Excuse me, officer? Can you tell me—where is the Water Gap post office?
The cop told Daddy Love to keep driving. A few miles ahead, he couldn’t miss it.
Thanks, officer! I appreciate it.
He’d confronted law enforcement officers, with the abducted boy in his van!
In public, in the presence of strangers, Gideon was very shy and quiet; other children his age babbled and jabbered happily, but not Daddy Love’s son.
His eyes darted quickly about, however. You could sense—(Daddy Love could sense)—that the five-year-old was excited and stimulated and calculating, though he rarely spoke, and rarely smiled even when strangers smiled at him.
(Daddy Love had warned the boy countless times: call attention to himself or in any way embarrassing or upsetting Daddy Love, he’d be waterboarded in the sink, locked in the Wooden Maiden and left to suffocate in his own shit. And that was if Daddy Love was feeling merciful.)
(They’d played the Game of Strangle a few times, earlier in the summer. Daddy Love had said, This game is not to punish you, son. You have done nothing wrong and merit no punishment. This game is just to warn you what an appropriate punishment might be if you did do wrong.)
Many times the child had been instructed: his old life was dead and gone. His parents had given him up for adoption because he was costing them too much money so, might as well think of them as dead and gone too.
There’s many thousands of orphans, son. Like shelter animals. They’re kicked out by their parents, and their lifetime in the shelter is limited. D’you know what euthanasia is, son?
Meekly Gideon shook his head, no.
Euthanasia is when a living thing is killed because nobody gives a damn for it. Nobody loves it.
Meekly Gideon stared at Daddy Love’s feet.
For often, Daddy Love did not want Gideon to look into his face but only at his feet in a posture of abject submission.
Euthanasia is what happens to approximately forty percent of orphans, whose parents have gotten rid of them and who nobody else wants to adopt. You’re God-damned lucky—Daddy Love chose you.
Meekly Gideon stared at Daddy Love’s feet. His eyes swam with tears.
Say it: “I am a very lucky boy.”
Gideon’s lips moved: I am a very lucky boy.
Louder, son. And like you mean it: “I am a very lucky boy.”
Again, in a near-inaudible voice: I am a very lucky boy.
Like your life depends upon it, son: “I am a very lucky boy.”
Daddy Love’s voice had grown louder. A vein throbbed in Daddy Love’s forehead.
At last Gideon spoke audibly: I am a very lucky boy.
It was how you trained any animal, Daddy Love knew. By repetition, reinforcement. By rewards and punishments. In the special case of Daddy Love’s son(s), unpredictable rewards and punishments were recommended.
Like the Game of Strangle. If Daddy Love was bored and listless, this would turn him on, fast. But if Daddy Love was in a mellow mood, the Game of Strangle could turn into the Game of Tickle and the boy would be encouraged to laugh.
The point was, never to let the kid take you for granted.
Never to let the kid take his life, his very breathing, for granted.
Yet, Gideon must trust Daddy Love, as a loving child would trust his loving father.
You know that I love you, son? Right?
Yes.
You know this—right?
Yes, Daddy.
And you trust me, right?
Yes.
Trust me with your life, right?
Y-yes. Daddy.
Sometimes Daddy Love strung the boy up—skinny wrists bound with twine and tied to a spike high overhead in Daddy Love’s bedroom. So tight, the child had to rise onto his toes, which made his little chest swell out, oddly—the rib cage prominent inside the milky-pale skin.
The sponge-gag in the child’s mouth, so that he couldn’t whimper, whine, cry or scream.
A partly clad little boy. Bare on top but his small bottom covered with (torn) shorts. The nakedness of the child was apparent through the (torn) shorts.
Daddy Love sprawled on his bed, observing.
It was an unfailing turn-on. Sure thing, Daddy Love was never bored.
Daddy Love cared for the boy, in fact: made sure that the twine didn’t cut into the boy’s wrists, by wrapping gauze around the wrists first. A boy so beautiful, you don’t want to scar him.
He will know by such ways, you care for him.
And he will be grateful.
