In addition, each was insured for fifty thousand dollars—this was Chet Cash’s idea, to which Myrna Helmerich deferred.
In addition to Myrna’s property in Grindell Park, Trenton, there was a farm near the Delaware Water Gap, of which Myrna spoke negligently, for she hadn’t visited the property in years, and had only a vague idea of what condition it might be in.
In the little stucco church on Washington Street, in which the couple first met, Chester Cash had been a member of the choir and a volunteer for youth counseling, as Mrs. Helmerich had been the choir leader and a volunteer for youth and “single mother” counseling. Chet Cash was a gregarious and popular presence in the Trenton church and soon he’d been invited to serve with the Mayor’s Community Outreach Program, that had received a one-million-dollar funding from the State of New Jersey.
Soon then, Chet Cash was in charge of financial accounts for the Outreach Program. He’d met the mayor, Leander Hollis, who’d taken a liking to him, as a white dude who could make you laugh. Chet Cash was making deposits, making out checks. Chet Cash liked to say In the right place at the right time. That’s what we mean by destiny.
A photograph of Chet Cash and Mayor Hollis shaking hands and smiling at the camera had been framed and hung on the wall first in Myrna Helmerich’s Trenton house, then in Myrna Helmerich’s Kittatinny house, which Chet Cash inherited. Both men were handsome: Chet Cash resembled a shaggy Brad Pitt (so admirers said) and Leander Hollis resembled ex-heavyweight champion George Foreman. Chet was disappointed that his friendship with the popular Democratic politician had seemed to fade and woke sometimes in the night wondering Why?
He hoped it wasn’t a race thing. He’d thought that Hollis was above that kind of primitive thinking.
Daddy Love’s son at the time had been Deuteronomy. The less said of Deuteronomy’s final years, the better. The sandy-haired boy was sulky and pimply-faced by eleven, fattish, lethargic, and suffered from chronic constipation, eating junk food with Daddy Love and watching TV seven nights of the week. And when he didn’t watch Texas Rangers, Cops, Law & Order, X-Files, Superstars of Wrestling with Daddy Love, he played video games—just the same three or four, repeatedly, that Daddy Love had bought him. Deuteronomy didn’t attend school: the vague theory was, Chet Cash was homeschooling his son. The mother had died, somehow—fast-acting cancer. This was a story told to whoever expressed any mild curiosity, but few of their neighbors did. Father and son lived upstairs in a brownstone duplex on Trotter Street which intersected with State Street a mile from the gleaming-white dome of the New Jersey State capitol building. Nearby too were the New Jersey State Court and the Mercer County Court in a run-down neighborhood of pawnshops and bail bondsmen.
Deuteronomy didn’t yearn to get out much, any longer. Downtown Trenton was “shitty” in his opinion. He’d “run away” more than once, but had always returned to Daddy Love by suppertime. The kid had no friends—of course. His friends were TV-figures, video-game-figures whom he routinely slaughtered, or was slaughtered by. Like a captive dog chained in a basement for too long he’d lost his appetite for out-of-doors. If he remembered his old family, in some hick town in eastern Ohio, he never let on. Daddy Love thought the kid’s brain was probably a tabula rasa—a fancy term for a blank slate on which you could write anything you wanted, if you wanted.
Deuteronomy did cry, sometimes. A wet-blubbery noise, in the bathroom.
In Daddy Love’s bed the boy was limp and unresisting. He’d learned not to resist but had never learned to (voluntarily) kiss Daddy Love, not anywhere on Daddy Love’s body. He’d never so much as touched Daddy Love unless commanded.
The kid’s penis resembled a skinned baby rabbit, that rarely got hard. Daddy Love hadn’t been excited by it in years.
Daddy Love felt sorry for the kid, he’d lost his looks by age ten. There wasn’t much point in keeping him but his daddy was feeling the kind of dumb sentiment you feel for an elderly blind and incontinent dog—you can’t kill the mutt but you wouldn’t mind if somebody else ran him over in the street for you.
Mrs. Helmerich, who’d become Mrs. Chet Cash in January 1998, was never to meet Daddy Love’s son. She was never to hear the name Deuteronomy.
Nor did Deuteronomy know about Mrs. Helmerich. If he had, Daddy Love knew that the boy would have been wildly jealous.
