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
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
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