Daddy Love

by Joyce Carol Oates

  (Whit could not bear it—he could not allow himself to think it—that he might have shaken hands with the madman who would, within a few years, abduct Whit’s own son, and keep him captive for six years.)

  Dinah couldn’t help but think that Robbie felt more comfortable with his mother than with his father who was always smiling at him—at least, with his mouth-muscles.

  A smile is aggressive, Dinah thought. A smile demands a response.

  Clearly it was hard for Robbie to smile in return. To smile upon demand. Whit needed to be less conspicuously trying to love their son.

  With her damaged face, Dinah had become skilled at smiling in just the right way, at the right time. She might smile at strangers, to reassure them that, yes she knew she was disfigured: but yes, it was all right. She didn’t smile so often at Robbie because she knew it made him uneasy, like a mirror thrust too close against his face.

  It was crucial to Dinah, that Robbie know how she’d loved him, and had tried to keep him from being taken from her. The extent of her injuries was inconsequential set beside this fact. Dinah had seen her son stare at her, during therapy sessions, when this subject had come up. She’d seen the look in his eyes—My mother almost died for me. My mother must have loved me.

  Tears welled in her eyes. She’d groped for a tissue from out of Dr. Kozdoi’s square tissue-box.

  When Dinah had first seen their son, in the hospital in New Brunswick, she’d been astonished at the sight of the boy—his lean face, his small concave broken-looking chest, his grave eyes and wounded mouth. Yet, he was so grown. He wasn’t a child but a boy.

  It made her sick and faint, to think that they’d lost six years of their son’s childhood. Six years of their own young lives.

  That man had stolen a part of their souls from them. No punishment, not even death, could compensate for that loss.

  “I believe in capital punishment now. I could inject the poison myself, I think.”

  Hotly Dinah had said this to Whit, just once. Whit had said, “I could kill him with my bare hands.”

  But there was no point in such thoughts, Dinah knew. Her yoga, her meditations, her slow healing walks while Robbie was in summer school, had led her to this conclusion.

  “Yet, I could never ‘forgive’ him. My God!”

  Dinah had spoken aloud. Whit frowned at her but didn’t ask what she’d said.

  Whit too was captivated by his own thoughts. Like runaway horses dragging him in their wake, no matter how he was injured, exhausted.

  We are so very happy to have our son back.

  Yet, it is so very tiring. Each hour of each day.

  Waiting for—what?

  They were waiting to hear if the man known as “Chester Cash” would plead guilty to the long list of charges brought against him, or whether, abetted by a pro bono defense lawyer in hope of acquiring nationwide notoriety, he would plead “not guilty.”

  In which case there would be a trial in the State of Michigan, in Washtenaw County, where Robbie Whitcomb had been abducted. And there would be a trial in the State of New Jersey, in Lenape County, where Robbie Whitcomb had been held captive and many times assaulted in the years 2006 to 2012.

  It was likely that, if these trials were held, there would be other, separate trials in which Chester Cash would be tried for murder as well as kidnapping, assault, and keeping an individual, a minor, against his will. So far, the bodies of three boys had been discovered in a wilderness area approximately a mile from Cash’s Kittatinny Falls property.

  And there was eight-year-old Kendall McCane, abducted from his family’s home in Toms River, New Jersey, on May 26, 2012, and found in a “locked box the size of a casket” in Cash’s minivan, by Indiana police. For this abduction, assault, and enforced captivity, Cash would be tried, too.

  The middle-aged children of Myrna Helmerich, Cash’s deceased wife, were pressing Mercer County, New Jersey, authorities to exhume their mother’s body which was buried in a cemetery in Grindell Park, a residential neighborhood in Trenton. Their claim was that her “husband” Chester Cash had surely murdered her, and made the death look like heart failure, in order to collect her insurance money, and inherit her estate.

  There had not been anything like the Chester Cash story in New Jersey for decades. Major networks as well as the cable channels had been covering the case intermittently since late May. Cash himself was being held without bail in a segregated unit of the Lenape County men’s detention center.

