It was noon when we arrived at the cemetery.27 Still abandoned after the outbreak, it was unsupervised by any guard or caretaker, and we were the only visitors — the only graverobbers — there. Alone among the green hills and the orderly rows of headstones, I stood by with the shovel while Rachel, kneeling beside her father’s grave, pressed her ear to the plot of grass above him, as if auscultating the ground for his heartbeat. She was probably listening for a faint and muffled moaning, or for clawing sounds at the coffin lid. She knelt like that for many minutes, then many minutes more, and the whole cemetery seemed deathly quiet indeed as I loomed uselessly above her, the shovel propped against my right shoulder. Whether she heard anything there she didn’t say. What I heard was her breathing and my own. I was thinking, then, about how Rachel would react to the sight of her undead father. The sight of his white eyes. If he actually had reanimated, I wondered, and if she actually did end up hearing something; if she actually did insist on digging down and if she actually opened that coffin lid — would we see the same thing? Would Rachel see, with me, the awesome otherworldliness in those eyes? While she knelt there with her ear to the grass, I braced myself for anything, including the shock of a pale hand bursting out of the soil. Though what eventually ended up happening was just that Rachel stood up and stretched and suggested that we leave. She seemed disappointed, but then, she didn’t cry, and on the ride home she was even able to announce — as if weighing the other side of the thing — that by this point he was probably merely a skeleton anyway.
So that is where Rachel is coming from. That is where she is coming from when in the kitchen this morning she asks me what Matt plans to do once he finds Mr. Mazoch. That is where she is coming from when she asks me (not explicitly, but with the injured expression on her face, and with the expression, too, of all the wide-eyed owls on her tank top and all the eyelike polka-dots on her pants, which together stare me down like the members of a jury box) whether Mazoch plans to beat his father’s brains in with a baseball bat.
And how can I go about answering this question? Even if I knew for certain that Matt’s plan was to dispatch Mr. Mazoch, I could never explain this to Rachel, who helped care for her father in ways Matt probably never dreamed of caring for his, and who objected out of principle to her family’s decision to euthanize him, and who visits him regularly on an oneiric plane, and who worried about his comfort and wellbeing even into (un) death. How could I explain to her that a son might prefer a dead father to an undead father, that an undead father might weigh like a burden on a son’s conscience? How to convey the sense of filial duty that might be motivating Mazoch to put down, not his father, but the shell of his father, the corpse of a man who had been ready to die and who in all probability did not wish to return from death? To do so I would have to persuade her of the logic of ‘Mr. Mazoch is not Mr. Mazoch,’ ‘My father is not my father,’ this sense in which a hungry creature that has inherited only the body, the remembered itinerary, and the gait of a man (or, if you rather, a man from whom everything but his body, muscle memory, and gait have been pared away, and to whom a hunger has been added) is not the man himself. No need to invoke the Ship of Theseus here! Such an argument would mean nothing, or next to nothing, to Rachel, who will take her father where she can get him. Mr. Mazoch is barely there, consciousness-wise? He responds as an automaton to only the most basic stimuli? No matter. Her own father, laid out in his sickbed as a baby in its crib, could acknowledge only by the glaze in his eyes all the distractions that his family had set up in the room for him: Christmas lights, shiny garlands, balloons, flowers, a television set and a radio, countless other mobile-like devices intended to ward off his boredom. Mr. Mazoch is rotting as he moves? His entrails hang in strands from his stomach, and his eyeball dangles from its socket by an optic nerve? Trifles. Her own father appears in her dreams as a Frankenstein’s monster, patched imperfectly together from bloated corpses, with only half of his amassed body parts working properly at any given moment, and still she takes him where she can get him. Mr. Mazoch is capable only of inchoate moaning? So be it. For years the only phrases that her father was able to form through the pain of his tracheotomy tube were ‘You’re beautiful,’ ‘It hurts,’ and ‘I love you,’ and even in her dreams he’s occasionally afflicted with undead Tourette’s, involuntarily shouting obscenities in response to all of her questions about the afterlife. Did she not have to hide her tears as she was delivering one-sided goodbyes to her bedridden father, is she not now grateful for any dreams of a verbally incontinent father? On the contrary, she takes him where she can get him. Even Matt’s strongest justification for disgust — the fact that Mr. Mazoch feeds compulsively on the living — would cut no ice with Rachel. In the span of her adolescence her father went from eating spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar (with such gusto that a whiff of Jif on my breath still reminds her, powerfully, of him) to folding all foods directly into his stomach, with the indifference of a mussel. ‘Cannibalism?’ Rachel would say. ‘Pah! A father’s diet is not his child’s concern.’ No, Rachel would take her father where she could get him, even a rotting aphasic anthropophagous father, and she would be aggrieved and confused to hear that Mazoch feels any differently.28