Daddy Love (21 page)

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 her.

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.

About this Book

This is my son in whom I am well pleased…

 

Daddy Love was stern and yet loving. Each act of disobedience, however small, would be immediately punished. And when the child obeyed, and was a true son to Daddy Love, immediately he would be rewarded with food, water, the comfort of his arms and the gentle intonations of his voice.

 

The child would learn quickly. They all did.

 

Five-year-old Robbie can still remember his mother. He was snatched out of her hands in a shopping mall parking lot. Now he has a new father, Daddy Love, a frightening preacher who punishes him when he is bad. In the blurred edges of Robbie’s young mind, he knows he must escape. But he is just a little boy. What can he do to survive?

 

Daddy Love
is a taut, compelling tale of evil, terror and survival. A story of every parent’s nightmare, a mother’s defiant love, and the inexplicable resilience of children. This is the new novel from the towering imagination of Joyce Carol Oates.

About Head of Zeus

 

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