Bloodhound (8 page)

Now, nearly twenty years later, I called and asked him to meet my sister and me for coffee. I wanted to talk about some new information that had come to us about Mama, I said, and about what happened around the time we were conceived and born.

At first he agreed. A couple of days later he rang to cancel. He wanted to know more about what I had found, and reluctantly I told him.

‘Why do you want to bring all of these things up so many years later? Will it change anything?' he asked.

I didn't even know if I'd been born when he began his relationship with Mama, I replied.

He said he didn't remember.

‘Wouldn't you remember if she had a baby or not?'

We talked about what he remembered and didn't remember, and then I asked him straight if he'd ever wondered whether he was the father of me or my sister. Knowing, of course, that he'd had the conversation with my sister years ago.

‘I'm not ready to consider these things,' he told me.

‘How old are you now?' I asked coolly.

‘Eighty-three.'

‘And when exactly do you think you will be ready?'

He said he would ring again soon to arrange a meeting.

I wanted nothing from him, I said—just a story.

When you decide to do something, my sister told me, no matter if I want to know something or not, I have to know it. Everything you do affects me.

She was right. It was true and inevitable. But how could I be my mother's child from an adulterous relationship and make no waves in my sister's life? And what was the alternative: should I not pursue the questions about who I was because someone else preferred not to know?

My sister had no doubts about who her father was. Her husband brought out pictures of Dad the next time we were all at their place and compared them to his wife's face. They had no need to ask anything further. If my assumption was right and she thought that my fantasy would be shattered by the DNA test, she must have been shocked at the result. No more, she told me. You're going too fast for me.

A few days later old Mr Lederman called again. This time he said he didn't want to meet me, and that he was uncomfortable and would only talk to me on the phone.

He was
uncomfortable
.

I thought of the months I spent caring for Mama as she died. She wanted to see Mr Lederman. They'd fallen out months earlier, when Dad left home to live with his girlfriend and didn't contribute to my sister's upkeep. She was a full-time student, and Mama was sick and couldn't work. Mama asked Mr Lederman to approach Dad's boss to see if some of his wages could go directly towards supporting my sister. Mr Lederman refused. He wasn't ready for his relationship with Mama to be that public. They argued and she asked him to leave the house.

When I heard her ask for him again during a conversation with Bern, there was a joke about whether she'd ever taken anyone's husband, and she said she'd never stolen one but had borrowed a few. Such openness was rare for Mama. It may only have been possible because she was talking to Bern, and maybe the morphine had lowered her guard.

Bern told Mr Lederman that Mama was asking for him, but he never came to see her. He arrived in the evening of the day of her funeral, at the
minyan
, the gathering in the house of the deceased at which you recite prayers for the dead. She was long past needing him. I wonder now what she'd wanted to say.

Here he was on the end of a phone line, not a silver fox shining in his white tennis gear, but a rather fearful old man in the face of my questions.

I asked him if he remembered how Mama was in those early years in Australia after the war: an orphan, a displaced person; poor, uneducated, unhappy. Was she depressed?

He had no idea. They didn't talk about personal things. He was only her partner in a minor business transaction.

But, I said gently, she loved you.

‘Who told you that?'

She did.

‘Lots of people liked me, I hope.'

But you were her lover.

‘No, I was not. We were just business partners.'

Mama, Mama, how sad I felt then. That he denied you after all those years. That he'd forgotten his own conversations with me years before, when he'd asked what Mama had told us about him. That he'd forgotten my seeing him with Mama in her dressing gown that afternoon years earlier.

Bern remembered that he'd been a fixture in Mama's life from the time she met Mama at the kindergarten which her son and my sister attended, and that she herself had interrupted them one afternoon when she had dropped in at our house unannounced.
Business partners
. How cowardly.

I said goodbye to Mr Lederman, telling him that Mama had said that if we ever needed anything, he would be there to help us.

‘Yes, of course.'

But, I thought, not for this. I hung up the phone and sat at the bay window, staring at the leaves falling in the wind. It was almost winter out there, and it felt like it.

