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Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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someone comes in and you make a peep I will kill you
but the younger child, in his paralysis of horror, would not understand and could not be trusted.
Daddy Love cleaned the child with wetted newspapers, flung then onto the ground. Daddy Love was breathing hard, annoyed, but smiling.
“‘Gideon’ is your new name, son. When we are in our new home, I will baptize you properly. D’you hear?”
Daddy Love stroked the child’s head. The thrillingly curly-kinky hair, like a little bush. Daddy Love leaned over the child to touch his lips to the child’s forehead which was unnaturally cold and at last the child recoiled, and began to pant, and to cry as a wounded little animal might cry.
This at least signaled a response. Resistance is a normal response, initially.
Initially, Nostradamus had
resisted
. But soon, Nostradamus had given in.
Before him, Deuteronomy.
And before him, Prince-of-Peace.
In the Kittatinny Mountains of northwest New Jersey, close by the Delaware River at the Water Gap, their bodies were buried beneath boulders “unmarked” to the ordinary eye.
Only just bones now, scraps of skin, hair, rotted clothing. Their child-brightness had dimmed. They’d become too old. Boys were irresistible, adolescents not. Eleven was the bittersweet age for Daddy Love foresaw, as Nostradamus, Deuteronomy, and Prince-of-Peace had not, that his love for them, which meant his patience with them, his caring-for them, was coming to an end.
Twelve was already too old—thirteen was repellent.
The new child was very young: five years, four months according to the news stories Daddy Love had heard. There were at least six blissful years ahead.
Never had Daddy Love seized a child so young. He’d believed that eight or nine was the optimum age. But in the Holy Roman Catholic Church it was well known by religious orders that if you secure a child before the age of seven, his soul is yours.
He had never fully understood the verse from Psalms:
Out of the mouth of babes and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.
As Gideon was so young, so Gideon would be the more shaped by Daddy Love. His memories of his ordinary life in Ypsilanti, Michigan, would fade like watercolors in pelting rain.
Daddy Love would love this child tenderly. His other sons had coarsened and disappointed him. He would not have any barrier between himself and Gideon. As soon as they arrived safely home in New Jersey, in Kittatinny Falls he would begin his
love-campaign.
There would be not two-ness but only one-ness.
This is my body and this is my blood. Take ye and eat.
There would be little pleasure in no resistance at all, of course. Daddy Love would expect this, to a degree. As, with the older boys, there would have been little pleasure if they hadn’t fought for their lives—and a little beyond.
Gideon? Will you eat? To please your daddy.
Daddy Love pried the child’s jaws open, just slightly. The child shuddered and struggled and his eyes rolled in his head in a paroxysm of panic and at that moment, headlights flooded the van—a vehicle was turning into the rest-area.
The quivering child drew breath to scream. But Daddy Love was quicker clapping his hand over the child’s mouth.
Soon then, that night, crossing the high windy bridge above the Delaware River at the Water Gap, and arriving at the farm, or what remained of the farm, three miles beyond Kittatinny Falls.
Upsie-daisy, son! Climb up out of there,
come on.
Your new home, Gideon.
Daddy Love has got you.
10
KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY APRIL 27, 2006
The woman lingered in the doorway. Her eyes moved over Chet Cash like hungry ants.
Anything else you’d be wanting, Chet. Just give a call.
Sure I will, Darlene.
You got my cell number.
I do, Darlene.
It’s looking pretty good here, eh? Just needed a little work.
You did a great job, Darlene. I’ll be calling you.
Next week is OK, Chet. I got lots of free days.
but the younger child, in his paralysis of horror, would not understand and could not be trusted.
Daddy Love cleaned the child with wetted newspapers, flung then onto the ground. Daddy Love was breathing hard, annoyed, but smiling.
“‘Gideon’ is your new name, son. When we are in our new home, I will baptize you properly. D’you hear?”
Daddy Love stroked the child’s head. The thrillingly curly-kinky hair, like a little bush. Daddy Love leaned over the child to touch his lips to the child’s forehead which was unnaturally cold and at last the child recoiled, and began to pant, and to cry as a wounded little animal might cry.
This at least signaled a response. Resistance is a normal response, initially.
Initially, Nostradamus had
resisted
. But soon, Nostradamus had given in.
Before him, Deuteronomy.
And before him, Prince-of-Peace.
In the Kittatinny Mountains of northwest New Jersey, close by the Delaware River at the Water Gap, their bodies were buried beneath boulders “unmarked” to the ordinary eye.
Only just bones now, scraps of skin, hair, rotted clothing. Their child-brightness had dimmed. They’d become too old. Boys were irresistible, adolescents not. Eleven was the bittersweet age for Daddy Love foresaw, as Nostradamus, Deuteronomy, and Prince-of-Peace had not, that his love for them, which meant his patience with them, his caring-for them, was coming to an end.
Twelve was already too old—thirteen was repellent.
The new child was very young: five years, four months according to the news stories Daddy Love had heard. There were at least six blissful years ahead.
Never had Daddy Love seized a child so young. He’d believed that eight or nine was the optimum age. But in the Holy Roman Catholic Church it was well known by religious orders that if you secure a child before the age of seven, his soul is yours.
He had never fully understood the verse from Psalms:
Out of the mouth of babes and infants, you have established strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger.
As Gideon was so young, so Gideon would be the more shaped by Daddy Love. His memories of his ordinary life in Ypsilanti, Michigan, would fade like watercolors in pelting rain.
Daddy Love would love this child tenderly. His other sons had coarsened and disappointed him. He would not have any barrier between himself and Gideon. As soon as they arrived safely home in New Jersey, in Kittatinny Falls he would begin his
love-campaign.
There would be not two-ness but only one-ness.
This is my body and this is my blood. Take ye and eat.
There would be little pleasure in no resistance at all, of course. Daddy Love would expect this, to a degree. As, with the older boys, there would have been little pleasure if they hadn’t fought for their lives—and a little beyond.
Gideon? Will you eat? To please your daddy.
Daddy Love pried the child’s jaws open, just slightly. The child shuddered and struggled and his eyes rolled in his head in a paroxysm of panic and at that moment, headlights flooded the van—a vehicle was turning into the rest-area.
The quivering child drew breath to scream. But Daddy Love was quicker clapping his hand over the child’s mouth.
Soon then, that night, crossing the high windy bridge above the Delaware River at the Water Gap, and arriving at the farm, or what remained of the farm, three miles beyond Kittatinny Falls.
Upsie-daisy, son! Climb up out of there,
come on.
Your new home, Gideon.
Daddy Love has got you.
10
KITTATINNY FALLS, NEW JERSEY APRIL 27, 2006
The woman lingered in the doorway. Her eyes moved over Chet Cash like hungry ants.
Anything else you’d be wanting, Chet. Just give a call.
Sure I will, Darlene.
You got my cell number.
I do, Darlene.
It’s looking pretty good here, eh? Just needed a little work.
You did a great job, Darlene. I’ll be calling you.
Next week is OK, Chet. I got lots of free days.
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