The Dead Father

by Donald Barthelme

  The Dead Father resting with his two hands on the hilt of his sword, which was planted in the red and steaming earth.

  My anger, he said proudly.

  Then the Dead Father sheathing his sword pulled from his trousers his ancient prick and pissed upon the dead artists, severally and together, to the best of his ability—four minutes, or one pint.

  Impressive, said Julie, had they not been pure cardboard.

  My dear, said Thomas, you deal too harshly with him.

  I have the greatest possible respect for him and for what he represents, said Julie, let us proceed.

  They proceeded.

  2

  The countryside. Flowers. Creeping snowberry. The road with dust. The sweat popping from little sweat glands. The line of the cable.

  Beautiful country around here, said Julie.

  Gorgeous, said Thomas.

  Great to be alive, said the Dead Father. To breathe in and out. To feel one’s muscles bite and snap.

  How is your leg? Thomas asked. The mechanical one.

  It is incomparable, said the Dead Father. Magnificent, that would be a word for it. I would I had two as good as the left. Old Plugalong.

  How did you come by it? asked Thomas. Accident or design?

  The latter, said the Dead Father. In my vastness, there was room for, necessity of, every kind of experience. I therefore decided that mechanical experience was a part of experience there was room for, in my vastness. I wanted to know what machines know.

  What do machines know?

  Machines are sober, uncomplaining, endlessly efficient, and work ceaselessly through all the hours for the good of all, said the Dead Father. They dream, when they dream, of stopping. Of last things. They—

  What’s that? Thomas interrupted. He was pointing to the side of the road.

  Two children. One male. One female. Not too big. Not too small. Holding hands.

  Children in love, said Julie.

  In love? How do you know?

  I have an eye for love, she said, and there it is. A clear instance.

  Children, said the Dead Father. Whippersnappers.

  What is that? the children asked, pointing to the Dead Father.

  That is a Dead Father, Thomas told them.

  The children hugged each other tightly.

  He doesn’t look dead to us, said the girl.

  He is walking, said the boy. Or standing up, anyhow.

  He is dead only in a sense, Thomas said.

  The children kissed each other, on the lips.

  They don’t seem very impressed, said the Dead Father. Where is the awe?

  They are lost in each other, said Julie. Soaks up all available awe.

  Don’t seem old enough, Thomas said. How old are you? he asked.

  We are twenty, said the girl. I am ten and he is ten. Old enough. We are going to live together all our lives and love each other all our lives until we die. We know it. But don’t tell anyone because we’ll be beaten, if the knowledge becomes general.

  Aren’t they supposed to be throwing rocks at each other at this age? Thomas asked.

  Always magnificent exceptions, Julie said.

  We have cut our fingers with an X-Acto knife and mingled our bloods, the boy said.

  Two tiny forefingers with short crusty cuts exhibited.

  Did you sterilize the knife? I hope? Julie asked.

  We dangled it in the vodka bottle, said the girl, I judged that sufficient.

  That would do it, Thomas said.

  We will never be parted. I am Hilda and he is Lars. When he is eighteen he is going to refuse to do his military service and I am going to do something so I can be put in the same jail with him, I haven’t thought it up yet.

  Admirable, Julie said.

  We are together, said Hilda, and will always be. You are too old to know how it is.

  I am?

  You must be about twenty-six.

  Exactly.

  And he is even older, she said, indicating Thomas.

  Considerably, Thomas admitted.

  And he, she pointed to the Dead Father, must be, I can’t imagine. Maybe a hundred.

  Wrong, the Dead Father said gaily. Wrong, but close. Even older than that, but also younger. Having it both ways is a thing I like.

  All this age fills up your heads, Hilda said. So you cannot remember what it was like, being a child. Probably you don’t even remember the fear. So much of the it. So little of you. The lunge under the blanket.

  There is still more of the it than there is of me, said Thomas. But one gets along reasonably well.

  Reasonably, said the girl, what a word.

  The children began caressing each other, with hands and cheeks and hair.

  Do we have to witness this? asked the Dead Father. This gross physicality?

  You are in a new world, Thomas said. Nine-year-olds are arrested for rape. This is not that. Be grateful.

  Dyscrasia, the Dead Father said, that is what I think of it. Pathological. I shall issue a ukase against it.

  Are you in school? Julie asked the children.

  Of course we are in school, Hilda said. Why does everyone always ask a child if he or she is in school? We are all in school. There is no way to excape.

  Do you want to excape?

  Didn’t you?

  What do you study in school?

  We are invigorated with the sweet sensuality of language. We learn to make sentences. Come to me. May I come to your house? Christmas comes but once a year. I’ll come to your question. The light comes and goes. Success comes to those who strive. Tuesday comes after Monday. Her aria comes in the third act. Toothpaste comes in a tube. Peaches come from trees and good results do not come from careless work. This comes of thoughtlessness. The baby came at dawn. She comes from Warsaw. He comes from a good family. It will come easy with a little practice. I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though—

  I think this child is a bit of a smart-ass, said the Dead Father. I shall cause her to be sent to a Special School and her rusty-mouthed companion there also.

