The Best Australian Stories (45 page)

My ‘mother' would probably be jealous if I took the name of my therapist. There's another four years' ‘work' – my mother's jealousy – my twisted motives.

‘Or I could be like those trendy restaurants and call myself “No Name,”' I said. ‘Writer No-Name.'

‘Don't be silly about it,' my ‘mother' said, ‘that won't help.'

‘I suppose not,' I said soberly.

‘There's nothing much else to say,' my ‘mother' said. I heard a slight pause, I swear I heard her folding paper –
all done.

‘I will come and get my things, my school things and so on from my room. My Biggles and Worral books.'

I heard my ‘father' say off-phone, ‘Those are not really, legally that is,
his
things. We paid for them.'

‘Your father said that they are not really your things. Legally.'

What were they going to do with them? Sell them on the street? Give them to the incoming Cambodian family? Bring in a rubbish skip? I didn't want to know. And I didn't care, although the Biggles and Worral books were probably worth something.

I was beginning to have a feeling which didn't correspond with any feeling I'd had before in life. It was akin perhaps to the feeling after divorce, that relief and pleasant bewilderment when you step out of the courthouse into the sun, divorced, and find yourself not knowing which direction to turn as you stand there alone on the courthouse steps, avoiding your ex-wife's eyes, avoiding trying to pick her new boyfriend from among the huge bunch of former friends and well-wishers crowding around her clutching bunches of flowers and bottles of champagne. But it was not quite like that either, it had a trying-not-to-be-sucked-through-the-hole-in-the-plane-when-the-door-had-blown-out feeling.

‘Another thing,' my ‘mother' said, ‘your father said not to bother with birthday or Christmas cards. They are a waste of good forests anyhow.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘that makes sense.'

‘Bye now,' my ‘mother' said, adding, ‘at least I don't have to say those silly things like “I hope you're eating three square meals a day” or “Don't forget Gran's birthday” or “Don't forget to take a cardigan in case it turns cold.”'

I swear she sniggered. Had she ever meant any of that? Had she been an ironic mother all these years?

I heard my ‘father' off-phone say, ‘Ask him if he's rung Cohn yet.'

I said, ‘Bye.'

I let her hang up first but it gave me no satisfaction.

*

Although somewhat estranged from my ‘brothers' because, along with my ‘parents,' they detested my writing, I conference-called them and asked them if our ‘parents' had lost their marbles.

No, they didn't think so.

When I related the conversations I'd had and said that this turn of events sort of put me out in the cold, they said, almost in unison, ‘Way out in the cold.'

One said that he'd always thought of me as a ring-in.

The other said, ‘A martian, to be exact.'

I remembered then that I used to be proud when someone said, ‘When I look at your family I think you must have been left on the doorstep.' Now I felt differently about it, not that I ever wanted so much to be
in
the family. There were now natural justice issues.

There was then a finger-drumming silence. My ‘brothers' never really went in for a chat with me. Perhaps they were in on this with my ‘parents.'

‘I might take the name of my therapist,' I told them.

‘Whatever,' one said.

‘My therapist is Lorraine Bracco.'

‘Whatever you say.'

‘Whatever you want to believe,' the other one said.

‘At least that means no more putting up with you at Christmas,' the older one said.

‘And your dopey ideas on foreign policy,' the other one said.

I wished them and their families life joy and gently replaced the telephone, saying as I did, to myself, softly, experimentally, ‘
Lorraine Bracco
.'

*

I went to an agency called Peace of Mind Solutions. I asked if it were possible to run DNA tests to clear all this up or just to satisfy my own forensic curiosity.

They explained the technology and the legalities of the procedure and I returned with hair samples and my ‘parents'' combs and toothbrushes taken surreptitiously, my last use of the key to the ‘family' home. My ‘parents' would ponder and discuss the disappearance of these for many years, why of all things, it was these that I took for keepsakes. They would say to each other that I had always been strange. I left the key on the dining room table and after several attempts decided not to write a note. I took nothing from my childhood room, respecting their view that the possessions – the furniture for example – were technically not mine although it crossed my mind that my fencing trophies were legally disputable. They would probably argue in court about the lessons, the foils, the gloves, the mask, the glove grip-powder, and who paid for them and transport to and from venues.