  Only through Cash’s loquacious lawyer Cheyenne Brady were bulletins regularly released to the media, that, as his client Reverend Cash was “innocent” of the charges brought against him, it would not be possible for him to plead “guilty.”

  Robbie had been found by hikers wandering in a desolate area in the Kittatinny Mountains. According to his confused account, he’d been lost for two days and two nights. He’d said that someone was “after” him—“wanted to hurt him.” He’d been exhausted, staggering, incoherent. He’d been unable to walk without assistance and so the hikers had called for medical assistance, carrying the boy to a nearby road.

  He’d been transported to the nearest ER, in Clinton, New Jersey. From there, as his condition deteriorated, to the Robert Wood Johnson children’s hospital in New Brunswick where, for a brief while, he’d been put on a respirator and fed through a feeding tube.

  He’d suffered from severe dehydration, malnutrition, anemia, and shock. His blood pressure had plummeted to fifty-nine over sixty and his heartbeat had accelerated wildly.

  Old injuries, wounds and scars had been discovered on every part of the boy’s body as well as in and around his genitals and his anus.

  In the hospital, the boy had been questioned when he was well enough to speak, but he hadn’t seemed to know his name, or where he was from; he was thought to be an abused child, abandoned by his parent or parents, mentally retarded or schizophrenic. Then, after a few days, when his condition had stabilized, he’d told child welfare officers that he’d “run away” from a man who had “trapped” him in a house on the Saw Mill Road in Kittatinny Falls.

  He’d said that the man was “angry” with him and “wanted to kill” him.

  He’d said that the man had made him carry a shovel out into the mountains—“It was time for me to die, I guess. I would have to dig the hole and he would bury me with his other sons.”

  When the boy was asked if the man was his father he’d said “Yes”—but then, later, he’d said “No.”

  Asked who the man was he’d hesitated and said, “Daddy Love.”

  Daddy Love? But what was the man’s name?

  The boy shook his head, mutely.

  But where are your parents? he was asked.

  His parents had “given him away,” he said. He didn’t know where they lived or who they were and the man had told him that they were dead now—“And gone to Hell that was God’s punishment.”

  As soon as the nameless boy’s photograph appeared on New Jersey television channels, viewers in Kittatinny Falls called police to identify him as “Gideon Cash” who’d lived with his father “Chester Cash” on a farm on the Saw Mill Road.

  A warrant was issued for the arrest of Chester Cash. When New Jersey state police arrived at the farmhouse, however, the house was empty. There was no vehicle on the premises, and inside the house it looked as if someone had departed hurriedly.

  Through a national missing-children data base, “Robbie Whitcomb” was identified: a five-year-old who’d been abducted from the Libertyville Mall in Ypsilanti, Michigan, in April 2006. A call was made to the child’s parents, who lived still in the house in Ypsilanti, and had the same telephone numbers.

  A nationwide search was initiated for “Chester Cash” who was arrested a few days later, at 2 A.M. on I-70 near Terre Haute, Indiana; Indiana state troopers had sighted the Chrysler minivan, which matched the description of the wanted man’s vehicle and which had been observed “weaving” on the highway as if the driver was l
apsing in and out of consciousness. Flagged over onto the shoulder of the road by the officer, Chester Cash had stumbled from the van and tried to run, was apprehended and thrown down onto the ground and handcuffed.

  To their astonishment police officers discovered in the back of the van, in a wooden box resembling a casket, with a locked lid, a young boy in a semiconscious state, severely dehydrated; he was taken to a local ER, and soon identified as eight-year-old Kendall McCane of Toms River, New Jersey, whose parents had reported him missing from the backyard of their home several days before.

  Much was made in the media of the state troopers’ surprise and disgust at having found a captive little boy in the “box like a casket”—“like something out of a horror movie except worse, it was real.”

  Kittatinny Falls residents who’d known Chester Cash and his son Gideon told police that Chet Cash had always seemed “normal enough”—they guessed. He’d said that the boy’s mother had died—they’d moved to New Jersey from Maine, unless it was Michigan. Cash had liked to hang out with “other fathers” when he encountered them, for instance at a softball game or a barbecue, or at church. Cash had rarely let the boy out of his sight when they were together; he’d refused to allow the boy to ride the school bus, and never let him visit the homes of his classmates. Yet more recently, in past months, the boy was often seen bicycling along country roads and in town, alone. You got the impression, neighbors named McIntyre said disapprovingly, that the boy was “neglected.”

