Daddy Love: A Novel

  And there was the safety-box in Daddy Love’s closet, laid flat upon the floor.

  It was a small casket with two lids that opened: the smaller one at the top, the larger below.

  It was made of smooth wood and very deftly assembled. There was even room at the foot of the box for the occupant’s small feet.

  Daddy Love had made it himself, he’d said. For Daddy Love was a skilled carpenter.

  Inside, there was cushioning, but it had become badly stained.

  The safety-box was too small for Gideon of course. It had never been used on him.

  He could remember: a little boy forced into the wooden box, and locked in it. He could remember: the stupid little boy crying, crying and crying which only made things worse inside the box, when the top was shut and locked, and you couldn’t breathe.

  He’d pissed himself. And worse.

  That was the punishment: fouling yourself.

  And being trapped inside the box for how long, you would never know.

  What had happened to that stupid pathetic little boy, Gideon wondered.

  He had been kept at a distance from the snot-nosed boy. He had always been treated kindly by Daddy Love.

  The little boy had screamed, when the gag was removed.

  When Daddy Love cuddled hard, in Daddy Love’s bed.

  Oh it hurt so bad. Between the little boy’s tender buttocks, so bad.

  And Daddy Love screamed too, a quick harsh cry like death. And a shudder ran through Daddy Love’s body that was naked, and sweaty, and smelled of the little boy’s blood dribbling out of his insides.

  He hadn’t seen. He hadn’t been anywhere near but in another part of the house.

  Now, Gideon shut the closet door. The safety-box had nothing to do with him.

  Gideon continued vacuuming. There was a pleasure in vacuuming. Inside the noise of the vacuum, there was laughter. Gideon was laughing. Gideon’s teeth were chattering, and laughing. Gideon was upset, and shivering. Gideon’s bladder ached with a sudden need to pee. Almost it was painful, like a knife-stab, this need to pee. In his haste to get to the bathroom Gideon tangled his feet in the God-damned vacuum cleaner hose and nearly fell down.

  Carefully he’d prepared the bomb! In a swoon of expectation bicycling into town thinking it was risky as hell, the bottle-bomb in his backpack, but he liked that feeling of risk.

  Daddy Love craved risk. It was how Daddy Love felt most alive he’d said.

  It was a warm sunny May afternoon. There had been no school today—some state teachers’ meeting. Whether Gideon went to school or not didn’t seem to matter any longer for Daddy Love had ceased coming to PTA events and never inquired after his grades no matter how high they were, or how low; and if Gideon skipped school Daddy Love had taught him to write his own excuse for his teacher and even to sign Chester Cash.

  Gideon’s homeroom teacher said, You are missing school frequently, Gideon. Is your father taking you to a doctor?

  Gideon mumbled yea, sure.

  There’s nothing wrong at home, is there, Gideon?

  Nah.

  Maybe he should bomb the school? West Lenape Elementary?

  Or—the middle school? Where the McIntyre boys went.

  But his plan was the mill. PRESTON FOOTWARE on the river.

  Too many people might see him prowling about the schools which were in a neighborhood of small residential homes.

  In Kittatinny Falls Gideon avoided the main streets and bicycled to the edge of town, to the old PRESTON FOOTWEAR mill on the river.

  The ghost-lady and ghost-gentleman! Especially the female with her cap of curly blond hair and vacuous eyes holding aloft a stupid shoe offended him.

  But here was a surprise: teenaged boys were at the river, clambering over large boulders. They’d left their bicycles in the weedy graveled parking lot of the mill.

  Gideon wasn’t sure how to proceed. He didn’t recognize the boys, and they hadn’t seen him yet. If he was careful, and kept to the farther side of the mill, no one would see him.

  He thought They will be killed, maybe.

  He felt a thrill of anticipation. The brick mill would explode and bricks would rain down upon the boys below, at the river’s shore. They would be trapped and could not escape, the explosion would take place within seconds.

  He was walking his bicycle now, in the graveled parking lot. It occurred to him that riding in so bumpy a terrain might activate the explosives in the bottle.

