The Origin of Me

by Bernard Gallate

  ‘He felt guilty?’

  ‘Ten years later, in the sixties, Johnny took his own life. My father turned to the bottle.’

  ‘Is that why your mother left?’

  ‘Among other things. My mother was a cabaret singer when they met. She was very beautiful and my father was insecure. He wouldn’t let her perform after they married – wouldn’t even let her drive the car. He was suspicious because of his own philandering. One night she confronted him and he hit her, then went out and drank himself into a stupor. She took his keys and we headed west out of town.’

  ‘Could she drive?’

  ‘Hardly. The police pulled her over on the outskirts for running red lights. She charmed them and they let her go with a warning. Driving away she said, “At least I didn’t get my hair set for nothing.” Strange, the things you remember. What most upset me was us leaving town without my bike. It was an orange bike, a dragster that my father had found dumped somewhere. At first I’d refused to ride it because it was a boy’s bike. So Dad attached plastic streamers to the handlebars and a little basket to the front.’

  Before I could speak, a girl’s voice came from the top of the stairs: ‘You won’t believe what I’ve just found!’ She appeared at the doorway – nineteen or twenty, with strawberry-blonde hair tied back from her pale freckled face with a green ribbon. The mechanical hen was in her arms.

  ‘Hello?’ she said to me, frowning.

  ‘April, this young man knew your grandfather.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She laid the hen on the table, and looked to Lana. ‘Isn’t she wonderful? Do you think I could keep her?’

  ‘I can’t imagine anyone else wanting it.’

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. Bert had wanted me to have the hen. ‘Say something!’ Homunculus said. I couldn’t because I knew it would have been obnoxious and insensitive to make a claim, even though I was probably Bert’s only friend in the world. Sure, it sounded like he was a bitter and mean old turd who’d done some truly heinous shit, but right near the end of his life I’d somehow managed to break through his hardened shell. Not from some altruistic motivation, I had to admit – I’d wanted that bike so badly, the bike that had once belonged to his daughter.

  Lana pushed on and told me the details of how Bert was found and I wished she hadn’t. A jogger running past the junkyard late Wednesday night had noticed an awful smell and contacted the police. Her clinical report of the grim discovery was too much to bear.

  Grief settled on my chest and dug its bony claws into my throat.

  I was about to excuse myself when April said, ‘Oh, I found this tied around the hen’s neck. No idea what it means.’ She handed her mother a small tag on a piece of string and Lana read it out.

  ‘Good egg for a good egg – Lincoln from up the hill.’

  Dad was mixing a pre-workout drink for a training session with Sergio when I walked into the kitchen with the mechanical chicken under my arm. ‘Good God!’ he said and turned off the blender. ‘Where did you get that thing?’

  ‘Bert gave it to me.’

  ‘Who’s Bert?’

  ‘The guy who sold us the bike.’

  ‘I thought I made it clear that you were never to visit him again?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘And here you are with another piece of his junk! He’s not a well man, Lincoln. I would even use the word “deranged”.’

  ‘I promise you that I’ll never see him again.’

  ‘You told me that before.’

  ‘Dad, he’s dead now.’

  ‘Oh, the poor old bugger,’ Dad said. ‘He really wasn’t well.’

  I gave a brief account of what had happened and then Dad tried to comfort me – at least I wasn’t close to Bert, etc., etc. I couldn’t tell him that his death was hitting me almost as hard as Pop’s.

  On Sunday I caught the bus to Signal Bay and, seeing a furniture rental truck parked outside our house, I knew that hoping for any form of sympathy from Mum would be like expecting honey from a hornet.

  When I walked into the living room I was confronted by a completely different interior. Mum was buzzing about with a stylist and a photographer, creating perfect pictures for property magazines and websites. Our furniture had gone to storage, replaced by a white leather lounge, coffee table, prints, plants and a massive fake flat screen – all rented by the stylist for the shoot and open house. There was no hint of the lives we’d lived there and I felt like a stranger in my own home.

