At first I could not comprehend what this might mean. For often Edna Mae is alone in the house when the children are at school, and I am at work through the day. But then, as Edna Mae spoke further, in a wandering manner, with interruptions of breathless laughter, it seemed to develop that my dear wife was afraid of being alone in the house without her husband to watch over her in the night.
This could only mean—(so I thought)—that Edna Mae was afraid that she might injure herself in my absence.
By accident, she might take an overdose of her medication. Or, less by accident, she might “injure” herself with a sharp knife, or in some other terrible way.
Of course—Edna Mae did not mean this. It is a way of saying how sad she is, how unhappy. How badly she needs her husband to protect her.
Thought of this responsibility filled my heart with a husband’s love. And for my dear children, the love of a Christian father.
That night, after we returned past midnight to Muskegee Falls, and to the (darkened) house, Edna Mae was scarcely able to keep her eyes open as I helped her from the car, and into the house; she had difficulty keeping her balance as I half-carried her upstairs to our bedroom. As we ascended the stairs two things seemed to occur simultaneously: the sound of a door shutting in the upstairs hall, and the appearance, at the top of the stairs, of our thirteen-year-old Luke in pajamas, and barefoot, staring down at us with worried eyes. Though I was not quick-witted enough to comprehend this at the time, it is likely that one of our daughters, probably Dawn, was responsible for shutting the door, quickly entering the room she shared with her sister Anita before we could see her; while Luke, the child most like me, a boy with young-old eyes, remained to greet us, and to ask what was wrong with his mother?—and I said, trying for a jovial tone, “Not a thing is wrong, son, except that your mother is up past her bedtime.”
Still the boy stared at us, unconvinced. It is rare that one sees a child’s forehead so visibly furrowed, as Luke’s; and it is upsetting to observe how the boy gnaws at his lower lip, as if to draw blood. Often it seems to me that I see a small mottled-red birthmark on the boy’s left cheek—in fact there is none. (Yet I can’t stop myself from looking—many times in a single day.) I felt as though a vise had seized my heart, for our firstborn will surely grow to be as tall and as big-framed as his father, and there is a helplessness in such, for it will be your responsibility to protect others who are smaller and weaker than you; and it is very easy to lose balance in such a frame, and you are always exposed—the sky is always “open” above you. In a lowered voice I said, “Go back to bed, son. You have school tomorrow.”
Yet worriedly the boy persisted—“Is Mawmaw OK?”
“Mawmaw is tired. And I am tired, son. Don’t tempt me!”—still in a jovial voice though the boy understood the look in my eyes, of warning, of love laced with warning, or warning laced with love; and quickly he drew away, and returned to the room he shared with his younger brother, barefoot and silent as if indeed my hand had been raised against him which it had not.
It is a terrible responsibility to be the progenitor of new life. In a dream it came to me years ago after the first of them was born—Increase and multiply is the curse of humankind.
But this was not the (recognizable) voice of the Lord, or of Jesus. It was a (possible) voice of mockery, to test Luther Dunphy who had aspired to be a minister in the St. Paul Missionary Church of Jesus and was on trial at that time.
In our bedroom removing Edna Mae’s clothing with clumsy fingers. Beneath the raincoat my dear wife had not been naked (as I had feared) but wore a soiled flannel shirt that might’ve belonged to one of the older children, and a soiled corduroy skirt that looked as if it had been retrieved from the dirty-clothes basket, no stockings or socks and her undergarments (which I would not remove) were grayish from many launderings and loosely fitted her shrunken frame.
Since Daphne, my poor dear wife has lost fifteen pounds at least. While I have gained weight in my torso, a fatty tumor like a fist encasing my heart.
Clumsily too I pulled Edna Mae’s cotton nightgown down over her head and for a moment the nightgown was caught, and Edna Mae struggled weakly against me, her face hidden. Too late seeing that the nightgown was inside-out. But already Edna Mae had slumped back on the bed and into a light doze, openmouthed. A string of saliva on her chin. I would help her into the bed and draw the bedclothes up upon her and pray that we would get through this night for these were nights that seemed dangerous to me, in the nights, weeks, months after Daphne when there was yet indecision as when a jury is deliberating a verdict regarding you but which you do not fully comprehend.