But soon after Mrs. Helmerich came into Chet Cash’s life, Deuteronomy departed.
This won’t hurt, son. It’s B-12 vitamin for quick energy and a kind of a diet pill, you’ve been growing a gut, eh!
In Kittatinny Falls it was Chet’s account that he’d bought the Helmerich farm, as it was locally called. It was to be a spiritual retreat. In the countryside north of Kittatinny Falls, the property was still called the Helmerich farm even by local residents like Darlene Barnhauser who knew Chet Cash was now the property owner.
Steady, kid. She’s nobody you know.
The child so flinched, Daddy Love had to hold his skinny arm firm.
The child was staring mesmerized seeing Darlene Barnhauser striding in their direction. Daddy Love had tried to prepare the kid, he’d be seeing a “friend”—Daddy Love was well aware, this was the first person the child had seen since the Ypsilanti mall four months before.
Except for TV-people. Daddy Love did not forbid TV.
The Barnhauser female, nothing like the kid’s scrawny mother. Yet, the way the kid was staring at her, twitching and trembling, Daddy Love had to wonder if he wasn’t confused thinking this was his mother—not the way he remembered her, exactly.
Green-parrot T-shirt showcasing her large saggy breasts, short-shorts showing too much of her lardy veined thighs, and flip-flops on her pudgy feet. Her hair was stacked atop her head gypsy-style and her wide mouth was greasy-red.
Ohhh God, Darlene said, her eyes swimming, i’n’t he cute.
My little boy Gideon, Chet said proudly. He’s come to live with me, maybe more than just this summer.
“Gideon”?—that’s a real nice name. Hiya, “Gideon”!
Chet Cash squatted beside the boy, gripping the skinny arm. It was fascinating to Daddy Love, how the child gaped up at the Barnhauser female as if—what?—his five-year-old brain was trying to connect her with someone else.
The child was trembling. Shivering. Daddy Love felt rather than heard his teeth chattering.
The temperature had been in the low nineties through that day.
Chet Cash said, Looks like me in the eyes and around the mouth, don’t he? That’s what people say.
He does. Oh God, Chet, i’n’t he cute.
His name is Gideon. “God’s warrior.”
He’s kinda shy, huh? Not like his daddy.
Darlene was squatting too in front of the child. Couldn’t resist touching his curly-kinky hair as the boy stood stiff and unmoving staring at her and his watery eyes now rapidly blinking.
Daddy Love had dyed the boy’s hair. No longer was it so dark as to appear black but a dirty-blond color, like a ravaged beach.
The previous night, the boy had had to be disciplined. First, Daddy Love filled the sink with cold water and commanded the boy to lower his face to it, and when the boy resisted, Daddy Love seized him by the neck and forced his face into the water counting One two three four five.
Then, he’d spent the night in the Wooden Maiden and not in Daddy Love’s bed. A sponge-gag in his mouth and rags stuffed around his ass, to soak up urine.
Daddy Love felt sorry for his son, almost. But discipline comes first, in training.
Daddy Love didn’t let Gideon out of the Maiden until around noon by which time the little boy was weak, famished, so ravenously hungry that he gobbled his food like an animal, and began to puke.
There were several punishments for puking. Daddy Love had tried them all.
Gideon, son, say h’lo to Darlene. She’s our friend and neighbor, see? She’s come over to help us. And maybe if your daddy has to travel somewheres, Darlene will look after you.
Ohhh—I’d love t
hat. He’s so cute.
The child’s little finger had healed, that had been broken through the child’s carelessness. Daddy Love hoped that Darlene wouldn’t notice the bone had healed at a slight, stiff angle from his hand.
Darlene was cooing to him. Whyn’t you say h’lo to me? Sweetie?
The child’s chocolate-dark eyes with their thick lashes did not seem to be entirely in focus. As if Darlene loomed so large before him, his eyes could not absorb her.
Daddy Love was wondering if Darlene thought there might be something wrong with his son. Retarded, or maybe “ autistic”—you heard a lot about that, these days.
Tell Darlene where you come from, son.
Daddy Love gave the boy a little shake. He was gripping his arm tight, which had to hurt, but the boy was learning not to wince or whimper.
