Nine Days (24 page)

I hold the photo in my hands. It was the first one he ever took, Grandpa says. It was what made him decide to spend his life taking photos. From what he says, it seems like all kinds of stupid things had to be kept secret back then. When he says that his sister didn’t die from the flu, Stanzi just nods. Charlotte gets on her high horse about
ridiculous sexist taboos
and
lies
and
nothing to be ashamed of.
Grandma smiles.
You can’t imagine what it was like back then,
she says.
So much pain, all covered over.

‘And all this time you knew it was him,’ says Uncle Frank. ‘You never told a soul.’

‘She asked me not to. I never knew she had this developed. She must’ve hid it herself.’ Grandpa takes my hand: not like he’s holding a little kid’s, like he’s shaking it, like I’m a man and he’s pleased to meet me. ‘This photo won’t be out of my sight from now on. You’ve given me my sister back, Alec. She’d have liked you, and your art. Wherever she is, I’m sure she’s looking out for you.’

Grandpa is feeling better so it’s time for them to go home. Charlotte is bustling around getting Uncle Frank and Grandma into Stanzi’s car, keeping Uncle Frank steady when he steps down from the footpath, folding Grandma’s walker and fitting it in the boot, when she realises Grandpa’s missing.

‘Alec,’ she says, and this means
Slave boy! Find him, toot sweet!

Grandpa’s not so good with stairs so he must be outside and that’s where I find him, in the backyard, standing under the tree, feeling the bark like he’s never seen a tree before. He looks about a thousand years old. He’s skinnier than I remember and he bends over like his shoulders are too heavy. I want to tell him to push his chest out but I know he can’t help it. I force my own shoulders back.

‘The party bus is leaving. All aboard.’

‘This is where I last saw her. Just here. Leaning against this tree, talking to my mother. She never met your mother or Stanzi. Never saw me marry Annabel. She was nineteen when she died. He must’ve been twenty-one.’ He waves one arm at the trattoria across the lane.

‘Grandpa. It’s time to go home.’

‘Right here. Under this tree.’

I take him by the arm and walk him back through the house. In the hallway he stops. He grabs my face with both hands, holds it tight and close with stronger fingers than I
would have figured. He’s strong for an oldie. I’m forced to look right into his eyes.

‘Alec. You must know this. People disappear. They just go puff. Thin air. Every time you see someone, you never know if you’re seeing them for the last time. Drink them in, Alec. Kiss them. It’s very important. Never let anyone say goodbye, even for a little while, without kissing them. Press your lips against the people you love. Hands, they can touch anything. Open doors, hold cameras, hang clothes on the line. It’s lips that matter.’

‘Thin air. Last time. Kiss them. Lips. Got it.’ I try to get him moving before Charlotte calls out again.

‘You don’t get it.’ He releases the zombie death grip around my head, and he kisses me. ‘Well, that’s all right. I hope you never will.’

I think he’s going to say something else, but he just keeps walking down the hall.

I watch him go. Standing beside the tree he looked frail. His skin is blotchy and dry like the bark, like someone has taken a fine brush and painted veins and bruises, white spots and dabs of red. Next to him my skin looks varnished, smooth.

When me and Libby were little, Grandpa was in charge of all the dad stuff. He took photos of us, hundreds of them. He still has them over at their apartment at the retirement village. He was the one who taught us to play poker and took us to the football.

I remember coming home from school once, crying. I would have been around six or seven. I was picked last for
some team. That was me, the kid without the father, West the pest, Mr Unco. Grandma used to be here after school, to look after us while Mum and Stanzi were at work, and she called Grandpa and next thing I knew, he pulled up. He’d left some photoshoot, just left the model and the client standing there.
A family emergency,
he told them.

‘Right,’ he said, as he walked into my room. I was face down on my bed, head in the pillows, and the sound of his voice so startled me I rolled over and sat up. He took off his jacket and his tie and draped them on the door handle. ‘Where’s that boy who says he can’t catch a ball?’

That autumn afternoon the air was cooling and he stood in the backyard with me for hours while the sun went down and threw a tennis ball at me. When it got dark and I’d mastered his gentle underarm lobs, he moved us to Rowena Parade and parked his car up on the footpath and put the headlights on. Even when Grandma said
that boy’s had enough,
he kept at it. By the end, I was thirsty and tired and my shoulders were aching and he was throwing it hard and fast and high and I was catching it, every single time. He didn’t let me quit. I was never picked last for sport again.

After Grandpa kisses us all and they leave, it’s quiet at home, just the three of us. Stanzi will drop them off at their retirement home, then go out with her friends. She won’t be home for hours, maybe not until morning. Charlotte is tired from the cooking and she decides to clean up tomorrow. We’re just going to bed, when we turn our heads and see it together. The photo of Connie at the train station is on the couch. I don’t know how we didn’t notice her before.

‘Oh, no. When Dad realises it’s missing, he’ll be frantic.’ Charlotte looks straight at me.

‘I’ll take it back to him tomorrow.’

‘He was so happy to have that photo. He’s so frail.’

‘First thing in the morning. As soon as I get up. Off I’ll go.’

‘He said he wouldn’t let it out of his sight. He said his sister’s been returned to him.’

‘Just ring Stanzi’s mobile. She can’t have gotten far. Ask her to come back and pick it up.’

‘I will not. If she wants to get a brain tumour that’s her business but I will not be contributing to it.’

‘OK, OK. I’ll go. I’ll ride my bike.’ Not like there’s anything fun to do around here anyway.

‘You will not. It’s too dark.’

This is an example of the futility of my life.
Go,
she says.
All right,
I say.
No,
she says. It’s insane.

