‘C’mon, Joycie, we’re starvin’ out here.’ My father sits slouched in his rocker like a piece of cloth carelessly slung. Green shirt blending with the upholstery, his face, ruddy from the beers he’s consumed, standing out against the forest-green.
‘Let me help, Mum,’ I call.
‘No thanks, dear.’
‘She’s alright. You don’t see your old dad much anymore. So, what was it you were saying Theo does?’
Theo’s gone for a walk; said he wanted to stretch out a bit after the long car ride.
‘Dips and bickies are ready, love,’ my mother calls. ‘Take these to your father so I can keep an eye on the plum-pud.’
‘Theo’s a poet,’ I say, walking out to the kitchen.
‘That a fancy way of sayin’ he’s on the dole?’ my father calls over his shoulder.
I knew Theo’s unruly hair and No War T-shirt would draw comments and scoffing. ‘Wait till the boys get here. They’ll love Theo,’ he chuckles into his beer.
The boys are my brothers. Successful in real estate, sporty, popular in town. I’m the proverbial black sheep, home for Christmas first time in five years. ‘Bring someone with you if you like.’ My mum’s thinly veiled plea.
So I’ve brought Theo, with his bare feet and dirty jeans, a lamb to the slaughter house of my father’s merciless tongue.
I bring the plate of crackers and dips to the nest of tables near my father.
‘What’s this shit?’ he says. ‘This stuff’s only for wankers who aren’t really serious about eating.’ He makes a snorting sound and reaches for a biscuit. ‘Bloody chaff. Horse feed, Joycie, that’s what you’ve given me.’
From the kitchen comes my mother’s restrained sigh.
‘Well, here’s the first of them. Clinton and Maree are here, Joycie,’ he calls out. ‘So is Trevor, his Merc just pulled in.’ My mother comes out wiping her hands on her apron, her face working itself into a smile through the grease and sweat.
They all flood in together: my two brothers – broader and bewhiskered; their wives – blonde, slim, pink-lipped; their children – designer-clad, eyes scanning the room for presents. And behind them, Theo, blinking and shaking his head at the crowd in the room he left near-empty, fifteen minutes earlier.
My father’s lusty cry, ‘there you are, Theo,’ has everyone turn as one and stare. Introductions are made. Theo shuffles over and stands by my side.
‘Theo’s a … poet,’ my father says, looking first to Trevor, then Clinton.
‘And I’m a gardener,’ I add. ‘Just a small business. I’ve been with them now for about eight months.’
‘Come and sit down,’ my mother says, and the deflection is complete. Theo’s poet status put on hold.
An exchange of presents takes place. ‘If we’d known you were coming,’ Maree says, ‘We’d have got you both something, but …’ She looks at Clinton, who adds, ‘Yes, we weren’t sure you’d turn up.’
‘That’s okay. I’m not big on Christmas presents.’
My father tears the wrapping paper from a flat, square box. ‘Whoa, look what Clint and Maree got us. It’s that clock you always wanted, Joycie. The one with the different bird calls each hour.’
‘It was you who wanted that, Wal. But it is lovely, isn’t it.’
‘Clint and Maree gave us the chandelier last year.’ My father directs my attention to a cumbersome arrangement of cut-glass shapes, teardrops and diamonds, hanging over the dining table. ‘A bewdy isn’t it. Hey, Joycie, turn on the light for Ange to see.’
‘She’ll see it when it gets dark, Wal.’
My own small offering last year, a framed print of a photo I’d taken in India, the Palace of the Winds, is not on display anywhere. I imagine it tucked away in a drawer, along with old school reports and vaccination certificates.
‘Oh-h, I’ve already got one of these.’ The wail comes from one of the children who’s unwrapped grandma’s and grandpa’s present; a toy train, complete with tracks and signal box.
‘Never mind, we can exchange it. Did you keep the receipt?’ Maree asks. My mother nods.
‘C’n we eschange it now?’ my nephew begs with big cow-eyes.
‘No darling, the shops are all closed. Everyone’s home eating their Christmas dinner.’
‘Which is what we should be doing,’ my mother says. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, things to rescue from the stove.’
‘Can we help?’ the women ask in unison.
‘No, no it’s all under control.’
‘So, how’s the poetic business going, Theo?’ It didn’t take long for my father to bring it up again.
‘Yes, a poet eh,’ Trevor turns, moustache quivering. ‘I don’t suppose you’d make a bundle being a poet.’
