The Dead Father

by Donald Barthelme

  Is there another road? asked Thomas.

  None, said the Wend, that will get you where you are aiming. I take it you seek the Fleece.

  That is correct, said Thomas.

  We are not sure it exists, said the Wend.

  It exists, Thomas said. In a sense.

  I see, said the Wend. Well, if it exists, it lies on the other side of the country of the Wends.

  A problem, said Thomas.

  You could of course fight your way through, the Wend suggested.

  Thomas regarded the Wend army, in its thousands.

  This is just the Third Armored, the chief said, indicating his mailed and belted followers. The First Armored is way back over to the east. The Ninth Hoplites are over to the west. The Twenty-sixth Impi is in a blocking position, I can’t tell you where. These are just the border troops. They would be delighted, were you to decide to fight your way through.

  We are three-and-twenty, Thomas said. Counting Edmund.

  Your mothers are quite beautiful, said the chieftain. Those two there, the light one and the dark-haired one. Very lovely.

  They are not mothers, Thomas said.

  Probably they could learn very quickly, said the Wend, motherhood comes naturally to most.

  What if he were just a little more dead? Thomas asked, indicating the Dead Father. Would he then be transportable through the country of the Wends?

  Well of course if he were cut up and cooked, that would put quite a different face on the matter, the chieftain said. Then we could be sure.

  Further than I’m prepared to go, said Thomas.

  Meet you halfway, said the Wend, just boil him for a day and we’ll give you free passage.

  Not a pot big enough in the wide world, said Thomas. May I suggest this: We’ll whack off a leg and barbecue same as an earnest of good faith and token of guaranteed non-contaminaciousness.

  A leg? said the Wend.

  He pondered for a moment.

  That should be sufficient. But you’ll be closely watched, now. No hanky-panky.

  As closely as you like, said Thomas, but I can’t be held responsible for the stench.

  The chief Wend returned to his men. Thomas ordering wood gathered for the great fire.

  What’s this? asked the Dead Father. What now?

  A little tableau, said Thomas, you have the best part, lie down, close eyes, howl on cue, and stay stiff as a board after.

  Why? asked the Dead Father.

  Why me no whys, said Thomas, quickly, stretch out.

  The Dead Father lay down in the road, the whole great length of him.

  Anxiety of Emma, Julie, Edmund, Alexander, Sam.

  The men return with great bundles of firewood.

  Thomas drew his sword and approached the left leg, the leg mechanical, not human. He began to whack.

  11

  The road. The caravan. People taking pictures of the caravan with little pronghorn cameras. Flashes of light.

  My leg is black, said the Dead Father.

  But functioning, said Thomas, congratulate yourself.

  You carved me very neatly, said the Dead Father. I admit it.

  Oh it was a grand fire, said Thomas, very persuasive.

  The Wend country is bumpy to a fault, said the Dead Father. I am glad we are out of it.

  Jumble-gut lane, Thomas agreed.

  Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers, to be precise.

  Fatherhood as a substructure of the war of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that.

  I can speak to that, said Julie.

  Me too, said Emma, for I know nothing about it, and am thus presuppositionless.

  A state of grace, philosophically, the Dead Father observed.

  Julie began.

  The father is a motherfucker, she said.

  By definition, said Thomas.

  The vagina, she said, is not where it’s at.

  We agree, said Thomas, we’ve heard that.

  Moving north, one finds a little button.

  Nods of comprehension.

  Now it does no good to mash down on the button. It’s not an elevator button, it’s not a doorbell. The button should not be mashed down on. It should be—

  She stopped for a word.

  Celebrated, suggested Thomas.

  Titivated, suggested Emma.

  No mashing down! Julie said fiercely.

  Nods of accord.

  The phallus, she continued, is next to useless for the purpose. Rolling pins should never be employed. Streams of blue blood—

  What has this to do with fatherhood? asked the Dead Father.

  I talk about what I want to talk about, said Julie, this is a digression.

  Indeed.

  The fucked mother conceives, Julie said. The whelpling is, after agonies I shall not describe, whelped. Then the dialogue begins. The father speaks to it. The “it” in a paroxysm of not understanding. The “it” whirling as in a centrifuge. Looking for something to tie to. Like a boat in a storm. What is there? The father.

  Where is the mother? asked Emma.

  The mother hath not the postlike quality of the father. She is more like a grime.

  A grime?

  Overall presence distributed in discrete small black particles all over everything, said Julie.

  Post and grime, said the Dead Father. You do have a dismal view of things.

  Where did I learn it? For the mind of me to have formulated these formulations, must they not have a grounding in external reality? I am not just idly—

  Are you about to cry? asked the Dead Father.

  No, said Julie, I never cry. Except when I realize what I have done.

  Who speaks for the father? asked the Dead Father. Who in God’s name—

  The family unit produces zombies, psychotics, and warps, Thomas said. In excess of what is needed.

  Eighteen percent at the last census, Julie added.

  I am not saying that it is your fault, he said to the Dead Father.