  He had no choice but to continue to the farther side of the mill, which had been boarded up. The renovated part of the mill was at the front. This was a disappointment: he wanted to blow up the renovated part of the mill, more than the old, moldering part. But then, if the bomb was powerful enough, it would bring down the entire building.

  He thought so. Maybe.

  Really, he had no idea. Maybe the bomb wouldn’t even go off!

  But here was an advantage: the rear of the mill was accessible, if you squeezed through a fissure in a wall. The front of the mill was locked tight so he’d have had to place the bomb outside rather than inside as he could do at the rear, crawling on hands and knees with a quickened heartbeat and hearing, in the near distance, the boys at the river’s shore shouting and laughing.

  His hands were trembling, removing the bottle from his backpack.

  It weighed very little. It could not be much of a bomb, weighing so little.

  Drano—(which stank, and made his eyes water)—and strips of tin foil—inserted in the bottle. The idea was, a “chemical reaction” would occur if the heat inside the bottle increased sufficiently, which it would do if Gideon placed it in the sun.

  Stealthily Gideon made his way through the ruins of the old mill, to a window opening above the river. Here, there were only shards of glass remaining. On all sides, cobwebs, dust and grime. The boys were below, noisy and obnoxious. Gideon saw that they had fishing poles. They were not boys he knew, probably high-school boys. In bright sunshine Gideon positioned the bottle on the windowsill.

  He’d forgotten to wear gloves! He had meant to wear gloves but had forgotten but maybe it wouldn’t matter for the bottle would shatter into bits. No one would suspect him.

  In the local papers, it was stated that the “suspect” of the arson fires was believed to be an adult male, Caucasian, who’d been employed in Kittatinny Falls but had lost his job and moved away. An eyewitness claimed to have seen him in the vicinity of the third of the fires, on Pitcairn Street; he was driving a green pickup truck. However, this “suspect” had not yet been apprehended by the police.

  Gideon’s teeth were still chattering. He was cold, and shivering.

  He thought It will go off now. My hands, my face.

  He thought Daddy Love will not love me again ever.

  The bottle was upright, but maybe the bottle would better be positioned on its side, Gideon thought, for more sunshine could concentrate upon it that way.

  He turned the bottle onto its side. But now, the danger was that the bottle might roll off the windowsill …

  He found a brick-fragment, to secure the bottle on its side. He was breathing quickly, shallowly. It was mesmerizing, to see how sunshine seemed to focus, like a laser ray, onto the bottle-bomb.

  He wondered how long it would require, before the temperature inside the bottle rose high enough to detonate the explosive.

  Wished he’d had someone to plan this with! He needed a friend, like Daddy Love.

  Son, you are always in my thoughts. As I am in yours.

  Backing away from the bottle-bomb on the windowsill. It looked so small.

  He was disappointed, the damned bomb was so small.

  Stumbled against some machinery, tripped and nearly fell.

  But quickly righted himself, for he was an agile eleven-year-old. Not clumsy like Son.

  The interior of the old mill was a ruin. There’d been a flood of the Delaware River not long ago, and the mill had been devastated. This was before the renovation had begun.
Gideon wondered if, if he died in this place, anyone would ever find him.

  Daddy Love would find another son. Daddy Love would not miss him for long.

  He squatted on his heels, waiting. About twenty feet away the bottle-bomb on the windowsill glinted, shimmered and shone with sunshine.

  How hot was it in the mill? Maybe in the high eighties? And in the sun—in the nineties?

  A “chemical reaction” would take place. Gideon wondered what this meant, exactly.

  Outside, on the riverbank, the boys’ voices lifted.

  Bicycling out to the Saw Mill Road. For he’d given up waiting.

  It was late afternoon now. Soon, dusk.

  He was anxious, edgy, disappointed, itchy inside his clothes, and pissed.

  In the vicinity of the God-damned mill he’d waited—how long?—maybe an hour. He’d watched the boys fishing. He’d wished he was one of them. It seemed to him so easy, he might have been born one of them.

  Then bicycled on nearby streets waiting for the explosion.