Hey? Tell Darlene where you’re from.
The boy’s lips moved but his words were inaudible. The boy was still staring and blinking at busty Darlene as if—(was this it?)—he was hoping she’d turn into someone else, who had come for him.
At last like a windup doll Gideon began to speak.
From T’vers Cit-ee, Mich’gan.
What’s that, sweetie?
He says—“From Traverse City, Michigan.” Where his mother lives.
Ohhh! That’s a long way.
Tell Darlene how we came here, son.
In a stammering voice the child said they’d come by a “special box.”
Chet laughed irritably, and gave the kid another little shake.
He means, in my van.
(Since he’d come to Kittatinny Falls, Chet had removed the eye-catching white cross from the roof of the van, and he’d spray-painted the van another time, now dark red. The patina of paints suggested something rippling beneath the surface but Chet thought the Chrysler looked pretty good considering its age.)
Tell Darlene about your mother, Gideon.
Now the child began to speak more rapidly. These were prepared words, that sprang from his lips with ease.
Bad Mommy. She smoked.
Darlene laughed. Well, Gideon—lots of mommies do. We’re not perfect.
Bad Mommy. She smoked.
The child repeated his few words. He smiled—a quick eager smile. Chet was stroking his arm, twining his fingers around the child’s small fingers.
Darlene said, Oh—Chet. Gideon has wet himself, I’m afraid.
Chet shrank away. Chet was repelled.
Pissed his pants! God-damn baby.
Chet was embarrassed as well as angry. Darlene intervened, taking Gideon by the hand. I’ll mop him up and change him, Chet. No problem.
God-damn baby. Five years old, you’d think his drunk-bitch-mother would’ve housebroke him by now.
This was a joke and so Darlene laughed, though not with much mirth. Clearly she was concerned for the frightened little boy, who was gripping her hand, tight.
I’ll clean you up, hon, and change you into some clean clothes. Don’t mind your daddy, it’s how men are. They take some things too serious, and other things not serious enough.
Daddy Love followed Darlene and his son into the house, to the downstairs bathroom. Beyond was Daddy Love’s bedroom that was surprisingly neat, for one of Gideon’s household tasks was to make Daddy Love’s bed every morning and to pick up his scattered underwear and socks and place them in a rattan basket in a corner of the room.
It was Daddy Love’s practice to remove the Wooden Maiden from this room and to keep it in a closet, in case of a chance intrusion like this.
He’d been using the Wooden Maiden less frequently, now Gideon was becoming trained. Sometimes the boy was shut into the Maiden but the mask was left open so he could breathe better and could see—if just the ceiling of the bedroom.
Tonight? Daddy Love hadn’t decided.
Darlene ran water, in the bathroom. When she began to pull down the boy’s shorts, Gideon pushed at her hands with a whimpering sound.
Gideon! You let Darlene take care of you. She’s a real nice lady willing to clean you up decently—so let her.
The child ceased resisting. Darlene pulled down his shorts, and his little white undershorts that were damp with urine. Fastidious Daddy Love backed off a little, into the hall outside the bathroom, but he didn’t go away, he dared not relax his vigilance.
Hearing Darlene murmur to the boy, cooing and laughing. There was no doubt of it, a female had a way about her, a certain generosity, kindness. A female naturally took to young children, it was her instinct. You could ask a female to do almost anything and she’d do it—if she liked you. If she thought there was a chance you might like her.
Here was a secret: Gideon was on trial.
Every day and every hour. Every night.
Cuddle-time at night was the test. Too often, Gideon failed the test.
Crying, and resisting, So Daddy Love had no choice but to use brute force.
(Which was exciting to Daddy Love, in fact. For Daddy Love was contemptuous of weak, puling, unresisting boys.)
(Still, Daddy Love could not allow rebellious behavior in any son of his, and the son so young.)
After Daddy Love disciplined the boy in his bed, careful to place a bath towel on the bottom sheet beforehand, and a sponge-gag in the boy’s mouth, and wiping away, afterward, blood from the boy’s skinny haunches, it was necessary to force the boy into the Wooden Maiden for an undetermined period of time.
You will learn, son. Disobeying Daddy Love leads to one thing only.
And if you persevere, you will pay with your life.
