Since finding the journal I had read it over several more times.

The most disturbing element in that unpleasant little book was his assertion that I was possibly a premature reincarnation of his still living self, that I was my father: what did it all mean? That somewhere inside him, the man feared my autonomy would be the death of him?

I thought this staring at the grave of Frances Pearlman.

There were fresh flowers spread out over her grave. This was no misshapen love or empty coffin. I thought about my father, and how one of us was the host, the other the parasite, and I did not know who was who. It seemed to me we could not both survive. It seemed to me that one day, inevitably, one of us had to go. It seemed to me we were going to fight each other for supremacy of the soul. It seemed to me I’d be willing to kill him to survive.

They were creepy thoughts, but I was in a cemetery, after all.

THREE

I

In the newspaper and television reports made immediately after my father’s death, much was made of the years of the early to mid-1990s, the period covering the worst excesses of his so-called insanity. Not only was this epoch notable for the arrival of Anouk Furlong (as she was known then)- a woman who played no small part in provoking his mental collapse- but this was the eventful slab of years that included strip clubs, mental asylums, plastic surgery, arrests, and what occurred when my father tried to hide our house.

Here’s how it all happened:

One day without warning Dad struck a resounding blow to our peaceful squalor: he got a job. He did it for my sake and never stopped reminding me. “I could milk the social welfare system dry if it was just me, but it’s insufficient for two. You’ve driven me into the workforce, Jasper. I’ll never forgive you!”

It was Eddie again who found him work. A year after Dad’s return from Paris, Eddie turned up at our apartment door, which surprised Dad, who’d never had an enduring friendship in all his life, certainly not one that spanned continents. Eddie had left Paris just after we did and had returned to Thailand before moving to Sydney.

Now, eleven years later, he had found Dad employment for the second time. I had no idea if this new gig was with equally murky characters and just as dangerous. Frankly, I didn’t care. I was twelve years old, and for the first time in my life, Dad was out of the apartment. His heavy presence was suddenly lifted from my life, and I felt free to eat my cornflakes without hearing over and over again why man was the worst thing that had ever happened to humanity.

Dad worked all the time, and it wasn’t that his long hours away from me were making me lonely (I was lonely already), but there was something to it that didn’t feel right. Of course, it’s not unusual for fathers to work all the time because they are bringing home the bacon, and it can’t be helped that the bacon lurks in offices and coal mines and building sites, but in our home there was a mystery regarding the location of our bacon. I started thinking about it every day. Where the hell’s our bacon? I thought this because my friends lived in houses, not apartments, and their fridges were always full of food while ours was full of space. Dad worked all day every day, even on weekends, but we didn’t seem to have any more money than when he was unemployed. Not a cent. One day I asked him, “Where’s all the money go?”

He said, “What money?”

I said, “The money you make from your job.”

He said, “I’m saving.”

I said, “For what?”

He said, “It’s a surprise.”

I said, “I hate surprises.”

He said, “You’re too young to hate surprises.”

I said, “All right, I like surprises, but I also like knowing.”

He said, “Well, you can’t have both.”

I said, “I can if you tell me and then I forget it.”

He said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you choose. You can have the surprise, or I can tell you what I’m saving for. It’s up to you.”

That was a killer. In the end, I decided to wait.

While I waited, Eddie let it slip that Dad was managing a strip club in Kings Cross called the Fleshpot. A strip joint? My dad? How could this happen? And as a manager? My dad? How could Eddie have convinced his shady connections to hire Dad for such a position? With responsibilities? My dad? I had to see it for myself.

One night I wound through the Cross, up side streets that were nothing more than long public urinals, past the drunken English tourists, a couple of glassy-eyed junkies, and a skinhead who looked weary of his own persona. As I entered the bar, a middle-aged hooker shouted something about sucking, her croaky voice lending the suggestion a nauseating picture of withered lips. A bouncer grabbed me by the shirt and squeezed the collar until I told him I was here to see my father. He let me in.

My first time in a strip club and I was visiting family.

It wasn’t what I imagined. The strippers were shaking their bodies, unenthused, bobbing up and down to repetitive dance music under glaring spotlights in front of leering muted men in suits. Sure, I felt elated to see so much smooth, pliable flesh in one place, but I wasn’t as aroused as I’d expected. In real life, almost naked women straddling poles just isn’t as sexy as you’d think.

I spotted Dad yelling into the phone behind the bar. As I walked over, he sent a frown to intercept me.

“What are you doing here, Jasper?”

“Just looking around.”

“Like what you see?”

“I’ve seen better.”

“In your dreams.”

“No, on video.”

“Well you can’t stay in here. You’re underage.”

“What do you actually do here?” I asked.

He showed me. It wasn’t easy. There was the running of the bar, and while there were naked women floating in front of it, it had to be run just like a regular bar. He chose the women too; they came and auditioned for him. As if he knew anything about dancing! Or women! And how could he stand it, all those supple sexual creatures bending and flaunting their haunting slopes and curves day in, day out? The life force is like a hot potato, and while impure thoughts may make you burn in hell for all eternity once you die, here in life what gets you baked and fried is your inability to act on them.

Of course, I don’t know everything. Maybe he indulged his lecherous fantasies. Maybe he fucked every dancer there. I can’t picture it, but then, what son could?

So working in this lovely den of sin was how he chose to support his family- me- and save. But for what? To help stave off my curiosity, Dad broke into his bank account to buy me a little present: four bloated fish in a grubby little tank. They were like goldfish, only black. They survived in our apartment just three days. Apparently they died from overfeeding. Apparently I overfed them. Apparently fish are terrible gluttons with absolutely no self-control who just don’t know when they’ve had enough and will stuff themselves to death with those innocuous little beige flakes imaginatively labeled “fish food.”

Dad didn’t join me in mourning their passing. He was too busy with his strippers. For a man who had spent the majority of his working life not working, he was really working himself to the bone. It turned out I had to wait more than a year to find out what he was saving for. Sometimes it drove me crazy wondering, but I can be tremendously patient when I think the reward might be worth the wait.

It wasn’t worth the wait. Really, it wasn’t.

I was thirteen when I came home one day to see my father holding up a large glossy photograph of an ear. This, he explained, was what he’d been saving for. An ear. A new ear to replace the one that had been scarred in the fire that consumed his town and family. He was going to a plastic surgeon to undeform himself. This is what we’d been sacrificing for? What a letdown. There’s nothing fun about a skin graft.