13
KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY AUGUST, SEPTEMBER 2006
Gideon. These knots are wrong.
Daddy Love was instructing the child in the art of macramé.
At the Gift Basket in New Hope, Pennsylvania, fifty miles downriver, where Chet Cash had struck up a friendship with the divorcée proprietor, macraméd purses, tote bags, belts, dog-sweaters, wall-hangings were displayed, and sold to tourists at remarkably high prices.
Chet Cash had introduced himself to Edwinna Oldman as an artist.
Mostly a painter/sculptor—but lately he’d been seeing the artistic possibilities of macramé.
Proudly he’d introduced his little boy, too—the woman with the penciled eyebrows and blue plastic eyeglasses squatted down, with a cheerful little grunt, to shake his hand.
Why h’lo, Gideon!
Friendly Chet Cash had so suaved this female, she’d pressed her card upon him, invited him and his son (of course) to have supper with her in her “river place” in New Hope and Chet Cash said maybe sometime soon but he was caught up in work now, macramé wall-hangings were his specialty.
So, it had happened that the Gift Basket would be an outlet for the child’s macramé efforts, if the child would only learn.
It ain’t hard, son It’s some kind of female scut-work you do with your fingers, like knitting. You learn the basic steps and just keep repeating with some little changes, and changes in color. See?
He’d seen some scribble-drawings the child had done, on paper bags from the Safeway. The child had some small talent, possibly. Daddy Love’s first thought was My son could be precocious! What’s it called—prodigy.
Daddy Love bought Gideon Crayolas, colored chalks, a child’s watercolor set. But the child hadn’t seemed inspired, with Daddy Love watching him.
(Gideon preferred scribbling on paper bags, and hiding these from Daddy Love. But you could hide nothing from Daddy Love.)
The macramé was more practical, with an outlet for their products more or less promised at the Gift Basket—if Gideon could learn the basic skills.
He was a smart kid. He was learning by his mistakes.
Daddy Love remembered to praise the boy when Gideon did something halfway right. That was the Skinner-method of conditioning: praise not blame, rewards not punishments. But hell, punishments were fun.
Also, only just rewards would give Gideon a false sense of the world which is a harsh place, not a kindergarten.
There was something to say for the Preacher promising Hell for sinners and for the enemies of Christ. A congregation had the right to expect Heaven for themselves and Hell for those others. A smart man-of-God gave his congregation what they needed.
Fucking macramé knots were maybe harder than they looked. Daddy Love was having a hell of a time. The kid’s fingers were small, though—that should help.
Wall-hangings were the easiest, you could more or less copy designs from the Internet, with some small changes each time. Nobody who bought macramé hangings in New Hope, Pennsylvania, had the right to expect original works of art. The purses and tote bags were more complicated but you could charge more.
Try these knots again, son.
The child tried. But fumbled, failed.
Keep trying, son. I’m warning you.
This went on. Hours.
Daddy Love went away, and when Daddy Love came back the kid had made only a little progress.
Patie
nt Daddy Love said, That’s better, son. Just persevere.
By the end of the day, the child had created a twelve-inch strip of not-fucked-up macramé—a vivid bright green. Son, this is promising! This is a very good start, son.
Shyly Gideon smiled.
Tomorrow, you’ll do better. And you’ll do more.
Shyly Gideon smiled. A weak hopeful yearning sort of smile.
We’ll be in business together, eh? Cash & Son. Maybe open our own store, with a studio people can visit.
But later that day, at suppertime, the child was vacant-eyed and failed to smile when Daddy Love spoke to him in a kindly manner. It infuriated Daddy Love to think that at such times the child might be thinking of his old life.
Running his fingers through the child’s curly hair—(that needed dyeing again, soon: the dark roots were showing)—Daddy Love did not like it that the child flinched just slightly. And his left eyelid twitched.
Not afraid of your daddy, are you, son? Your Daddy Love?
N-no, Daddy.
Now both the child’s eyelids twitched. His little face strained and unsmiling.
D’you mean to piss off your Daddy Love? This some kind of mutiny?
