A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  Of all the inmates in the unit, Luther Dunphy was the one who never complained about the food. He would say grace over the meal no matter what shit it was—and he would eat it.

  You had to respect the man. His family must’ve sent him money credit for the commissary but he never cared to purchase much of anything except a new toothbrush now and then and toothpaste. And he had a few letters he was writing when he first came to Death Row, that he never finished and didn’t mail.

  None of us had ever seen anybody so serious about workouts. The age he was, mid-forties, Luther Dunphy didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body, just muscles, and these were big muscles—he was impressive.

  It was said he’d been a minister at one time so I asked him about this and he seemed embarrassed saying he’d taken courses at a seminary in Toledo but it hadn’t worked out.

  “Jesus didn’t call me. I guess that was it.”

  People would ask us, is Luther Dunphy crazy. Is that the one killed two men because God told him to. Does he say that God talks to him right now. Your average inmate on Death Row, the years they have been in solitary, which is what Death Row is, you’d have to say that they are not normal in their minds. They are maybe not raving insane and banging their heads against the walls but they are not sane. Just to be a CO in the unit, you are in some danger of losing your grip. But Luther Dunphy was not one of these. I would swear to this and so would the chaplain who spent a lot of time with Luther.

  Must’ve been, the chaplain and the warden had some kind of deal, Luther Dunphy would sign copies of the New Testament. Supposedly the books would be distributed to Christian youth—that was what Luther told me—but what happened was they were sold on eBay after his death. Some of the copies with Luther Dunphy’s signature, they sold for as much as two hundred seventy dollars. For a cheap-printed book worth a couple of bucks! Who got this money had to be the warden and Reverend Davey if it was anyone.

  As a kindness, seeing that I was a Christian like him or anyway tried to be, Luther gave me one of these New Testaments. He told me not to tell the chaplain. He said, I better give it to you now Luther before it’s too late.

  “LUTHER. Whatever is ‘on your mind’—you must clear it away.”

  In his voice that was low and soft and cajoling Reverend Davey said it would be a salve to Luther’s conscience if he made an official statement regarding that other man he’d shot—Timothy Barron.

  “For you know, Luther, you are thinking of him. He is ‘on your mind.’ You have never acknowledged this innocent man and you have not expressed remorse for your act and it would be a kindness to the Barron family, you know, if you did. And if you did soon.”

  Luther Dunphy stared at the smudged floor of his cell.

  Many times he had tried to remember. He had tried to summon back that vision. But he could not for there was blankness and numbness there. After the shotgun blast propelling Voorhees backward and down onto the driveway there was blankness and numbness and a roaring in Luther’s ears.

  God had acted through Luther Dunphy just this single time. God had given Luther Dunphy the strength to pull the trigger of the shotgun, as a streak of electricity runs through a living being.

  Then, God had withdrawn. There had not been a second shot—Luther Dunphy would swear.

  Yet Reverend Davey (who had not been in the driveway at that time, who had not been a witness, who could not know) persisted. Saying how “healing” it would be for Luther’s conscience, for his soul, if he gave a statement in writing pertaining to Timothy Barron just to acknowledge what he’d done, if (perhaps) he had not meant to do it, had not meant to shoot Timothy Barron, but if (perhaps) he might express remorse for the death of Timothy Barron, as a gesture of kindness to the Barron family.

  “Christian charity, Luther. But also—a healing for your soul.”

  Luther appeared to be thinking. You could not have guessed how furious Luther was, hearing these words. How his muscles clenched, and the tendons in his neck.

  But again, Luther said no, explaining patiently that that was not possible for there’d been just one man he had shot in all of his life—“The abortion doctor Voorhees. And I don’t regret that act. That act is why I was born, Reverend. I am seeing that now.”

  BUT THAT NIGHT Jesus visited Luther’s cell. Wakened from sleep by a presence close by Luther did not sit up in his bed but all of his senses were alert and sharpened.

