Barracuda

  ‘I hope Jo and Spiro like Asian food,’ she said. ‘I can’t find a bloody wok in the house.’

  It wasn’t that the food was Asian that was a problem for Joanna and Spiro, it was that it contained meat. They arrived back in the mid-afternoon, just as Dan and his mother were getting ready to go back to hospital.

  ‘Jo,’ Dan’s mother said cheerfully, ‘I’ve cooked us a meal, it’s in the saucepan. We can heat it up tonight.’

  Biting the corner of her bottom lip, Joanna said something in Greek.

  Dan’s mother’s face fell. ‘Oh,’ she said simply, ‘I forgot.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Joanna scratched her ear, obviously embarrassed. ‘It’s our Easter next week and Spiro and I are fasting: we can’t have meat.’

  Dan looked at his mother. ‘Is that some kind of weird Jehovah’s Witness thing?’

  Spiro burst out laughing. ‘No, mate, no! It’s an Orthodox thing—your cousin and I are both Orthodox and our Easter is next week, not this one.’

  ‘Right.’ Dan marched to the stove, scooped the food onto two plates, and sat at the table, beckoning his mother over. ‘We’re eating,’ he announced. ‘I haven’t had lunch, I’m famished.’

  He tore into the food, relishing every bite, every explosion of spice in his mouth. He chewed slowly, extracting every possible flavour and pleasure from it. He ate with a gusto and loyalty that declared him his mother’s son.

  It was just Dan and his mum in the hospital room—himself and his mother and his dying grandmother. His mother hadn’t sat down; she was standing at the head of the bed, holding the old woman’s limp, bird-boned hand.

  Dan sat on the chair, flicking through a Woman’s Day, faces he didn’t recognise, faces that didn’t exist when there was no television. At one point a nurse came in, wheeling a steel trolley, all good cheer. In a mellifluous Pacific accent she asked if Antonia was OK as she stripped back the sheet and carefully disengaged and emptied the catheter bag. ‘Does Antonia need anything?’ she asked. Antonia was a vegetable, Dan thought spitefully, Antonia was just a lump of meat. But he smiled at the nurse, watching her buttocks swing beneath the thick white fabric of her uniform as she wheeled the trolley back out of the room.

  Sometimes his mother would say something in her first language. It did sound like an old language, Dan thought, it sounded much more ancient than English.

  At eight o’clock he was roused by a cough. The nurse had popped her head around the door to say apologetically that visiting hours were over. Dan leapt to his feet but his mother wouldn’t move, wouldn’t let go of his grandmother’s hand. The nurse came up to her and gently patted her arm. ‘Time to go, sweetheart,’ she said softly. ‘You can see her tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, God, I don’t want to go back to Jo and Spiro’s. I don’t want to see any of my frigging family, even the good ones. I just want to be with you.’ His mother had the key in the ignition, her hand was on the handbrake.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ he said.

  Dan knew what his mother wanted. Her need was flowing through her blood, and her blood and her need were flowing through him. They both wanted the same thing.

  ‘Do you want to go for a drink?’

  It began as a small curl at the edge of her lips, then a crease, a wrinkle, that reached her shining eyes; the smile flooded across his mother’s face and found its way to his.

  ‘I reckon Spiro really wanted some of that stir-fry.’

  His mother collapsed into giggles. ‘Poor guy, he’s a bit of a doormat, isn’t he? That’s the problem—Greek men either have to go completely macho on their wives or they’re pussy-whipped. Whatever you do, Danny, don’t get involved with a Greek woman. They’re bitches.’

  Dan was looking at an older man sitting at the bar, short spiky hair bleached by the sun, brown weathered skin, and a farmer’s tan that finished at the neck and sleeves. He was scowling, but not at anyone or anything. He was drunk already, thought Dan, a few more drinks and he’d be looking for a fight. He was nothing like Dennis—he was short, unfit, with a paunch and flabby arms—but something about the way he was sitting, the way he was looking out into the distance, reminded Dan of his cousin.

  His mother stirred her gin and tonic with the straw. ‘I can’t bear another night in this city,’ she said. ‘It’s so oppressive.’

