Mother

“Somewhere, a door opens.”

My mother always said, where one door shuts, another opens.

She always said, the world is your oyster.

She always said, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

You wouldn’t think my mother was given to platitudes. She was brought up in one of those old traveling shows, an oddball assortment of circus freaks and burlesque performers and those weird skinny pasty boys with long wavy hair and names like Jackson and Carter and Conor who could juggle or swallow knives or throw them – just couldn’t make a living off of it. She travelled with these guys, day in, day out, for the better part of a year. She’d sleep on friends’ couches in between. It was an honest living, she said, living true to yourself. So she’d swallow swords and jump through burning hoops and conjure pigeons out of thin air and at the end of it, she said, she was happy so she didn’t mind always being on the road, eating those weird lentil stews with her patchouli-smelling friends and having no credit rating. Then, one day, she met my father – he was in the audience, a local property developer, not given to knives and swords and fireplay. It was an outing with a client. He took her away from the show and that was that - no more performing, no more juggling. Just the platitudes and sayings remained. Where one door shuts, another opens. I think she missed the show life. But at least now she had a permanent home. She always said, home is where the heart is.

Many years later, that performing troupe found a permanent base not so far from where we were living at the time. It was an old, dusty, dilapidated Victorian manor that had been converted into a theatre where all the unpopular shows could go and find residency. Even after Jackson and Carter and Conor spent several weeks doing up the place, it was still a pile of shit. There was some kind of sordid history behind that building, some kind of historic, gross departure from normative behavior that led to its lack of popularity on the market. At least, that’s what my father said. He said that it was a wonder that a group of circus freaks could afford a place like that, even with its low desirability and associated low cost. Mother said, where there’s a will, there’s a way. She kept in touch with her former friends from the show. She loved them. Father hated them. I think he felt they were beneath him, even when they were soaring on the trapeze, performing superhuman feats of balance and agility high in the sky, near where the doves would fly and eventually die because they were too disoriented to find a window. Give me freedom or give me death.

“Somewhere, a door opens.”

She was trying to comfort me. Again.

You could say I amalgamated their unique outlooks. I always had Mother’s passion. I thought, maybe I could be a playwright, get involved in some of that creative stuff, but make some money off it. Father told me, and I guess it turned out true, that there was no money in it. I’d had a few shows played, don’t get me wrong. In fact, people liked what I wrote. But I never made any money off it. Enough to pay the bills and to scrape by, albeit barely. I didn’t mind, because I was happy. Or was I? I was complaining that I’d been rejected again, that I wasn’t making enough to truly expand and spread my wings and show the world what I could do. Unleash my literary onslaught upon an appreciative world. As long as you’re doing what you love, Mother said. I shouldn’t have kept selling all my work to that dilapidated playhouse, to her former friends who had no idea how to make serious money. According to Father. He wanted me to develop real estate. It was my fault that my portfolio only showed second-rate plays that performed in a crappy little theatre. This was why I couldn’t break it with the big time publishers and agents. Father said, get a real job. Mother said, as long as you’re happy. I don’t think I was.

Then, she died.

It wasn’t all of a sudden. I wasn’t so much devastated as confused. She disappeared one day, and then the police told me over cups of instant coffee in Styrofoam cups – mother hated those, the cups that is, because they weren’t sustainable – that when someone is missing for a long enough period of time, they reach a level of confidence that the person is deceased. A long time passed. The coroner was reasonably confident. Actually, it caused a bit of a sensation. There was a bit of interest from the general public. Police never said it to me in the exact words, but they thought that he did it. My father was tried and cleared.

The media said, the home was unhappy.

They said, he had mounting debt problems.

They said, he roughed her up. Maybe he disappeared her.

I never saw any signs of this. In fact, I never remember my father raising his voice once. He was never frustrated, or angry, or in a bad mood – just dismissive. Mother was the passionate one. In fact, she was the one who’d get angry. She’d get angry at his dismissive nature, at the way he spoke so callously and cruelly about the people she used to work with at the show. She’d say, you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Then, father died. The funny thing – well, not that funny, but I can say that because it was my father and not anyone else’s that I know of – was that he died at that same theatre Mother’s former friends had taken over. He showed up to collect some of her old belongings that they’d found, and he slipped off an old railing and fell. It just gave way. He always did say that the place was falling apart, that it just needed a real proprietor to do up the place, flip the old shit chandeliers that collect flies and moths and bees that never found their way back to their queen, flip the whole place on the market for ten, maybe twenty times the original price. Ironic that he should fall victim to the same non-compliant building issues he’d always mocked. Ironic that he should fall and snap his neck in two places – they’d always said he was headstrong.

