The Best Australian Stories

by Black Inc.

  ‘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 hi
s 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?’

  He looked out the window at the moonlight. I could just tell he was thinking of boarding up the window, but whether to keep folks out or keep me in, I couldn’t tell. Then I backed up a step and realised he’d called the ham her.

  Kind of lost it. ‘JIMMY!’ I screamed. ‘THAT HAM … IT’S NOT A SHE, ALL RIGHT? NOT A SHE.’ It was all I could think to say. For a second it looked like I’d got him stirred, cause he reached in his pocket and pulled out a knife – by God – and a fork. Still looking out the window, he laid them across my sheets where my belly was, and without a word stood and made a ‘follow me’ sign with his hands, all solemn like. It was like we were at a funeral. So I follow him down the hall, out to the kitchen where the meat pile was starting to stink the place up. There was a chunk missing from around the top, looked like it’d been gouged out with fingers. He’d eaten some then, which seemed fine to me – that’s how people and ham are supposed to get along.

  ‘So what do you want me to do?’ I says, though I reckoned I knew: he wanted me to eat it for him, God knows why, only he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Next thing he’s crying like a baby, sitting on the kitchen floor bawling, whole body lurching around like he was being kicked. Didn’t know what to tell him – what was making him sad? He wasn’t even drunk.

  Enough’s enough, I reckoned again, and said, ‘I’m throwing this out, you watch me.’

  He says: ‘NO.’ I says: ‘YEAH, FUCK YOU. IT’S GONE ON LONG ENOUGH.’ He says: ‘SHE CAN’T BE NOTHING BUT WHAT GOD MADE HER.’ I says: ‘WHAT’S GOD GOT TO DO WITH IT? AND IT’S NOT A SHE, JIMMY.’ He called me insensitive or some such, so I did what I had to: popped him in the mouth. Thought he’d fight but he broke down again and cried and said: ‘TAKE IT, TAKE IT AWAY, I CAN’T DO IT BY MYSELF, I’M LEANING ON IT LIKE A MAN WITH A CRUTCH, AIN’T SPOZZA BE LIKE THIS, HELP ME BORIS FOR GOD SAKES HELP ME.’

  So I grabbed the ham and went to the door, but the damn thing’s barred up and I couldn’t get the boards loose. I set the meat down and Jimmy’s had a change of heart all of a sudden, and he’s running at me with murder in his eyes, yelling about me taking her away from him, and how everyone always took everything away from him, and how he wasn’t gonna let it happen no more. I said fine, take the fucking meat and do what you gotta do, just leave me out of it OK?

  Back in my room I could hear him blubbering, then an electric carving knife started up. Next thing there’s a quiet tap on my door and I open it, and Jimmy’s left a plate of ham slices out there on the floor. He’d cut ’em into the shape of tears, probably trying to make me feel guilty for something I couldn’t quite understand, but they might’ve been quotation marks, I never really found out. You know what people are like. Some of ’em are lonely, I guess, and some of ’em had too much taken away and they get attached to things they probably shouldn’t. Guess it makes you think.

  In the morning the meat was all gone and Jimmy seemed to have pulled the boards loose from the doors and his coat wasn’t hung up. There was meat slime all over the damn kitchen … I never knew ham could be so wet. Around then I thought I heard digging in the yard. I went to the kitchen window and saw someone had spit up some ham in the sink and left it there. Wasn’t me, is all I know.

  Out in the yard, there was Jimmy. He’d dug a hole with a shovel and the ham was lying in the dirt. Felt kind of sorry for it, and for Jimmy, who just stood there with his head down. Wondered what the neighbours would think. I watched him for a bit, whispering to myself, ‘Come on Jimmy, you can do it.’

  He stayed completely still for a while longer. I was rooting for the guy, you know, saying: ‘Come on Jimmy, do what you gotta.’ Must’ve been an hour before he gets down on his haunches and pushes the meat into the hole he dug, and starts raking dirt back over there. Made a big old lump in the yard, it did. He looked up at me through the window, and we met eyes for a sec, and he nodded his head. I nodded back to him – he did what he had to do and I was proud.

  *

  Few years later we were having a beer and I saw fit to mention the ham. Been anxious to talk
about it, you know what people are like when they got wounds. But you just got to clear the air sometimes, you know?

  ‘Hey, Jimmy.’

  Jim looked at me. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Remember that ham?’

  Jim nodded. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where’d you get that ham, anyway?’

  Jimmy shrugged. ‘Found it,’ he said, and as far as that conversation went, it seemed to be the end.

  Aquifer

  Tim Winton

  One evening not long ago I stirred from a television stupor at the sound of a familiar street name and saw a police forensic team in waders carry bones from the edge of a lake. Four femurs and a skull, to be precise. The view widened and I saw a shabby clique of melaleucas and knew exactly where it was that this macabre discovery had taken place. Through my open window I smelt dead lupin and for a long time forgot my age. Life moves on, people say, but I doubt it. Moves in, more like it.

  Cast adrift again from middle age, I lay awake all night and travelled in loops and ellipses while an old song from school rang in my head.

  I love her far horizons,

  I love her jewelled sea,

  Her beauty and her terror,

  The wide brown land for me.

  Before dawn and without explanation, I rose, made myself coffee and began the long drive back to where I come from.

  The battlers’ blocks, that’s what they called the meagre grid of limestone streets of my childhood. Suburban lots scoured from bush land for an outpost of progress so that emigrants from Holland, England and the Balkans and freckly types like us, barely a generation off the farm, could participate in the Antipodean prize of home ownership. Our street wound down a long gully that gave on to a swamp. A few fences away the grey haze of banksia scrub and tuart trees resumed with its hiss of cicadas and crow song. Houses were of three basic designs and randomly jumbled along the way to lend an air of natural progression rather than reveal the entire suburb’s origins in the smoky, fly-buzzing office of some bored government architect. But our houses were new; no one had ever lived in them before. They were as fresh as we imagined the country itself to be.