The bedroom was dim-lit. On my knees I prayed beside the bed. It is my habit at such times—the oldest prayer of my childhood which I had been taught to repeat in echo of my father’s voice Our Father Who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . .—for such words are a consolation as whiskey had once been a consolation.
In the dark for some time I lay awake beside my dear wife. I was very exhausted and yet could not seem to sleep for my body felt large and clumsy to me, and I needed to shower, for my body smelled of sweat, yet there was no time now, the hour was nearing 2:00 A.M. My (right) foot on the gas pedal ached from the pressure and became a foot-cramp—(for I suffer from foot-and leg-cramps often in the night). The interstate highway was rushing at me but dimly illuminated in the headlights of my vehicle and it was not clear—(in my anxiety, I did not wish to experiment by turning the wheel)—if my hands gripping the steering wheel possessed any power to “steer” the vehicle or whether the wheel was a false wheel provided for me to (falsely) placate me. As when it was said of the lifeless child She is with the angels now.
And yet, it was the father who said these words, was it?—for it was my task to bring the news to the other children.
“Your sister is with the angels now. There is no need for tears.”
Like fingernails scraped on a blackboard, the sound of tears. Such a sound is not bearable.
There had come Edna Mae’s muffled voice to the children somewhere upstairs that they must not cry, they must not cry for crying would displease their father, if they had to cry they must hide away to cry or wait until their father was not within earshot did they understand?
The muffled aggrieved yet practical-minded female voice, of which I was not (altogether) certain, that I had heard it or imagined it, nor the children’s voices in reply, I did not seem to hear.
So tired! It is that state when tiny stars and the faces of strangers seem to rush at us behind our closed eyes.
Yet it was not comfortable in our bed where the bedclothes had come to smell of our bodies and the ooze of grief. And the ooze of anger. And disgust. For it had fallen to me lately, to change the bedclothes, when my poor dear wife could not remember if she had changed the bedclothes or not, when obviously she had not, nor had my poor dear wife remembered to bathe herself as once she had been so fastidious, she had laughed at herself. And now, days passed and (it seemed to me) Edna Mae did not change her undergarments, and she did not wash or even, at times, brush her hair.
Explaining to the children that their mother was very tired. Their mother was prescribed medication which made her tired and so they must take care of Mawmaw, at this sad time in our lives.
Our bed was “queen size.” Yet my feet pushed against the end of the bed, and were always tugging out the sheets there. I would lie on my side facing away from Edna Mae, and my eyes shut tight. In this position I felt like something that has toppled over in the cemetery, that had fallen from one of the larger gravestones, heavily into the grasses and could not be righted again. And Edna Mae beside me, not on her side facing out but on her back, which was not a good position, for on her back Edna Mae would breathe irregularly, and wetly, beneath the white-wool quilt Edna Mae’s mother had knitted for us for a wedding present, that she had explained was a diamond stitch, and that had once been so beautiful, it seemed amazing to me that my motherin-law had knitted it and I had known myself blessed, that Edna Mae’s family would accept me as their son though (it was clear to me if not to them) Luther Dunphy was not worthy.
And now it seemed to me again, as the Professor’s gaze had lighted upon mine, that I was not a true protector of the weak and helpless, but a coward who had no right to call himself a Christian.
A Christian is one who will sacrifice his life, in martyrdom. I have long known this, but did not want to acknowledge it for it is far easier to hide within the family, to claim that the love and protection of your own family is your sole responsibility.
How long it was, how many minutes, lying awake and trying to sleep despite these condemning thoughts and trying not to listen to the labored breathing of the woman beside me. Until at last—as I knew it would—her breath seemed to stop—and then, after some desperate seconds, during which it sounded as if she was being strangled, I would nudge her awake begging—“Edna Mae. Breathe.”
And then, my poor dear wife would emit a startled snort, and for a confused moment she would seem to be awake; then lapsed back into sleep, close beside me.
She is with Daphne now. The child has her.
Almost I could see our daughter’s small arms tight around Edna Mae’s neck, pulling her down into blackness like black muck.
Yet there was no sound from the child. It is rare that you will encounter a child who makes no sound.