  Softly Jesus said Think again, Luther.

  Jesus said You are strong enough now, Luther. Strength is required to utter words that, while untrue, will bring peace to troubled souls.

  IN TOLEDO he’d slept in the woman’s bed. Smelling of the woman’s body, and hair shampoo, or oil. And the pillowcases smeared with the woman’s makeup, that was disgusting to him so that when he believed she would not see, he turned over the pillow.

  But the other side of the pillow was unclean, too.

  HE HAD NOT really spoken to them. The women in Toledo.

  He had brought his anger to them. Swollen and throbbing with yearning his anger he’d brought to them to discharge his hot infuriated seed into them as they lay beneath him locking their arms around him unknowing of the fury in his soul, the terrible boredom that is beyond fury.

  How bored he’d been at the Seminary! Boredom like a gigantic yawn to distend his mouth, his jaws. Boredom colossal enough to annihilate the world.

  He’d resented the old men who had blocked the doorway to his ministry. Not giving Luther Dunphy their blessing, that Luther might spread the word of Jesus like a wildfire eating up the hearts of strangers.

  I wanted only to be Your servant. I do not understand why that was denied me.

  He had not really spoken to the woman but had only just pretended to speak. He’d told her that he was studying to be a minister, that he was a roofer, and a carpenter, and yes he was married and he had children. But he had not spoken to her of himself as she’d spoken to him telling him of her ex-husband who had beaten her and shamed her and made her crawl until one day she had risen to her feet with a vow of never again to crawl before any man. And she’d told him of a child who had died of some childhood illness—measles. In his male vanity and cruelty he’d shut himself off from her. He had wished to think of her as a fallen woman, a whore, a slut with dyed blond-streaked hair and a negligee of some flimsy material of the hue of naked skin through which he could see the shadowy nipples of her breasts and the shadowy pubic-hair patch at her crotch. She’d been kind to him only just lonely. A man is fearful of lonely in a woman. She’d prepared meals for him more than once and he had eaten at her table more than once hungrily and with gratitude as he had lost himself in her body and in her embrace more than once and with gratitude. She’d said, I miss not having anyone to cook for. I miss not having anyone to take care of. Her smile was marred by a crooked front tooth. Her eyes were hazel-colored like Edna Mae’s eyes as he remembered them when Edna Mae had been a girl and so much in her had been a surprise to him.

  When the woman drew her fingertips across his face he’d stiffened for he did not like such familiarity. When she’d caressed the birthmark he’d slapped away her hand with a curse.

  JESUS SAID It is the act of a Christian to take on remorse that is not his, that the suffering of the world be lightened.

  HE HAD LOST COUNT of the days. His ten-counts he did without thinking for his lungs and his muscles had memorized precisely each ten-count of the vigorous exercise routine but he had lost count of the days for the days fell beyond the narrow confine of his cell.

  His cell. So he’d come to consider it.

  Yet now, Reverend Davey came to see him in this cell each day. Or was it, twice a day: morning and evening.

  Earnestly Reverend Davey told him: “Prayer is like a feather.”

  Reverend Davey’s eyes were the eyes of birds quick-darting in damp sand, long thin sharp beaks poised to jab.

  “Think of a beautiful white feather. A large feather—like a hawk feather if a haw
k could be white. Think of God’s hand and the white feather on the palm of His hand. And each prayer is a feather, that is light, weighing almost nothing. But each feather is precious to God. And the feathers accumulate, in the palm of God’s hand. So the prayers accumulate, and one day you will see, Luther—I have faith in this, deep in my heart—”

  Luther thought—The governor will commute your sentence.

  “—you will be with our savior in paradise.”

  Confused, Luther smiled. He was not sure what Reverend Davey meant, for all along he had known that he would be greeted by Jesus in paradise. He had never doubted.

  Yet, the death warrant was served. A frowning young bald-headed prison official from the warden’s office whom Luther had never seen before brought the document to Luther Dunphy to deliver by hand one morning after breakfast which was congealing oatmeal, just-slightly-“off” milk, a sprinkling of sugar and a small paper cup of sugary orange juice.

