Chapters (14)
Mother had to learn her poems off by heart because her hands shook too much to hold the paper. When she finally stood up to read, she reeled slightly. But then she cleared her voice and looked straight out at the audience. ‘This first poem,’ she said, ‘is called “Just My Type”.’
Do you remember her voice, Ornella? It wasn’t like anyone else’s—not like you imagine a poet’s, that’s for sure. It wasn’t like cream, or honey, or liquid gold. It was like a high-quality rasp—it filed away your defences. And her poem, when she began reciting, was all on the ascent—a crescendo of feeling, and rhythm, and momentum, and then a sudden capsizing that dropped the audience and left them momentarily hanging, all those fluttering, hapless poets Papa immediately resented for their educations and vocabularies. When she finished, Mother made a mock-bow, and the audience clapped, and, after several more drinks and congratulations and offers of other reading opportunities, Papa steered her to a taxicab.
He took her home that night to her flat in East Melbourne and put her under the covers of her unmade bed. She reached out to undo his trousers, but he avoided her and went instead to inspect her kitchen. There was half a pint of off milk in her refrigerator and a can of baked beans in the cupboard. Mousetraps littered the floor. Papa poured the milk down the sink and washed out the bottle. Then he walked the five miles back to Coburg.
REAL ESTATE
Papa had been part of your family for two years and you’d got used to him. He had become the quintessential Italian son, and he’d started bringing Veda to family lunches. Veda had a skinny chest like a griddle pan. She lived on custard and butter-beans and cigarettes, Papa says; she ate her peas one by one. Nonna must’ve desperately wanted to feed her.
Nonno wiped his big grey moustache with his napkin and nodded. You could see his singlet through his shirt. Mother smoked and wasn’t paying attention. Nonna pursed her lips and ladled seconds onto plates.
They were very boring. They were talking real estate.
‘Where exactly is it, this place, Joseph?’ said Nonno.
‘Acland Street. St Kilda. Right near the seaside. Luna Park.’
Nonna poured an inch of grappa into her husband’s black coffee. ‘You cook Italian food, Joseph?’ she said.
Papa nodded again and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, what else? Nonna beamed. Ornella scowled. Mother looked wistfully into the deepening dark of the garden.