And there was the wood-frame two-story farmhouse Son had helped Daddy Love (partly) repaint the previous year, a startling robin’s-egg-blue—“Son. We are home.”
2
KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY APRIL 2012
The eager young dog Missy, Daddy Love had allowed his son to choose, for his tenth birthday the previous year.
A surprise, Son.
For you’ve been a good son.
And your daddy loves you a lot.
D’you know what grace is?—being loved way beyond what you deserve. God’s grace.
In the Lenape County Animal Shelter. He’d been so excited about the prospect of a dog, his eyes had welled with tears. Silly, he’d been trembling!
Daddy Love close beside him. Daddy Love’s hand heavy and firm on his shoulder.
A windowless room of animals in cages. Dogs, puppies. There was an excited yipping in the room, he didn’t know where to look first.
A smell of animal-urine, animal-anxiety.
Almost he was feeling faint. Almost he was feeling he’d have to run outside for if he was sick to his stomach Daddy Love would be very upset with him.
Yet, Daddy Love guided Son along. Past the cages which were stacked one on top of another, three cages high.
A cage of cocker spaniel puppies …
A cage containing a single, older splotched-coat dog with rheumy eyes and a tail that lay unmoving …
A cage containing a small terrier-like dog on his feet, barking, and his tail wagging frantically …
A cage containing more puppies, and a skinny and exhausted-looking mother, of some mixed-breed Labrador retriever and beagle …
A cage containing a German shepherd, youngish, with anxious eyes and a slow-beating tail …
A cage containing a sand-colored long-haired young dog with alert eyes, pricked-up ears, a sharp-beating tail …
As Father and Son walked along the row of cages, a din of barks, yips, whines assailed their ears.
Two categories of dog, Son observed.
Those who were yearning to be taken home by strangers, loved and protected and brought into a family, and so they were on their feet amid a cacophony of barking, tails wagging and whipping—Me! Me! Take me!
And those older dogs who’d given up.
A clutch of terror came into Gideon’s throat. For even the older dogs who lay unmoving in their cages were looking at him.
Daddy Love was talking with the shelter attendant. Asking questions about the dogs, their ages, breeds. Daddy Love said he and his son were looking for a dog already trained and housebroken and a work-dog, a reliable guard-dog, not a lazy useless dog.
Daddy Love said they wanted a dog that barked when there was a reason for barking, for instance an intruder on their property, but otherwise didn’t bark, and certainly didn’t yip.
Gideon knew the dog he wanted. Almost immediately he’d known.
The sand-colored long-haired dog, a mix of border collie and golden retriever, that had leapt to its feet and was eagerly pressing against the cage bars as Daddy Love and Gideon paused in front of the cage.
The dog’s eyes swimming with anxiety, yearning.
Take me! Take me with you!
Already I love you! I would die for you.
Daddy Love insisted upon considering all the mature dogs. Gideon waited scarcely daring to breathe to see if Daddy Love would allow him to choose as he’d promised.
Father and Son. Chet Cash and his ten-year-old, fifth-grade son Gideon. The animal shelter attendant would note how close the two were, how the father seemed protective of the son, touching him, letting his hand fall onto his shoulder.
Finally, Daddy Love said to Gideon, with a shrewd Daddy-wink: It’s this one you want, eh? But she’s a female.
Gideon hadn’t known that. Female.
The attendant said, Yes. But Missy has been spayed and has all her shots and her former owner only gave her up because he’d gotten sick and had to move in with some relatives … A very sweet affectionate gentle dog looking for a home.
Anxious Gideon said Yes. This was the dog he wanted.
Daddy Love poked his fingers into the cage. At once the sand-colored dog licked Daddy Love’s fingers, eager and grateful. Her tail thumped wildly.
Daddy Love said, What’s her name?
The attendant said, Missy.
As Daddy Love parked the van in the driveway, there came Missy trotting toward them eagerly, tail thumping.
To the jarring end of the chain-leash that Daddy Love used to “secure” Missy when he and Gideon were away from the house.
Missy knew not to bark, for Daddy Love had many times disciplined her.