Comprenez?
Through the summer, through the months of the boy’s trial, it was not always clear how Daddy Love felt.
Sometimes, Daddy Love was crazy about the boy.
His eyes just feasted on the boy.
He felt that stirring—the sex-stirring, unmistakable.
Recalling how by the bunny enclosure in the mall the beautiful little curly-black-haired boy had glanced up at Daddy Love and with the slyest of smiles poked his pink little tongue between his lips …And the look that passed between them, the mother oblivious, a look of utter secrecy, a scorching look—I don’t want to be with her, I want to be with you. Take me with you!
But other times, Daddy Love wasn’t so sure. The boy was so quiet, you’d be inclined to think that he was simple-minded, but Daddy Love knew this wasn’t the case, it was a pretense.
He’d seen Gideon stealthily looking through things Daddy Love had brought into the house—local newspapers, the Trenton Times, a magazine called New Jersey Sportsman.
(Could Gideon read? He didn’t seem capable of reading but he did stare at columns of print and sometimes his lips moved, silently.)
(It would be Chet Cash’s claim that his son was mentally disabled and so would not be starting school for a while, if ever. No one had ever challenged Chet’s prior claims, for Nostradamus, Deuteronomy, or Prince-of-Peace, each of whom had been mentally disabled.)
Hey, son: c’mere.
Upsie-daisy! C’mere.
They would watch Friday Night Raw: Wide World of Wrestling.
They would share a cheese-and-pepperoni pizza, a big bottle of Diet Coke, a container of blackberry-ripple Turkey Farm ice cream.
Gideon was shy and wary when Daddy Love summoned him, after Daddy Love had disciplined him. But then, when Daddy Love was sincerely loving, the boy responded with relief and gratitude like a dog that has been kicked but is now petted and loved.
The boy responded by eating slices of pizza held in Daddy Love’s hand. Hungrily eating, choking and coughing, but eating in a way to please Daddy Love.
Food is love, son. Who loves you, feeds you.
Who feeds you, loves you. Comprenez?
With the passage of time, Daddy Love boldly experimented with taking the boy into the outside world.
Little Gideon didn’t resemble his old, Ypsilanti self much. Daddy Love didn’t think so. The influence of Daddy Love was such, the boy ha
d grown to resemble him.
And there was the dirty-blond hair.
And a new look in the boy’s eyes—no longer young.
This eerie sensation Daddy Love felt, like injecting crystal meth into a vein, when he drove the boy into Kittatinny Falls, or down to Lambertville, New Hope—walking hand in hand with Gideon into the Safeway, or the drugstore, or the hardware store, or the lumberyard—walking with his little boy like any father, with the quiet pride of a father. See? I’m a normal guy. This is my little guy.
And sometimes—(the sensation of risk and elation was almost unbearable)—Daddy Love would strike up a casual conversation with another father in the company of a son, for instance at a Little League softball game. Is one of them your son?—so Daddy Love might ask.
The young father would point out his son. The scrawniest homeliest kid, yet the father would be proud of him. Friendly Daddy Love would ask how old his son Gideon had to be, to try out for the Little League, though he knew the answer already, so he and the other guy get to talking, and maybe—(this happened more than once)—he and Gideon would be invited to a barbecue that weekend.
July Fourth, they’d been invited to two barbecues. In Kittatinny Falls and Lambertville, New Jersey.
A frank-faced friendly attractive man looking no older than thirty-two or -three, with a child gripping his hand—other fathers naturally liked you, and females were all over you.
I’n’t he cute.
He’s takin after his daddy, for sure.
What’s your name? “Gid-eon”?
How old’s he?
Where y’all livin?
This went well. This was exciting! Daddy Love loved seeing himself and his son through others’ eyes.
There was the thrill deep in Daddy Love’s gut—how audacious he was. How daring.
Law enforcement officers would be astonished. He’d brought the abducted boy with him, in public places. In plain sight.
Once, Daddy Love braked his van to a stop at the side of the River Road, to hike back to where a Lenape County sheriff ’s deputy had parked his cruiser behind a stand of trees, lying in wait for speeders. Daddy Love had his son with him in the van, buckled into a child’s seat in the rear.
Daddy Love: A Novel Page 8