‘Um, no, that’s for sure.’
‘Had anything published?’ Clinton joins in.
‘No. Not yet.’
My father makes an annoyed horse sound with his lips.
‘That’s a bit like me saying I’m a … llama breeder but I’ve never seen a llama in my life?’
My father laughs, slaps his thigh. ‘Too right,Clint,’ he says.
‘Ye-es, it’s the eternal question isn’t it.’ I can see Theo building up to something, his hands sliding out of his pockets, embroidering his words with chopping motions and pointing. ‘Can you say you’re a writer, though your words of passion and hope are scrawled on scraps, stored away in dark drawers? I’m more of a performance poet, you see, rather than having them in print.’
So many words from Theo, all at once, momentarily renders my father speechless. But only for a moment. ‘So, could you … cast a few pearls for us now?’
‘What, before so few swine!’ Theo grins, nodding toward the departing figures of Rose and Maree, dragged off by the kids to see the fishpond.
‘Hey, hey, I don’t think we deserve to be insulted. In my own home too,’ my father scowls at Theo.
‘Oh, no insult intended. You know, pearls, swine, just a play on words.’ Theo stuffs his hands in his pockets, looks at his feet.
‘How much that house of Wilson’s fetch, Trev?’ My father turns his back on Theo.
‘Might go and … look at the fishpond too,’ Theo mutters, heading out the door.
My father and brothers continue their conversation about the real-estate slump.
I give my attention to the carpet, tracing the outline of one shape coiled into another. I knew Theo was no match for a well-honed critic like my father. Yet I’d coaxed him to come. Anything to deflect the inevitable criticism I’d receive without him. A warm rush of feeling for him settles over me as I watch him squatting over the fishpond.
My mother seldom voices disapproval of others – after years of exposure to my father’s unabashed intolerance, no doubt. I look at her tired, sweat-streaked face, collar of her Sunday-best poking out the top of her apron. It’s Christmas. I smile, tell her how great everything looks.
First to the table, my father stands surveying the food, lips curving into a flagrant display of utter satisfaction. ‘Ah, just what a man needs.’
Theo comes in looking happier. ‘Very impressive fishpond,’ he says.
My father beams. ‘Made it m’self.’
‘No easy task either, I can tell you. Those rocks … bloody heavy. Water pump …’ He points, then turns back to the food, as if he’s remembered he’s revealing secrets of fishpond design to Theo, the poet.
My mother sits heavily. ‘Don’t think I’m hungry after all that,’ she says.
‘Ah, Joycie, table looks a treat.’ My father places one hand on her shoulder.
Theo nods enthusiastically toward the roast chicken and pork. ‘Fantastic,’ he says, though he seldom eats meat.
My brothers nod in agreement, Maree and Rose murmur their approval.
‘Deserves a champers. So do you, Joycie.’
‘A soda water’ll do me, Wal,’ she rubs her temples.
‘No, no,’ he insists. ‘What, with the table looking so good, whole family here. Theo too,’ he adds graciously.
He’s magnanimous now, presiding over his assembled clan. Family, food and praise have brought out the big man in him.
‘That fizzy drink doesn’t do much for me, Wal.’ My mother’s face is creased and shiny.
‘Come on, Joycie. It’ll do ya good. Trev brought it ‘specially for you.’
She turns her hands up in submission.
‘What about you, Theo. Betcha can’t afford this stuff on your poet’s salary, huh?’ He brandishes the bottle like it’s some glistening emblem of his nobility.
‘Um, I don’t really … um, okay.’ I catch a little grimace from him.
My father wrestles with the bottle, wrenching the cork till it squeals in its airless prison.
When the cork explodes upwards, there’s half a breath before the shattered glass from the chandelier falls like silver rain over the table. Through the cascading slivers I see the stupefied looks on the faces of my brothers, my father’s face red, jowls sagging. And my mother, still wearing her apron, her face crumpled in on itself like a rumpled paper bag.
Author: Keren Heenan is an Australian writer, winner of a number of Australian short story awards, placed 2nd in the Fish prize, and a winner of the Griffith Review Novella Project 2019. She has been published in Australian journals, anthologies, and in anthologies and online in the US, UK and Ireland.
A story that slices clean through bone ... love this, Keren!
What a clever, clever Australian Christmas tale Keren! Really enjoyed it