“Dog”—so Daddy Love called her.
Gideon called her “Missy.” Gideon loved loved loved Missy.
Missy was Gideon’s responsibility, utterly. Gideon fed her twice daily and kept her plastic food-dishes clean. He kept her water-dishes filled with fresh water. He brushed her coat, which was a warm beautiful sand-colored coat that tended to snarl, with a special dog-brush. Especially, Gideon was zealous about keeping her from barking at the wrong time.
Except if someone turned into the cinder driveway or came uninvited to the front door of the house. Then, Daddy Love liked “Dog” to bark loudly.
And Daddy Love approved of “Dog” chasing rats. Chasing away raccoons and woodchucks and rabbits, that made their way into the fenced-off garden behind the house, where in summers Daddy Love and Gideon grew tomatoes, melons, sweet corn, peppers.
Gideon knew: it was not good to fasten a chain-leash to a dog’s neck for the dog’s neck soon becomes tender and develops bleeding sores. But Gideon knew better than to say anything to Daddy Love who could not be criticized or questioned in any way.
Mutiny, such questioning was. An expression in Son’s face, a narrowing of Son’s eyes, might qualify as mutiny. And so Son learned to keep his expression neutral and his eyes downcast.
Sometimes, Daddy Love was annoyed—and then angry—if Son indicated, for instance, a preference for pizza with cheese and tomatoes and not pizza with cheese, tomatoes, and pepperoni sausage which was their customary pizza; or a Big Mac without melted cheese; or a TV program that conflicted with Daddy Love’s favored programs.
Mutiny was (maybe) a joke. For Daddy Love often joked.
Yet, Daddy Love’s jokes were serious. As a young child, Son had learned that Daddy was most serious often when he was smiling and joking. You could not predict Daddy Love’s true meaning.
It was unpredictable each night: whether Daddy Love would allow “Dog” to sleep in Gideon’s room.
It was unpredictable: whether Daddy Love would bring Son to sleep with him in his room.
(But lately, since Gideon’s tenth birthday, Daddy Love didn’t bring Gideon to his bedroom so much as he had previously. Or, sometimes, bringing Gideon to his bed, having had several beers Daddy Love just fell asleep, and snored, his heavy hairy leg thrown over Son’s naked body. Nor did Daddy Love find the need to discipline Son by locking him in the safety-box as much as he once had.)
By the time Daddy Love parked the van in the driveway Gideon was so anxious he could barely open the passenger’s door and half-climb, half-fall out.
Thinking Why! Why did you do it.
He felt a stab of fury against Ms. Swale.
It was wrong to blame Ms. Swale for what had been his own fault, yet Gideon blamed her.
Running to Missy and kneeling as Missy licked his face with her soft damp coolish tongue.
Hiding his face in Missy’s neck. Hugging Missy tight.
The sensation of excitement tinged with dread, dread tinged with excitement, that had begun in the school was increasing. Almost, Gideon couldn’t catch his breath.
Daddy Love stood a few yards away, contemplating. For his visit to Son’s school he’d worn fresh-laundered khakis, his single white cotton long-sleeved shirt, and a polka dot bow tie his woman friend at the Gift Basket had given him. He’d shaken h
ands with Son’s teachers and a few other parents, concerned daddies like himself. But now he was home, and the bow tie came off in his disdainful fingers, and was thrust into his pocket.
“You, Gideon. You and ‘Dog.’ You two have something to account for.”
Son didn’t hear this. The roaring in his ears was such, only Missy’s quickened breathing and the beat of her heart were audible to him.
Daddy Love strode into the house. Gideon was unleashing Missy, since they were home now, and Missy wasn’t likely to run away.
Distinctly if faintly Gideon heard: the sound of the refrigerator door opening, and shutting.
(Was this a good sign? Or—not-so-good?)
(One beer, Daddy Love was in a mellow mood. Several beers, Daddy Love was in a judgmental mood.)
Gideon called Missy to feed her, on the back porch. Eagerly Missy nudged against his hands, and began eating kibble.