  The photographer asked me to step out of frame.

  So I did. Then I walked back out the front door.

  Mum caught me outside and apologised for being preoccupied. I asked her why she hadn’t warned me before I came.

  ‘Your room hasn’t been touched,’ she said.

  ‘Everything else has gone.’

  ‘Imagine how difficult it’s been for me doing it alone. Getting emotional is a luxury I can’t afford right now.’

  ‘But why so fast?’

  ‘I need this one thing dealt with to clear some mental space for other issues. The outfall from Vienna’s accident has been an unmitigated PR disaster. The client expects compensation for her failure to appear, and Vienna’s management are now threatening to sue even though her teeth were restored. It’s a perfect shitstorm.’

  I knew that Mum, teetering on the brink, wouldn’t have been receptive to hearing news of the death of a stranger so I hugged her instead. ‘I have complete faith in you.’

  ‘That means the world to me. Why don’t you go and visit Venn now that she’s settled in? She’d love to see you.’

  I caught the bus to the North Curly flat. Venn and Jessie had ripped out the smelly carpet, painted the apricot walls white and hung new blinds. Jessie was out surfing. Venn made me a cup of tea and we went out to the sunny balconette. I told her about Bert’s death and thanked her for trying to help me save his home. ‘In the end, nothing could save him,’ I said. ‘We were too late.’ Venn scrunched up her face, which sent a tear rolling down my cheek. ‘He was the opposite of Pop Locke. Pretty mean to me at first,’ I said, ‘but I’m already missing him.’

  ‘You obviously shared a strong connection. Whether directly or through a million different lines and junctions, everybody’s connected somehow.’

  ‘True – Pop wasn’t our biological grandfather and it made no difference to me. But it does mean we can’t explore Dad’s side of the family. Which means I’ll never understand half of where I came from. There was something about Bert . . . He often seemed completely nutty, but he taught me things about myself that I can’t explain without sounding equally mad. One thing I know even more strongly now is that life runs out and all we have is the present.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking the same. Life’s too short to hold grudges. They turn into monuments that you can’t stop circling, like being trapped in your own museum of bitterness.’

  ‘That was legit poetic, sis. A perfect metaphor.’

  ‘I smashed my own museum of bitterness this morning, thanks in no small part to you. I called Dad and invited him over next weekend. He’ll be our first official dinner guest.’

  ‘That’s comforting to hear in my moment of gloom.’

  ‘Let’s try something out. Stay still and close your eyes,’ Venn said, as she stood and placed one hand on my chest and one between my shoulderblades.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Shh! I’m performing a solemn restoration.’

  Warmth radiated from both of Venn’s hands and built inside me until I felt almost hot and broke into a sweat. ‘I think it’s done.’ I’m not really sure exactly what the ritual achieved, but I know that Venn extending the olive branch to Dad somehow instantly brought the two of us to a much better place.

  Back home in the city tonight, I was confronted by a dilemma. Longing to know what happened to Edwin Stroud, I wanted to read the final chapter of his book – but doing so would bring the story to end. Another ending was the last thing I needed, given Bert’
s death and the imminent demolition of his home. Fearing being left with nothing more to discover, I compromised by allowing myself to read half the chapter.

  Early one morning, when the yellowing leaves were signalling the approach of autumn, Paulo and Hilda eloped, forsaking the significant sum of money still owed them by Melinkoff. The scrawled note Paulo left on our washstand made it clear their decision had been sudden – but still, I wondered, how could they have left without telling me? Paulo and I had become brothers on our journey across America, sharing everything we owned, both intent on saving money for our families back home. I’d been something of an accomplice to him in his budding romance, encouraging him to make his feelings known, and later taking late-night strolls along the boardwalk so he could entertain his sweetheart privately in our room. The fact he hadn’t revealed to me his intention to elope belied the strong bond of trust between us and, feeling horribly abandoned, I screwed up his note and threw it into the fire.