  All were shocked by the revelation that there’d been two captive boys in the farm on the Saw Mill Road.

  Since he’d tried to run from state police in Indiana, and since his arrest and extradition to New Jersey, Chester Cash had refused to speak to police. He was exercising, as he said, his right to remain silent.

  Through his lawyer Cheyenne Brady, who’d given numerous interviews to the insatiable twenty-four-hour news channels, it was being claimed that Chet Cash was a “devout Christian minister, a man of God” who’d “rescued” boys from abusive parents; he’d “rescued” little Robbie Whitcomb from a “bad mother,” and the boy had been “grateful” to live with him. This would be Cash’s defense at his trial—“My client acknowledges that he ‘acted outside of the secular law’—in accordance with a ‘higher moral law.’ Reverend Cash is ‘not guilty’ of forcible abduction and the other charges because he is ‘not guilty’ of violating this higher law.”

  It would be a nightmare, the Whitcombs thought, if Cash insisted upon a trial—insisted upon his “innocence.” A nightmare if their sensitive son was forced to testify against his abductor and rapist. His captor-torturer for six years.

  A nightmare if their son was forced to relive even a part of those horrific six years.

  “God won’t let this happen, I think. God has restored Robbie to us, He will not punish Robbie and us further.”

  So Dinah spoke, in a way that disturbed and infuriated her husband.

  “If I could just kill him with my bare hands. That would be a very generous gesture of God.”

  So Whit said. Clenching and unclenching his fists.

  It was 12:19 P.M. by Whit’s digital watch. And still Robbie hadn’t appeared on the stairway or on the third floor which was open above the atrium where he might have waved to his parents below, over the railing.

  “Maybe you could check out the restrooms? Or maybe—Dr. Kozdoi’s office …”

  “He wouldn’t be with her this long, Dinah. Or if he was, Dr. Kozdoi would have called to tell us where he is.”

  It was their custom after these sessions with Dr. Kozdoi for the family to have lunch together, at one or another nearby restaurant. At such times Dinah and Whit spoke expansively, and Robbie sat silently, eyes downcast. His parents’ sessions with Dr. Kozdoi left them excited, if not elated; Robbie’s sessions with Dr. Kozdoi left him more reticent than usual.

  What is he thinking? Is he—remembering?

  But what is he remembering?

  Whit took the elevator to the third floor, to check out the men’s restroom there. Then, he’d check out the second floor. And finally, the first floor.

  Once, a few weeks ago, when Robbie hadn’t appeared after his session with Dr. Kozdoi, Whit had gone to look for him and had found him in the third-floor men’s room.

  That is, Whit had entered the restroom and heard an anguished muffled sound, as of sobbing, in one of the toilet stalls.

  He’d heard, too, what sounded like physical distress. Gastrointestinal distress, diarrhea. His son was suffering, on the toilet in that stall, but his son would wish to suffer in private, Whit knew. So he’d retreated, returned to the atrium to wait with Dinah for their son to join them.

  He’d told Dinah that Robbie was in the men’s room. Nothing serious, and he’d be joining them in a few minutes.

  This had been the case. When Robbie came down the stairs, slowly, like a boy in a dream, white-faced, holding himself stiffly, he’d seemed to be seeing his parents for a while, without recognizing them; then, he’d lifted his hand in a boyish sort of salute.

  Hi Mom. Dad.

  His voice was small, flat, mechanical. His eyes were evasive.

  Dinah had bit her lower lip, and gone to Robbie to hug him, wordlessly.

  Hey Mom. I’m OK.

  His hands smelled of soap. Vigorously he’d washed them in the restroom.

  Another time, Whit had found Robbie on the third floor, but this time not in the men’s room. He’d been crouched in a corner at the far end of the corridor, his head lowered onto his knees and his face hidden as if he was sleeping, or very tired. When Whit approached cautiously, Robbie had shuddered, as if sensing someone’s approach; but he hadn’t looked up, and when Whit squatted to speak to him, and to hug him, he hadn’t reacted for several seconds.