And still, Daddy Love did not reappear.
It will be all right Son was thinking.
Squatting beside Missy. Petting her thick hair, her smooth head.
All right. It will be. Missy is not to blame.
Gideon was thinking it had been risky, to love the adopted dog. In the animal shelter, risky to have locked eyes with any of the dogs. There was a curse on Daddy Love’s son, that could spill over onto anyone or anything that came too close to Son.
Then, suddenly, Daddy Love did appear, on the back porch.
Daddy Love with the twenty-two-caliber rifle slung over his shoulder.
“Stand aside, Son.”
Frowning Daddy Love lifted the rifle and pointed the barrel at Missy who glanced up from her food bowl, ears pricked to attention.
“Daddy, no!”—the words were torn from Son’s throat. And desperately Son knelt in front of the dog.
“Get out of the way, Son. I’m counting to three.”
Son was sobbing, clutching at Missy’s neck. The dog was upset, and had overturned her water bowl. Her tail was frantically thumping and she began barking at Daddy Love.
“You know, Daddy Love has forbidden a barking dog.”
Daddy Love circled the boy and the dog, sighting along the rifle. Daddy Love’s face was ruddy and his stony eyes shone.
In opposition, Daddy Love found great joy. You would not ever want to come between Daddy Love and great joy.
The rifle fired—but the shot missed. Missy leapt away, and Gideon lost his balance and fell to the ground.
“Daddy, no! No!”
The panicked dog didn’t seem to know whether to flee for her life, or to protect her young master. She was barking loudly, as Gideon had not ever heard her bark before, and she was barking at Daddy Love as he aimed the rifle at her chest, while Gideon crawled on hands and knees daring to tackle his father’s legs and pitch him off balance.
Daddy Love cursed—“God damn you to hell, nigra.”
The rifle discharged another time. The bullet went wild.
“Run, Missy! Run! Go away!”—Gideon shouted, clapping his hands at the dog even as Daddy Love regained his balance, and brought the stock of the rifle down hard against Gideon’s head, knocking him flat against the ground and unconscious.
When he woke, in the dirt, it was late afternoon.
His head pounded with pain. Blood had trickled from a cut in his scalp, wetting the dried earth.
At first, he didn’t remember what had happened. He had no idea where he was.
Then, he remembered. In panic he pushed himself to his hands and knees, looking for Missy—but she was nowhere in sight.
He saw, though, blood-drops in the dirt. A scattering of bright red splotches leading in the direction of the storage shed, and beneath its rotted floor.
Plaintively, weakly he called—“Missy!”
3
KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY APRIL 2012
Bicycled into town.
One Saturday morning when Daddy Love had taken the van to deliver macramé products to his “retailers” in the Delaware Valley.
For Daddy Love did not forbid Son bicycling a few miles provided Son did not interact with strangers.
In Daddy Love’s vocabulary, all persons—including even Son’s sixth-grade classmates—were strangers.
Son had no plan. Gideon had (maybe) a plan.
Son lived in present-tense. Son was is.
Gideon lived in past-tense. Gideon was was.
Except, Gideon was smarter than Son. Gideon was older than Son and so could live in present-tense if he wished, and in future-tense.
Son had smothered in the safety-box. Son had not survived.
Son had survived. But as a worm survives making itself small, twisted, flat.
Son was not Gideon.
Son said to Daddy Love Yes Daddy. I love you Daddy.
Gideon said to Daddy Love Yes Daddy. But thinking his own (mutinous) thoughts.
Son had wept seeing Missy beneath the storage shed floor, unmoving.
Called to her and saw her tail thumping—once, twice …
Son had cried helpessly. Gideon had wiped his eyes and the blood from his dirty face and crawled under the shed, to bring Missy back out.
Two bullets had entered Missy’s chest. The beautiful fur suffused with white but now stained with blood.
Furious Daddy Love gave the order: bury it.
It! Gideon would never concede, even in death Missy was it.
In his (mutinous) thoughts Gideon loved Missy more than he loved Daddy Love though Missy was no longer breathing and no longer alive.