  God-damn bomb! Fucking Internet, you couldn’t trust.

  At last he’d given up. For he didn’t want to attract attention, a boy riding a bicycle aimlessly in a neighborhood in which he didn’t live.

  All the way home waiting to hear an explosion in the distance and a sound of sirens as he’d been so thrilled to hear when he’d set the garage fires.

  But there was nothing.

  God-damn bomb was a dud.

  And when he returned home, there was nothing: no Missy to rush at him, tail thumping and eyes alight with love, and no Daddy Love for Daddy Love had driven away in the minivan saying Make yourself supper, Son, Daddy Love will be home by the time you wake up.

  He checked Daddy Love’s closet: the safety-box was gone.

  9

  KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY MAY 2012

  Daddy Love asked, how’d Son like to go digging for treasure?

  This was a Daddy Love game, Son supposed and so brightly Son replied.

  Yes Daddy.

  Gideon wasn’t so sure. Gideon saw that Daddy Love was looking hot-skinned, edgy. His face was sweaty and his eyes were showing white above the dark rim of his irises. And his hands were shaky, with nervousness or excitement.

  The night before Daddy Love had returned home late in the minivan after Gideon was in bed and he had not entered Gideon’s room as he sometimes did to kiss him good night and play a Game of Tickle—it was a long time now since Daddy Love had kissed Gideon good night and played a Game of Tickle with him. And Gideon had lain in bed hearing sounds in Daddy Love’s room which he could not interpret.

  Was Daddy Love talking to himself? Did Daddy Love have the TV turned on, high?

  Gideon thought He has brought a little boy home with him. In the safety-box.

  Son had no such thoughts. For Son was all brightness and shining eyes and a yearning to be loved by Daddy Love even if the love came hurtful and hard and caused his insides to bleed out onto the bedclothes.

  Take up the shovel, Son.

  They went out. Daddy Love led the way. Through the ruins of the garden which Daddy Love seemed to have forgotten this spring, hadn’t instructed Gideon in what to plant, or provided him with plants or seeds. Through the ruins of the garden and through the ruins of the old apple orchard in which on this warm May morning bees were buzzing and small birds were calling to one another.

  Daddy Love seemed preoccupied. Daddy Love was frowning and chewing at his lower lip.

  In the night, Gideon had heard some sounds. Gideon had not slept much in the night.

  Stupid little boy would be gagged. Screaming inside the gag and pissing his pants like a baby.

  Gideon had known better than to make noise, himself. Knew better than to call attention to himself. Not long ago, now that he no longer fit into the safety-box, he’d had to be chained by the neck as Missy had been chained, as a discipline.

  It hadn’t been clear why Daddy Love had felt the need to discipline him. This has been shortly after the trip to Trenton when many things seemed to have changed.

  Daddy Love had said, There is some mutiny in your heart, Son. This is a fair warning of what to expect if it comes out.

  Daddy Love had chained him with Missy’s chain. Chained to the stairway railing, that would not budge if Gideon yanked at it hard enough to break his neck.

  Another time he’d fucked up one of the macraméd purses attaching the clasp upside down and Daddy Love hadn’t noticed until his woman-friend at the Gift Basket pointed it out.

  On the hike into the countryside, into an area of scrubby hills and shallow creek beds, Daddy Love led the way as Gideon struggled behind dragging the shovel.

  Daddy Love was wearing a backpack. Gideon wondered what was inside the backpack.

  That morning, he hadn’t heard anything inside Daddy Love’s bedroom. But of course, the stupid little boy would be gagged.

  Daddy Love did not like crying, screaming, shrieking.

  Except sometimes, Daddy Love did like crying, screaming, shrieking.

  On the hike, Gideon began to sweat. Rivulets of itchy sweat ran down his sides, beneath his T-shirt. He was wearing shorts, and sneakers with no socks.

  It was a wild place to which Daddy Love was taking him. He seemed to know, other sons had been brought to this place.

  Deuteronomy—that had been the name of a predecessor. He knew this without recalling how he knew.