  Edmund would be an example, Emma suggested. Though lovable.

  I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all.

  What is he doing now?

  Thomas looked up the road.

  Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flang three of them into the brush but he always produces another.

  Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers.

  Prefer not to, said Thomas.

  Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, that’s another thing.

  Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father.

  They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds.

  What is the cause? asked the Dead Father.

  Does he really want to hear the answer? asked Thomas. No. I don’t think so. If I were he, I would not want to hear the answer.

  They are boys because they don’t want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this society.

  Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they don’t want to be.

  This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.

  Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety.

  What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.

  The women object, she said. Violently.

  Emma was peering down the road.

  Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said.

  Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask.

  What’s in it? Julie asked.

  Thomas tilted the flask.

  Anisette, he said, or something sweet.

  And furthermore, Julie said to the Dead Father, it is unseemly. Ugly. Nasty-looking, would be a way of putting it.

  The Dead Father slipped his cable and stormed off down th
e road.

  He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood.

  No, said Thomas. He is not.

  Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds.

  Your sword, sir.

  My sword?

  Surrender your sword. Your maulsticker.

  You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again.

  The men watching. Julie and Emma watching.

  The sword, said Thomas.

  You are asking me to give up my sword?

  I am.

  Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means.

  I have. Long and hard.

  Must I?

  You must.

  The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.

  Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours!

  He gazed at Thomas.

  Thomas holding out his hand.

  He surrendered the sword.

  12

  The Dead Father plodding along, at the end of his cable. His long golden robes. His long gray hair to the shoulder. His broad and noble brow.

  Awfully calm, said Julie.

  Placid as a mailman, Thomas agreed, he is trying to be good.

  Harder for him than for thee or me, he’s not used to it.

  I was never good, until I attained my majority, Thomas said. And even then—

  I never bothered my pretty head about it, Julie said. Sometimes I did the right thing and sometimes I did the wrong thing. In difficult cases, I shut my eyes and leaped. A great deal of leaping.

  And yet in those instances that have feelings attached—

  I go against them, she said. My feelings. Method of the utmost trustworthiness, learned from the Carmelites.

  I follow my feelings, Thomas said, when I can find them.

  He’s been very quiet.

  Not a peep out of him these many miles.

  Has he perhaps twigged?

  Look on the bright side, Thomas said, and decide that he has not. It’s essential.

  A grimace from Julie.

  The world’s slow stain. Who said that? Preserved from the contagion of, I think, the world’s slow stain.

  I block on it if I ever knew, Thomas said.

  Julie bit off a chew of bhang.

  And the men, said Thomas. Some possibility of trouble there.

  Nonsense. The men will be adequately recompensed by the reds and blues and silver streaks we have introduced into the gray tusche of their lives. Don’t worry about the men. They are only men after all—a tractor could have done the job as well.

  The composition would have suffered, Thomas said. Think of it: Up there, the nineteen, the Old Incorrigibles, hauling upon the cable. The line of the cable itself, taut, angled, running from there to here. Finally, the object hauled: the Father, in his majesty. His grandeur. A tractor would have been très insipide.

  Chewing of bhang (noncommittal).

  Before attaining your majority, Thomas asked, what did you do?

  Schemed, mostly. Scheming away night and day, toward the achievement of ends. I woke up angry one morning and stayed angry for years—that was my adolescence. Anger and scheming. How to get out. How to get Lucius. How to get Mark. How to get away from Fred. How to seize power. That sort of thing. And a great deal of care-of-the-body. It was young. It was beautiful. It deserved care.

  Is beautiful, Thomas said. Is beautiful, beloved.

  Thank you, she said. There were many men, I don’t deny it, it was moths to the flame. I tried to love them. Damned difficult. Kept a harpoon gun in my tall window. Tracked them as they moved down the street, in their ridiculous dignity. I never fired although I could have, it was operable. Having them in my sights was enough. My finger on the trigger, always about to go off but never quite. Tension of the most exquisite sort.

  I thought it was an objet d’art, Thomas said.

  Julie smiled.

  Often, when I was young, last year, I walked out to the water. It spoke to me of myself. Images came to me, from the water. Pictures. Large green lawns. A great house with pillars, but the lawns so vast that the house can be seen only dimly, from where we are standing. I am wearing a long skirt to the ground, in the company of others. I am witty. They laugh. I am also wise. They ponder. Gestures of infinite grace. They appreciate. For the finale, I save a life. Leap into the water all clothed and grasping the drowner by the hair, or using the cross-chest carry, get the silly bastard to shore. Have to bash him once in the mush to end his wild panicked struggles. Drag him to the old weathered dock and there, he supine, I rampant, manage the resuscitation. Stand back, I say to the crowd, stand back. The dazed creature’s eyes open—no, they close again—no, they open again. Someone throws a blanket over my damp, glistening white, incredibly beautiful shoulders. I whip out my harmonica and give them two fast choruses of “Red Devil Rag.” Standing ovation. The triumph is complete.