  There was no mistake that the death warrant was meant for him for Luther Amos Dunphy was prominent on the document that bore a gilt replica of the Seal of the State of Ohio.

  “Is that me?”—Luther spoke naively, puzzled.

  Dazedly his eyes scanned the printed words. There appeared to be breaks between words and within words, like wormholes in wood.

  . . . her eby ordered that the de fen dant L uther Amos Du phy who h as adjud ged GUILTY OF CAPITAL MUR DER as charge d in the indict men t and w ose p nishm ent h as been as sessed by t he verd ict of the jur y and ju dgment of the court a t Death sh all be kep t in cust dy by Aut hority of t he Oh o Depa rtment of C rimin al Justice unt il the 4th day of March 2006 upo n which day at the Oh o Dep artment of Crim ina l Justice at the hour of 7 P M in a chamb r designat Ed for the p urpose of Execu tion, the said Author ity acting by and thr ough the Execu tioner design ated by the Warden, as prov ided by law, s hereby comm anded, ordered nd direc ed to carry out his senten ce of Death by intr venous inject on of a subs tance or su stanc es in a lethal qua ntity adju dged suffic ent to cause th Death of the afores aid Luth er Amos Dunphy un il the sa id Lu ther Am os Du phy is Dead.

  Abruptly then the printed words ceased. Quickly Luther turned over the document—there was nothing on the reverse side.

  He looked up. The prison official had vanished. Luther’s cell was empty except for Luther whose legs he could see, and whose hands and arms he could see before him.

  Is that who I am, or someone else? Who?

  On the floor beside his bed was a stack of five or six New Testaments waiting to be signed, and Reverend Davey’s black plastic fountain pen. Luther set aside the death warrant and eagerly Luther took these up.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE an execution I don’t even try to sleep. Lay on my bed in my underwear and socks and the TV is on but I am not hearing it. Or maybe it’s on mute. Bottle of scotch and a glass and cigarettes to get me through the night.

  When I was living with my wife I’d lay out on the sofa like this. But she couldn’t take it, on edge like I am leading up to it for days—hell, might’ve been weeks. I said to her what if I was a Vietnam vet? You’d have pity for me then.

  She said, OK but you are not a Vietnam vet. Should be ashamed of yourself saying such a damn thing.

  She’d known what it was to marry a CO. Half the men in her family are COs, how I met Dolores. So it was shitty for her to hold it against me pretending like drinking was something new to her, half the men in her family are alcoholics. For Christ sake.

  The thing is no matter how many times you go through the “lethal injection” procedure, something can go wrong.

  Like they say in a prison facility if something can go wrong it will go wrong but you won’t know when.

  So in the early morning like 4:00 A.M. the first wave of the real excitement will come to me. When we were together Dolores would say Hey! I can feel your actual heart. I think this amazed her. It amazed her but also scared her. Because of the drinking, I am not like I usually am but (she has said) some different person. It is easy to drop things and break things and collide with things in this state. It is easy to fall asleep with my eyes open. And there was a clamminess coming off me—Dolores said—like I was sweating-hot but cold too like somebody standing in front of an opened refrigerator.

  This feeling of something you can’t almost bear, it is so strong.

  Some guys will bullshit how they have the “best sex of their lives” at such a time the night before an execution but only somebody who doesn’t know shit would believe them.

  Because a doctor or a nurse, or even an EMT, for some “ethical”—“humanitarian”—reason they will not do the procedure. They will not participate in an execution.

  There is a prison doctor at the infirmary, some days. But he will not assist in an execution. He has been asked many times but the asshole always refuses.

  He will show up to declare the dead man dead, to sign the death certificate and collect his time-and-a-half. That the doctor will do.

  (And his breath smelling of whiskey too. Fucking hypocrite.)