His son was reminding Daddy Love of his former son(s) who’d disappointed him, and infuriated him.
Daddy Love’s fingers twitched. Daddy Love was a hands-on kind of daddy.
I’m asking you son—is this some kind of—mutiny?
Quickly Gideon shook his head, no.
Whatever mutiny meant, Gideon knew the answer had better be no.
But Gideon was skittish now. Nervous as a kicked dog.
Fumbled a soup bowl from the microwave and it fell to the floor—gave a little scream, the liquid scalded his hands—and Daddy Love was on him with a curse punching and kicking, in disgust. And cleaning the floor with the scrub mop, the child was trying not to cry, sulky-faced, unmistakably Daddy Love recognized the sulky face of rebellion, waited until the boy finished with the floor then hauled him into the bedroom by the nape of his neck, threw him down on the floor and dragged the Wooden Maiden out of the closet, that he hadn’t used for a while—(Christ, that was the problem: he was getting soft on the kid, the kid was taking Daddy Love for granted)—and tried to force his son into the Wooden Maiden, but the boy was fighting back, crazed and screeching, like a wildcat clawing and biting and Daddy Love slammed him down onto the floor, tore off his soup-stained clothes, “disciplined” him right there on the floor thump-thump-thumping his small body against the floor until the kid was semiconscious and bleeding from the ass and it was no trouble then forcing him into the Wooden Maiden and slamming both lids shut, and locking them.
Except he’d forgotten the sponge-gag. And the diaper.
Telling himself If he screams, he will never be released.
That night, Daddy Love slept in his bed. And Gideon his son, in the Wooden Maiden a few feet away, was very still.
If he’s dead in the night, tough shit. Daddy Love has zero tolerance for wiseguys.
And in the morning, Daddy Love ignored the child. A single kick to the Wooden Maiden, to wake the kid up if he was still asleep, to let him know it was fucking morning and daylight and Daddy Love went away and didn’t return until noon at which time he had a sudden rush of tender-heartedness, took pity on the boy, unlocked the face-mask, and the lower lid, and there was Gideon seemingly part-conscious, sickly-white in the face, and traces of vomit on his chin. A harsh smell of urine wafted from the Wooden Maiden.
Daddy Love kicked the Wooden Maiden another time, to rouse the boy.
Jesus! Get out of there. You ain’t dead and you need to clean yourself up.
You got work to do—chores. Plus the fucking macramé.
Stand up! Stand yourself up. You are capable of standing up.
The child’s eyelids fluttered. The child was panting—weirdly, since he hadn’t been exerting himself for twelve hours or more.
The child made a motion, to sit up—but sank back down as if exhausted.
We’ve got work to do, son. We ain’t gonna laze around all day even if it’s summer. C’mon, get up.
Still the child was too weak to sit up, still less to lift himself from the casket-like container.
Lay there in your own shit, then! Fucking baby.
Daddy Love walked out in disgust and slammed the door.
Half-hour later Daddy Love happened to be on his cell phone talking with Pastor Silk at the Church of Abiding Hope in Trenton, arranging for a Sunday soon in October when the Preacher would preach to the congregation, when he saw, outside the window, the little half-naked boy running and stumbling from the house in the direction of the old falling-down hay barn.
Jesus!
Daddy Love let the little phone fall to the floor. Daddy Love ran out of the house and after the child who must have slipped from the house by the back door—intent upon escape.
Not to the road. Not yet.
Hiding in the barn—was that it?
A scuffling movement, a sound—from a storage shed, beside the barn.
This was a rat-infested structure, near as Daddy Love could figure it had been a storage place for rusted old tractors, old tires, and corncobs. Maybe the corncobs had been fed to cows, years ago?
Gideon? Where are you?
He wasn’t inside the shed. Daddy Love knelt to peer beneath the shed, into a space so narrow you couldn’t believe that anything could crawl there, let alone a five-year-old boy.
Gideon! Son! Come out of there.
Daddy Love was panting, and very hot. Daddy Love was shocked, his son had tried to escape from him.