‘It’s all the way to Kew. It’s two trams. I’m tired. I won’t be back before eleven.’

‘Alec. He’s old. What if he dies tonight? What if this was the last time you ever saw him and you had a chance to do something kind for someone who’s done so much for you, and you didn’t take it? How would you live with yourself?’

Grant me strength. ‘He’s not going to die tonight. How do you function in the world, thinking like that?’

‘Alec.’ She makes her eyes go big and round like some manga puppy, which is her standard manipulation technique. ‘Please. You won’t have to do any dishes tomorrow. No drying, no wiping. Libby will even take the bins out.’

‘What? Libby will what?’ Libby says, in her most whiney
voice. ‘Muuuum. That is totally unfair. I can go to Grandpa’s. I don’t mind.’

That’s it then. ‘All right, all right,’ I say. ‘I’ll go.’

It must be around nine when I walk down Lennox Street to Bridge Road. If I was on my bike, I’d go via Victoria: that part of Richmond is way cooler, like being in Saigon. Trust my olds to live on the hill in the boring Anglo part. Connie is back in her envelope, back in the biscuit tin, safe in my backpack. Bridge Road is still crowded: the pubs and clubs and restaurants are full, people are milling about, but there’s no one else waiting for the tram. I’m standing at the stop alone when I hear a horn.

In front of the tram stop, the hottest car I have ever seen in my whole entire life pulls up. It’s mad crimson, so shiny it looks wet, low to the ground. A hotted-up Ford, chrome mags, Eminem blaring, the whole chassis trembling from the woofers. The front window goes down. Ohmigod. It’s Tim.

‘Lecster. Mate. Get the fuck in the car.’

All the windows go down now. It’s Tim’s brother Andy driving, big grin on his face. Andy’s living proof of exactly how dumb my mother is. She is always on at me about doing good at school, about having something to fall back on if art doesn’t work out. And here is Andy, an apprentice plumber, proud owner of a fully sick car and let me assure you he is no rocket surgeon. I could leave school right now and get any job and do just fine. In the back seat are Cooper and Wade and
Henry. I can see their grinning faces inside. I say hi.

‘Nice car. New?’

‘I just picked it up,’ says Andy. ‘Just this second.’ He laughs like a loon, snorting through his nose.

‘Westie,’ Cooper yells. ‘Road trip. We is goin’ to Rye.’

‘We was just coming to your place,’ says Tim, ‘when we saw you waiting here for us. Forward thinking, brother.’

‘We weren’t going to park out the front,’ says Cooper, tapping his temple. ‘We learned our lesson.’

‘We had it all planned. Park around the corner, send Tim in to ask if you could sleep over,’ says Wade. ‘No need to alarm the hippy Oberführer.’

‘We got beer.’ Henry lifts up what looks like the best part of an entire slab.

‘Plenty of room,’ yells Andy, from the driver’s seat. ‘Get in and have a brew.’

This, ladies and gentlemen, is living. Driving in a hot red car down to the beach with your mates, watching the sun come up over the water, drinking beer, talking shit. God, maybe we’ll meet some girls down there. Not city girls, beach girls. Easter holidays are only just over. Not too cold for bikinis, not quite. I’ve wasted my whole entire existence up to now. I’ve done absolutely nothing with it. I’ve just been counting down the months of my life. Sixteen years, totally useless. I live with three women. A big night at my place is when the ABC runs a Jane Austen marathon. God I hate that Bennet chick. Marry him already, spare us all the drama!

Tonight, in contrast, could well be the greatest night of my life. I can almost feel the sand, smell the sea. This would be
a bond we share forever: me and Tim and Andy and Cooper and Wade and Henry. I’d have made it. I’d be one of the guys.

Cooper opens the back seat. On the floor of the car is something the colour of cardboard; it stands out against the white carpet. And then I smell it. Oh. My. God. Pizza. There is pizza in that car. Actual, non-homemade, non-wholemeal pizzas that have never seen a vegetable in their entire cheesy lives. With artificial flavourings and actual meat, from an animal.

‘Westaway,’ Cooper says. ‘Get in. For once in your life, do not be a pussy.’

I have my hand on the door when I feel the strap of my backpack. I’d forgotten about Connie.

Could I ask the guys to swing past the retirement home first? Ah, no. That would be utterly lame. I can fully imagine the copious amount of shit they’d give me.
Westie needs to go see his gramps. What a good boy you are, Westie.
I’ve heard it all before. At primary school, half the class would chant
Westie’s testes aren’t the bestie.
Everyone said my balls were permanently shrunken from the chick pheromones in the air at my place. Once, in year eight, I found out that everyone thought I was lying about Charlotte and Stanzi being sisters. They all thought they were gay, that I had two mums, and they started saying I was gay too. Charlotte had to go see the principal. And if I told the guys about the photo of my great aunt? Even if they didn’t think I was a softcock, which they would, they’d say
Bros before hos.
Andy revs the engine.

‘Brother that light’s not gonna get any greener,’ says Tim. ‘Get in.’

‘Hey, s’cool. Westie’s not interested in beer and cars,’ says Andy. ‘We all know he likes drawing pretty pictures. He’s more a stay-home-and-watch-Oprah-with-the-girls kinda guy.’

‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that.’ Cooper sniggers.

I want to get in the car. I do. But
What if he dies tonight? What if this was the last time you ever saw him?
I will my legs to move but instead I think about Grandpa, how frail he looked and the colours in his skin. About the things he was saying to me, about that tennis ball he threw at me for hours when I was a little kid. I think about what he said to me in the hall.
Every time you see someone, you never know if you’re seeing them for the last time.