  Then, like a bubble in oil, a memory floated into my consciousness. I too had run away from a dear friend without warning, leaving only a letter and trinket. In doing so, I’d stolen Diddy Budd’s chance to say goodbye, to reveal her true feelings. I realised I’d been afraid of what she might say – and even more afraid that she might have tried to stop me leaving. This memory of my furtive departure brought cold comfort. At least Paulo and Hilda had run away for love, whereas I’d run to escape its possible consequences. If the couple had made their plans known to me earlier, I might have dropped to my knees and begged them not to leave me alone with Melinkoff.

  The showman was dead silent when I told him of the elopement, his face darkening as he absorbed the news. The object of his longing had been spirited away by someone he considered in all ways inferior to himself – a stealth assault on his once unassailable pride. More pressingly, they’d left him without a show. His hands trembled as he cut and lit a cigar, then paced the Turkish rug in his hotel suite without saying a word – just puffing, puffing. He poured and swallowed a snifter of brandy then lifted the glass balloon to the light. He turned it in his fingers, admiring its craftsmanship, then drew back his arm. I cowered, anticipating the missile whistling past my head and smashing against the mirrored wall. Melinkoff laughed and placed it on a coaster, then in a measured tone accused me of collusion.

  I pleaded ignorance, deeply regretting having incinerated Paulo’s note. Melinkoff lashed me with a torrent of obscenities, poking my chest repeatedly in the way that weak, anger-possessed men do to make themselves heard. He savaged Paulo’s appearance, denigrating the physical features he’d exploited to make himself a fortune. I held my tongue even after he’d finished. Irritated and unnerved by my silence, he demanded I speak in my friend’s defence. With unwavering clarity, I told him that Paulo Esposito had been the truest, most loyal and kind-hearted man I’d ever known and deserved every chance of happiness in life.

  Without warning Melinkoff whirled around and struck the side of my head with such force it destroyed the hearing in my left ear.

  My own left ear popped and rang in sympathy as I read those words. An intense painful needling deep inside my ear canal destroyed my last tiny bit of resolve to maintain a degree of distance, to remain rational, and I cried for this man who seemed so close to me yet so far away in time. I cried because I would never know him.

  Back at school on Monday I told the crew about Bert’s death. Isa and Pericles had only met him once but were both more upset by the news than I’d expected them to be. I think it was the dying-with-nobody-around element that got to them. Phoenix broke through the heaviness of the situation with a cheering platitude: ‘When your time’s up, your time’s up.’ As obvious and unhelpful as the statement was, it got me thinking about Bert taking us into his Church of Time – the clock room. Maybe he’d heard his final call, and that was his way of letting us know?

  ‘So there won’t be any junkyard sale,’ I said, saddened by the thought that none of Bert’s instructions would be followed – except in the case of Ethel.

  ‘Such a shame,’ Isa said. ‘Terri was on board and ready to go.’

  ‘Initially Bert wasn’t keen. But when I visited on Saturday there were heaps of coloured stickers on his stuff. He must’ve spent days pricing everything. The mechanical hen had a note attached that said “Lincoln from up the hill”.’

  ‘Did he get her working again?’ Pericles said.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t tried yet.’

  Bert probably stopped moving before he’d had a chance to make Ethel start. That’s all death is – you stop moving. Forever.

  When I got home from school I stared into Ethel’s painted eyes. Permanently gleeful, they got me wondering if there wasn’t still a spark of life left in the old girl. She was well over a hundred years old, though, and would probably need a penny or a shilling to get her started, which I didn’t have. So I dropped a twenty-cent piece in the slot. Nothing happened. I turned her over and shook. The coin rattled around but stayed in there.

  On Tuesday I ate lunch alone near The Labyrinth, recalling the day Dr Limberg had sent me in there and I’d met King Henry the prize bull. I remembered how he’d started talking to me when I rubbed his snout. Bert was always talking to little Percy, and often acted as if he could hear Percy speaking to him. While I didn’t believe that lifeless objects could converse, I did believe they had stories to tell. And I had a hunch that Ethel had something important to tell me. It was only a matter of figuring out how to make that happen.