There was no foul play involved, the police said, over more cups of instant coffee, in the same Styrofoam cups. Mother didn’t hate instant coffee – it did the job, she’d say. Unfortunately, the police said, some of these old buildings just needed someone to come and do up the place, fix all its flaws and risks and hazards. I told them I knew this, because father had said so. Condolences, they said.

One day, I was sitting at my desk. It was an old slab of timber that mother had loved, real character and real personality behind it, something that helped her with her creative output. After I was born, and Father was always at property showings and putting through development plans and meeting with architects, it became her sanctuary. It reminded her of her friends. I was sitting at this desk and looking at a cheque – for my latest work, admittedly not my best, but I had thought that it might command a little more payment for the length of time it took me. I’d calculated that it took me about five months to write, which made me the equivalent money of working two weeks on the national median wage. Median, not average. Father always said, do the math. I was upset, I guess – but there was nobody around to console me or tell me that it was okay because I was doing what I loved.

The call came and I didn’t notice, at first, because I was staring at the cheque and wondering about whether I was truly happy with being a shit writer nobody would touch, except for those circus freaks at the shit dilapidated theatre with the sordid history. The call came and it almost rung out on this old phone with the dials you have to rotate. Father hated the thing, but my mother had said that it was a little slice of the old world. It had history, she said. He put up with it.

Nobody spoke for a long time, and I thought that maybe it was a call from somewhere in India, that I was in a queue with several hundreds of others who’d hang up as soon as they heard the accent. I made up my mind to be the one who’d at least say, hey, how are you? Say, I know it’s tough out there, hey buddy, it’s tough for me too. Then I thought that maybe it was a media researcher, one of those fresh journo graduates who join a local paper with dreams of changing the world but end up following a lead about a lost dog that found its own way back home after years, or maybe a Where Are They Now? piece about the kid who lost their mother in suspicious circumstances, probably to the father, and then the father died in a freak accident that snapped his neck and represented forces beyond this world exacting karma and enacting balance in the world. Then I thought, maybe it’s God, calling to sell me salvation and offer my a chance to do what I loved and have all the money and all the accolades but enjoy a life of giving and peace and tranquil. Then, someone spoke.

“Hey, buddy. It’s me.”

It was Jackson. One of mother’s former friends. Last time I saw him, he’d replaced his long hair with one of those top knot things, a cossack’s haircut, I think they’re called.

I didn’t respond to this but he kept talking anyway.

“Are you still there? Look, we could use a hand. Building inspectors are coming by next week. Boss thinks there might be some curve balls. Thought you could you know, give us an expert opinion, buddy. Fuck, are you there? Feel like I’m talking to myself. Hey, is this awkard? Sorry buddy, we just can’t afford anyone else.”

I wasn’t completely honest with you. I don’t make enough from writing to pay the bills. I showed you the math. So, I moonlight in property development. I follow in father’s footsteps, not out of passion, but out of necessity. Or is it? I enjoy having money. Chip off the old block, they’d say.

“Look, just come by when you can. Some of your ma’s stuff is still here. Needs collecting anyway.”

I thought, why not?

I thought, what’s stopping me?

I thought, what’s the worst that could happen?

So I went to the theatre. On the outside, it was just as shit and dilapidated and depressing as I’d remembered. No wonder Father saw a goldmine of opportunity here. It sat on a big lot, so maybe someone with the wherewithal – and by that, I mean, resources – could take over the place and tear it down, maybe keep the façade because people love that kind of shit, but do it up properly. Bit of spruce, bit of fresh paint, get some proposals past the local council, you’ve got yourself a moneymaker. These circus freaks, as Father said, wouldn’t know a dollar if it came up and bit them in the ass. Couldn’t organize a fuck in a brothel, he’d say.

Jackson was waiting to meet me, Jackson with his old Russian peasant’s haircut, considerable grays showing despite the tight knot that kind of blends colours together. The stress of not having money, not having enough, of working in a dying art – that’d gray anyone’s hair.

“Hey, buddy. Glad you could make it,” Jackson said. “Come on through. Probably haven’t been here since your old man died.”

“Sorry,” Jackson was saying, “didn’t mean to bring up a sore spot.”

Actually, I told him, I haven’t visited since I came here with my Mother, years ago. Didn’t see the point.

“Well, that’s just fine. You can pick up her old stuff. There’s some cool shit there, probably flip it for something”.

Now we were talking. A lot of people don’t realise, but old antiques shops often carry little heritage pieces and curios that are worth a lot of money – just have to find the right buyers. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. A misprint on the lowliest of coins could fetch thousands of dollars, sold through the right channels. Stamps, paintings of foreigners that were no longer considered tasteful, Nazi memorabilia. Some people never let go of this stuff. Their passion, so to speak.

The inside of the theatre was better than I remember. I guess the guys had fixed up a bunch of the problems. Jackson said, the water was even running. The hot water came on instantly, because they’d installed gas. Moving up in the world.

