A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  The flaming explosions of the World Trade Center twin towers were many times replayed. Footage of the chaotic streets of New York City, shocking sights you were not meant to see—human figures falling from high buildings, bodies indistinguishable from the rubble in which they lay. Fires, sirens. Though it was midday, it was twilight at Ground Zero. Long after the original explosions the air was aswirl with something like ashes, shredded paper and pulverized bone. A news commentator stunned by what he was seeing made a clumsy joke about rats, supposed to be millions of rats in New York City, what’s become of the rat population?—but no one laughed. Cut to another replay of the falling of the twin towers. Overlapping and contentious voices.

  The United States has been attacked by a foreign country.

  Which country?

  One of the Arab countries. Or maybe more than one. In the Middle East.

  Why?—because Arabs are followers of Mohammed and not Jesus Christ. These are “Mohammedans” who hate our U.S. democracy and want to kill us.

  They are called “Muslims . . .”

  They are sometimes called “Mohammedans”—that is a term that is used.

  Generally they are called “Muslims.” Their religion is “Islam.”

  “Is-lam”—is that their name for themselves, or is it our name for them? They are worshippers of a “prophet”—Mohammed . . .

  They have a hatred of Christianity and a hatred of Jews and it has been their goal since 1948 to destroy the State of Israel.

  Why?—there is a hatred in the Muslim world of an open freedom-loving society that is educated like the United States.

  There is a hatred of Jews because Jews are superior to their Arab neighbors as demonstrated in the Six-Day War . . .

  Today’s terrorist attacks are just the beginning. If they are not stopped by U.S. airpower they will destroy the “free world.” They hate all Christians. They are enemies of Jews as well and it is their goal to destroy the State of Israel before the coming of Christ and the conversion of the Jews.

  Another time they saw the tower burst into flames. And another time, the second tower struck by the careening airplane. And—(it was always a miracle, if but a miracle of horror)—another time, as they stared, the towers collapsed in flame and rising dust like clouds of vapor.

  Edna Mae suddenly realized. This had to be the beginning of the “last days”—the start of the Great Tribulation.

  She recalled to Dawn and Luke how the last time she’d taken them to visit Luther in the detention facility, they’d been surprised at how much leaner he’d become, and his hair grayer and sparser; how hard-muscled his shoulders and upper arms, as if he’d been exercising in his cell. And how quiet Luther was, a new calmness in him, seeming just to smile at them without hearing much of what they said, for Edna Mae chattered nervously at such times, and even Dawn heard herself say inane things. But then, when they’d been about to leave, Luther leaned forward to touch the opened palm of his hand on the Plexiglas barrier, in silence—“Like he was blessing us. Like Jesus would do. He didn’t say a word. But—maybe—he knew.”

  By this time Aunt Mary Kay had gone to bed. The younger children had fallen asleep on the sofa exhausted. Dawn and Luke exchanged a glance, and a shudder.

  Edna Mae continued, with a vague smile: “He was thinking maybe he wouldn’t see us again. In our earthly selves. But he didn’t want to scare us . . .”

  Luke said: “You think Dad was predicting the future? That’s crazy.”

  Edna Mae protested: “You know how your father is. He worries about us and not about himself.”

  “Christ, Mom! That is so weird.”

  “It is not weird. What do you think is happening now, these bombs, and ‘terrorists’—and your father—what happened to him . . . All at the same time.”

  “Jesus!”

  “You watch your mouth, Luke! Taking the Lord’s name in vain . . .”

  “Jesus is not the ‘Lord.’ Jesus is the ‘son.’ Just so’s you know, Mawmaw.”

  Luke did not pronounce Mawmaw with any of the childish tenderness with which he’d once pronounced it but rather with an air of disdain. Stricken by his rudeness Edna Mae slapped his shoulder with the flat of her hand, and Luke laughed.

  “Jesus forgive you. I hope He will.”

  “I wouldn’t hold my breath, Mom. Jesus has plenty of work cut out for him without giving a damn about us.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “It’s a true thing to say.”