The tests came back positive: my ‘parents' were lying. I was
their
biological child. Not that it would make much difference, my ‘parents' would just null the tests.

And my ‘father' would say, this was all irrelevant, and ‘
that was that
.'

‘I hope that gives you peace of mind,' the receptionist said, without conviction, writing the receipt for the whopping fee and handing me the file and the toothbrushes and combs in plastic evidence-bags.

‘You wouldn't believe it if I told you,' I said, as I put away my wallet.

‘Oh yes I would,' she said, tiredly.

I held up the toothbrushes and combs. ‘May I throw these away here?' Without looking at me, she picked up the waste-paper bin and held it out. There were other combs and toothbrushes in the bin.

*

I came to the conclusion that my ‘parents' were putting on an act because they'd been influenced by the hundreds of ‘I traced my biological father/mother' stories. Maybe they just wanted to get into the fashion or, sadly, to add drama to the years of humdrum parenting. To be a ‘discovered' parent made you a celebrity in the way that being a run-of-the-mill everyday parent never could be. They had reversed the fashionable story – they wanted to be the Unreal Parents.

It must all connect somehow to myths about abandonment and the ‘lost child' and the ‘found child.' Why didn't my therapist talk about those sorts of things?

Parents Disown
. It was certainly a new form of celebrity from what I now realised – from dimly recalled biblical tales – was an old story.

My stronger conviction, though, was that they'd had enough of me and my writing and wanted to be well rid of me, the author–son, and my writing and that the ‘not my real parents' story they wanted was a way of concluding the relationship between them and my writing and at the same time, cashing in on the celebrity. Having it both ways. Or as they would say in their folksy imagery, ‘having a cake and eating it too.' Although my therapist would say that the Mother is always the central character, if she were ever to say anything.

Well, they and my ‘brothers' can just put up with the embarrassment they go through when they read what I write. Not being real parents or real brothers they are absolved from being held responsible or in anyway connected with it. ‘He's not really our son or brother,' they could now say.

In turn I could say in answer to questions at literary festivals, ‘I write under
that
name but my real name is
Lorraine Bracco
.'

Ain't No Ordinary Ham

Will Elliott

Never did find out what Jimmy saw in that meat – Jimmy's a weird one. All I know is, he barges in and shouts: ‘BORIS! We have just three days to eat this ham!'

Now, my name's Jake, not Boris, but Jimmy's never been too keen on details – they confuse him. You just gotta roll with the punches sometimes. Get this: he kicks open the door and staggers in with a giant knob of meat in his arms, holding it like a baby, oozing salty hamjuice down the front of his flannelette shirt and glistening pink, like he'd rubbed it all over with hair gel. He never said why we had three days – I guess he meant it was going stale. He lugs it to the kitchen and slams it down on the table with a grunt and looks at me with that look he gets when he's stirred, which can unsettle folks: kind of lets foamy spittle hang around his beard, lips peeled back, teeth bared like knuckles cocked ready for a fist fight. When he gets like that, you just gotta keep your cool and let him know you're on his team – but don't say it outright, you gotta
demonstrate
. ‘Where in hell'd you get that meat?' I said, sounding mighty impressed, which was a mistake: he might've thought I wanted it for myself. Sure enough, he gets all defensive and throws his arms around it – and don't get me wrong, it was a mighty lump, quivering pink on the table like jelly, smooching ham slime over the daily paper (I'm glad I've read the funnies already). He stands there like I meant the meat harm, which I did – we were gonna eat it, weren't we?

‘Hey, what's cooking Jimmy?' I says, backing up to show I didn't mean no harm.

‘Cooking?' he says, and looks all confused. Next he glances out the window and says, ‘Go lock the door.'

‘Why?' I says. ‘You steal that meat?'

