I had laid out my clothes the night before, in the basement. Recalling the previous summer at J.C. Penney where I’d bought the children sneakers and for myself, for some reason I could not then have named, a khaki-colored long-sleeved T-shirt that had seemed to me a soldier’s shirt, and khaki trousers with deep pockets on both legs in which I could carry ammunition if required.
“Would you like to try those on?”—so the saleswoman asked of me, in a friendly way. But I told her that was not necessary, the trousers were in my size according to the label.
Edna Mae had used to laugh at me, that my clothes were sometimes of sizes too large for me. Since childhood, this had been so, for my mother had not wanted to be all the time buying me new clothes, and so purchased clothing large enough for me to “grow into”—which seemed very reasonable to me.
Later, when I lived by myself, I kept the same habits. For it has never seemed to me to feel right, if clothes are a “fit.”
I smiled to recall that afternoon with the children. It was rare for us to be alone together in such a way. The saleswoman asked their names and proudly I told them—“Luke—and Dawn—and Noah—and Anita . . .” And another time, it seemed to me that there was someone missing, that took my breath away so that the saleswoman waited for me to continue to speak and the children were made uncomfortable.
But they’d been well behaved at the mall. Not like those children who run wild, screaming and colliding with shoppers.
They would wear their new sneakers home, and I would take the old sneakers home in boxes. The sneakers were bright-colored.
Thanks, Daddy! These’re cool.
Then, I took them for ice cream. It was almost 5:00 P.M. Edna Mae was not to know. It is a precious sly thing, to have a secret from the children’s mother.
I realized then, I had seen in a dream-vision my own grave marker, the night before. It was confused in my memory with the grave of the Holy Innocents Preborn Children of God in the cemetery in Illinois but I had seen it clearly—Luther Amos Dunphy 1960—but then, I had not seen the date of my death. Instead of a numeral engraved in the stone there was a blur.
And so I had known, God would not relent. God would direct me to the execution. It would be done, there was no turning back.
The Mossberg shotgun, that my grandfather had left to me years ago, I had also prepared the night before. This heavy gun I had not fired in twelve years I had cleaned, but I had not yet loaded. For even so recently I had thought, God might relent. Also, you must never keep a loaded weapon in a household with children.
Hands so shaky, fingers so numb I could hardly fit the shells inside.
Such moisture in my eyes, I could not see clearly. A moment’s panic at the thought that, at the crucial instant, I would not be able to see my target clearly.
Recalling how when I had hunted with my father, uncles, and cousins in the woods outside Sandusky, and had been so eager to keep up with the men, and so fearful of their scorn, I had more than once misfired this very shotgun and sent buckshot into an open field missing the target—in that case, a pheasant.
Other times, I had hoped to bring down a deer with a rifle shot. But I had only (once) wounded the animal, and had been badly shaken by the sight. Mostly, I had not fired at all.
To aim at, to shoot at, a human being standing only a few yards away—God, help me! God give me strength.
By this time I was trembling so badly, I could barely maneuver the zipper of my black nylon jacket.
At last ascending the stairs to the kitchen, and switching on the overhead light. This too for the last time! On the refrigerator were crayon drawings by the younger children, I had not really seen before—giraffe, elephant, tiger. (Whose were these? Anita’s? Why these animals? Suddenly, I wanted so badly to know.) And there the linoleum floor worn thin at the sink and at the table, I had promised Edna Mae I would replace, but had not.
Hurriedly drinking from a quart milk container. I could not risk any food, even cereal, for fear that I would become nauseated.
My black nylon windbreaker, that fell to the knees, and would hide the shotgun. Or, would hide the shotgun as much as required. For I would not be closely observed by many, until it was too late.
A work-cap pulled down low onto my forehead. It is a habit I have, the rim leaves a red mark in my skin Edna Mae had once rubbed with her fingers, to smooth away.
On the kitchen phone, that is an apricot-colored plastic wall phone, quickly I called Ed Fischer at his business number which I knew he would not answer, at this early hour. Telling Ed that I would not be able to come to work that day for a reason I would explain later.
Not wanting to think how Ed would react, when he heard. How the others on the crew, my friends I had known for many years since moving here, would react when they heard.