  Dawn was helping the younger children to bed. First Noah, then Anita. She hoped that, in the morning, they might have forgotten much of what they’d seen on the TV; she did not think it was a good idea for Edna Mae to have let them watch.

  When she came downstairs Edna Mae and Luke were still bickering. Luke was on his way out—why didn’t he just leave? And Edna Mae was so exhausted she could barely keep her balance swaying and staggering like a drunk woman—why didn’t Mawmaw just go to bed?

  Dawn thought how strange it was, how embarrassing almost—(she wouldn’t have wanted Miss Schine to know!)—at this late hour of this terrible day her mother and her brother were standing there bickering about something so profound as the end of the world.

  NOT SINCE HE’D ARRIVED in Muskegee Falls seventeen years before as an ardent young minister had anyone in the St. Paul Missionary congregation seen Reverend Dennis so emotional in the pulpit.

  It was as if the hell-fires of the World Trade Center towers were lapping at the very roof and windows of the church. Almost, you could see in Reverend Dennis’s ruddy face and wet glaring eyes the gleam of these fires. He had removed his preacher’s dark formal coat and he had torn open the collar of his white cotton shirt at the throat; he had rolled the sleeves to his elbows and it was fascinating to see how, when he waved his arms, the sleeves inched downward, and he had to push them up again, impatiently. His graying dark hair was damp with perspiration like gel. His voice was piercing as a horn you could not escape even if you dared press your fingers over your ears.

  Enthralled Dawn listened. She was squeezed in close between Anita and Noah and gripped the hands of each tightly for she knew that they were very frightened and that their mother seemed often to be forgetting them in this confused time. She would afterward not recall much of what Reverend Dennis said but she would never forget the elation of the man’s voice and how badly she had wanted, during the sermon, which careened and lurched like a drunken boat, the minister’s eyes to fix upon her.

  “‘After these things I looked, and behold a door was opened in heaven, and the first voice which I heard was of a trumpet speaking with me saying, “Come up hither, and I will show you these things which must be done hereafter” ’—my brothers and sisters in Christ, could any words be more timely than these words of St. John the Divine—of the Book of Revelation? This ‘terrorist attack’ is God’s warning to us, we cannot ignore as we have ignored such warnings as rising tides, rising temperatures, the tides of hell—abortions, birth control—the rise of homosexuality and such abominations and anathema to the Lord— ” In a quavering voice Reverend Dennis spoke for more than an hour, raging, and weeping; his fingers plucked at the collar of his shirt, that was dark now with perspiration, so that you could see the shadow of his chest hair beneath, that made Dawn’s breath quicken, as if she’d had a glimpse of something forbidden—her father part-unclothed, in the shadows of her parents’ bedroom at the old house; her brother Luke shoving a bare foot into the leg of his jeans, his face fixed in concentration so that he had not noticed her staring at his supple body, the small bulge of his tight-fitting white shorts between his legs, the taut muscles of his thighs.

  After the sermon, Reverend Dennis appeared to be exhausted. All who heard him were exhausted. Dawn had been waiting for him to speak of her father as sometimes he spoke of Luther Dunphy in the pulpit, to ask the congregation to “send prayers” his way; but today in his excitement over the terrorist attack Reverend Dennis seemed to
have forgotten Luther Dunphy.

  Edna Mae tried to speak to the minister but could not get through to him past others who were crowded about him.

  It was unfair! She was the wife of Luther Dunphy, and they would not let her through to speak with Reverend Dennis.

  Luke had driven the family to church, and now drove them home. In the passenger’s seat Edna Mae was fretting and weeping as a baffled child might weep.

  “They’re forgetting Luther! They’re forgetting who he is, what he did—the sacrifices he made.”

  Dawn said, “Don’t cry, Mawmaw. They won’t forget him.”

  Luke said: “God won’t forget. That’s all that matters, Mawmaw.”

