Thomas opened the box and found a knife.
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.
Has he perhaps twigged?
I go against them, she said. My feelings. Method of the utmost trustworthiness, learned from the Carmelites.
A present, he said, for you.
I follow my feelings, Thomas said, when I can find them.
Harder for him than for thee or me, hes not used to it.
A grimace from Julie.
Julie smiled.
I was never good, until I attained my majority, Thomas said. And even then --
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. Dont worry about the men. They are only men after all -- a tractor could have done the job as well.
Hes been very quiet.
Julie bit off a chew of bhang.
Before attaining your majority, Thomas asked, what did you do?
Awfully calm, said Julie.
Placid as a mailman, Thomas agreed, he is trying to be good.
Open it, said the Dead Father. Open the box.
Not a peep out of him these many miles.
I thought it was an objet dart, Thomas said.
The worlds slow stain. Who said that? Preserved from the contagion of, I think, the worlds slow stain.
You left out Albert Schweitzer, Thomas said.
Is beautiful, Thomas said. Is beautiful, beloved.
I block on it if I ever knew, Thomas said.
Thank you, she said. There were many men, I dont 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 apologize for saying you were perpetuating myths, Julie said to Thomas. I am beginning to come round to your opinion.
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 the men, said Thomas. Some possibility of trouble there.
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.
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 creatures 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.
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.
Use it, said the Dead Father. Cut something. Cut something off.
I will never be reconciled, the Dead Father said, never. When I am offended, I award punishment. Punishment is a thing Im 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 tothe 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 triflers stitches are removed by children wearing catchers mitts on their right and left hands. On the twelfth day --
And yet in those instances that have feelings attached --
Thank you, he said, what is it for?
Hard to patch him in, said Julie, but he is there.
I spoke too soon, Thomas said, he is not reconciled.
Thank you, said Thomas, what is it?
At that moment theDead Father approached Thomas, holding a small box.
Chewing of bhang (noncommittal).
Look on the bright side, Thomas said, and decide that he has not. Its essential.
