Looking for Alibrandi

  I looked at Jacob Coote’s back, wishing John had come along sooner.

  I shook my head and shrugged apologetically.

  “I’ve already got a lift.”

  He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek softly and let go of my hand, walking away. I stood looking at him for a while before I noticed that Jacob Coote had walked away as well.

  “Hold on,” I yelled, trying to catch up.

  “You like him or something?”

  “He’s a very nice boy.”

  “Ah, come on. He’s the type of guy who goes to university and decides to be gay because it’s trendy.”

  “That’s not true,” I snapped back. “John Barton is very intelligent and he’s going to do law at university with me. He’s Robert Barton’s son, actually.”

  “Whoever he is when he’s at home,” he snapped sarcastically.

  “Can you stop being so rude? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?”

  “For your information, my mother is dead.”

  I stopped in embarrassment and shame, not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  He waved away the apology and allowed me to catch up, and we crossed George Street without using the traffic lights. Cars zoomed by us, beeping their horns. A carload of hoods screamed obscenities out the window and Jacob Coote waved at them.

  “My friends,” he explained.

  “Charming.”

  “What’s your name, by the way? I know it’s long and complicated.”

  I couldn’t believe it. He had thrown eggs at me, sat next to me at Martin Place and danced with me for seven songs and hadn’t even asked anyone my name.

  “Josephine Alibrandi.”

  “I’m Jacob Coote.”

  “Oh, is that who you are,” I said, feigning vagueness. “Which one is your car?”

  “Which one do you think is my car?”

  I folded my arms, trying to keep warm. Although the days were mostly still warm, the nights were cool and my dress had short sleeves.

  I surveyed the ten or so cars in front of us and then looked at him.

  “It’s the panel van, isn’t it,” I groaned. “Oh God, I knew you’d be the type to have one of those. My reputation is ruined.”

  “Wrong guess,” he said, stopping beside a motorbike and leaning on it.

  I shook my head while he slowly nodded.

  “Want to take a taxi? I’ll pay,” I volunteered, swallowing hard.

  He unlocked the case at the back and pulled out two helmets.

  “I am wearing a good velvet dress, thank you very much. It’s the best thing I own, so it’ll probably be a family heirloom one day. How could you suggest I sit on that bike with my family heirloom on?”

  “Velvet and bikes? You might start a trend.”

  “My mother will murder me.”

  “Your mother need never know. I’ll drop you off around the corner.”

  “She’ll find out, all right. Who do you think will identify me at the morgue?”

  “Get on the bike,” he said, pushing the helmet down on my head.

  “Turn around while I get on. It’s bad enough that the whole of George Street is going to get a glimpse of my undies.”

  “You’re denying me that honor?” he asked, wounded, as he turned around.

  I pulled up my dress and climbed onto the bike self-consciously.

  “Ready?”

  “Let me check my bag for ID. I don’t want to be named something as plain as Jane Doe in the hospital.”

  “You are one morbid chick,” he groaned, stepping on the bike to start it.

  I screamed. A long piercing scream in his ear from George Street to Broadway. Give or take about five traffic lights, that’s five minutes of screaming.

  As we sat at the lights on Broadway, waiting to turn into Glebe Point Road, I felt strange being so exposed. I mean, we were unprotected from all those weird people who walk around after midnight. Anyone could have just come up to us and knocked us out. I noticed the middle-aged couple in the car next to us staring. I tried to stretch my dress to my knees but was unsuccessful. Maybe they were saying things like “Thank God that’s not our daughter sitting on that bike.”

  A carload of guys pulled up behind us and honked their horns. I think I heard one call out, “Show us your legs,” among other things. My face burned with embarrassment. I just felt as if the whole world was watching me and I couldn’t hide behind a car window. I just knew in my heart that someone in a car around me knew my grandmother and this would get back to her via the Italian phone system.

  On St. John’s Road I came face to face with the gravel on the road as we took a tight corner, and it was only thirty seconds away from my street that I began to enjoy it. I tapped his shoulder and yelled for him to stop, trying to grab my glasses from around my mouth. My eyes smarted from the wind and my skin felt tight, not to mention my throat hurting from all the screaming.

  “It’s this street,” I croaked.

  “I’m sorry, I’m deaf. I can hardly hear you. A hysterical girl screamed in my ear and busted my eardrum,” he said, slowing down and touching his ears.

  I pulled up my dress again quickly, trying to get off before he turned around, but when I stood up after adjusting it around my knees, I knew he had seen every movement.

  “I’ll walk you.”

  I shrugged and handed him the helmet.

  He was quiet as we walked down the street. Almost in his own world, and I wondered what boys like Jacob Coote thought about.

  “How did your mother die?” I asked him quietly.

  “Cancer, about five years ago,” he said.

  “I’d die if my mother died.”

  He shook his head and looked at me almost gently.

  “You don’t die. You just . . . get really angry and then after you’re angry you hurt a lot and then the best thing is that one day you remember something she said or did and you laugh instead of crying.” He smiled at the thought.

  I shook my head. “I’d run, you know. It’s like when you’re really busy doing something and you don’t have time to think about things. Well, I’d run and run and run so I couldn’t think.”

