Chapter 13 11

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 its 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. Its not an elevator button, its 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 centrifugal. 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 Gods 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. Edmund would be an example, Emma suggested. Though lovable. I think not, said Thomas, he is an alkie, is all. What is he doing now? Thomas looked up the road. Sucking on his flask, he said, I have flange three of them into the brush but he always produces another. Conduct a shakedown, suggested the Dead Father. Stand by your bunks and open your footlockers. Prefer not to, said Thomas.

Fifty-year-old boys, Julie said, thats another thing. Are you blaming me? asked the Dead Father. They exist, said Julie, grinning in their business suits and knickers. And Keds. What is the cause? asked the Dead Father. 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. They are boys because they don't want to be old farts, said Julie. The old fart is not cherished in this society. Or old poop, said Thomas, that is another thing they don't want to be. This language is not very flattering, said the Dead Father. To a man of a certain age.

Stumbling from the stage is anathema to them, said Julie, they want to be nuzzling new women when they are ninety. What is wrong with that? asked the Dead Father. Seems perfectly reasonable to me. The women object, she said. Violently. Emma was peering down the road. Edmund has fallen flat on his mush in the roadway, she said. Thomas trotted to the place where the others were picking Edmund up. He returned holding a silver flask. What's in it? Julie asked. Thomas tilted the flask. Anisette, he said, or something sweet. 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. He is going to do it again, said Emma. Paint the floor red with blood. No, said Thomas. He is not. Thomas caught the Dead Father in two bounds. Your sword, sir. My sword? Surrender your sword. Your maulsticker. You were being castigatorious, said the Dead Father. Again. The men watching. Julie and Emma watching. The sword, said Thomas. You are asking me to give up my sword? I am. Then I shall be swordless. Think what that means. I have. Long and hard. Must I? You must. The Dead Father unsheathed his sword and gazed at it.

Old Stream-of-Anguish! Companion of my finest hours! He gazed at Thomas. Thomas holding out his hand. He surrendered the sword.