Edmund would be an example, Emma suggested. Though lovable.
Emma was peering down the road.
The vagina, she said, is not where its at.
Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers.
What is he doing now?
Me too, said Emma, for I know nothing about it, and am thus presuppositionless.
Indeed.
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 --
Overall presence distributed in discrete small black particles all over everything, said Julie.
This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.
Does he really want to hear the answer? asked Thomas. No. I dont think so. If I were he, I would not want to hear the answer.
Now it does no good to mash down on the button. Its not an elevator button, its not a doorbell. The button should not be mashed down on. It should be --
Thomas tilted the flask.
The phallus, she continued, is next to useless for the purpose. Rolling pins should never be employed. Streams of blue blood --
What is the cause? asked the Dead Father.
You must.
I talk about what I want to talk about, said Julie, this is a digression.
The men watching. Julie and Emma watching.
Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, thats another thing.
What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me.
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.
No, said Thomas. He is not.
I can speak to that, said Julie.
Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they dont want to be.
A state of grace, philosophically, the Dead Father observed.
Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask.
Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flang three of them into the brush but he always produces another.
Fatherhood as a substructure of the war of all against all, said Thomas, we could discuss that.
Eighteen percent at the last census, Julie added.
She stopped for a word.
He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood.
Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said.
The Wend country is bumpy to a fault, said the Dead Father. I am glad we are out of it.
You are asking me to give up my sword?
Prefer not to, said Thomas.
Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours!
Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety.
Must I?
Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father.
You carved me very neatly, said the Dead Father. I admit it.
You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again.
Where is the mother? asked Emma.
By definition, said Thomas.
He gazed at Thomas.
Are you about to cry? asked the Dead Father.
Julie began.
Titivated, suggested Emma.
We agree, said Thomas, weve heard that.
Surrender your sword. Your maulsticker.
Those that are the fathers of themselves miss something, said the Dead Father. Fathers, to be precise.
Jumble-gut lane, Thomas agreed.
The father is a motherfucker, she said.
Nods of comprehension.
The sword, said Thomas.
They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds.
Oh it was agrand fire, said Thomas, very persuasive.
Moving north, one finds a little button.
Thomas looked up the road.
Your sword, sir.
Post andgrime, said the Dead Father. You do have a dismal view of things.
I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all.
The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.
But functioning, said Thomas, congratulate yourself.
He surrendered the sword.
What has this to do with fatherhood? asked the Dead Father.
My leg is black, said the Dead Father.
No mashing down! Julie said fiercely.
My sword?
I have. Long and hard.
The mother hath not the postlike quality of the father. She is more like a grime.
The road. The caravan. People taking pictures of the caravan with little pronghorn cameras. Flashes of light.
Nods of accord.
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 the road.
Thomas holding out his hand.
I am.
Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means.
No, said Julie, I never cry. Except when I realize what I have done.
Whats in it? Julie asked.
The family unit produces zombies, psychotics, and warps, Thomas said. In excess of what is needed.
The women object, she said. Violently.
They are boys because they dont want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this society.
I am not saying that it is your fault, he said to the Dead Father.
Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds.
Who speaks for the father? asked the Dead Father. Who in Gods name --
Celebrated, suggested Thomas.
Anisette, he said, or something sweet.
A grime?
