Upside Down

by Lia Riley

  Hobart is at the bottom of Tasmania. The ferry docks in Davenport on the top end, so we drive the three hours on two-lane roads. Much of the way cuts through the middle of what Bran calls the Central Highlands. Wide, brown fields stretch out toward cloud-topped tiers in the distance, empty but for the occasional sheep or dead eucalyptus, white and ghostly.

  We watch the stark landscape unfold like a movie while we listen to Triple J, the ubiquitous Australian alternative music station. “Are you sure your uncle is cool with me coming?” I ask after a while.

  “Chris’ll love you.” Bran gives a quick reassuring smile, eyes still locked on the road. “I’m curious what you’ll think of him.”

  “Is it strange, taking me to meet someone in your family?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t imagine you and my mom hanging out.” The idea is like mental fingernails on a chalkboard. How will Mom react if she meets Bran?

  “Chris is nothing like the rest of my family. He’s cool. Comfortable in his skin, so he doesn’t feel the need to change you to justify himself.”

  “Wow, that’s a profound observation.”

  “Heh. My sister, Gaby, she’s cool too—a pain in the ass but she has a good heart. And my nieces are great. But their dad, Joe, he’s a wanker.”

  “So you’re either cool or a wanker in the Bran worldview.”

  “Or a fuckwit.”

  “Wankers and fuckwits aren’t interchangeable?”

  “Hell no.”

  “Please, enlighten me.”

  “A wanker is someone who knows the decisions they make are shitty. That they are going to hurt someone. And still they do it to make sure they get theirs. That’s being a wanker. A fuckwit doesn’t have the moral compunction. They more or less stumble through life like cattle getting herded by the media or politicians or society in general to have a certain type of life. The permanent government job. The brick house in the suburbs with the white fence. The two-point-five kids. That’s a fuckwit.”

  “So one can be a fuckwit, a wanker, or cool?”

  “There’s one more.”

  “Oh?”

  “The bastards.”

  “So who gets that moniker?”

  “People like me.”

  I wait for a further explanation. Just when I think I’m going to have to get out my verbal pickax and hack away, he resumes talking.

  “Someone unpleasant to be around.”

  “You’re not unpleasant.”

  He arches his brow.

  “All the time,” I amend with a grin.

  That earns a tight smile.

  “Can people transfer during their life from one category to another…like being a fuckwit to cool?”

  “Once a bastard, always a bastard.” His sharp words cut the atmosphere.

  There’s suddenly less oxygen in the car. My chest hurts. “People can change.”

  “I’m not sure I believe that.” His fingers tighten on the wheel for a split second. “But I like it that you do.”

  * * *

  I didn’t have any set mental image of how I imagined Bran’s uncle to look, but I never expected him to be dressed as a woman of a certain age.

  “Nephew.” A six-foot-plus giant with an elegant gray-haired coif steps onto the doorstep to peck Bran’s cheek.

  “Ah, and the famous Talia,” he says, beaming. Or she. I took a gender studies class last year and know identity can be fluid—or fixed. And in Chris’s case, I have no idea. And was given no warning.

  I shoot Bran a glare. His uncle Chris dresses in drag, fine. But seriously, isn’t that something he could have mentioned beforehand, as a courtesy heads-up? Or is this some sort of bullshit test?

  “Great to meet you, Chris.” I remember my manners in time to shake his uncle’s hand. “Bran raves about you.”

  “Oh, he does go on, that boy. And on and on.” Chris casts a doting smile before shooing us inside the cottage. “Come in, come in.”

  Bran returns my crusty glare with an amused look of his own. Okay—so this is definitely some bullshit test. What the hell?

  Bran Lockhart, you’re right; you really are a first-order bastard.

  I didn’t think we had to play games anymore. My stomach hollows, gnawing disappointment.

  Guess I was wrong.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Talia

  Chris wipes invisible crumbs from the granite countertop in the stylish galley kitchen. “Apologies for the mess, loves,” he says, rearranging a brilliant arrangement of cut flowers in a crystal vase.