Oh but it was so hard to believe—hard to comprehend … That Missy was no longer alive.
She would never lie in the bed he’d made for her of old towels and blankets, at the foot of his bed. She would never lie in Gideon’s bed pressing her warm head against his thigh through the blanket on those nights when Daddy Love had no use for Son.
He’d thought that Missy might still be alive, when he reached her. But he’d been mistaken.
He’d been breathing strangely. Like running, you can’t catch your breath. He’d felt blood drain from his face. He’d tried to pick up Missy but her body was heavy, uncooperative.
“Fucking nigra. You will learn.”
Daddy Love was disgusted with Gideon. Daddy Love had struck Gideon on the side of the head and knocked him unconscious and later when he saw the weeping boy crawling from beneath the shed pulling the lifeless dog with him he’d strode to Gideon and gave him a good hard kick in the chest.
“Drag it! Drag it and fucking bury it and get it out of my sight.”
Son had obeyed. Son never failed to obey.
Gideon’s hands blistered digging Missy’s grave.
Out behind the garden he dug the grave. So that Missy could see the apple orchard which would soon be coming into blossom and was a beautiful hue of rosy-pink-red among the new green leaves.
Missy had loved to romp out of doors. Running with Gideon in the orchard, in the fields behind the barns. Chasing scuttling creatures—mice, rats?—in the old hay barn.
After Missy was buried and a small rock placed to commemorate her grave Daddy Love hauled Gideon into the house to further discipline him in the safety-box which was almost too cramped for Gideon now, he was eleven years old and tall for his age.
“I should dump this in the river. See how far it floats. Only Daddy Love’s mercy will save you.”
Gideon, covered in bruises and welts.
Gideon, whose hair required dyeing now in the spring of 2012 but Daddy Love was too disgusted to take the time and so chopped and struck at the boy’s hair with a scissors, then carelessly shaved his head with a razor, so the boy was stubble-headed, freaky.
At school, all would stare at him. Freaky Gideon Cash!
His classmates were becoming wary of him, however. No longer was he shy Gideon Cash with downcast eyes but in recent weeks his eyes were uplifted, glaring.
It was late in the month, nearly three weeks after the PTA class day.
G
ideon, who’d refused to change his clothes for gym class saying his daddy had told him No nakedness.
They’d been astonished at West Lenape Elementary. What was this—nakedness? The boys were never naked but always clothed.
Public schools no longer required showers for students, following gym classes. No one was naked.
Gideon said his daddy had said if anyone looked upon his nakedness there would be a lawsuit—“Big time.”
So, Gideon hadn’t had to change his clothes for gym class. He’d been allowed to spend gym-class time in the library which was one of his favorite places.
No one had seen Gideon’s bruises and welts that were beneath his clothes. The bruise and cut on the side of his head he’d explained—carefully, as Daddy Love had instructed him—was the result of falling from his bicycle on the Saw Mill Road, bicycling into a pothole.
His homeroom teacher was concerned saying that the cut on his face should be looked-at by a doctor and might require stitches and to this Gideon had no reply for Gideon hadn’t seemed to hear.
Daddy Love had threatened to remove Son from school if his teachers were too inquisitive. He’d homeschooled him once and could homeschool him again.
For Chet Cash had taken courses at Wayne County Community College, in Detroit.
In the youth facility at Traverse City he’d taken several courses and his teachers had praised him.
Damned bad luck, I never had a scholarship to go to a hoity-toity college like Harvard, Yale. Fuckers never gave me a chance.
Saturday mornings Daddy Love took the van to deliver macramé products—brightly colored wall-hangings, belts, purses, tote bags, plant hangers, chair seats—to his retailers.
These were women who owned gift shops in Lambertville, New Jersey, and across the river in Pennsylvania in the tourist towns of New Hope, Washington Crossing, Center Bridge, and Raven Rock.
The labels on the macramé products stated FROM THE STUDIO OF CHET CASH, KITTATINNY FALLS N.J.
The women praised Chet, warmly. Seems like women were Chet Cash’s closest friends.