by Scot Gardner
Colin wore his Oakleys. He sat at a table for two with his legs crossed. He wore his black work shirt. He looked as seedy as my dad after a binge but quite at home amongst the ferals and yups that call Gables Café home.
‘Maddie,’ he cooed, thick with sympathy. He hugged me and rubbed my shoulder. We ordered coffee. The place hummed with an industrial clanking and fog of voices that reminded me of work. It felt good to be the one sitting down.
‘So,’ Colin said, pushing his glasses to the top of his head. ‘What’s been going down in the world of Madonna O’Dwyer?’
I shrugged. ‘I dunno. Everything. Nothing. I feel weird. I dunno where to start.’
Colin sighed and crossed his arms.
Our coffees came. I tried to give him the shortened, objective view of my crazy weekend. It took two coffees and a shared piece of cake. I told him about Evie fighting with Dad. I told him about Red and the witch he lived with. I told him about Paolo going off at the restaurant and I told him about Lucia falling in lust. I even told him about Dad cleaning up the flat and my eyes started leaking and they wouldn’t stop. My nose ran and I wiped it with a napkin.
Colin patted my hand and looked around the café. ‘You’ll be right, Madds. Don’t take it all too seriously. You’ve got a great life. Think about how far we’ve come since school. Hang in there.’
I nodded. It wasn’t what I needed to hear but he was right. I had changed since I started work. Left a lot of my old baggage – like how I felt about the way I looked and what I let people say and do to me – caged in my school locker. I knew I’d never go back. It’d be like wearing nappies. It seemed like years since we’d left.
I paid for the coffees on my way back from the toilet. Colin was talking to a guy with dreadlocks. He introduced me then said he had to get to work. Told me to keep my chin up. It’d all work out. His words were hollow and as chilly as an icepack. He hugged me and patted my shoulder blade. Leaving Gables, I felt more alone than I ever had. I wrestled with feeling like I was going to burst into tears. Colin’s words were useless. I felt like I was losing it.
eight
4.27 pm. Dad was already home. I got my key out and zipped it into the lock but he heard me and opened the door. A rush of cooking smells hit me. Spices: cardamom, caraway. And onion, frying. Dad hugged me like I’d just jumped off a jumbo jet and kissed me. His face was smooth shaven. He smelled of dinner and aftershave. It was all too much. I held him at arm’s length and looked him up and down.
‘What?’ he asked.
His shirt was ironed. So were his pants. His shoes shone. They were new shoes.
‘There’s something going on here,’ I said, and pushed him into the flat.
Dad was smiling. ‘What?’
‘Don’t! Don’t pull that crap with me, Dad. What is it?’
He shook his head. ‘Siddown.’
I whumped into my armchair. ‘I knew it.’
‘Hush, Maddie. Listen to me.’
He dragged his armchair over to sit in front of me. With his hands resting on my knees, he sighed. ‘That . . . tiff . . . with Evie and her . . . you know . . . moving out, it’s shaken me. Made me sit up and have a look at myself. I spent the day with Rosie next door. Told her everything. She was so understanding and gentle and all that and I felt so guilty about it all. About the grog and how much I’ve been leaning on you girls. She helped me clean up and that.’ He looked around the flat. ‘A woman’s touch. Not that you’re not a woman . . . just . . . argghh. Do you know what I mean?’
I nodded.
‘I blame myself for Evie moving out. I shouldn’t have hit her. It was only the dishes for Christ’s sake. She did the right thing. I feel like a part of me has died and been born again. I’m a new man, I tell you.’
I’d heard that story before. I looked around the flat. There was something missing. All the clutter had gone and everything sparkled, but that wasn’t it.
‘I took the curtains down. Rosie said she’d give them a good soak and a wash in her machine.’
‘The TV! The TV’s gone!’
Dad nodded and pulled me to my feet. ‘It died this afternoon,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘Here, I found you something.’ He led me to his bedroom door. ‘You mustn’t look. Close your eyes.’
I looked at him sideways. This new man was freaking me out just a bit.
‘Close them.’
He put his hand gently over my eyes and I obliged. He flicked the light on and led me into his room.
