After a while like a year or so people began to say that the Dunphys’ new baby was “not right”—and it was said by some, this was a retarded baby or a Down’s baby. But there were many beautiful things about Daphne you could see instead, if you took time. And you could see why Edna Mae was always holding her, and fussing over her.
When we heard that this little angel had been killed in the car crash out on the highway we all just burst into tears. It was such a shock! Three years old, and she hadn’t even seemed that old. It was so sad. Because you would think, the poor little girl had not ever had an actual life, and now the life that had been granted to her had been taken from her.
The ways of God are mysterious, that is a fact. That cannot be stressed too strongly.
And you would feel so sorry for Edna Mae, who had loved the little girl so much. And for Luther, who had loved her too, and had been driving the car.
That, Luther Dunphy would never get over. That he’d been driving that car.
SIN
At age twelve, and for years to come, I dwelt in filth and shame.
All of my friends were like myself. All the boys I knew. It is vile even to recall. Especially, my mother shrank from me. She would see the sheets on my bed, and my underwear, that was filth-stained. But if I tried to wash these myself she would know this, too.
It was awkward between us, when we were alone together in a room. There was not much to say, I did not blame my mother for detesting me, as I would not blame anyone. Yet sometimes, in eating with the family and in clearing the table afterward, I would intentionally drop a fork, a plate, a glass, that my mother would react, if only in surprise; and my brothers would laugh at me, for they sided with one another, against me as the youngest; and my father would command me to clean up the mess I’d made which I would do, sulky and silent.
Women saw me staring at them, at their breasts, bellies and legs. My face went slack, my eyes felt hooded like a snake’s eyes, yet helpless to look away. And between my legs, my “thing” like a snake, that moved of its own volition and grew hard, and could not be stopped. At school, the teachers were all women, in eighth grade. In all my classes I was positioned at the back of the room with other boys whom the teachers did not like or perhaps feared. The back of my desk could be made to press against the wall to grate away the paint and leave a mark. With my knees I could lift my desk and let it fall, to make a noise. The startled look in the teacher’s face meant that she would like to chide me, and send me from the room, but did not dare.
In Upper Sandusky Middle School Felice Sipper was coarsely talked-of. In a higher grade was Beverly Sipper, who would have to drop out of school in tenth grade because she was pregnant, and in a lower grade, in the elementary school Irene Sipper and her brother with the shaved head (shaved to prevent lice) Ronald Sipper. It was said of the Sippers who lived in a trailer by the railroad yard that they were poor white trash.
In eighth grade crude, cruel things were said of Felice Sipper. Even the nice girls scorned her, and all the boys. Her name was scrawled on walls. On a concrete overpass in red spray paint was scrawled FELICE SIPER SUCKS COCK.
Boys who were my friends had scrawled these things. From an empty classroom I had taken chalk-stubs, we could use for brick walls though the chalked words washed off in the rain. There were others whose names were scrawled in public derision, both girls and boys, but it was Felice Sipper who drew the most excited attention. Our teachers would not look at her, for the sight of the pimply-faced girl in her cheap nylon sweaters and oversized skirts, that skidded about her thin waist so that the side-zipper was not in its proper place, was offensive to their eyes.
I felt sorry for Felice Sipper. I tried to rub away some of the nasty words with my wetted fist, if no one was observing.
I saw the hurt and weakness in the girl’s face, as she stood at her locker in the eighth grade corridor trying to ignore stares and whispers, and a lust came over me like a lust to kill.
Alone, I would follow Felice Sipper after school. She saw me, and looked frightened. If she started to run, I would not run after her. I would whistle loudly, and laugh to myself. I would turn in another direction but I would not hurry, for I did not want Felice to think that I had been following her, and was now not-following her.
Felice had entered the dripping underpass at Union Street. I had waited until some older girls ascended the steps and were gone and then I entered, from the other side. Felice was walking slowly with eyes downcast as if she was not aware of me even as I stood before her.
“You are a dirty girl. You will go to hell when you die.”
Felice tried to move past me. I blocked her way.
Felice was much smaller than I was. Her head barely came to my shoulder. Her hair was matted and odd-colored like straw. She had a sallow blemished dark-toned skin, she was not “white” like the rest of us. Yet her hair was not Negro hair and her lips were not Negro lips.
When she tried to turn, to run from me, I grabbed her arm that was skinny as a stick.
“Don’t you care, you’re a dirty slut who will go to hell?”