  Son. We can stop here.

  They had hiked about a mile. They’d come to a stop in a sandy-pebbly place. On the banks of an old creek bed now lush with cattails were outcroppings of shale like broken crockery. Oddly shaped boulders were strewn about, with shallow indentations that suggested ghost-faces in the stone.

  Gideon thought This is where they are buried. He has brought a knife to kill me.

  Instead, Daddy Love instructed Gideon to begin digging.

  You dig for a while, Son. Then, I can take over.

  Dig your own grave, Son.

  Son stabbed at the earth with the shovel. Pushed down on the shovel with his foot. He was very hot, panting. He saw in the corner of his eye Daddy Love observing him, stroking his whiskers. On his head Daddy Love wore a baseball cap pulled low.

  Gideon’s heart was pounding faster and faster. Almost, he could not catch his breath.

  Daddy Love had slipped off his backpack. A bottle of Evian water he offered to Gideon and gratefully Gideon took it. He could not see any flash of a knife blade inside the backpack.

  He would dig a little longer. A little deeper into the earth. Was the treasure here? Daddy Love had seemed to have forgotten the treasure.

  Gideon turned blindly, wielding the shovel. Whack! came the shovel down onto Daddy Love’s head, and Daddy Love staggered, and fell to his knees, and the shovel was knocked out of Gideon’s hands.

  Gideon began to run.

  Daddy Love had a knife but not the rifle. Daddy Love was too dazed to pursue him or even to shout after him.

  Daddy Love’s forehead was bleeding. A tributary of blood down his face, the last memory Gideon would have of Daddy Love.

  On terrified feet he ran, ran.

  10

  YPSILANTI, MICHIGAN MAY 2012

  Mommy, I don’t like her to look at me.

  Josh! That’s very rude.

  Don’t like her.

  The child wriggled out of his mother’s arms and ran away, toward his little friends in the playground.

  Dinah, I’m so sorry. I can’t understand …

  It’s all right, Katie. Really. I understand.

  Dinah laughed to show that she wasn’t hurt. And really, after six years, she wasn’t.

  In his place I’d run, too. Scarred vampire-woman without a child of her own, enough to terrify any kid.

  She was a volunteer at the National Registry of Missing Children, Ypsilanti branch. The storefront organization was in Kendall Square and close by was Curries ‘n’ Spice where she bought lunch, vegetarian-tofu salads sh
e ate with a white plastic fork. It was a phenomenon to her, appetite.

  Six years after Robbie, most food still tasted like mulched cardboard. Yet the brain is so conditioned, when she saw food she’d once liked, and had once eaten with pleasure, her brain signaled her Eat! though she knew that the food was just the usual mulched cardboard.

  Was this a fact of human mental life? Had she penetrated some small shabby truth of the human psyche?

  Our memories goad us to repeat the past, when we’d been happy. Even as we know that the past is past, and we will not be happy.

  The very playground to which she’d taken Robbie.

  Of course, six years later none of the young mothers in the park remembered Robbie Whitcomb.

  She knew most of the young mothers. They knew her.

  A new generation of small children had come into being, since Robbie. A fact of such simplicity seemed to confuse and baffle her who had wished for time to halt when her child had been taken from her.

  For, at first, it had been a matter of mere days. And then, weeks.

  She had not given up hope—of course. The desperate do not give up hope, it is a proof of their desperation.

  In the playground she sat with Rhoda, Tracey, Evan. These were stylish young mothers who had, among them, two Ph.D.’s and a post-doc in microeconomics. Their children were all younger than five.

  Eating her tofu lunch and sipping from her bottle of Evian water.

  Dinah Whitcomb is so friendly, it’s hard to avoid her.

  You feel guilty as hell avoiding that poor woman.

  Dinah’s generation of young mothers in this park had long moved on. Their children were in middle school now, or older. Though from time to time Dinah saw, or thought she saw, a young mother from that time, who seemed, glancing at Dinah, and quickly away, to recognize her.

  Her son was never found? How many years has it been?

  The look in her eyes. It’s hard to bear.