Donald Barthelme: The Dead Father

The names of fathers: Fathers are named

Badgal

Balberith

Baldwin

Balthial

Basus

Bathor

Bat Qol

Bealphares

Beli

Bigtha

Binah

Biqu

Birch

Bird

Blaef

Blake

Bludon

Boamiel

Bob

Bodiel

Bualu

Buhair

Bull

Butator

Byleth

I knew a father named Yamos who was landlord of the bear gardens at Southwark. Yamos was known to be a principled man and never, never, never ate any of his children no matter how dire the state of his purse. Yet the children, one by one, disappeared.

We have seen that the key idea, in fatherhood, is “responsibility.” First, that heavy chunks of blue or gray sky do not fall down and crush our bodies, or that the solid earth does not turn into a yielding pit beneath us (although the tunneling father is sometimes responsible, in the wrong sense, for the latter). The responsibility of the father is chiefly that his child not die, that enough food is pushed into its face to sustain it, and that heavy blankets protect it from the chill, cutting air. The father almost always meets this responsibility with valor and steadfastness (except in the case of child abusers or thiefs of children or managers of child labor or sick, unholy sexual ghouls). The child lives, mostly, lives and grows into a healthy, normal adult. Good! The father has been successful in his burdensome, very often thankless, task, that of keeping the child breathing. Good work, Sam, your child has taken his place in the tribe, has a good job selling thermocouples, has married a nice girl whom you like, and has impregnated her to the point that she will doubtless have a new child, soon. And is not in jail. But have you noticed the slight curl at the end of Sam II’s mouth, when he looks at you? It means that he didn’t want you to name him Sam II, for one thing, and for two other things it means that he has a sawed-off in his left pant leg, and a baling hook in his right pant leg, and is ready to kill you with either one of them, given the opportunity. The father is taken aback. What he usually says, in such a confrontation, is “I changed your diapers for you, little snot.” This is not the right thing to say. First, it is not true (mothers change nine diapers out of ten), and second, it instantly reminds Sam II of what he is mad about. He is mad about being small when you were big, but no, that’s not it, he is mad about being helpless when you were powerful, but no, not that either, he is mad about being contingent when you were necessary, not quite it, he is insane because when he loved you, you didn’t notice.

The death of fathers: When a father dies, his fatherhood is returned to the All-Father, who is the sum of all dead fathers taken together. (This is not a definition of the All-Father, only an aspect of his being.) The fatherhood is returned to the All-Father, first because that is where it belongs and second in order that it may be denied to you. Transfers of power of this kind are marked with appropriate ceremonies; top hats are burned. Fatherless now, you must deal with the memory of a father. Often that memory is more potent than the living presence of a father, is an inner voice commanding, haranguing, yes-ing and no-ing — a binary code, yes no yes no yes no yes no, governing your every, your slightest movement, mental or physical. At what point do you become yourself? Never, wholly, you are always partly him. That privileged position in your inner ear is his last “perk” and no father has ever passed it by.

Similarly, jealousy is a useless passion because it is directed mostly at one’s peers, and that is the wrong direction. There is only one jealousy that is useful and important, the original jealousy.

Patricide: Patricide is a bad idea, first because it is contrary to law and custom and second because it proves, beyond a doubt, that the father’s every fluted accusation against you was correct: you are a thoroughly bad individual, a patricide! — member of a class of persons universally ill-regarded. It is all right to feel this hot emotion, but not to act upon it. And it is not necessary. It is not necessary to slay your father, time will slay him, that is a virtual certainty. Your true task lies elsewhere.

Your true task, as a son, is to reproduce every one of the enormities touched upon in this manual, but in attenuated form. You must become your father, but a paler, weaker version of him. The enormities go with the job, but close study will allow you to perform the job less well than it has previously been done, thus moving toward a golden age of decency, quiet, and calmed fevers. Your contribution will not be a small one, but “small” is one of the concepts that you should shoot for. If your father was a captain in Battery D, then content yourself with a corporalship in the same battery. Do not attend the annual reunions. Do not drink beer or sing songs at the reunions. Begin by whispering, in front of a mirror, for thirty minutes a day. Then tie your hands behind your back for thirty minutes a day, or get someone else to do this for you. Then, choose one of your most deeply held beliefs, such as the belief that your honors and awards have something to do with you, and abjure it. Friends will help you abjure it, and can be telephoned if you begin to backslide. You see the pattern, put it into practice. Fatherhood can be, if not conquered, at least “turned down” in this generation — by the combined efforts of all of us together.

Seems a little harsh, Julie said, when they had finished reading.

Yes it does seem a little harsh, said Thomas.

Or perhaps it’s not harsh enough?

It would depend on the experience of the individual making the judgment, as to whether it was judged to be too harsh or judged to be not harsh enough.

I hate relativists, she said, and threw the book into the fire.

The jolting of the road. The dust. The sweat. The ladies in conversation.

Break your thumbs for you.

That’s your option.

Take a walk.

Snowflakes, by echoes, by tumbleweed.

Right in the mouth with a four-by-four.

His basket bulging.

I know that.

Hunger for perfection indomitable spirit reminds me of Lord Baden-Powell at times.

I know that.

Was there a message?

Buzzing in the right ball.

Sometimes forgets and uses too many teeth.

Pop one of these. Make you feel better.

What is the motivation?

I was suspicious of him from the first.

At the launching of his now rapidly fading career.

And in the poorest houses nuts are roasted and sweet brans.

Tattering leather and balding blue velvet.

Where can a body get a bang around here?

Certain provocations the government couldn’t handle.

A long series of raptures and other spiritual experiences.

He was pleased.

Beside himself.

Something trembling in the balance.

Codpiece trimmed with the fur of silver monkeys.

He was pleased.

Feeling is what’s important.

A gesture was made.

You were his second wife?

Second or third he lied rather often.