  “And when you’d finished running you’d be thousands of miles away from people who love you and your problem would still be there except you’d have nobody to help you,” he said with a shrug.

  I tried not to think about my mother dying.

  “I’m really sorry, you know. For mentioning your mother the way I did,” I said as humbly as I could.

  “No big deal.”

  I stopped in front of the house and he looked at it, shaking his head.

  “We’re the same, you know. You’re middle class and I’m middle class, except you’re a middle-class snob who goes to an upper-class school.”

  “I am not a snob. My mother is a single parent and we don’t have a lot of money, but I’m on a scholarship with the school.”

  “So if it weren’t for the scholarship, you’d be at Cook High.” He shrugged. “Like me.”

  “I would be at a Catholic school still, thank you very much.”

  “Yeah, a middle-class Catholic school equivalent to Cook High.”

  “Well, yes I would, and I wouldn’t be ashamed of it either.”

  He looked at me and leaned forward and I knew his intentions, so I leaned back. But just looking at him made me want to lean forward.

  “Forget it,” he muttered, turning away. “Listen, you’re not my type, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Not as an insult or anything.”

  “No, of course not.”

  We looked at each other uncomfortably for a few more seconds before he gave a final shrug.

  “Got to go.”

  “Are you going to meet the others wherever they were going?” I asked curiously.

  He shrugged. “Naw. That red cordial they served tonight really did me in. It was too strong. Don’t want to be drinking and driving t
oo much.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Where do you live?”

  “Redfern.”

  “Redfern? Do you know that I’ve been in this country all my life and I’ve never spoken to an Aboriginal person.”

  He shrugged. “Come to Redfern. I’ll introduce you to a few. I don’t know much about Italians either.”

  “There’s not much to know except that they’re the best cooks, best lovers and a highly intelligent race,” I said seriously.

  He laughed and shook his head, and with a wave he turned to walk back to his motorcycle.

  Six

  MY SECOND ENCOUNTER with Michael Andretti happened today at my grandmother’s house. She had a family barbecue, and because it was hot we were able to go swimming in the pool.

  I spent the whole morning looking at him. He looked at Mama. Mama looked at me. Then he would look at me. I would look at Mama. She would look at him.

  In different circumstances, I’d be amused.

  I was in the water at one stage when Robert came from behind and shook my shoulders, pushing me down under the water. We struggled for a while until my grandmother told us to behave.

  While we were splashing water into each other’s faces I saw Mama go inside and two minutes later Michael Andretti followed. I pushed Robert down and managed to crawl out.

  “Jozzie, grow up,” Nonna Katia instructed.

  “Oh, great. He tries to drown me and I have to grow up,” I said, trying to wrestle the towel from her as she tried to dry me. Robert followed me out of the water and gave Nonna Katia a smacking kiss before running away. I watched her beam after him.

  “Don’t tell me. He’s a good boy,” I said, walking away.

  They were in the kitchen. I stood outside the door with the towel and then sat on the step. I felt guilty listening to the conversation, but personally I don’t know anyone who’d walk away if someone was discussing them.

  “What do you think I’ll do, Christina?” I heard him ask. “Fly into a rage and demand to see her? Do you think everyone wants a son or daughter? Do you think I’ll pretend that I wanted her from the beginning?”

  “I’ll think and pretend no such thing,” I heard her say frankly, before she turned on the tap.

  “I don’t want her,” he said flatly.

  I cringed and wanted to walk away then, but couldn’t.

  “I do not want to see her. I do not want to love her. I do not want a complication in my life, Christina. I’ve worked for fifteen years to get where I am, and I don’t want this in my life now,” he stated in a clear, no-nonsense tone.

  “Don’t you dare call my daughter a complication,” she said coldly. “Because we have nothing to do with you, Michael. It’s us who don’t want you complicating our lives, so stop implying that we’re out to ruin everything for you. Get married, Michael. Forget Josie and have other kids. Ten of them if that will make you happy. Forget everything that happened eighteen years ago but the fact that it was your choice.”

  I could hear the tremble in her voice. Not that it was so noticeable, but I know Mama’s normal voice so well that any change is noticeable. I stood up and looked in to see her holding a shaking hand to her head. He was rubbing his face as if to wipe away the problem. Somehow I knew I was the problem.

  “Just don’t come back here one day wanting to get to know your daughter, because you won’t be allowed,” she added quietly as I sat back down outside.

  “What does your mother know about this?” he said.

  I figured out that I was supposed to be the “this.” I had been called worse in my life, so I tried not to let it offend me.

  “She doesn’t know who Josie’s father is. Maybe I should tell her who you are, Michael. Then you’d really have something to be paranoid about.”

  I heard him sigh, and somehow I felt sorry for him.

  “What do you want from me, Christina?” he asked in a tired voice.

  “Nothing. All I can say is I’m glad that your family moved away, Michael. I’m glad you left me high and dry. I’m glad you were a coward, because if you hadn’t run I wouldn’t have a daughter today.”

  “So I’m a monster now?”