  Dan was drinking a vodka and tonic. It was odourless, but also tasteless: a concentrate of lemon pulp had settled at the bottom of the glass. He’d hardly sipped from it. His mother had nearly finished hers.

  ‘Driving here I was convinced that I was going to stay until she died, that I was going to show her, show them all, that I was a good daughter. I was going to tell you to take the car and drive back to Melbourne, leave me here to look after her. I was going to stay until she died.’ She made a gesture of frustration. ‘But I don’t want to do that anymore. I want to go home, I want to be in my own house, I want to kiss and make love to your father, I want to hug Theo, I want to put on old records and put on make-up and dress up and dance to great music and I want to laugh. I want to dance and laugh and fuck.’

  She shook her head. ‘There was never music in my parents’ house, there was no laughter. No wonder I wanted to run away first chance I got. No fucking wonder.’

  It was her third gin and tonic. She was getting morose, thought Dan.

  But the next moment, she brightened. ‘I still remember the first night I ever danced. There was a girl at the salon where I was an apprentice, she was a dancer—every Friday night she’d take a dance class in a little studio on Rundle Mall. She kept inviting me and I kept declining, but then this one afternoon after work, I said I’d go.’ His mother was tapping the table. ‘Now what was her name?’ She banged her glass hard on the table. ‘Renee! That’s right, her name was Renee. Well, she took me dancing and it was the most wonderful thing I’d ever experienced. The music, the steps, the dresses, the joy on people’s faces—I had never witnessed such joy. I danced there that Friday and I went the Friday after and the Friday after that. My father followed me that third Friday and dragged me home, literally pulling me by the hair all the way through the city and across the park to Mile End. And he hit me and we had the most massive fight and I told them then that I was never going back to a meeting, I was never ever going back witnessing. I told them that God wasn’t in their stern bloody Kingdom Hall, I said that God was in music and in dancing. I told them I didn’t believe in their God anymore. They threw me out that night. I left with one small suitcase and a pair of boots under my arms.’

  The memory made her falter, and melancholy returned to her face. ‘The funny thing is that it was what my father always used to say to me: “You Aussie kids don’t know how lucky you are. Look at what you have, all you have. Me, me, I came to this country with a suitcase and pair of shoes in my hands. That’s all.”’ Her eyes were wet as she turned her gaze to Dan. ‘Well, fuck him. I know what that’s like. I learned exactly what that’s like.’

  Dan rubbed at his face, almost scratching at it. He couldn’t quite understand what his mother was saying, thought he must be missing something. ‘And they never wanted to see you again? Just because you didn’t believe in God?’

  His mother sighed. ‘Maybe that was an excuse, maybe they were already looking for a reason to chuck me out. Your dad thinks that was what happened, reckons I must have been too loud-mouthed for them, too opinionated, too independent. I was already challenging their stupid rules. By the time I met your dad I was a couple of years out of home and working in that pub in Broken Hill. I had toughened up, mate, I had to.’

  His mum looked around the pub, as if she’d only just realised there were others around them, that other lives were being lived. ‘Your father doesn’t get religious faith. He doesn’t understand it. My old man, my mum, I can call them lots and lots of things, but hypocrites about their faith they weren’t. Nah, they truly believed I was banished from them.’

  She finished her drink and look
ed wistfully at the empty glass. ‘One more? Is that OK?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get it,’ he said. He went to the bar and ordered her another gin but also got her a big glass of water.

  His mother unleashed a further torrent of words as soon as he sat down. ‘What I hate is, it’s like I still want to prove to them all that I am a good person—that I’m not evil. That was what the fantasy of staying by her bedside till she died was all about. It wasn’t about her, it was about proving something to Bettina and to my dickhead brothers. But what for? They can’t forgive me, they have to be right with God. And why should I care? I know my kids are beautiful, I know my husband is wonderful, I know, I know my life is good. What do I want to prove?’

  And Dan suddenly understood: They know I’ve been in gaol, they know what I did. That’s why she wanted me here—not Regan or Theo—to prove to them that I am a good person, to show them that I am not evil.

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what they think. They’re not my family.’