  You’d think if these medical people were “ethical” they would set up the line at least—that’s the hard part, where a non-professional is likely to fuck up. If they got the line going in the man’s veins so somebody else could release the drugs into it at intervals that’d be “ethical.”

  First comes the anesthetic. Then, the paralytic. Then, the actual poison.

  The idea being, by the time the poison comes into the man’s veins he is deep asleep and will not wake up.

  The paralytic is to make sure that, if he does wake up, he will not scream and struggle and you will not know if he is awake.

  These matters I do not think about much if I can help it. In nine years I will be eligible for early retirement and I am counting the days.

  I think that my marriage is so fucked-up, I am not sure if I want the woman back. The kids from her previous marriage helped fuck all that up.

  Doing the kind of work that I do, any kind of prison work but especially Death Row, makes you special—like a leper. Why being a CO runs in families. Like law enforcement. Like Death Row assignment. Nobody else understands, and nobody else is comfortable with it. People will avoid you even at the prison. Even your supervisor. Like they are afraid to look you in the face—like it might be contagious or something. I have seen sons of bitches turn a corner to avoid me. See me at security going through and they hold back. Hypocrite fuckers.

  We are like soldiers with a special status. We are paid to kill a human being—but it is not murder.

  In some Western states it is by firing squad. You would be one of five or six men. Whoever thought of that!—one of five or six men and you would not know if you were firing blanks. That would be a mercy.

  But if you had to fire a rifle at a man, in his heart, just you alone—that would not be possible.

  With Luther Dunphy I knew it would be bad. Because Luther was a Christian like myself except a better Christian than I could ever be. Because he was one of those few in my life I believed truly did not see the color of my skin or if he did, that it made any impression on him.

  Because he gave me a copy of the New Testament, that I will never sell or give away. It is precious to me.

  HE HAD DECLINED a final meal. Instead he would fast.

  Except for liquids he would fast for the final forty-eight hours.

  Yet: God would not forsake him. He knew.

  His brain was so sharply awake it hurt, like broken glass would hurt inside a human brain.

  A smell of urine wakened him that morning. A smell of breakfast food, and something sour like vomit. He had not ever seen his fellow inmates on Death Row but often he smelled them, and often he heard their voices raw and yearning and ranting and he heard angry laughter that wakened him from sleep.

  Jesus lay His forefinger against His lips—You must console the family of the man you did not kill. You dare not join me in paradise if you fail to do this in my name, Luther.

 
He was awake and alert and prepared but he was not able to fully enter wakefulness as you are not sometimes able to enter a doorway—the size of the doorway is too small, or the threshold is crooked, you see your foot groping for balance. Or, the doorway is actually a window, you need to crawl through. And the roof outside the window (because the window is set in a wall overlooking the slope of a lower roof) is a steep roof and you are not wearing work-boots but shoes with a foolish smooth sole like an ordinary man.

  His eyes lifted to the sky. How happy he was even without proper work-boots, on this roof.

  “Luther Dunphy”—his name was spoken harshly.

  Was it the death warrant? But the death warrant had already been served to him.

  It was the commutation from the governor!

  In the past Luther Dunphy had been informed by his lawyer that the execution had been stayed. But this time, there seemed to be no call.

  “Luther.”

  The wheel of the car, he had not turned sharply enough. If he had turned it more sharply, and more quickly, he might have avoided the pickup truck. But already his vehicle was skidding on the pavement damp from falling snow and in the backseat Daphne was screaming Da-da! Da-DA!

  There had not (yet) come the call from the governor. Some men would not walk to the execution chamber, or could not walk. Of course, Luther Dunphy could walk for he was remarkably fit and strong and agile for a man of his age.

  There came Reverend Davey to walk beside him. The chaplain was breathing hoarsely as if he had hurried. His parchment-colored face lightly oozed perspiration. His large hand fitted into Luther Dunphy’s hand as in a warm handshake that became a handclasp to bring solace to Luther, and comfort.