  “You’re the father of the person who is my life. You can’t possibly be a monster. I just pity you because you haven’t been able to share that.”

  “Do me a favor, Christina,” he said. “Don’t pity me. My life lacks nothing.”

  “Then go, Michael. Forget you ever spoke to me. Forget you ever saw her. You did it once. I’m sure you can do it again.”

  There was silence and then a sigh. I don’t know whose.

  “Do you need money?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I can set up a fund for her.”

  “I needed money eighteen years ago, Michael. Today I need nothing but peace of mind,” I heard her say in an angry tone.

  “It’s too late. Seventeen-year-olds don’t need fathers.”

  “Oh God, Michael. I’m thirty-four years old and I need a father. I can’t even begin to think of what my daughter needs.”

  I didn’t want to listen anymore. I walked back to the pool and sat on the side with my young cousin.

  Mama came out a few minutes later carrying a tray of coffee. He followed a few minutes later. That’s when I discovered the fourth member of our staring act.

  Nonna.

  I saw her look from Michael Andretti to Mama. Then she looked over at me. Her mouth was open in surprise and her eyes had narrowed, and at that moment I knew that she knew.

  Later, he went back inside.

  I don’t know what possessed me to walk in after him. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to him either. He had poured himself a glass of water and was walking around the living room, where he touched the photo frames perched on the cabinet.

  Nonna’s living room cabinet is cluttered with photos of the family, including ancient ones from Sicily. I can hardly remember posing for the half a million she has of me.

  He looked up at the tapestry on the wall and then over to the other side of the room where there was another cabinet of ornaments. He touched everything he passed, almost like one of those people who test for dust. He sat down on one of the black leather chairs and closed his eyes.

  His hair was cut extremely short and around the ears. I suspected that if I took after him in the hair department he would have to keep it that confined. My type of hair on a man would look chaotic, especially on a barrister. He had dimples, which really pisses me off because my mother has high cheekbones and I’ve inherited neither. But he wasn’t smiling; the dimples were part of a grimace.

  It was his build that impressed me most. Because he was stocky. Not round or anything. Just very sturdy and no taller than five foot ten. But he looked so strong and I actually pictured him picking me up as a child and that really got on my nerves, because I didn’t want to picture him in such an affectionate way.

  “My grandmother doesn’t like people in the living room when she’s having a barbecue outside.”

  He looked around in surprise and then nodded, standing up and moving toward the door. Intending to walk past me without a word.

  “Oh, get real,” I said scornfully.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Say something to me.”

  He stopped and gave me that tilted head look again. “What would you like me to say to you, Josie?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, confused. “Just something. But I don’t expect you to walk past me as if I don’t exist.”

  “I’ve spoken to your mother about this situation . . .”

  “Stop being polite. You’re making me puke. Be angry or be rude to me, but don’t be polite,” I said angrily.

  “Okay then, what do you want from me?” he asked, adopting my attitude of confusion.

  I shook my head and we both looked ridiculously confused.

  “I never thought meeting you would be this boring. I thought we’d put our Italian emotion into gear and scre
am the place down. I never expected indifference.”

  “I hate to tell you, Josie, but I wasn’t aware of your existence until very recently, so I haven’t had time to think about this.”

  “Firstly, my name is Josephine. Only people close to me call me Josie, and secondly, I’ve known about you for a lifetime, so I have had plenty of time to think about this.”

  “And what do you think about it, Josephine?”

  “I think you got off too easy. Nobody gets to yell at you and call you names or kick you out of the house. My grandmother thinks you’re the second coming of Christ. But if Robert or my uncle knew about you, they’d smash your head in for what you did to my mother. Maybe I should tell them all who you really are so you won’t be Mr. Wonderful anymore.”

  “And you? Are you going to smash my head in?”

  “Don’t you mock me. Don’t you dare make fun of the way I feel about my mother.”

  “I have no intention of making fun of the way you feel, Josephine. But what happened between your mother and me was a very sad situation eighteen years ago, and I think considering the circumstances things turned out pretty well.”

  “You should be a politician. They’re all full of crap too.”

  “I think we should both go outside before we say something we regret.”

  “You’re a liar,” I whispered angrily. “You said you haven’t a thing to say, but I reckon you’ve planned out everything you’ve said so far. You’re full of bullshit clichés.”

  “And I think you’re going too far.”

  “Who cares?” I shrugged. “I can go as far as I like with you and there is nothing you can do. I mean, are you going to act all fatherly and discipline me?”

  He was angry now. I could see it in his eyes and the way his mouth tightened.

  “Listen, I have the right to think this out clearly before I let you into my life.”

  “How dare you think that I want to be in your life! I don’t want you anywhere near us, especially my mother. If she cries in the next couple of weeks and I find out it’s because you’ve hurt her, you’re in big trouble.”

  “Okay,” he snapped back. “A promise. You keep out of my life, I keep out of yours.”

  “Let’s shake on it.”

  He had a hard handshake, yet very shaky, and I could see that he was upset and again I felt sorry for him. At that moment we were both being unrealistic, because I honestly wanted to see him again. But then again I didn’t.