Except, a Down’s child will not grow up. A Down’s child will not ever push you away or sneer at you. Or move out of the house.
Daphne was so special because she was happy-seeming all the time. Even when (it was revealed) she wasn’t all that well. She would cough and choke like (possibly) she was allergic to something like pollen or cat hairs and she could be restless, if she had to sit in something that confined her like a stroller. Singing was exciting to her, songs she’d hear on the radio she would sing with the radio voices as if they were actual people in the room with her.
As an infant Daphne had been baptized in the St. Paul Missionary Church. She was taken with the family to services most Sundays and Wednesday evenings and if she got too excitable and chattered too loud Edna Mae would take her outside to wait in the car.
Everybody in the congregation loved little Daphne Dunphy. The minister blessed her, as one of Jesus’s own.
They say that Down’s children are strange-looking with those sort of flat, moon faces like a Mongol face but Daphne did not look so much like this she looked more like a doll with pretty painted-on features. Her hair was pale brown and wavy and her eyes were beautiful though small and slanted in her face and just slightly crossed so you could never tell which eye was looking at you. Her grandmother had told us, she’d been born with weak lungs and a weak heart—the Dunphys were considering whether to get heart surgery for her as doctors were suggesting, or to put their trust in the Lord.
This was a surprise to hear. You would think the heart surgery (in Columbus at the medical school) would be very expensive but Luther was saying, a “pediatric cardiologist” would operate on Daphne for no fee or for some fee that a third party would pay but Luther worried that this was some kind of welfare or federal government program he did not believe in. Whether it was his church beliefs, or Luther Dunphy himself, he would become upset over the issue of “federal subsidies” and “welfare”—the “Socialist state” which was a “godless atheistical state.”
Daphne was hard of hearing in both ears, but she’d got to the point she could read lips, almost. She would stare at your face as if she was holding her breath. No other children cared so much about any adult! The Dunphys began to worry that something was wrong when Daphne didn’t learn to crawl until she was a year old—and finally was able to walk when she was about two, if somebody had hold of her hand. She could not eat food like other children, there was some problem with chewing and swallowing. And there was low thyroid, that had to be corrected with medication (which the Dunphys did not like to give her). You could see that Daphne had “developmental” problems just by the look of her. It was sad when she got old enough to see what other children her age could do, that she could not do; this was frustrating to her, and made her cry. But she was happy just to be with her mother, and didn’t need to play with anyone else. She could recognize herself in the mirror unlike a dog or a cat can do, and liked to wave her hands and laugh at herself like a little monkey.
There was nothing unusual about the Dunphy family. A normal family (more or less) until Daphne was born. And even that—some kind of learning disability, or handicap, isn’t so unusual in a family. Luther Dunphy worked for Fischer Construction, roofing and carpentry. He and Edna Mae belonged to that evangelical church on Cross Creek Road where Luther had done a lot of the carpentry and roof work and painting and was always donating his time doing repairs. Even after he’d had that terrible accident and almost died, and was in the hospital for six weeks, soon as he got back to work he was over at the church, helping out. There were two boys and two girls older than Daphne. The older boy Luke was a worrier, his grandma said, like Luther, but a good reliable boy like his dad. The older girl Dawn had some trouble in school getting along with the other children but the younger girl was a pretty little girl quiet and well liked.
Edna Mae’s sister Noreen was telling us how Edna Mae had had some bleeding in the pregnancy, which was her sixth or seventh pregnancy because she’d had a miscarriage or two over the years. And people were saying Luther should be protective of his wife, and not make her pregnant all the time. Her own family was saying Edna Mae was too old, and should have known better. But how is it the woman’s fault! It is more the man’s fault. And if you looked at Luther Dunphy, and at Edna Mae, you’d see right away whose fault it was—had to be Luther, pushing himself on the woman like some big rutting stallion. You’d see sometimes, a look in Luther’s face, in his eyes, like a struck match hurriedly shook out—just the remains of it. For sure, Luther had strong feelings no matter how he hid them.
And Edna Mae always giving in to anyone, that smile like a rubber band stretched tight to bursting. Her hair was falling out, you could see the scalp beneath, and around her left thumbnail scabs where she’d bitten it. That kind of good Christian woman who wouldn’t lift a hand to protect herself, if somebody came at her with a baseball bat. If she was drowning.
The doctor in Muskegee Falls had sent Edna Mae to have prenatal screening at the hospital in Springfield, because she’d been having pains and bleeding, and she hadn’t wanted to go, she was afraid of the hospital “doing something” to her when she was being examined. It was very hard for Edna Mae to consent to a pelvic exam, even when it was explained carefully to her and there was a nurse right beside her. And Luther didn’t trust any hospital, either. About all they trusted was their church—not just any Christian church but only their own church. (Which taught their followers to be suspicious of other Christian churches.) But Edna Mae finally went to have the test when she was four months pregnant, am-ny-o-syn-tho-sis, and so they were informed that the baby would be born with deficits as it is called, including respiratory and neurological, and cardiac—they can see all that in an X-ray these days, in the mother’s womb. Of course, they can see if it’s a boy or a girl—but they won’t tell you if you don’t want to know. (The Dunphys did not want to know.) And so, the doctor told Edna Mae and Luther there’s a strong probability of Down’s syndrome and explained what it was. He told Edna Mae and Luther to think hard whether they would like the pregnancy “terminated”—which he could do at the hospital, as a regular surgical procedure.
Of course, both Edna Mae and Luther were very upset about this. They left the hospital right away, and drove home.