  In the backseat of the vehicle Dawn sat between the shivering children who were strangely quiet. On either side of their big sister they sat without fidgeting as if, so early in the day, they were already tired and ready for bed. Dawn sought out her brother’s evasive eyes in the rearview mirror but he avoided looking at her.

  Luke persisted, as if in mockery: “God is all that matters, see? The rest is bullshit.”

  HELP ME, JESUS! My husband needs me with him in his hour of need.

  And yet, in the morning, again Edna Mae could not lift her head from her pillow. A terrible weariness had sunk into her bones in the night turning their marrow to lead.

  Each morning before she left for school Dawn came to plead with her—“Mawmaw! Wake up.”

  Edna Mae wanted to protest, she was awake. Her brain was awake. Yet, she could not open her eyes.

  Barely she could move her limbs. If her limbs were not leaden-heavy they were light as air and detached from her, incapable of being moved.

  Her mouth so dry from the pills, she could not speak.

  And so it was, morning following morning through the remainder of that terrible month September 2001. And each morning a (seeming) surprise to Edna Mae who’d been resolved the night before that the next day would be different.

  Yet she would attend the trial. She vowed.

  It was the last days, she believed. The Great Tribulation had begun. Cataclysms, firestorms, floods. Earthquakes, plagues. The terrorist attacks were only the first strike of the wrathful God. Yet so strange to her, as to others in Mad River Junction, that, after the devastation at Ground Zero, nothing further had happened—really, nothing at all had happened to the inhabitants of Mad River Junction.

  “Edna? Edna!”—a face so close to Edna Mae’s face she could scarcely recognize it as her aunt’s. Mary Kay Mack was all but snapping her fingers to wake Edna Mae who was not asleep at the kitchen table where she’d poured cereal into a bowl but had not gotten around to pouring milk onto the cereal or taking up a spoon to eat.

  “Edna Mae. We just had a call. The jury is ‘deliberating.’ Maybe you should be with Luther?”

  Confused, Edna Mae saw that it was twenty-five after twelve. The last she recalled, she’d come downstairs to have breakfast at about nine-thirty.

  “Luther’s lawyer called. They are ‘hoping for the best.’ We can drive over now, if you’re up to it.”

  “Yes.”

  But she was so tired suddenly! She hid her face in her hands.

  VERDICT

  Have you reached a verdict?

  We have, Your Honor.

  The judge was handed a slip of paper which he opened, read, handed back to the bailiff.

  We find the defendant guilty as charged.

  On two counts of homicide in the first degree—guilty as charged.

  IT WAS A SURPRISE TO HIM! By the kick of his heart he had to realize he’d been expecting another verdict.

  But I am not guilty. God will spare me.

  It was a surprise to him and something of a shock, he had to concede it was something of a shock though he’d believed himself immune, invulnerable to earthly vicissitudes but then he realized—God was testing him.

  And so Luther smiled, a radiant smile creasing his face.

  In all his limbs, that were hard-muscled now, with not an ounce of fat encasing them after months of rigorous exercise in his cell, a shudder of newfound strength, resilience.

  RETURNED TO HIS CELL in the detention facility. His cell, it had come to be.

  The younger guard was not so friendly now. Since the exchange in the van when the guard had assured Luther Dunphy that he would one day walk out of the courthouse a “free man” there had been virtually no words between them. And the older guard, who had not liked Luther Dunphy, who had called him a profane name, was blatant in his dislike now.

  Muttering with satisfaction what sounded like Fucker. Got what you deserve.

  Luther’s lawyer too had been surprised. Stunned.

  Or rather, not so surprised, probably. But stunned.

  He would appeal the verdict, he assured Luther.

  And whatever sentencing was to come, he would appeal. Though the young public defender was not so optimistic now. He spoke slowly, distractedly. His eyes were worried. Something of his former, almost giddy energy had dissipated and Luther felt a stab of sympathy, that he’d let the young man down.

  Yet, he was sure that God had not abandoned him.

  SENTENCE

  Five days later in the Broome County Courthouse he heard himself sentenced to death.

  Those were the actual words he heard, yet could not quite comprehend—Luther Dunphy you are sentenced to death.