When I told my sister about the conversation, she asked me what I'd really expected of a man who refused to visit Mama as she lay dying. He'd told my sister afterwards that at the time he hadn't believed Mama was so sick.

Years later I found the cemetery records for Mr and Mrs Lederman. She died seven years after my call to him, and he died eleven months after her. They were buried side by side.

He had eleven months to get in touch with me after his wife was safely out of the picture, if that was why he'd been so coy and untruthful with me. But he never did. Nor was there a letter to be opened after his death. Maybe he was too sick or demented to arrange such a thing.

Mr Lederman left me no note and neither did Max. I was beginning to doubt my mother's taste in men.

6

Who's going to pay?

DAD pointed at the dishes spread across the lunch table, shaking his head. There were salads and dips, and smoked salmon with capers, and cream cheese and bagels, and fruit and cakes.

‘I was brought up by a herring and a couple of onions,' he announced.

Later I repeated his strange syntax to my sister, unable to control my laughter. This explains a lot, I said through my tears. Maybe my real father was a herring and a couple of onions, too?

I was on my own in this. My heightened hysteria found meaning in the slightest of conversational transactions. Everything was possibly something when there was almost nothing to go on.

10 June 1999

The absurdity of waiting for the nod from a stranger in a northern backwater before I could continue my pursuit did not escape me. I could have progressed on another tack by getting a sample from Dad and confirming if either my sister or I was his issue, as they say.

Some years ago, she said, my sister had asked Dad if he'd ever considered that he might not be our father. I'm not sure why she did this, but it may have been after a phone call or visit from one of Mama's old friends. Dad was flabbergasted, she said. He'd never considered such a thing and found it ridiculous.

I wondered how much denial there might have been in Dad's response. Mama had told me how desperate to be a father he'd become by the time I was born. They'd fought each time her period arrived. Such was the urgency of his need, perhaps he banished all doubts he might have had about my blondness and curly hair and blue eyes.

Dad was the sole survivor from his family. His marriage to Mama was unhappy. At least he had two daughters to boast about and to assuage his manly pride.

Now we knew he couldn't be the biological father of both of us. And that he might not be the father of either. Telling him and testing him might leave him without any relatives—save for his devoted second wife, her daughter and son-in-law, and their two sons, who seemed to make him happy. Would it be right to do such a thing?

If Alan agreed to be tested, and proved to be my half-brother through Max, the story of Mr Lederman and Mama and Dad belonged to my sister. It would be hers to pursue if she chose to. I hoped Alan would agree.

A few weeks later the phone rang seconds before I was about to leave the house. Beeps indicated an interstate call; they stopped, and I said hello. Silence. I said hello again.

It's Alan from Kuranda, he said.

Ah, Alan, thanks so much for calling me, but give me your number and I'll call you back.

No, he said, don't worry. I'm in a public phone box. I don't have a phone or any electricity.

So ring me again reverse charges.

No, really, he said. If we keep arguing about who's going to pay…

And then he said: You may be my sister, so I can spend a few dollars on you after nearly fifty years.

This seemed to be a good beginning. It was tinged with warmth and acceptance. But I had been wrong about the warmth of men many times before.

I thanked him for responding to what must have been a strange letter to receive.

Why wouldn't someone respond? he said.

He'd love to meet me, he continued, but he wouldn't be coming to Melbourne in the near future.

I'd come up there, I replied. When would be convenient?

Anytime—just write to tell him.

Mid-July might be a good time. I'd stay in a motel in Kuranda and he could come in to find me.

He said that he'd listened to me on the radio and read my newspaper column and had thought what a clever girl I was.
Girl
. Maybe he used that word because I was becoming his little sister.
Clever girl
. I liked that. I needed that. How did this stranger know?

I told him how kind his family had been: even his older cousin had been open and had sent me the photo of Max. Did the cousin know this story? Alan asked. I hesitated, and in the hesitation he said: It's okay if he does.

I said yes, he knew, but I hadn't spoken to him for months and all of the recent contact was with Alan's younger cousin. I said that I knew the older cousin didn't get on with Max, and Alan said he didn't get on with a lot of people.