Donald Barthelme: The Dead Father

They came then to a large gap in the earth surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people holding black umbrellas. Rain. The men laying down the cable.

This is it, said Thomas.

What is it? asked the Dead Father.

This.

This large excavation? asked the Dead Father.

Yes.

Julie looking away.

They straggled up the edge of the excavation.

Who has dug this great hole in the ground? asked the Dead Father. What is to be builded here?

Nothing, Thomas said.

How long it is, the Dead Father observed.

Long enough, said Thomas, I think.

The Dead Father looked again at the hole.

Oh, he said, I see.

And these, he asked, indicating the mourners, are they hired or volunteers?

Wished to pay their respects, said Thomas.

Great wreaths of every kind of flower standing about on stands.

No Fleece? asked the Dead Father.

Thomas looked at Julie.

She has it?

Julie lifted her skirt.

Quite golden, said the Dead Father. Quite ample. That’s it?

All there is, Julie said. Unfortunately. But this much. This where life lives. A pretty problem. As mine as yours. I’m sorry.

Quite golden, said the Dead Father. Quite ample.

He moved to touch it.

No, said Thomas.

No, said Julie.

I’m not even to touch it?

No.

After all this long and arduous and if I may say so rather ill-managed journey? Not to touch it? What am I to do?

You are to get into the hole, said Thomas.

Get in to the hole?

Lie down in the hole.

And then you’ll cover me up?

The bulldozers are just over the hill, Thomas said, waiting.

You’ll bury me alive?

You’re not alive, Thomas said, remember?

It’s a hard thing to remember, said the Dead Father. I don’t want to lie down in the hole.

Few do.

Rain falling on all of the bystanders. Emma with kerchief to eyes. Julie standing with hands hiking up skirt.

Just once to place my hand on it? asked the Dead Father. Last request?

Denied, said Thomas. Unseemly.

Julie moved to the Dead Father, restoring her clothes.

My dear, she said, my dearest, lie down in the hole. I’ll come and hold your hand.

Will it hurt?

Yes it will, she said, but I’ll come and hold your hand.

That’s all? said the Dead Father. That’s the end?

Yes, she said, but I’ll come and hold your hand.

That’s the best you can do?

Yes, she said, I never do less than the best I can do, I’ll come and hold your hand.

No more after this?

Don’t believe so, said Thomas, can I help you off with the loop?

Together they maneuvered the loop from the Dead Father’s torso.

I wasn’t really fooled, said the Dead Father. Not for a moment. I knew all along.

We knew you knew, said Thomas.

Of course I had hopes, said the Dead Father. Pale hopes.

We knew that too.

Did I do it well? asked the Dead Father.

Marvelously well, said Julie. Superbly. I will never see it done better.

Thank you, said the Dead Father. Thank you very much.

Thomas placed his hand on the Fleece, outside the skirt.

It is lovely, said the Dead Father. I am covered with admiration.

And soon, with good black earth, said Julie. Sad necessary —

Oh to be alive, the Dead Father said, for one moment more.

That we can arrange, said Thomas. Two, if you wish.

The Dead Father stretched his great length in the hole. Skittering of black earth upon the great carcass, from the edges.

I’m in it now, said the Dead Father, resonantly.

What a voice, said Julie, I wonder how he does it.

She knelt and clasped a hand.

Intolerable, Thomas said. Grand. I wonder how he does it.

I’m in the hole now, said the Dead Father.

Julie holding a hand.

One moment more! said the Dead Father.

Bulldozers.

Donald Barthelme published twelve books, including two novels and a prize-winning children’s book. He was a regular contributor to The New Yorker and divided his time between New York and Houston, where he taught creative writing at the University of Houston. His collection of short stories Overnight to Many Distant Cities is available from Penguin. In his career, he won a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Book Award, and a National Institute of Arts and Letters Award, among others. Mr. Barthelme died in July 1989.