  “Your home’s lovely,” I say in total honesty, “like a museum.” He lives in a whaler’s cottage built in 1868. The white bricks are covered by pink tea roses that have grown up over the windows, casting the interior rooms in a cozy romantic light.

  “How kind of you to say so.” Chris fixes his slanting spectacles. “I hosted a high tea for a few Queens. Our friend Larry is fresh out of hospital and we wanted to welcome him home.”

  A few Queens? Did they all look like they lived in Buckingham Palace? Chris resembles Queen Elizabeth, right down to the white gloves.

  The creamy parlor walls are adorned with classic oil paintings of the Australian bush and ye olde maritime scenes. Hardwood side tables line the walls topped by sexy male nude sculptures. The effect is grandma’s house with an eclectic flare.

  “Cup of Lady Grey, anyone?” Uncle Chris bustles past, plumping cushions around the lounge room. “Or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger. A glass of Riesling?”

  “Tea sounds wonderful,” I say, ignoring Bran to take a seat on an overstuffed white couch covered in throw pillows that appear sourced from indigo kimonos.

  I don’t even know where to start with him. Every time we take a step forward, he shoves me away. I don’t understand. Right now I’m sore between my legs, a dull ache that carries the memory of what passed between us last night, more than a few times.

  What we did wasn’t just sex. I’m no expert, but that can’t be the norm. We didn’t touch so much as we clawed into the other, getting as close as possible for two people to be, and, for a second, we really got there.

  And now he’s built back a wall.

  Damn it.

  “Dear?” Uncle Chris regards me with a concerned expression.

  I didn’t just say that out loud, did I?

  “Your tea, dear.” He passes me a delicate china cup. “And a beer for my favorite nephew.”

  “Your only nephew,” Bran mutters.

  “Tut tut, take compliments where you find them, boy.” Uncle Chris settles onto a divan, demurely crossing his cream-colored heels. “Now, Talia, it’s clear Bran is utterly taken by you.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Bran takes a long pull from his beer. I aimed my voice so that Uncle Chris would think I remained cordial and polite, but Bran would never miss the undercurrent of frost.

  We chat politely for another half hour. Uncle Chris is a sweetheart. By day he works as a public servant for the Department of Transportation, but by night he writes cozy mysteries under the pen name Veronica Lane.

  “Agatha Christie in drag,” Chris says, dabbing his lips with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. He clearly adores Bran and draws him into conversation about his plans for study, revealing information that I’d not previously known.

  Like how Bran dreams of traveling to the Antarctic. Or that he coauthored a paper for a major academic journal while still in his undergrad. Or that Chris isn’t on speaking terms with Bran’s father.

  “Water under the bridge.” Chris flicks invisible lint from his spotless skirt. “He doesn’t approve of the lifestyle.”

  “Dad’s a bastard too,” Bran says, lifting his bottle in my direction.

  “That’s enough, Bran,” Chris reprimands. “You didn’t grow up in our house. Your grandfather was a hard-nosed bastard. He gave up on me pretty quick. Put all the hopes on your father. He was the one who had to take up footy and the
cricket, who was pushed into business. He had to be the first and second son. I left your father to shoulder a load heavier than any boy should bear.”

  Bran snorted.

  Chris heaves a forlorn sigh. “Sometimes the lack of communication between me and my brother causes me a great deal of pain. But you can’t choose your family of origin.”

  “Guess not,” Bran mumbles, peeling the corner of his beer bottle’s label.

  Uncle Chris beams at Bran, then me, ignoring the two empty feet between us. Distance I put there the moment I sat down. Distance that I hope Bran notices and minds.

  * * *

  Our room is decorated like the rest of the house—Grandma’s house gone wild. A zebra-striped duvet covers the elegant brass bed while a two-foot replica of David graces the top of the rosewood dresser. Outside the dormer window, a junior sail class is on the river, the pint-size boats jumbled together as kids try to adjust their course. Sailing away on a boat right now sounds delightful. Bran crashes onto the bed behind me with a protracted sigh. I hate having talks. Like with a passion, I hate talks.