  This morning, the judge spoke at greater length. In his clipped precise voice of disdain, dislike, disapproval that was yet the voice of a son of Ohio very likely born not far from Muskegee Falls, as Luther Dunphy had been born within twenty miles of Muskegee Falls and had lived his entire life in the region, he spoke of how Luther had killed two men “in cold blood.” These were “premeditated” killings he had “systematically planned”—he had driven from his home, a distance of more than three miles, with the twelve-gauge shotgun that was the murder weapon in his vehicle; he had remained in his vehicle until his victims arrived, at which time he had “stalked” them in plain view of numerous witnesses; these were not “impulsive, spontaneous” acts of passion or emotion but had grown out of a “carefully calculated scheme” of something like vengeance—“cloaked in a distortion and perversion of Christian religious conviction.”

  Both Augustus Voorhees and Timothy Barron, as witnesses attested, had “begged for their lives”—yet he had killed them.

  Witnesses had remarked upon his lack of emotion. And, in the courtroom, over the course of his trial it was clear that he felt no remorse for his heinous crimes but rather a kind of pride.

  “This sentence will send a clear signal to any individuals who believe that they might flout, defy, or violate the laws of the State of Ohio and of the United States of America for reasons of faith or ideology. The court will not tolerate such and will punish to the limit of the law such infractions. Luther Dunphy, you are hereby sentenced to incarceration in the Chillicothe State Correctional Institution for Men where you will be put to death by lethal injection at a time to be determined.”

  Luther’s lawyer gripped his hand to steady not Luther but himself.

  No jurors were present in the courtroom this morning. Very few individuals were present. Court officers, staff. There was a brisk air to the proceedings. Luther was waiting for the judge to say more but already the judge was exiting the room. How swiftly everything was happening, that had happened so slowly for months—this did not seem right.

  Already Luther was being gripped by guards, to be led away. Startled, he saw that his brothers Norman and Jonathan were in the courtroom, staring at him aghast. He had not noticed them before—had he? Wanly he lifted a hand to them, a brotherly gesture both abashed and reassuring—Don’t worry! It will never happen. This is a test of God. Have faith.

  AFTERWARD HE WOULD REALIZE that the second trial had been shorter than the first trial. Fewer “character” witnesses had spoken on his behalf. The ex-priest Stockard had not been present and had not testified. Luther’s friend.
/>   BAD NEWS

  News came to them in Mad River Junction.

  At first Edna Mae didn’t recognize the name. The raw-sounding voice.

  Luther’s public-defender lawyer was calling. The eager anxious young man with whom she’d exchanged awkward remarks a year before whose face and name she had entirely forgotten.

  He was saying it was not good news. He was calling her Mrs. Dunphy.

  He was telling her that the judge had not seemed to find “mitigating” factors in the case. That the judge had sentenced her husband to death.

  Death? Edna Mae did not understand.

  So still was Edna Mae, standing with the receiver in her hand, so blank her expression, Mary Kay Mack quickly took the receiver from her.

  She asked: “Can he—can you—appeal?”

  The lawyer told her yes. In death penalty cases, an appeal is axiomatic.

  And so yes, he could appeal on Luther’s behalf, and he would. Except—

  “Yes? What?”

  Except they should be prepared for the sentence to remain, he said. For the judge had been careful in his handling of the trial, highly professional, scrupulous. He’d been well aware of the controversial nature of the case and that an appeal was likely . . .

  “Oh. My God.”

  Mary Kay made a sound like sobbing—a harsh hacking sound, surprising in one so usually jocose and breezy.

  Still Edna Mae stood close by, unmoving, as if she’d wandered into the kitchen for no particular reason, or had forgotten the reason.

  As Mary Kay continued to speak on the phone at some length in a lowered voice, a voice of incredulity, astonishment, dread, the younger children came into the kitchen as if they’d been called—(of course they had not been called)—and Dawn ran into the kitchen breathless and terrified as if she’d managed to hear, from a distant corner of the house, crucial words.