‘Right. Open ’em.’
His bed was covered with feathers, arranged in a circle like the rays of the sun. Blue, red, black and gold, spotted and striped, long and fine, short and fluffy. They were beautiful. And weird.
‘Rosie took me out in her van this morning, and afterwards I went with her up to a place . . . I don’t know where . . . to pick up a load of flowers. It was near Healesville and after that we went to a sort of zoo only it’s not really a zoo. One of Rosie’s friends, she volunteers there, and I collected these from the stuff that they scrape out of the cages. I mean they’re clean and that. Thought you might like ’em, lov.’
Big fat tears. Dropping on the bedspread.
‘Do you like ’em, lov?’
I nodded and more eye-rain darkened the bedspread.
‘Lov?’
‘They’re beautiful, Dad.’
‘You’re crying! What is it, lov?’ he said, and hugged me tight under his arm. He turned me to him, his face cramped with worry. ‘Come here.’
I rested my head on his shoulder and seriously lost it. For the first time in years I made noises while I was crying. Big, unruly sobs. Too big for his little bedroom. Too big for the little flat, and too small for the ache in me. Dad held me the whole time and rubbed my back. Shushed in my ear. Stroked my hair. ‘It’s all right, lov. Dere dere. Hush, Maddie.’
I sniffed and snotted and cried on his shoulder until you could have rung out his nicely ironed shirt.
‘Sorry about the shirt, Dad.’
‘Bah, don’t be. What was all that for?’
I shrugged. ‘Everything. Nothing. I dunno.’
He got me a hankie and served dinner. Later, he collected the feathers and put them in a glass beside my bed. We sat opposite each other at the table, me with a Milo, Dad with a coffee.
‘You did a marvellous job of cleaning up,’ I said.
He grunted. ‘Yes, long overdue, I think. Me and Rosie.’
He was staring at me. His big brown eyes fixed on mine. He had a strange look about him like he’d seen me for the first time.
‘What?’
He looked to his cup. ‘There are going to be changes, Maddie. Big changes.’
‘What sort of changes? I’m not good with changes.’
He smiled and his shoulders shook. ‘Positive changes. Nothing to be frightened of.’
We sipped our drinks at the same time and smiled across the table.
‘I’ve got a job,’ he said.
‘You’ve what?’
‘Yes, hard to believe. A job. A real job.’
He sat there with a silly grin on his face, nodding.
‘Doing what?’
‘Oh, just a bit here and there . . .’
‘A bit of what?’
He clunked his cup on the table and sat up. ‘Why, work of course.’
‘Dad!’
‘Heh heh. Sorry, lov. It’s Rosie next door. She needs someone to drive her van for her. To do pick-ups and deliveries. I told her I’m her man.’
‘You’re her man?’
‘Yes. She said she’d pay me and all. She wanted to know how much and I told her we’d discuss that later. If it all worked out.’
He reached across the table and took my hand. ‘I realised not that long ago . . . well . . . in bed last night . . . that life gets away from you if you’re not careful.’
He stared at my hand.
‘I stopped working so I could be there for you and Evie after your mum died. I didn’t do a v
ery good job. I’m sorry.’
‘No, Dad,’ I said. It was almost a whisper. ‘You did a great job. The best you could do.’
‘Yeah, maybe it was but some time ago things must have changed. Last night in bed I realised that it’s you and Evie who’ve been looking after me. I don’t blame her for moving out. I’ve been like an anchor around your necks. You go out to work. You pay the bills when there’s nothing left of me bloddy pension. You cook and clean and shop and everything.’
‘We do lots of those things together, Dad.’
He nodded but reluctantly. ‘Yeah . . . then when I come home from the pub you’re both out working again. It’s just not right, lov. I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t have to go out to work, Dad. I love it. If I didn’t have my work I would totally not have a life.’
I pulled my hand free and walked to the sliding glass door of the balcony. The action felt contrived, like I was an actor trying to make a limp point in a soap opera. Melodramatic. Thankfully Dad didn’t get up and stand in the frame behind me and talk to the back of my head. He just sat there, rocking his empty coffee cup noisily on the table. There was a dirty print on the window and I stepped closer to inspect it.
