A Book of American Martyrs(95)
Naomi stood blinking at her mother wondering—was she supposed to laugh? Was this remark a joke? (Though Jenna did not appear to be joking.) (Had Jenna said anything remotely funny, amusing, ironically funny, even witty since November 1999?) Was her mother actually expecting Naomi to agree with these astonishing words?
With the air of someone who had worked out for herself a mathematical theorem that is commonly known yet no less remarkable for being commonly known Jenna continued:
“It doesn’t matter if we are kind to each other, or not. If Gus was superhumanly dedicated to his work, his ‘mission’—if he sometimes worked twelve hours a day—drove thousands of miles for fifteen years of his life to advance a cause of—of—whatever had seemed important to us all . . . The only fact now is, Gus is dead; Gus is not here; Gus is silent; Gus has ceased to exist and Gus is not coming back. The world will prevail without him—in a few decades no one will even remember that he’d lived. Or that he’d died as a ‘martyr.’ That is the only important fact about Gus Voorhees now.”
Naomi was alarmed now. It was not like her mother to speak to her at such length at all—not for a long time. She tasted panic, her badly stitched-together mouth had gone dry. She wanted to nudge against her mother, wanted to cry But, Mommy! You are my Mommy. You would expect Jenna to (instinctively) embrace the frightened fourteen-year-old and console her for such harsh words—(Naomi expected this)—but that did not happen. In the same slow wondering voice Jenna said, “I think I’ve known this for a while. I have not been feeling so well for a while. I’ve said that I am a weak person—I mean, I am a fearful person. Fear is weak, debilitating. Fear is a kind of cancer that enters our bones. I can’t be ‘there’ for you any longer, Naomi. You and the others. All of the others—Gus’s others. I am just too tired. You will have to make your own way.”
Naomi was stunned. Her stitched-together mouth would not allow her to protest.
“I can’t be your ‘Mommy’ any longer. No more.”
In the horseshoe driveway the sleek black car waited with its motor running. The driver came to take Jenna’s suitcase, to place it in the trunk. “Mrs. Voorhees? Detroit airport?”—“Yes. Thank you.”
Jenna turned from Naomi leaving the girl stunned and staring after her. Poor Naomi whose sarcastic mean-girl tongue was useless.
Jenna turned from Naomi walking carefully as if the steps, the front walk, were coated with ice; gripping a railing with the caution of one who is near-blind but can see gradations of light.
If only she’d fallen! Missed a step, slipped and fell, revealed how ill she was, how not-herself, not to be blamed, injured herself, broken and weeping.
It was a scene that, in a film, even in one of Darren’s lurid comic books, would not end so incompletely: the mother would relent, would hurry back, would (weepingly) embrace the (weeping) girl; or, if not relent, if not hurry back, at least glance back, and smile, and wave.
Be brave, darling. Without Mommy you will have to be brave but you can do it.
But this did not occur. In the doorway in pajamas, barefoot, tasting something bitter-black in her mouth, the girl stood staring after the departing mother, scarcely seeing how the mother climbed into the waiting car, how the driver shut the door after her and went around to the driver’s seat, and very calmly drove away.
THE ANT
Her life would be a small life now. Not even a widow’s life now. An ant making its cautious way around the rim of a plate, she smiled to think. I can do that. What remains of my strength will allow me to do that.
“THE HAMMER”
DECEMBER 18, 2000—MARCH 4, 2006
BROOME COUNTY COURTHOUSE,
DECEMBER 18, 2000
Mistrial.
Was it over? Was he released? Was he—free?
For why was there rejoicing in the courtroom, if he had not been released? Rejoicing among those who were supporters of Luther Dunphy?—even as others who hated him and were his enemies stared in dismay and disbelief.
Jurors, you are dismissed. You may leave.
Defendant is remanded to custody. Bailiffs will clear the courtroom.
The judge’s voice was flat, contemptuous. Frowning white-haired man who could not depart from the courtroom quickly enough through a (private) door at the rear.
He’d believed that Luther Dunphy was guilty! Now it was clear and in that instant, Luther felt a stab of joy, defiance.
Shut his eyes tight to thank the Lord. He understood that the trial had failed, the jurors had not voted to convict him. In the courtroom there were uplifted voices and amid these ecstatic cries of Luther! Luther Dunphy! God has spared you.
Turning then, to seek out the faces of his wife and children who were seated behind him. For the days of the trial he had seemed to forget them—he had scarcely glanced at them. But there was Edna Mae on her feet, but dazedly, and her smile uncertain and confused, and her eyes so wet with tears it seemed she could not possibly see him; and Luke and Dawn his children whom scarcely he recognized, for they had grown in his absence from their household, also on their feet, and looking about smiling in confusion.
His lawyer was very excited.
Pumping Luther’s hand in congratulation, and his fingers clammy-cold so Luther understood how anxious the man had been and how incredulous now. Almost, his lawyer embraced him but Luther stood stiffly apart.