  “You should have told me.”

  “About what?” he mumbles, forearm flung over his eyes.

  “About Chris? Might have been helpful to have some warning.”

  “Didn’t I say something about him?”

  “I’d have appreciated a little notice that he likes to dress in drag.”

  “Because that bothers you?”

  My temper flares. “No, of course not. What’s annoying is that you basically lied by omission.”

  “That was hardly a lie, Talia.”

  “What’s the deal? You didn’t want to give me a chance to put up my guard, so you designed some bullshit mind-fuckery to root out whether or not I’m a closeted bigot? Which I’m not, by the way. A bigot. Closeted or not. Which you would have known if you’d taken the two seconds to talk to me about it.”

  “It was a joke, a little messing around. I wanted to see your unfiltered reaction. I didn’t think you’d get so mad.”

  “I’m pissed. And hurt. And irritated.”

  “Isn’t that all mad?”

  “I guess if you’re a Neanderthal who registers only the most basic human emotions. Me happy. Me sad. Me hungry.”

  He laughs.

  “I’m not trying to be funny.”

  “You’re cute.”

  “I’m really not trying to be that.” No way he’s going to dismiss this. Or me.

  “Come over here.”

  “Negative.” I place my hands on my hips. “I don’t see you and me as a game. This is about wanting a guy that I’m working hard to be straight with to give me the same common courtesy.”

  He loses the smile.

  I need air—and a moment alone. I rummage through my bag for a pair of old yoga pants and begin to change. “I’m going out.”

  “Where?”

  “For a jog.” I shove on my running shoes and bend to tie the laces. “To clear my head.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? Come on, Talia.”

  “I’m there, Bran. Why don’t you decide whether you want to be too?”

  I flounce out the door, down the stairs, and into the maze of nineteenth-century streets that make up Battery Point. I count each step in batches of one hundred until I feel somewhat more in control. A pub lights up the dim street corner ahead. Perfect; I have a twenty-dollar note shoved in my sports bra. My jog’s not strictly for health purposes. I mean to have a drink, of the scowly alone-at-the-bar variety. I duck inside and heads swivel in my direction. There’s a group of guys clustered at the bar, all in grass-stained rugby apparel. They perk, like cheetahs catching a whiff of prey. I’m not in the mood to play gazelle, so I duck back out to the street.

  I jog past sweet cottages that would be at home in a fairy tale…until the street ends. Damn. But there’s a stairway, with the words KELLY STEPS carved on the worn sandstone column. This seems almost too good to be true, like Hogwarts’ Room of Requirement—do these stairs appear when someone needs to escape?

  I sprint down and end on a narrow cobblestone street. Sail masts rise from the cove across the road, reflecting lights from the various fine dining restaurants and cafés lining the waterfront. There’s another pub ahead; it appears old, like it’s been here as long as Hobart itself. The wooden sign creaks in the wind. KNOPWOODS. A homey name, like where Frog and Toad might go for a pint—if one of them was annoyed at their boyfriend.

  Boyfriend. Is that what Bran is? We haven’t exactly had that conversation, plus I’m leaving in less than a month, so I don’t even know what to call him. My lover? Ew, I’m not some seventies disco swinger. My friend? No way—he’s way more than that. Fuck buddy isn’t exactly socially kosher. So what is he?

  I push through the front door and head for the bar.

  “What’ll you have, love?” A brisk, fortysomething woman waits expectantly behind the taps.

  I jump at the sound of her voice. “Um, a cider, please, in a pint.” Hard cider, a choice that will complete the ye olde nature of this excursion.

  She sets the glass in front of me and I grab a stool. It’s quiet here, a perfect place to brood and think.

  “Hydrating on a run?”

  Apparently quiet time isn’t tolerated. I glance over, prepared to tell the conversationalist next to me to piss off—in a really polite way, of course—but the dude looks like my grandfather. Or how I wish my grandfather actually looked. My mom’s dad was a Reagan Republican with rugged yet precise haircuts and carefully pressed casual elegance. This guy looks like Jolly Saint Nicholas right down to the unlit pipe beside him. I swear his eyes twinkle in the bar light.

