Donald Barthelme - The Dead Father

It is the Dead Father.

That’s what I thought. That’s what I thought. About three thousand cubits, I’d estimate.

Thirty-two hundred.

How do you get him around bends in the road?

He is articulated.

No rigor mortis?

None.

Then he is not properly dead.

In a sense.

Has it both ways does he?

In this as in everything.

Is there an odor?

The odor of sanctimony, is all.

Excreta?

Monstrous of course.

Does he molest women?

Not exactly.

What does that mean, “not exactly”?

He tries but I restrain him.

How is that done?

Rap to the forebrain.

Does he converse and issue dicta?

Thomas did not answer.

Well, does he?

Nothing that cannot be enthusiastically ignored.

The Wend chieftain sat down in the middle of the road, cross-legged.

Tarry a bit, he said.

They sat. The nineteen. Emma. Julie. Thomas. The Dead Father.

Then the Wend army sat with a noise like land sliding.

Let me tell you about the Wends, the Wend said. We Wends are not like other people. We Wends are the fathers of ourselves.

You are?

Yes, said the Wend, that which all men have wished to be, from the very beginning, we are.

Amazing, said Thomas, how is that accomplished?

It is accomplished by being a Wend, the leader said. Wends have no wives, they have only mothers. Each Wend impregnates his own mother and thus fathers himself. We are all married to our mothers, in proper legal fashion.

Thomas was counting on his fingers.

You are skeptical, said the chief. That is because you are not a Wend.

The mechanics of the thing elude me, said Thomas.

Take my word for it, said the Wend, it is not more difficult than Christianity. The point is, we are not used to having flaming great fathers about to pick at and badger us. We haven’t the taste for it. In fact, we are violently prejudiced against it. Therefore this huge big carcass of yours is not something we care to have within our country, even briefly. Some of him might rub off.

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.

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.