  If you do that we shall leap into the reservoir, Lars said, together. And drown. I am going to tell you something utterly astounding, surprising, marvelous, miraculous, triumphant, astonishing, unheard of, singular, extraordinary, incredible, unforeseen, vast, tiny, rare, common, glaring, secret until today, brilliant and enviable; in short something unexampled in previous ages except for one single instance which is not really comparable; something we find impossible to believe in Paris (so how could anyone in Lyons believe it?), something which makes everyone exclaim aloud in amazement, something which causes the greatest joy to those who know of it, something, in short, which will make you doubt the evidence of your senses: We don’t care what you think.

  I am offended, said the Dead Father.

  I was quoting Mme de Sévigné, said the boy, except for the last part, which was mine.

  These children are tuned a little fine, the Dead Father said, a Special School is the answer.

  Is that the kind that looks like a zoo?

  There are cages, yes. But we have been experimenting with moats.

  No way, the children said.

  The children standing and washing each other with their active hands.

  I cannot bear to look longer, said Julie, let us proceed.

  These are odd children, Thomas said, but all children are odd children, rightly regarded.

  Shout of Thomas to the men: Resume, resume!

  Tightening of the cable.

  Small gifts to the children: a power mower, a Blendor.

  They will need them in their long lives together, Thomas explained.

  Goodbye! Goodbye! the children shouted. Don’t tell, please don’t tell, never tell, never tell, please!

  We won’t we won’t we won’t! they shouted back. The Dead Father did not shout.

  Children, he said. Without children I would not be the Father. No Fatherhood without childhood. I never wanted it, it was thrust upo
n me. Tribute of a sort but I could have done without, fathering then raising each one of the thousands and thousands and tens of thousands, the inflation of the little bundle to big bundle, period of years, and then making sure the big bundles if male wore their cap-and-bells, and if not observed the principle of jus primae noctis, the embarrassment of sending away those I didn’t want, the pain of sending away those I did want, out into the lifestream of the city, nevermore to warm my cold couch, and the management of the hussars, maintenance of public order, keeping the zip codes straight, keeping the fug out of the gutters, would have preferred remaining in my study comparing editions of Klinger, the first state, the second state, the third state, and so on, was there parting along the fold? and so on, water stain and so on, but this was not possible, all went forth and multiplied, and multiplied, and multiplied, and I had to Father, it was the natural order, thousands, tens of thousands, but I wanted to wonder if if if I put a wood pulp mat next to a 100 percent rag print would there be foxing and whether the rumblings of the underground would shake the chalk dust from my pastels or not. I never wanted it, it was thrust upon me. I wanted to worry about the action of the sun fading what I valued most, strong browns turning to pale browns if not vacant yellows, how to protect against, that sort of thing, but no, I had to devour them, hundreds, thousands, feefifofum, sometimes their shoes too, get a good mouthful of childleg and you find, between your teeth, the poisoned sneaker. Hair as well, millions of pounds of hair scarifying the gut over the years, why couldn’t they have just been thrown down wells, exposed on hillsides, accidentally electrocuted by model railroads? And the worst was their blue jeans, my meals course after course of improperly laundered blue jeans, T-shirts, saris, Thom McAns. I suppose I could have hired someone to peel them for me first.

  Believe me, the Dead Father said, I never wanted it, I wanted only the comfort of my armchair, the feel of a fine Fabriano paper, the cool anxiety about whether I had been cogged if if if with a restrike or not, whether some cunning fellow had steelfaced an old copperplate and run off the odd thousand extra impressions, whether a thing was by Master HL or Master HB or if if if if—

  He does go on, said Julie.

  And on and on and on, said Thomas. However he is bearing up remarkably well.

  He is bearing up remarkably well.

  I am bearing up remarkably well, said the Dead Father, because I have hope.

  Tell me, said Julie, did you ever want to paint or draw or etch? Yourself?

  It was not necessary, said the Dead Father, because I am the Father. All lines my lines. All figure and all ground mine, out of my head. All colors mine. You take my meaning.

  We had no choice, said Julie.

  3

  A halt. The men lay down the cable. The men regard Julie from a distance. The men standing about. Pemmican measured out in great dark whacks from the pemmican-whacking knife. Edmund lifts flask to lips. Thomas removes flask. Protest by Edmund. Reproof from Thomas. Julie gives Edmund a chaw of bhang. Gratitude of Edmund. Julie wipes Edmund’s forehead with white handkerchief. The cable relaxed in the road. The blue of the sky. Trees leant against. Bird stutter and the whisper of grasses. The Dead Father playing his guitar. Thomas performing leadership functions. Construction of the plan. Maps pored over and the sacred beans bounced in the pot. The yarrow sticks cast. The dice cup given a shake. Shoulder blade of a sheep roasted and the cracks in the bone read. Peas agitated in a sieve, The hatchet struck into a great stake and its quivers recorded. First-sprouting onion caught and its peels palpated. Portents totted up and divided by seven. Thomas falls to the ground in a swoon.