  His mother shrank away and he regretted the severity of his words. He hadn’t meant to be that harsh, he just wanted her to know that, in this alien town, all that mattered was her and him, none of the others. Words, he thought, they betray you. Again, he thought about Dennis, how the mangled sounds, the agonised syllables, didn’t matter. Dennis said what he meant, he had to—it took too much energy to talk in circles. Dennis was direct.

  ‘Mum,’ he said, grabbing his mobile, ‘I’m just off to the loo.’

  He texted Dennis: Mum and I are at the Torrens Arms. You want to join us? He sent it off, waited. Dan thought there was no way Dennis could join them: his mother treated him like a baby, she wouldn’t let him out. How would he get there? Was he even allowed to drink? Just as he pushed open the toilet door he felt the phone throb in his pocket.

  ‘Dennis is joining us,’ he said, as he slid into the booth.

  ‘Really?’ Then, suspiciously: ‘On his own?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Good, he’s a nice kid.’

  He’s a man. He’s an adult. ‘He’s my age, isn’t he?’

  ‘Two years older,’ his mother answered. She looked around the pub, at the despondent man at the bar, at the bored waitress tapping her cigarette packet in her apron pocket, at the three burly red-faced men shouting and joking in a corner, their table a forest of empty glasses. She screwed up her nose, as if she found it all distasteful. ‘I didn’t even know he was born until much later. After I had you. I rang home to tell them that they had a grandchild. I got my old man. You know what he said? He said I already have a grandson, I don’t want yours. I have Bettina’s son, I have Dionysus.’

  Then she surprised him by throwing back her head and cackling and convulsing with laughter. ‘God, he was a tough old bastard,’ she said as she wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘You got to hand it to him—the last of the old patriarchs.’ She raised her glass. ‘Let’s drink to that. Let’s drink to the passing of the old guard. We’ll never see the like of pricks like him again.’

  She sculled the drink, slammed the glass on the table, swaying as she rose from her chair. ‘If Dennis is coming, we should get another.’

  Dan grabbed her hand and pointed to the glass of water. ‘First, drink that,’ he ordered.

  He could tell that she was surprised, but she sat back down and obediently drank from the glass.

  ‘What did giagia say, when you told her about me?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to her, the old prick wouldn’t let me. But a few weeks later I got this card, some stupid cheap Hallmark card of a stork with a blue balloon in its mouth. There wasn’t even a note in it—she hardly had any schooling, I know that, but not even my name—just this dumb card with fifty dollars inside it.’ She cheekily pointed at him. ‘It kept you in nappies for a month. That’s my mother, that’s what she was like.’ Then she gently corrected herself, ‘What she is like.’

  The shrivelled carcass, the mask-like face, the empty eyes. He had no sense of who this woman had been. Just the meat of her dying body and the shade of her in his memory, a ghost already, overshadowed by the untamed life force of her husband.

  ‘What was she like, Mum?’

  He didn’t think she would answer. Time passed as though his mother had disappeared deep inside herself, had forgotten he was there.

  ‘Frightened,’ she finally said. ‘She was scared, always scared. She was always running after us, telling us to be quiet, to not upset the old man. She didn’t have any courage.’ Her tone was matter-of-fact. He was taken aback by how unaffected she sounded. ‘She was a scared mother hen, that’s my image of her. I never saw her smile at home, only when we were witnessing. She used to love that, getting up on Sunday mornings, putting on our witnessing clothes, taking me along to speak for her. That’s the only time I saw her happy.’

  Dan wanted more. None of this filled in the gaps, added blood and life and motion to the meat and bone and skin lying on that hospital bed.

  ‘You know,’ he ventured, ‘maybe she was braver than you think. She migrated, didn’t she? I mean, you know, she took that risk.’

  His mother had started shaking her head before he’d even finished. ‘No, Danny. Not even then. Her brother, my theo Arthur, sponsored her to come out. They had no money to marry her off in Greece so he brought her out here. Even that wasn’t a choice.’

  Her voice became animated. ‘It’s that passivity I can’t stand—it was her passivity that made me angrier at her than I ever was with Dad. Fuck!’

  Her outburst startled Dan.

  ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. It was a wasted life, Danny. She just wasted her life in fear.’