I looked around with a notebook, and made little scribbles. He assumed that I was noting down problems to be fixed, blockers that would need to be resolved before the inspectors came by. Truth be told, I was writing down development opportunities. This room here, where the performers go to have quiet time and a retreat from the pressures of baring themselves for strangers day in, day out – this room would be a great kids’ room. First child, first house, young family, close to the office – but the office would be the master bedroom.

“Sorry the boss couldn’t be here,” Jackson was saying, “we mixed up the days.”

These guys couldn’t organize a fuck in a brothel. I told him it was fine, actually – the building looked great.

“Her stuff is here.”

They’d collected it in a pile. There was quite a lot of stuff. I never really knew what Mother did in the show. I knew she could juggle knives and jump through flaming hoops and all that – but she wasn’t a performer. You are the product of your closest friends. She would have picked up all these skills. Maybe she even ran the joint, for a bit, before my father took her away to a better life.

“Hey, buddy, listen. Can you call me after you’re done? I gotta go meet this girl for dinner. There’s no lock or anything.”

Girls always like the kooky dudes. The ones who, when you ask them if they have a spare smoke, they reply, I don’t smoke. That is, not cigarettes, anyway. The ones who wear these obscure band shirts that nobody has ever heard of but gives them such authority when you’re traipsing down a back alley of some hippy commune, shoeless, guitar in hand, kind of disgusting, actually. But girls love it.

“Kinda sucks running this place by yourself.”

I barely notice this last thing he says before he’s gone, just me left there in this old room with this old pile of shit that belonged to my mother. I think I can see some old paintings there. This stuff goes for a steal at antiques shops, but you can drum up some fake history for a piece like this – easy when you’re a writer - and throw it online, and someone’s going to be there on the other side to give you several hundred bucks because you told them it was valuable. God bless the information highway. You dictate the information.

It’s odd how quiet the place is once Jackson is gone. It’s all right, because this gives me a chance to open every cupboard and look for signs of structural damage. Little giveaways like cracks under heavily trafficked areas, or where the skirting is peeling away from the walls from building movement. Timber swells in the heat, and contracts in the cold. I’m writing down all the ways this building will fail inspection, because once it’s condemned there could be the best little listing. Only, this building won’t make it to a listing.

This building will be condemned.

This building will be my next purchase.

I organized the inspectors, because I know the value of this property. Always know the true value of what you’re buying.

Coming out to the second floor landing, I look across the entrance hall at the big, shitty old chandelier. It’s a grand chandelier – in the old style, the original holders still in their place, candles long since replaced by lamp shades. You can see the dead bugs inside it. I chuckle at this, because nobody will ever need to open them up painstakingly and vacuum or dust or wipe – everything will be turned into a pile of wood and glass and asbestos. The value of this building is not within the walls. The value of this building is not in its heritage. The value of this building most certainly isn’t in its current residents. One man’s trash, another man’s treasure.

I think I hear footsteps.

It can’t be Jackson. I look out the window and his weird little green Oldsmobile is gone. An outdated car for an outdated guy. Even so, some collectors will pay top dollar for those old pieces of shit. I haven’t been completely honest. I make a little bit of money in property, but what I truly excel at is using words to make money. You can make up an entire history for a car – I’m very good at this – and suddenly some poor old soul in middle Milwaukee is reminded of his first tryst with his highschool sweetheart and decides to buy the thing for a pretty dime, just because you used sentimental language and needed a quick several thousand dollars to put a new washer in that other property you just bought to rent out to holidaying Japanese couples. They love to clean, love to maintain a clean space, which means minimal fucking around before you rent it out to the next one. Know your market.

Somewhere, a door opens.

This is odd, because I thought the theatre was empty. Maybe one of Jackson’s little freak buddies is still hanging around, not like they’d have anywhere to go. They don’t have the money to go out. That’s what bugs me. These are the weird wacky guys that always have an interesting story to tell at a party, but they’ll never bring their own alcohol, they’ll always ask if they can use your phone. I hate that. Have something to show for yourself.

“Hello, darling.”

Now, that’s odd. That sounds for all the world like my Mother’s voice, but that can’t be, because the police are most certainly, very certainly reasonably confident that she is dead.

I walk back over to the railing and strain to hear. Surprising how dark this place is once the sun has set. Odd, that chandelier would be the perfect illumination, a moment like this. The new building will definitely have automatic lights. A mod con, but smart homes can fetch much more these days from some young groom trying to impress the bride’s family. He’ll be in debt for his whole life to pay it off.

I strain in the darkness. Who’s there?

“You’ve aged.”

It’s my mother’s voice. I can’t see anyone down there. I lean over the railing and still can’t see anything. Goddamn, it’s dark. Then, I hear the voice again, somewhere below.

My mother says, home is where the heart is.

And the railing gives way.