  I glance down at my sweaty jogging clothes and shrug.

  “I’ll drink to that.” He raises his own pint in a toast. “This is the only exercise I get up to these days. That and working my fingers to the bone on the bloody keyboard.”

  “You a writer?”

  “Historian.”

  I perk, happy to find a kindred spirit. “Hey, that’s my major.”

  “Ah, you’re a student?” He eyes me with more interest.

  “Well, I’m attempting to finish my bachelor’s.”

  “Finding it a challenge?”

  “At the moment, yeah, I guess so.” I rock my glass between my hands.

  “Wandering?”

  “Come again?”

  He adjusts his suit coat. “Are you a wanderer? From the sound of that accent, I’d wager you’re far from home, indeed.”

  “I’m Californian.”

  “Land of sunny skies and warm water.”

  “That’s SoCal. In my neck of the woods we’ve got fog and redwoods.”

  His smile is gentle. “Well, aren’t you the lucky one?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.” I take a long sip.

  “So tell me how a bright young American finds herself drinking alone in Hobart, Tasmania?”

  Coming from another man, that might sound creepy. But this guy—I soon discover his name to be Phillip Conway—is nothing but benevolent kindness and a baffled curiosity typical to those who spend too many hours cooped up with dusty books and their own sizeable brains. After another pint, I learn he’s Tasmanian to the core. His great-great-grandfather was transported to this island as a convict nearly two hundred years ago, sentenced to life for sheep stealing. I quiz him on colonial history and we’re soon knee-deep in conversation about convict life, the plight of the Tasmanian Aboriginals who suffered genocide at the hands of the British settlers, and the transition of the place over time.

  I check my watch and realize dinnertime has come and gone. I wonder what Bran said to explain my absence. I’m certainly not doing a great job at ingratiating myself to Chris. Still, it’s cozy here in this out-of-the-way seat, listening to Phillip spin yarn after yarn.

  “You’re an excellent teacher,” I say.

  “Oh,” Phillip chuckles. “I should hope so. That’s what pays the bills.”

  “Really?”


  “I’m a professor of history at the University of Tasmania.”

  “Dr. Conway—”

  “Phillip, please. I simply cannot abide titles of any sort.”

  “Sorry—Phillip. Am I keeping you—do you need to be home?”

  “My wife died last year—cancer.”

  “Oh God, I’m sorry—”

  “Yes, well, I learned, sometimes death can be a blessing. I do have a daughter. She teaches in the Northern Territories. Very remote communities, challenging work.”

  “She must be special.”

  “She is, you remind me of her.”

  “If you don’t mind, could I pick your brain a little? See, I need to come up with a senior thesis, a research project, nothing as big as a master’s dissertation, but still something substantial. I’m having a total block on what to do.”

  “Very well, let’s start by answering the most important question.”

  “Okay, that is…”

  “What interests you? What topics grab you deep, don’t let go, make your soul sing?”

  After an hour, Phillip Conway has talked me through my scattered interests and helped me catalog them into one vague, but far more focused category—oral history. Specifically, female oral history.

  “Well, there’s a term guaranteed to send any sixteen-year-old boy into hysterics.”

  “What’s that?” Phillip’s eyes are locked on the corner of the bar’s ceiling. Crap, maybe I have taken up too much of his time.

  “Sorry, nothing.”

  “No! Not nothing. Not even close.” He shakes his head, refocusing on me. “In fact, if you’d indulge me, I’ve just had the most interesting idea that might be to our mutual benefit.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Talia

  I stumble into the house as the hall clock chimes ten o’ clock, my brain buzzing so loudly anyone in a five-foot radius could hear a hum emanating from my skull. I try to close the front door as quiet as possible and tiptoe toward the stairway. I’m tired, hungry, and drunker than I’d meant to get. Leave it to me to get wasted with a sixty-year-old history professor. Yeah, I’m really a prototype for Girls Gone Wild: The Study Abroad version.