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Then, God had withdrawn.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.