  You left out Albert Schweitzer, Thomas said.

  Hard to patch him in, said Julie, but he is there.

  At that moment the Dead Father approached Thomas, holding a small box.

  A present, he said, for you.

  Thank you, said Thomas, what is it?

  Open it, said the Dead Father. Open the box.

  Thomas opened the box and found a knife.

  Thank you, he said, what is it for?

  Use it, said the Dead Father. Cut something. Cut something off.

  I spoke too soon, Thomas said, he is not reconciled.

  I will never be reconciled, the Dead Father said, never. When I am offended, I award punishment. Punishment is a thing I’m good at. I have some rather fine ones. For anyone who dares trifle. On the first day the trifler is well wrapped with strong cords and hung upside down from a flagpole at a height of twenty stories. On the second day the trifler is turned right side up and rehung from the same staff, so as to empty the blood from his head and prepare him for the third day. On the third day the trifler is unwrapped and waited upon by a licensed D.D.S. who extracts every other tooth from the top row and every other tooth from the bottom row, the extractions to be mismatching according to the blueprint supplied. On the fourth day the trifler is given hard things to eat. On the fifth day the trifler is comforted with soft fine garments and flagons and the attentions of lithesome women so as to make the shock of the sixth day the more severe. On the sixth day the trifler is confined alone in a small room with the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the seventh day the trifler is pricked with nettles. On the eighth the trifler is slid naked down a thousand-foot razor blade to the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the ninth day the trifler is sewn together by children. On the tenth day the trifler is confined alone in a small room with the works of Teilhard de Chardin and the music of Karlheinz Stockhausen. On the eleventh day the trifler’s stitches are removed by children wearing catcher’s mitts on their right and left hands. On the twelfth day—

  I apologize for saying you were perpetuating myths, Julie said to Thomas. I am beginning to come round to your opinion.

  13

  The mountain. The cathedral. The stone steps. Music. Looking down. The windows, apertures. Rows of seated people. The altars, lights, singing. Egg-shaped apertures like seats opening onto the void. The drop. The clouds. Slipping in the seat. Thomas slipping in the seat. Toward the void. Brace foot against edge. Lean back hooking shoulder around opening. Out strolling on the grounds. Flowers blue with a border of white. The Dead Father strolling. Julie strolling. Others strolling. Edmund strolling. The music, a Kyrie. The edge. The fall. Stone steps. Mandrills staring. Photographers and cooks. Thomas sitting in the sloping seat. Slipping toward the edge. Braces foot against the outer wall, which trembles. Hooks shoulder around inner wall and grasps with left hand. Out strolling. Julie speaking to the Dead Father. The Dead Father smiling. People sitting on stone benches. Processional. Under a canopy. Golden censers swinging left right left right. Tall old man in golden mitre. Acolytes. Rings with amethysts. The edge. Looking over the e
dge. Sheer walls. Clouds. Thomas slipping in the seat. Braces right foot against outer wall. A quilt or blanket slipping toward the edge. Shoulder hooked around inner wall. The wall trembling. The alcove shaped like an egg. Quilt slipping toward the edge. Singing. The mountain. A set of stone steps. The cathedral. Bronze doors intricately worked with scenes. Row of grenadiers in shakos. Kneeling. Interior of the egg. Painted brick, white, curving. Rug or quilt of blue and red slipping toward the edge. In the walls of the cathedral. Windows over the edge. Dies irae, dies illa. The Dead Father sitting in the cathedral gardens. Julie sitting at his feet. The Dead Father’s head thrown back against the wall. Julie sketching. Edmund standing near the edge. Edmund eating. People climbing the stone steps in pairs. Standing near the edge. Bronze doors opening. Confessionals in rows. Grenadiers. Acolytes two-by-two under the red canopy. Seminarians following, through the doors. Curving white-painted brick but a stone is loose, several. Pressure against the right edge, which trembles. Grasping the inner edge. Trying to wedge shoulder against the rear wall but the rug is sliding toward the edge. Erotic and religious experience. Thomas strolling about the gardens. The Dead Father’s head thrown back against walls of the cathedral. Julie sketching. Slipping. Sketching. Slipping.

  It is possible to fall here, Julie said.

  I feel it, said Thomas.

  Very possible to fall, she said, I get a falling feeling.

  Are you frightened, beloved? Thomas asked.

  He stuck his sword in the ground and put his arms around her.

  Arms around me, she said, that is what I like.

  Always arms to put around you, always and everywhere, said Thomas.

  Move up more under my breasts so that the bottoms of the breasts can rest upon the tops of the arms, said Julie.

  Not in front of me, said the Dead Father.

  The tops of the brown arms, said Julie.

  The whites of the bottoms of the breasts, said Thomas.

  They disengaged.

  Is that horseman still following? Emma asked.

  Still following, Thomas said. Still.

  Julie moved to Emma.

  Then your bed was taken away from you.

  Yes.

  A certain butcherliness not inappropriate.