The rocking cup stopped abruptly. ‘Sometimes I think you’re the ghost of your mother. You’re so much alike. She’d be so proud of you.’
I rubbed my eyes and the melodrama was gone. It was the real me and the real Dad, talking the same crap we always did in our deep and meaningfuls, only this time I didn’t just smile like a princess and get all thingy thinking about what Mum must have been like and what things I did the same as her.
It was a handprint on the glass door. A fresh-looking child’s handprint.
‘Don’t suppose there’s any chance she’d still be alive, is there?’ I ran my finger over the print to see if it was inside the glass or out. ‘Like for some crazy reason she’s just been having a bit of a holiday from being a mum or something?’
Dad chuckled and rocked his cup again. ‘No. No chance, lov. Doesn’t mean that she’s not happy though. Doesn’t mean that she’s not looking out for you. Doesn’t mean –’
‘Didn’t think so,’ I said, and held my fingers up to him. ‘Look at this.’
‘What? Dusty, is it? I’m sorry. I’m a bit out of practice with housework.’
‘No, it’s clean. Spotless. Look at this.’
He stood up and I showed him the handprint. He wiped the glass and looked at his hand. His brow furrowed.
‘It’s on the outside.’
nine
I didn’t remember until 6.17 pm that Pepe had wanted me in early that night. I was shaking my head and mumbling to myself as I power walked. How could I be late for work? I’d never been late for work. Never. How did a kid’s handprint get on the outside of our twelfth-storey glass door? The handprint could have been there since I was little. Dad and Evie and I had been slack enough about housework for that to be a possibility. It did look fresh. My pace quickened as I imagined Pepe looking at the clock. I could see him crossing his arms and tapping his foot and . . .
‘Madonna!’ he sang.
I puffed, with excuses hanging behind my teeth.
‘Look who’s here! It’s Jiff. You remember him, huh? He’s coming back to work with us for a while.’
I think it was the power walking that was making my heart rattle in my chest and my face prickle with blood. Definitely. I smiled at Jiff and he stepped over from the counter.
‘Got an official shirt like you and all, ay.’
He stuck his hand up his shirt and made a fist under the Pepe’s logo. He showed me the logo but all I saw was his belly button and the trail of fine brown hair heading north. And south.
I fanned my face with my hand. ‘I thought you didn’t want a job,’ I said, and wished I’d kept my mouth closed.
He tucked himself in, tossed his head back and smiled. ‘Job offers don’t exactly fall out of every conversation. Anyway, I’d just be hanging around my auntie’s place so I thought I’d come and use my time productively. If last night was anything to go by then it all happens here, ay?’
On cue, the restaurant exploded into activity. The phone rang, someone stuck their head in the door and asked if we were open, and something clattered to the floor in the kitchen. We laughed. I turned the closed sign on the door and invited the people in off the street. Jiff slipped behind the counter with Pepe. I darted to the toilet and found Lucia puckering at herself in the mirror over the hand basin. I startled her and her lips made a funny popping sound.
I closed the door behind me. ‘Sorry, Luce.’
She clicked her tongue then pulled a face. Her lipstick had become toothstick and she rubbed at her teeth with an index finger until they squeaked. ‘Do I look okay? Is my hair all right at the back? Oh god, look at the bags under my eyes.’
‘You look fine, Luce. Didn’t you sleep very well?’ I said, and darted into a cubicle.
‘God, I’m so . . . what if he calls? What if he doesn’t call? What if . . .?’
She sniffed. I peed. She babbled. I flushed. She was still at the sink. I smiled at her in the mirror and pushed through to the basin. She’d gone a bit heavy on the eye make-up. Yeah, and like I’d know. My experience with make-up began and ended with lip-gloss. Colin knew more about make-up than I did. Colin has a mum.
‘Luce, you look beautiful. Relax. He’ll call.’
‘You reckon?’
I nodded. She hugged me and kissed the air near my left ear. She paused with her hand on the doorknob, whispered something to herself and barged into the restaurant.