  Forgive her, thought Dan, just go to her bed tomorrow and whisper it to her. He imagined forgiveness was like flying, that it made you soar. He imagined that it looked like an eagle, a silver bolt in the sky, that it was pure light.

  ‘Mate, I’ve made a decision.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he reminded her. ‘You might not be in the best state for decisions.’

  But his mother dismissed him with a wave of her hand. ‘No, I’m bloody well not. Listen. We’re going to head off tomorrow, go back to Melbourne. And I’m going to drop you off at home—I really want to see your place, baby, it’s not right that I don’t know your place.’ She was slurring her words but her tone was calm, measured. ‘And then I’m going to go home, to be with your dad and with Theo. And after I tell them both how much I love them I am going to take my box of music and drive up the coast to see my daughter. I shouldn’t be here, Danny, I should be with Regan, I should find out how she is, what she needs to say to me—the good and the bad. I don’t know what she wants, what she wants to do with her life. I don’t know who she is. I should know that, I should, I should.’

  What do I want to do with my life? He had been fleeing from that question. He hadn’t gone up north, he hadn’t left Melbourne, but he’d been running from that question nonetheless. What could he do? What was he good for?

  He took his mother’s hand. ‘Sounds like a fucking good plan.’

  His mother was looking over his shoulder; she slipped her hand out of his and waved.

  Dennis was standing by the entrance. Dan had imagined he’d be in his usual Acca Dacca t-shirt, trackpants and sneakers. But his cousin was wearing an ironed black shirt, dark jeans and shiny black loafers.

  Dennis smiled at them both and sat next to Dan.

  ‘My shout,’ said Dan’s mother. ‘What are you having, Dennis?’

  ‘A pot of beer.’

  Dan stopped himself from translating. His mother would work it out.

  ‘How’d you get here?’

  ‘My mum dropped me off.’

  Dan’s mother put her hands to her mouth. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Dennis, she wouldn’t like you coming to a pub.’

  ‘It’s OK, Thea Stephanie, I wanted to come, I told her I wanted to come.’

  Dan’s mother had only one more drink before he told her they were going to drive her home. Ev
erything was dark at Joanna and Spiro’s, everyone was asleep.

  ‘I’ll take Dennis home,’ Dan told his mother. ‘I won’t be long.’

  In the car he turned to his cousin. ‘Let’s go back to West Beach—you wanna do that?’

  Dennis nodded enthusiastically. Then, just as Dan was about to turn on the ignition, his cousin said, ‘Tell me something. Do you prefer Danny or Dan?’

  ‘Dan.’

  Dennis asking that question made him seem less like family and more like a friend.

  At West Beach, the waves thundered, the moon had disappeared behind dense cloud; the sea was all black and grey heaving shadow. They sat side by side, listening to the boom of the surf.

  ‘I miss girls,’ Dennis said suddenly, the words tumbling out to the rhythm of the waves crashing on the sand. ‘It’s been so long, so long since I had a fuck. I miss girls. I miss their kisses, their tits, the taste of their pussies.’ Dennis was looking up at the dome of the nocturnal sky, his thoughts seemingly far away, but Dan could sense the closeness between them; the communication felt like the warmest touch. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

  And Dan, thinking his heart would stop, announced to the ocean the way that Dennis called to the sky: ‘Yeah, mate, I do know. It’s been too long since I had a fuck too. But I miss guys, Dennis, I miss their balls, I miss their arms around me, I miss the feel of their cocks pressing against mine.’

  Even with the pounding of the sea, all was silence. They sat side by side, watching the surf recede and return.

  ‘Come on,’ said Dennis. ‘Let’s go for a swim.’

  Dan didn’t tell him that he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t swim. ‘No, I’ll watch you,’ and he watched Dennis strip to his jocks and go splashing into the waves.

  When Dennis came back up the beach, he used his singlet to dry his legs.

  ‘Come on,’ said Dan, ‘let’s get going.’

  Dennis was looking up at the stars, shaking his head. ‘I know a place in Richmond, I reckon it’s still there. Mostly girls but I hear they’ve always got a couple of guys working there if you’re into that.’