A Reason to Exist

Chapter 12

The gallery door dinged when I entered. Dad greeted me with his trademark black Oakley glasses, a smile and a hug. 'How was school?' he asked.

'Fine,' I said. 'What's for dinner? Are we eating out? Is Sandra coming?' I felt anxious about their big news.

'Nah, we're eating at home. We're having lamb kofta.' Dad looked at his watch. 'I'm expecting Rex any minute,' he said. 'After I've spoken to him, we can go.'

'Is he still being an asshole?'

'He's the only artist who makes me any money.'

'I can sit out the back when he comes. I'll find something to eat. You got anything?'

'There's Kingston biscuits in the tin. Put the kettle on.'

The kitchenette was small and cramped. There were six paintings stacked against one of the end cupboards. I switched the kettle on and cleared some hardcover books to the side of the table.

Dad leant in the doorway with his arms crossed. 'How's Tate?'

'Good,' I said.

'I'm disappointed he's cancelled staying over again. What's going on?' I felt a dislocated sadness. I opened up the biscuit tin and took out two biscuits. 'There's only two left,' I said. 'Do you want one?'

'You have them,' dad said. I sat down at the table and took the top off the biscuit and ate the chocolate cream centre first.

'It's against the court orders,' dad said with a sigh. 'Jesus, I'm only authorised to have you kids two weekends a month. This is the third time he's cancelled. I never see him anymore. He'll forget what I look like.'

'He's got the comp tomorrow.'

'There's always something.'

'He likes it,' I said, unsure where this protectiveness for my brother was coming from.

'I could take him.'

'Ha, no way. Mum wouldn't miss it in a million years. He's gotten the role of Bert in Mary Poppins in the end of year concert.'

'The sidewalk chalk-drawing guy?'

'Yep.'

'That's great,' dad said. Then a serious look came across his face, 'Sorry, I shouldn't burden you with these things,' he said. 'It's just that I miss him.'

'I know,' I said, my torn emotions on spin cycle. My parents' divorce always felt like a torture chamber, my limbs pulled in different directions. Lately, though, it had become worse. Since Sandra started living with dad, mum stopped using his name altogether. I heard her refer to him as 'the kids' sperm donor' to her friend Lucy when she commented about how amazing it was that he could afford a hybrid car when he paid the minimum child support.

The gallery door swung open. Dad's shoulders tensed upwards. 'Do your homework,' he said, before walking out into the gallery.

'Hey, mate,' I heard dad say with forced friendliness.

'I've got a bone to pick with you.' It was Rex's voice, bold and colourful like his paintings. 'I've just been to the bank. I've only got five thousand in the account.'

'We spoke about this,' dad said. 'You wanted me to drip feed the money, remember? You told me to pay it into your bank monthly. It's for your own good. So you don't blow it all at once.'

'I didn't agree to that. We just discussed it.'

'I thought it was what you wanted. It sounded like a sensible idea to me.' There was an awkward silence. I could hear Rex's footsteps walking around the gallery.

'There's a cousin of mine in Queensland who needs help. He's like a brother,' Rex's voice booms rather than speaks.

'There's always a cousin or a brother of yours ...'

'You can't withhold my money.'

'You're always coming to me for loans for bills and groceries. When you have a show, you make a lot of money and within a month the money's all gone. It can't go on like this, remember? We talked about it. You asked me to help you.'

'You can help me by giving me my bloody money.'

'What about ten grand a month for six months? We can try it that way, see how it goes. That's plenty to get you through each month. You could even try saving. If that works okay the rest can be paid in a lump sum. It'll help you get through the year until your next show.'

'Well maybe there'll be no next show with you. I can take my work elsewhere.' My stomach tightened. Rex was the only artist who made dad any money. Even though the guy was an asshole, dad put up with him because his shows often sell out before they even open.

Rex had been with about six other art dealers before dad. They all got rid of him because he's so difficult. He's got a bad reputation in the art world. No one wants to work with him, even though his paintings sell for tens of thousands. That's how dad ended up with him after only owning the gallery for two years. It was lucky. Or unlucky.

'Listen, Rex, my job is to look after you. The National Gallery just bought three works for their collection. I bent over backwards to make that happen, you know I did. I buy your art materials, for goodness sake. You're free to look around for other representation, but you know you won't get that kind of support with the big galleries.' Dad was calling Rex's bluff. He could gamble just as well as Rex does. 'If you insist on the lump sum payment, I'll do it. But don't come crying to me for money to pay your car registration when it's all gone. You understand? I'm not giving you any more loans. I'm fed up. You never pay me back.'

'You get plenty of commission when you sell my work. Don't give me your privileged entitlement shit,' Rex said. I cringed. I leant my head against the wall and closed my eyes, feeling dad's exasperation on the other side of the wall.

'I'm the biggest advocate of your work,' dad said. 'I believe in your work. I'll give you the money as you wish. Prove me wrong.'

'I will.'

'Good.'

'Good.' It was a childish end to an adult discussion. I heard Rex walk out the door. I waited a while before I went out to see how dad was.

'Don't worry, sweetheart. I've heard all that before,' dad said. He put on the same brave face I used to see when mum treated him poorly. It's this repeating pattern in his life, being battered by those he tries to treat the best.

'You know what the irony is?' dad asked me, his thumb hooked through his belt loop. 'He gambles it all away looking for a big win. You know what his big win is? His paintings. If he paints something good it sells for forty grand. He can make winnings out of his own hands. There's no odds against his work. It drives me insane.' Dad threw his arms up in the air as though he was praying to the heavens for patience.