  Hi Dad. I’m OK.

  Now as Whit took the elevator to the third floor, Dinah wandered out of the atrium and along a corridor, to the foyer at the front of the building. The Washtenaw Building housed medical and professional offices and suites; it was only a few years old, made of dark-tinted glass and aluminum. On this weekday morning in early September, there were many visitors including individuals in wheelchairs; among them, a woman younger than Dinah, with a twisted spine, a small fixed smile, a companion who might have been a brother, or a husband. Dinah smiled nervously at the woman who glanced past her without seeing her.

  Dinah exited the building through revolving doors. The outdoor air was surprisingly hot, oppressive, after the air-conditioned interior. But Dinah shivered in the warm air, that pressed against her lungs.

  I am so very happy. God has blessed us.

  She wasn’t a believer, really. She attended church services only infrequently. Yet it seemed to her that, if there was a God, this God had had mercy on her, at last.

  Mercy on her and Whit, returning their son to them.

  Returning their son to them. The boy who was theirs.

  In prisons and in detention centers, child-murderers like Chester Cash were frequently killed by fellow inmates. Throats slashed in showers. He might die, before a trial. God’s mercy might prevail.

  Daddy Love their son had called him. This was in one of the statements Robbie had given to police, a videotaped testimony that Dinah had not seen, but Whit had described to her.

  Daddy Love! She prayed that God would prevail in His mercy and justice.

  Along a paved path Dinah wandered, not remembering what she was doing, where she was and for whom she was looking; then, recalling, she found herself at the rear of the Washtenaw Building, in the beating sun. It was not true, that Dinah Whitcomb was well: in her soul, she was very sick. The man who called himself Daddy Love had perceived this—had he?

  To the left was a parking lot; to the right, an outdoor café, that opened into the building, and into the atrium. She would re-enter the atrium, to wait for Whit to return with Robbie; she was in no hurry, for she didn’t want to arrive before Whit and Robbie, which would be unsettling to h
er.

  Making her way around tables on the outdoor terrace, seeing the eyes of strangers drift onto her, and snag, slightly—(is something wrong with that woman?)—Dinah saw, or thought she saw—in fact, she was seeing—a boy who resembled Robbie, sitting on a ledge, out of the sunshine. A few feet away at one of the round wrought-iron tables on the terrace, a man was sitting; at first, Dinah wanted to think that this was Whit, but of course it was not. The stranger was playfully straddling his chair, to face the boy, to whom he was speaking. He wore khaki shorts, a sleeveless T-shirt that showed his biceps and muscled shoulders; his legs were muscular, and very hairy; on his feet, flip-flops. He was in his forties perhaps, with a genial sunburnt face, a light stubble on his jaws, and on his head a Detroit Tigers baseball cap turned jauntily to the side.

  Dinah’s heart stopped: she saw.

  The man was speaking to Robbie in a friendly way. Very likely, he was asking friendly questions. He was not menacing. Robbie might have been listening to him, though Robbie wasn’t looking at him. Instead, Robbie sat hunched over a paper plate in his lap, eating hungrily.

  Had the man bought Robbie some food? Or given him his own?

  The man offered Robbie a sip of water from a plastic bottle. Robbie shook his head in a quick curt way that was familiar to Dinah for she’d seen it so many times—No thanks.

  On shaky legs Dinah approached. She prayed, dear God don’t let my knee give out now!

  Now Robbie saw her, glancing up. He was eating a hamburger, or maybe a cheeseburger; his lips were greasy, and there was a smear of ketchup on his chin which he wiped quickly away with the back of his hand.

  Unobtrusively, the man in the baseball cap slipped away from his chair, and exited the café without a backward glance.

  Robbie said, in his small flat voice, swiping at his mouth now with a crumpled paper napkin, squinting-smiling at her: “Hi Mom.”

  About the Author

  Joyce Carol Oates is the author of over seventy works and the winner of a host of prizes, including the National Book Award and a Guggenheim Fellowship. She is Professor of the Humanities at Princeton University.