  Picking up of Thomas. The Dead Father pauses in mid-strum. Application of wet cloths to Thomas’s forebrain. He revives. Anxiety of the onlookers. What has been foretold? Whacks of pemmican poised over open mouths in anticipation of revelation, Thomas remains silent. Anger of the men. Thomas stares at shoes. Anger of the men. Edmund lifts flask to lips. Emma appears. Thomas is startled. Who is Emma? Emma sits down on a box. Julie regards Emma. Her stare met. Two stares contending. Emma fingering her brooch. Julie standing with hands pressed into thighs, atop skirt. Thomas fiddling with sword hilt. Silence of the troops. Golden hair of Emma. Pouty bosom of Emma. Merry eye of Emma. General consternation. The Dead Father lists his degrees. B.S.A., Bachelor of Science in Agriculture, to B.S.S.S., Bachelor of Science in Secretarial Studies. Evil look from Thomas to the Dead Father. Ferns cut and on a bed of ferns fresh trout newly wrest from the trout stream presented to Emma by kneeling-on-one-knee troopers. Emma pleased. Little hairs of pleasure rise on back of Emma’s neck. Emma suggests cooking of trout (immediate) and produces from reticule a can of slivered almonds. The men build a fire, all pemmican forgot. More trout persuaded from trout stream, they are very eager. The sky grays as sun zips behind large cloud. Waning or demise of sun. The projector is set up for projection of the pornographic film. Thomas decides that the Dead Father is not allowed to view film, because of his age. Outrage of the Dead Father. Death of the guitar, whanged against a tree, in outrage. Guitar carcass added to the fire. Thomas adamant. The Dead Father raging. Emma regnant. Julie staring. Trout browning. Thomas walks to the edge. Regards the edge. Aspect of one about to hurtle over the. Thomas retreats from the edge. Slivered almonds distributed over various trouts browning in various skillets. Projector casts image upon screen (collapsible/portable). The Dead Father led away and chained to an engine block abandoned in a farther field. Revilings by the Dead Father. Damn your eyes, etc. Ignoring by Thomas. The film. Scenes of partying, men and women, the fourth guest, a woman, gets up and sits in the lap of the second guest, a woman, they begin fondling each other’s breasts. The ninth guest, a man, approaches the sixth guest (the one kneeling with her head between the legs of the fifth guest) and begins taking off her jeans. The ninth guest unbuckles the sixth guest’s belt, unzips the jeans, and works them down over her hips. The ninth guest carefully pulls down the sixth guest’s panties, which are orange, and sticks his erect thumb between her legs. Some members of the group watching screen, some watching Emma, some watching Emma/screen/Emma/ screen, some watching Emma/screen/Julie/screen/ Thomas.

  Beam of Emma touching every face and who knows? heart. Tilt of Emma-bust toward fire where it blushes in the firelight. Frown from Julie who is removing small bones from trout. Seating arrangements to be announced. Beam of Emma creating confusions, some return beam, some do not, some are sunk in film, some asprawl in each other’s arms for mutual solace and comfort, some creeping toward Emma’s box on hands and knees, when—

  Emma rises, stretches out hands. Receives her trout brown and toasty with its little flittered almonds in a tasty sauce, butter, herbs. Emma bites trout. Bite-hole in trout, U-shaped. Applause of the men. Banging together of hands. Thomas orders the film ceased. The film, he says, does not represent accurately the parameters of human love. Something missing, he says. Anger of the men. Thomas discourses for fifteen minutes upon the subject, his own (personal) love of pornography. Nevertheless this film, this film, he says, is turned off. The sixth guest begins to move slowly up and down upon the thumb of the ninth guest and the picture is white light. Anger of the men. Anger of the women. Whistles and stomps. Ranting of the Dead Father, from a farther field. Thomas walks again toward the edge.

  Absence of film. Restlessness of the men. The bolder come closer. Emma’s box upon which Emma’s fundament rests closely regarded. Attempt by the boldest to insinuate head under Emma’s skirts, there to witness who knows what. These unsuccessful, Emma’s dainty foot kicks. That will teach them. Chomping on trout continues the while, some sillybaby also chomped, with a dill sauce. That will teach them. Grumbling intermixed with shrieks. Emma rises, stretches. Then the duel, Alexander vs. Sam. Each pinks the other in the shoulder. Thomas bandaiding. Julie moves to Emma. Conversation.

  Whose little girl are you?

  I get by, I get by.

  Time to go.

  Hoping this will reach you at a favorable moment.
>
  Bad things can happen to people.

  Is that a threat?

  Dragged him all this distance without any rootytoottoot.

  Is that a threat?

  Take it any way you like it.

  Other fish to fry.

  We guarantee every effort will be made.

  Who’s the boss?

  One in the orange tights.

  He’s not bad-looking.

  That’s one opinion.

  Inclined to tarry for a bit.

  Pop one of these if you’d like a little lift.

  Thank you.

  Two is one too many.

  That’s your opinion.

  Since you have not as yet responded to my suggestion.

  Where are you taking him?