The Dead Father talking to Emma. Pink hazes of the early morning. Vegetation failures visible, blasted sumac, iris, phlox. Dim low hills beyond. The Dead Father in his golden robes. Emma in her green fatigue pants, green fatigue shirt.
Looking very beautiful this morning, the Dead Father said.
Oh am I, said Emma.
You are a very handsome woman, the Dead Father said.
No no, said Emma, just ordinary. Just an ordinary woman. Another among thousands.
Not at all, not at all. Now I have seen in my time many a one.
Yes, Emma said, I believe it.
Some stunning beauties. Some extraordinary ladies. I can distinguish I think between what is ordinary and what is not. You are sui generis one might say.
Hardly that, Emma said. Just another sand dollar on the beach.
No no no, said the Dead Father, really quite remarkable. The bosom, for example.
Yes, said Emma, there are some whove found it adequate.
Adequate! What a word. Why Ive not seen its like in twenty years.
Yes, said Emma, there are some whove found it passable.
I would compare it to that of the Aphrodite of Gyrene if you would take off your shirt so I could see it better.
No, said Emma, I do not think that would be right. You will have to content yourself with the rough approximation of the exterior. The shirt trick is Julies.
I remember a bosom, the Dead Father said. Might be a better bosom than your own. Might be a worse bosom than your own. Although they are all beautiful, bosoms, all beautiful, each in its own way, foolish to talk of "better" and "worse," its apples and oranges, really.
What bosom is that that you remember?
The lady was a lawyer. Appeared before me in a matter. I was presiding. Case had to do with a homosexual admiral whod been caught buggering a black gang. A whole black gang. Down there in the engine room midst the steam and grease. Some suggestion of coercion. Some suggestion of abuse of rank. And so on and so on. She was representing the admiral, in her robes. I noticed the robes. There is something very sensual about robes. I was transfixed, couldnt keep my eyes off her. There is a certain line, bosom under robe, I cant describe it. Makes one light-headed. She argued very capably, probably the most thoroughly researched brief Ive ever read. The governments case on the other hand very sloppily prepared. I found for her. Strictly on the merits. Merits piled on merits. Afterward, a brandy together in my chambers. She said I wasnt as bad as Id been painted. I said, Oh yes I was. We had a week together on the island of Ahura. The Bee and the Thistle, as I recall. Incomparable. Taught me a lot of law, she did, and I thought I knew it all. Claudia. Married a sky diver, as I recall. One of those people who fall out of airplanes and drop for thousands and thousands of feet waiting for the umbrella to open. Finally it didnt. A Wednesday, as I recall. I gave her a judgeship and she has twice been cited by the Bar Association for excellence beyond the believable. That was Claudia.
And the bosom? What has happened to it?
Growing in wisdom and beauty, still beating with the conviction that the world can be made equitable, I would suppose. One of my best appointments, in retrospect.
Fretfulness of Emma. Adjustment of shirt, etc. Pulling up of pants. Nervous play of fingers about the throat.
I am old, said the Dead Father, old, old, old. That is; why you dont want to show me what is under your shirt.
Thats not it, said Emma. Then she changed her mind.
That is it, she said.
What is wrong with me! the Dead Father shouted. You are making me feel like the Congress of Vienna!
Nonsense, said Emma, taking his hand. You are as good as you ever were. Or almost as good as you ever were.
Then come to bed with me, and I will whisper secrets in your ear. Powerful secrets.
Yes, Emma said, secrets, thats the second-best part, the secrets. The best part in my opinion is buying the furniture. Picking out the towels. The stainless steel. The rug. The potted plant. The bolster for the bedroom. The art object. The can opener.
Emma begins lachrymation (serious).
The can opener, she said, and the colander.
Why are you weeping? asked the Dead Father.
I was thinking about the salads, she said through her tears. Salad after salad. I am wonderful with salads.
Dont cry, please.
I am so good with salads, she said.
I am sure you are.
Only virgin imported fresh Italian olive oil. Sliced mushrooms and organic or uninstitutionalized tomatoes, from a little place I know. And fronds, fronds of this and fronds of that. Coke, or snow some people call it, sprinkled on top along with salt, pepper, parsley, prepared mustard --
Come to bed, dear salad-head. Come to bed with me.
No I wont, said Emma. Pardon me for saying it but you are, you are, you are too old.
The Dead Father fell down on the ground and began chewing the dirt of the road.
Dont do that, dear friend, said Emma, plucking at his shoulder blades. It doesnt help.