Edna Mae flat-out did not believe this diagnosis. She refused to discuss any “termination” with any doctor. The baby was alive to her, she could feel the baby alive inside her! She said that Jesus would take care of her and her baby, she had had only healthy babies in the past and Jesus would look after her now. They would all pray for a healthy baby. Luther was even more emphatic than Edna Mae, he did not say much to anyone but definitely, he would never agree to “termination” which was what they did in Nazi and Communist countries—like “sterilization.” They would all pray specially hard for a healthy baby and that would be enough.
(Some of us are not so sure what we believe. In our church which is not evangelical like the Dunphys’ church there are no hard-fast beliefs. In fact it is not a good idea to talk about such things, like politics, the ones that revere the President and the ones that hate him, or how people feel about the Gulf War, or any war. Luther Dunphy was not one to speak much still less to argue. The deeper a man’s feelings are, the quieter he is. Which can be deceiving, as Luther’s actions have proven. You could see the stubbornness in the man’s face for as long as we have known him. The set of his jaw like the set of a horse’s jaw when the horse has made its mind up and nothing can change it.)
Some folks I know argue that if God sends you a child, God is sending you that child with the understanding that you can bear it. God is not going to send you a child you can’t love, or take care of as required—I believe this. At the same time there are Christians who would “terminate” a pregnancy like Edna Mae’s as it was prescribed and would be performed in a hospital and not at an abortion clinic.
It is not anything to be ashamed of. That is my opinion. Edna Mae and Luther felt di
fferently of course. To them, it would be like murder. But I think if the mother is married, and there is a father—and the doctor suggests it—it is nothing like abortion which is plain murder and should be outlawed.
So, they returned home, and never went back to Springfield. And Edna Mae took care of herself by trying not to work too hard and brought the baby to full term. They did a lot of praying, all of the family. And at the church people prayed for them. And the baby was born on schedule, and did not appear to be so badly afflicted. By the time I was invited to see Daphne at Marlene’s house, she was a few weeks old and not so strange-looking though very small and wrinkled with a round face and small slanted eyes and her funny cute little tongue poking out. She was noted to be very sweet and observant, for an infant. And when she cried, she did not sound angry so you wanted to press your hands over your ears and run out of the room.
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?”
“Leave me alone! You’re a dirty slut—you can go to hell.”
It was shocking to me, and thrilling, Felice Sipper’s eyes flashed at me in sudden hatred and defiance as a cornered animal’s might flash, in the instant before it sinks its teeth into your throat.
When I saw this, I relented and let her go. It was rare—it had never happened—that a smaller child, girl or boy, had confronted me in this way, or any friend of mine. For we never approached anyone who was of our sizes, or our ages, who might so defy us.
And Felice ran, and in running called back over her shoulder what sounded like, “Fuck you, asshole! I hate you—hope you die.”
Felice’s voice was high-pitched like a bird’s shriek. Her words were so surprising to me, I did not follow after her but watched her run away where I stood in the dripping smelly underpass.
I did not tell my friends about this encounter. I did not tell anyone and yet it seemed to be known, Luther Dunphy had a claim of some kind on Felice Sipper, other boys dared not interfere.
By the store at the depot I would see her, and if she was alone I would approach her. Of the girls Felice had a way of standing like a doe about to leap and run, one of her feet at an angle, toeing the pavement.
And I would stand a few feet away, as if not altogether aware of her. Or, I might go into the store and buy a bottle of Coke and return, and there was Felice Sipper sneering in my direction, wiping her nose on the edge of her hand. “You! What the hell do you want.”
If I held out the Coke for Felice to drink, Felice would shake her head No! with a look of contempt but if I offered another time or two, she might relent, and take the bottle from me, and drink from the bottle where my mouth had been, and seeing this—that Felice Sipper was putting her mouth to the very place where I had put my mouth—made me dizzy with excitement.
“What d’you say, F’lice?”—I would say; and Felice would say, curling her lip, “Thank you.” And I would say, “ ’Thank you, what” (meaning that Felice should say Thank you Luther)
, but Felice would say, sneering, “Thank you, asshole.”
Out back of the depot, in a part of the railroad yard where old freight cars were kept rusting amid tall grasses, Felice Sipper would allow the older boys to touch her, and to do things to her. They shared cigarettes, beer. They might give Felice loose change, taken from their mothers’ wallets. It was different for me, that I was never with other boys, but always alone, for there was the special understanding between Felice Sipper and me.
Sometimes, Felice did not want to do the things I wanted to do, but she could not say No! for fear of angering me. Her reaction of disgust was a high laughing shriek like a bird that has been outraged but unlike a bird, she did not take flight. She did not ever scream or fight, that I could recall.
Sometimes I “disciplined” her, as my parents used to “discipline” me when I was younger—my mother with the flat of her bare hand, my father with his belt looped and coiled like a snake. This would make the sensation stronger. I was excited by her tears, her running nose and smeared mouth. My hand on the nape of Felice’s neck shoved her head down, like a dog’s head down, in obedience to her master.
There was a sharp taste to Felice Sipper, like salt. I liked it that her fingernails were edged with dirt like my own, though they were smaller fingernails, and her hands were small with bones light as a sparrow’s that I could have crushed in my hand at any time, but did not, and Felice would know this, and (I thought) would like me for this. Her older sister Beverly would paint Felice’s nails, bright red, dark purple, which was exciting to me, even when the polish began to chip. There was a dark green plastic-looking cross Felice wore sometimes, she said was “jade,” and had belonged to her grandmother, but Felice and her family did not go to church, she said nobody in the family believed in God except if things went wrong it was God’s will.
A Book of American Martyrs Page 7
