My father was a habitual liar. He was also a
habitual drunkard and drug user. Mostly that was what he lied about, but he
also told a lot of ‘tall tales.’ It was a polite way of saying ‘outright
bullshit.’
But for years I always believed in his stories. He
was a liar, but that didn't make him a bad father. Most of his lies were
innocent— at least the ones he told me. And not many kids in my school could
say that they learnt to fire a shotgun before they learnt how to walk. I could,
because dad was cool and irresponsible and too fucked up to care about the
possibility of being shot at by a toddler. We both survived, more or less.
His bullshit stories varied. Sometimes he’d tell us
he’d been drinking with the guitarist from Rush, or he’d run into Matt Le
Tissier at the all night petrol station. I don’t know if I was supposed to be
impressed. Mum wasn't He had different stories for her. She wasn't impressed
by those either. They weren't much more plausible.
Other stories included his time in the army; the
fact he could fly a plane; that he had swum with a half shark-half octopus
creature in the Gulf of Mexico; and that Santa had crashed his sleigh and that’s
why he hadn't brought any presents yet.
The truth was we were a poor family. There was no
sleigh crash. It was a lie. I still don’t know if it wasn't just as much for
his own benefit. Life was good in his madcap fantasy world, and reality could
go fuck itself.
His favourite story to tell was about the treasure
chest he found with Andrew Wilks when they were fourteen. He claimed only he
and Andrew Wilks knew about it, and Andrew Wilks was dead— if he ever existed.
He repeated it so often and he spoke with so much sincerity it had to be a lie.
Dad left when we were in our teens. Mum had
insisted. She wanted me to endure my adolescence without the influence of an
adulterous drunk fantasist who owned a shotgun. Dad seemed to take it quite
well. He told me he’d re-enlisted in the army to help his old buddies out. I
knew it was a lie, and he knew I knew it was a lie.
A few months after that, he died. He was hit by a truck
whilst trying to save a small child. A witness told us his last word was ‘mango.’
No one went to his funeral— not the guitarist from
Rush or Matt Le Tissier or any of his old war buddies. Just me and mum. He had
left a Will, which only asked that he be cremated and his urn buried under a
specific tree within a mango grove.
Mum wanted to ignore this wish, but I persuaded her.
He was still my Dad and for all his bullshit it was still a final and honest
request. He had died a hero. We owed him at least that much, whatever he might
have owed us. So a few weeks after his cremation we took the little ceramic urn
up the hill to the mango grove. It was warm— too warm really. I started
digging. Mum watched, wanting no part in it all. I guess dad and hurt her more
than he’d hurt me. I didn't resent his lies, I pitied him and hoped I’d never
end up like him.
I dug and dug and eventually I hit something. I
thought it was a root, so I dug around it. But there was more solid wood. It wasn't a root and eventually it was just easier to dig the thing out. It turned
out to be a box— a huge chest. I prized it open. Mum was a few feet away
shouting that it was just another one of Dad’s silly little games and the box
would be empty or filled with something useless.
But it wasn't It was filled with treasure. Pinned
to the roof of the chest was a note asking that the profits be equally shared
between us and the mother of Andrew Wilks.
We placed Dad’s urn in the hole and buried him. His request
was fulfilled.
My son doesn't believe me.