‘Lock it!' he screams, so I shrug and lock the door, then drag the couch in front of it to kind of make the point he was yelling at me for no reason, then I put the small dresser on top of the couch. Jimmy missed the point. ‘Good,' he says, nodding all grave like. ‘Good thinking. I'll get the backdoor.' Like it was the most sensible idea in the world. Next thing he's bolting and chaining, wrapping a bike chain around the backdoor handle would you believe it, and looking for his hammer to board up the whole damn house. I watch all this, wondering what the hell? Sometimes Jimmy gets in these moods where it's best just to let him spit it up and throw things around, and you just hide in the cellar till he's done. You know what people are like. Next day, you forget all about it.

So I went to the kitchen while he's slamming stuff around and mumbling about security and took a look at the ham. I've never seen a lump of meat like it, big and round as a rolled-up sleeping-bag. I poked it and a moist spot went under my fingernail. Next thing I know, Jimmy's right behind me, snuck-up like, and I screamed.

‘What'd you say about the ham?' he whispered. A creepy whisper. ‘You touch it?'

‘Yeah I poked it one,' I said all calm like. Times like this, you gotta put his attention back on the ham. I says: ‘Look at it. This ain't no ordinary meat. Where'd you …' Oh no, that wasn't the right question to ask yet – not till he knew I was on his team. ‘Check it out,' I whispered, creepy like him, like it was hidden treasure or something. ‘This is
big
meat, Jimmy. Wonder what kind of pig this come off? More like a mammoth or … shit, I dunno, some kind of
sea
monster.'

Jimmy's eyes went shiny and beady as that rat we caught in the microwave. He didn't answer, just gave this half-sigh, half-grunt and ran a palm down the side of the ham, smearing finger trails in the grease. Wasn't so sure I wanted to eat it after that – I've seen Jimmy's personal hygiene habits and he doesn't have any. Supposed it'd be OK if we cut the edges off, like skinning an orange. Was about to suggest it when I heard Jimmy mumbling to himself, or maybe to the meat, I couldn't tell. His throat sounded hoarse and full of muck, almost like a man in a peep-show booth trying to talk himself into enjoying the show. And what he said? I swear, it's not how he normally talks: ‘Beats it by a fine line … just a little, one section with no jiggles, no spaces to crawl into, no … hand to hold … could smack it like a cheerleader's backside nonetheless … no charges pressed … she'd sing songs of love if I bought her the lips for it … stuff 'em in my pocket at the butcher … oh sweet glory …'

He wasn't blinking, was kind of panting through the lips and a funny thought hit me that he was comparing the meat to … nah, damn it, that made NO sense. He bought it to eat, not marry it, right? That's what he said when he came in, remembered it clear as day:
We
have just three days to eat this ham
. What changed his mind? Whoever heard of a man falling in love with a ham? Anyways, I backed outta there, not sure what to say. He looked like he wanted to be left alone with it, so I left him to it. Can't say I felt real comfortable with the whole business.

So, I went to bed with no dinner because I wasn't too hungry after that. Couldn't sleep well either, cause I could hear Jimmy sometimes shouting at the ham, and could hear the floorboards creaking out there, which made me wonder what the hell he was doing. Must've dropped off around twelve, but at one a weird smell woke me up. Jimmy was in the room with me, just sitting there looking out the window with this real sad look on his face. The moon lit him up like a Halloween pumpkin. I screamed, but he didn't flinch or blink or anything. He says, ‘You have to help me, Boris.'

Enough's enough, I reckoned. ‘Hey! I'm sleeping, you fuck.'

He says: ‘I can't stand her just … sitting there. Not moving. Not talking. It's taking me over, Boris. I need help.'

I wanted to clock him one, but there was a greasy shine over his face and beard, and I reckoned I knew why: he'd been rubbing his face against the slab, I'd bet my thumbs, and he smelled salty. I didn't want that slime on my knuckles, so I just shook my head. Seen Jimmy do some weird stuff in my time – once he got up on the roof and wouldn't come down for a week, kept screaming about earthquakes. He only came down when magpies started swooping him.

‘What you want me to do?' I says. ‘How'm I meant to help? You want to eat that damn meat or what? What's the story, Jim?'