‘Lucia! Delivery!’ Pepe hollered. ‘She’s getting cold.’
The delivery was for Ari.
Luce forced a smile as I held the door open for her. ‘Thanks, Maddie.’
‘No worries.’
She bent close, ‘Cover for me.’
I winked.
She squealed.
Jiff worked like he’d been part of the establishment for thirty years. He sat with customers and joked as he took their orders. A couple tucked in the corner poured him a wine but he didn’t drink it.
‘You don’t need to watch him all the time. He’s doing okay,’ Pepe said, and my cheeks got hot.
‘Yeah. Good. Good worker.’
Pepe nodded.
When he was behind the counter, Jiff stood so close that his aftershave drowned out the smell of garlic from the bain-marie. He elbowed me, pushed himself against me, reached across me at every opportunity. He was reckless with sharp objects. I had to confiscate the dough cutter when, in a quiet moment, he started throwing it in the air and catching it. When he was cutting pizzas I took two steps back. He was boisterous and playful all night and I thought that he and Colin would have a great time together. The thought made me feel tired.
Jiff was cutting a family-sized Pepe’s Special when the boss leaned on his shoulder. ‘Take it easy with the pizza cutter, Jiff. She’s very sharp. Don’t cut yourself.’
‘Yep. No worries, Pepe,’ he said, and I watched as the very next cut skewed on the tray. The blade lumped over his middle finger.
I drew a breath.
‘Fuck!’ Jiff cried, and the restaurant stopped and looked.
He staggered back from the counter, staring at his outstretched middle finger. The top pointed at the floor. I could see white in the cut. The blood drained from his face and began to flow from his finger like a Zen fountain.
‘Oh moi gawd,’ Pepe said, and backed into the oven.
I grabbed Jiff’s cut hand. I held the severed part tight against the finger and squeezed. ‘Ring an ambulance, Pepe.’
I held Jiff’s hand high and led him past a table of staring faces into the kitchen.
‘Is he okay?’ someone asked.
Yeah, I thought. Just chopped the top off his finger. Bit of blood. No worries!
Bruna was stirring a pot of bolognese sauce at the stove. Angelina was washing lettuce at the sink.
‘
What’s the matter? What happened? Is he okay?’ Bruna could see the look on Jiff’s face and she wiped her hands on her apron.
‘Where’s the first-aid kit?’ I asked. I was so cool about it all. I could be an ambulance officer, I thought.
‘First aid? Why do you want first aid?’
‘Jiff cut his finger.’
‘Oh moi gawd,’ she said, and stepped into the storeroom.
My hand was sticky with Jiff’s blood. My face felt hot.
‘Sit down, Jiff. Here.’
He propped his bum obligingly on a sack of potatoes that leaned against the wall. His face was grey. His mouth hung open.
‘You’re going to live, mate. Breathe.’
He took a breath and rubbed his brow with his free fingers.
Bruna came back empty handed. ‘We have no first aid. You want a Bandaid? What? It’s not so bad, huh?’
‘More like a bandage, Bruna,’ I said, and the first-aid stuff started coming back. ‘RICE!’
‘You want rice? Why do you want rice? Arborio okay? We only have arborio.’
‘Not rice, R-I-C-E. Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate. Get some ice, Bruna. From the bar.’
‘You want ice or rice?’
‘Ice. Cold stuff. In drinks. Ice!’
‘Okay,’ she said, and pushed through the kitchen door.
Angelina stared at us from the sink over a colander of wet lettuce.
My fingers tingled. I could feel a hot pulse in my palm and I wasn’t sure if it was Jiff’s or mine. The colour was coming back to his face. His blood squeezed between my knuckles. It had traced a line across his palm and onto his wrist. My hand was getting sore. Hot and sore. I didn’t want to let go. Holding his finger tight above his head was the best thing I could think of.
Bruna crashed through the kitchen door with a glass of ice.
‘We need a bandage of some sort to wrap the ice in. Tea towel, Bruna. Clean tea towel,’ I said, and she barked at her sister in Italian. Angelina almost dropped the colander. The ice and the tea towel arrived at the same time.