He’d been certain of the boy’s love. Their cuddle-times together were very sweet, usually.
He’d eaten from Daddy Love’s hand enough times to know to trust Daddy Love.
He called to the boy. Cajoled and threatened. Counted to three slowly enough to give the boy a chance to obey—but the boy did not obey.
Fucking little brat. Don’t you know, I could kill you?
Break your skinny little rat-neck. Nigger.
In his fury Daddy Love uttered words he didn’t mean. For Daddy Love was not a racist.
Grunting Daddy Love lay on the ground on his belly to peer beneath the shed and could barely make out the child a few yards away. Come out, God damn you! I’m your father. You will obey me.
The child was very silent. Very still.
Daddy Love picked himself up, and went to the other side of the shed, to lie down again, panting, to peer beneath. You really would not have thought that any creature larger than a cat could squeeze into the tight space.
Know what, son? I’m going to burn this thing down. You got a count of three to get out, before you’re burnt alive.
Again, Daddy Love counted slowly to three. But the child, in a paralysis of terror, did not budge.
Finally, Daddy Love staggered to his feet. He had no choice.
(Not fire. Daddy Love wasn’t imprudent enough to set a fire on his property, and draw attention to himself and his domestic arrangements.)
Instead, Daddy Love ran to fetch his twenty-two-caliber rifle, locked away in a box beneath his bed.
There were other firearms in this box, which the child had never seen.
Like an infantryman trotting with his weapon, Daddy Love returned to the storage shed beneath which his mutinous son was hiding from him. He lay down on his belly and poked the barrel beneath the floor of the shed, pushing aside weeds.
You little nigger ingrate, you’re in God’s hands now. He is summoning you.
The first shot was a deafening crack. Even Daddy Love wasn’t prepared. And the rifle had a considerable kick, he’d forgotten.
Now the child was whimpering and whining. Had he been wounded? Daddy Love had aimed to miss, but might have hit the kid anyway.
If it was a hit, and a severe wound he couldn’t bind up, he’d have to let the kid bleed to death. No way Daddy Love was taking the kid to a hospital.
But the child didn’t appear to be wounded. He’d crawled into another corner beneath the shed, behind one of the concrete blocks that held the rotted structure in place. Twisted in there, he was barely visible to Daddy Love.
Think I can’t see you? Fucking little rat-nigger.
Daddy Love aimed again. Daddy Love pulled the trigger.
The child was crying in terror. But it was too late.
In all, Daddy Love fired five shots. Each was measured and deliberate. He shot to the right of the huddled child, and to the left of the huddled child. He shot in front of the huddled child.
Then, Daddy Love heaved himself to his feet. His ears were ringing from the damned shots. He went into the kitchen to fetch a cold beer and returned dragging a rusted lawn chair through the grass. Sat, and waited.
The other sons had died in Daddy Love’s arms. He’d had his reasons for sending them to God for judgment, mostly he’d been pissed by adolescent insolence, and bored, and turned off by acne, but he’d made sure that they had died peacefully in his arms, and hadn’t known a thing of what was happening, dumb-ass kids. This one, Gideon, the mixed-race son, was sharper-witted, you could tell.
Daddy Love held the rifle balanced on his knees. Daddy Love was undecided whether he’d kill the kid, when the kid crawled out. That was up to God. Like tossing dice.
After about twenty minutes, Daddy Love had a glimpse of something moving beneath the shed. The sun had shifted in the sky to afternoon. It was a humid-hot August day in New Jersey. Daddy Love smiled to see the boy’s little head appear from beneath the shed like the head of a baby being born. There was magic in this! Daddy Love had summoned the child to return to him, to obey him, and the child was complying.
With difficulty the child dragged himself out from beneath the shed. He was covered in dirt. Seeing Daddy Love in the lawn chair about twelve feet away, he began to crawl toward him like a broken little animal.
It was the most beautiful sight.
Daddy Love had forgotten entirely about the rifle. He’d dropped the can of beer. Fell to his knees on the gnarly ground gathering the weeping child in his arms and tears streamed down both their faces like liquid sunshine.