Unknown to Luther, Edna Mae had been accepting what were called gifts, or loans—from persons sympathetic with the family’s plight, who contributed to the Army of God fund or to similar funds for Luther Dunphy. And there had been donations from the St. Paul Missionary Church, generous at first, but in recent months diminished.
The Dunphys had been helping to support Luther’s family too, but grudgingly. Many times it had been pointed out to Edna Mae that Luther’s elderly parents had not “money to spare”; Luther’s brothers and cousins had their own needy families and had not “money to burn.” Not one of the Dunphys intended to take out a second mortgage to pay for the mess Luther had got himself into.
Norman said, “Y’know what I’d like? To see how damn much money there is in that fund before they skim off the top.”
“‘Skim off the top’—? What do you mean?”
“This ‘Army of God.’ Who the hell are they? People send money for Luther that goes to them. All I can figure from the website is their ‘headquarters’ are someplace in Illinois, a post office box! Sons of bitches are using my brother to make money.”
“But—they give Mawmaw money . . .”
“Sure. They give her something. But if we investigated, what’d you think we would find?”
Dawn was openmouthed. She’d never thought of such a thing!
“We’d find the bastards are stealing from us.”
Edna Mae protested weakly. She did not believe, truly she did not believe, that anyone was stealing from Luther. She could not believe this for everyone had been so nice to her, and so sorry for what had happened.
“They do give us money, Norman. Hundreds of dollars—since last year . . . Luther would be so upset if he knew—the one thing he can’t accept is ‘charity.’ Please don’t let him know anything about this, I beg you.”
Norman rose to his feet abruptly. He was ready to leave, he’d had enough of his infuriating sister-in-law.
“If my brother is so ‘upset’ with charity, why the hell’d he abandon his family for the rest of us to support? God damn son of a bitch thinking he is Christ-almighty, maybe Christ-almighty should support him.”
The Dunphys left. In their wake, dirtied plates, glasses, cutlery and crumpled napkins. And that smell of masculine indignation, rage like something singed. Edna Mae wept silently unable to move from her chair. Dawn started to clear the table, throwing things into the kitchen sink and running water hot until steam blinded her eyes. Her lips moved silently—Jesus help us. Jesus show us the way, the truth, and the Light.
THE GREAT TRIBULATION:
SEPTEMBER 2001
. . . do not run in the halls or on the stairs. All students return to your homerooms immediately. Repeat: all students return to your homerooms immediately and quietly and do not run.
She had not been listening. But she was listening now.
Waking from her trance. Waking at once, and quickly standing as others in the classroom were standing confused and frightened, clutching their books.
. . . . in orderly fashion file out of your classrooms and in orderly fashion return to your homerooms at once. Repeat THIS IS AN EMERGENCY all students will please return to your homeroom for further instructions immediately and quietly and do not run in the halls or on the stairs.
Defiantly she’d been pressing the flaps of her ears against her ears to drown out the teacher’s droning voice. Pressing the flaps of her ears against her ears to create a muffled/buzzing sound that was comforting, entrancing. It was a new habit she did in her classrooms, head lowered, shoulders hunched at her desk at the back of the room, eyes lowered or half-shut, or frankly shut, forehead furrowed as in an intensity of thought utterly detached from and in opposition to the droning effort of the teacher at the front of the room chalking numerals or words onto the blackboard which blurred and faded if she stared at them.
Some sort of moisture flooded into her eyes when she tried to see. She did not think that her eyesight was poor. She did not accept that she might need glasses. (She saw sharply outside. Outdoors! Saw what she wanted to see.) It was the nature of what she was expected to look at, and understand, there at the front of the room, she bitterly resented.
She had not been thinking of algebra but of her father seventeen miles away in the courthouse in Muskegee Falls. She had not been thinking of algebra or of her other classes on any of the days of the new school term but she had been thinking of her father in the courthouse in Muskegee Falls and feeling sick with guilt that she was not there; and sick with dread that her father was being tried.
It was not possible to concentrate on schoolwork as it was not possible to sleep at night while her father was being tried. No things were possible of normal life yet she was obliged to pretend as if they were. Not-hearing what was said to her sometimes, cruel remarks flung in her direction like carelessly flung stones that might strike their target or might not—That’s Dunphy. Her father is the crazy one with the shotgun, on trial for his life.