  When I got home from school, I stroked Ethel’s metal wings and whispered into the spot her ears might be, ‘How do I make you work again?’

  I stilled my thoughts and waited at least ten minutes for an answer. There was no audible voice, no omen or the slightest inkling. I tried again before going to bed, but nothing. Defeated, I brushed my teeth, crawled into my cocoon and pulled the doona over my head.

  On the verge of falling asleep, golden phosphenes danced across the dark screen of my closed eyes and a possible solution came to me. Bert had given Pericles a gold token and told him to guard it with his life. He’d said, ‘You never know when it might come in handy.’

  On Wednesday morning as soon as I got to school I found Pericles and asked if I could borrow the coin.

  ‘Sure.’ He shrugged and unzipped his wallet. ‘Oh no . . . it’s not there!’

  ‘Have you lost it?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ He squeezed his eyes then looked up. ‘I think it’s still at your place. I wanted to escape before my father arrived and couldn’t decide between crashing at Isa’s or running away, so I flipped the coin. It rolled under the bed and as I was reaching for it, your dad came in and persuaded me to stay. I’m so sorry. With all the shit that was going down I totally forgot to retrieve it. It must be under the bed.’

  When the electronic glockenspiel sounded at the end of the day, I tore home on my bike and dived under the bed. The gold token was there against the wall. Eureka! I dropped it into the hen’s slot.

  Nothing happened. It got trapped in there with the twenty-cent piece.

  Early the next morning, halfway through breakfast, I heard my father’s bedroom door open and someone coming out. Judging by the footfall, it wasn’t Dad. It had to be the light step of a woman.

  I leant back on my stool and, peering down the hallway, caught the door closing again. The person must’ve seen me first and ducked back in. Ten minutes later, Dad came out in boxers and ruffled my hair. ‘You’re up early this morning, champ.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘You’ve got two hours before school. Why don’t you hop back into bed?’

  ‘Things to do.’

  Dad ground some coffee beans and set the machine for two cups. I told him I didn’t want one, but he said he was having a double shot. Then he complained that the milk was sour and asked me to nip down to the shop to get a fresh carton.

  ‘Anybody would think you were trying to get rid of me. If I took a stab, I�
�d say you brought somebody home last night and you don’t want her to know you have a teenage son.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I heard you both coming in.’ I hadn’t heard them but I wanted to force a confession.

  ‘All right. You got me. Guilty as charged. But she already knows about you. She’s painfully shy and you’re making this very awkward. How about you duck back into your room for ten, fifteen minutes and give her a little space to leave?’

  ‘If you’re playing Secret Squirrel because you’re worried I’ll tell Mum, you can relax. I’m good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘Thank you for being so considerate, but your mother already knows.’

  Dad went down the hall, knocked on his bedroom door and said, ‘The gig’s up. The kid won’t budge.’ A middle-aged woman emerged and walked down the hallway wearing one of my mother’s black dresses. She even bore an uncanny resemblance to my mother.

  ‘Who’s cooking the eggs?’ she said. ‘Both of you should’ve had enough practice by now.’ She turned to me. ‘Why the look of horror, darling?’

  ‘Sorry, but nobody expects their father’s one-night stand to be their mother. There’s something so heinously wrong about it.’

  ‘Honey, we’re your parents. We’ve been doing it for more than twenty years. There’s nothing more natural.’

  ‘Not when you can’t stand each other.’

  ‘Here’s some news for you,’ Mum said. ‘Sex isn’t always about love. People have needs.’

  ‘Way too much information.’

  After their initial awkwardness at being sprung, my parents turned the tables and enjoyed making me squirm, which sucked considering I was the only one in the group with an ounce of discretion. I’d only recently forgiven Dad for all that he’d done, and only just come to accept that I’d never move back home because soon it wouldn’t be ours. Now here they were – the two people who’d caused untold upheaval in my life, having sexual congress right under my nose. It was too much.