not allowed to witness their meeting though we hear an uplifted (male) voice—Jenna! My God.

There are too many people arriving at the house on Salt Hill Road. There is not enough room for so many vehicles in the driveway and there is not enough room in the downstairs of the house for so many people. There are even more police officers!

Are we in danger? Is the family of Gus Voorhees in danger?