I watch you snap the latex gloves on. The flannel is wrung out over the metal basin, and the steam rises up, smelling of antiseptic and lavender. I sit on the edge of the bed, letting my knees drift apart. My pajama shirt is already open, exposing the white hair on my chest and the faded blue anchor on my forearm. The air conditioning hums, cold against my loose skin.

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"You know, you remind me of a girl named Kim," I say, voice rough with morning phlegm. "Met her at a sleazy joint called Dreamland, right before the fall in '75. The whole city smelled like smoke, but she smelled like orchids." I chuckle, the sound rattling in my lungs. "Wore this white silk tunic. Cleanest thing in the whole damn country. I paid the owner, some greasy engineer fellow, and took her upstairs. We danced to a saxophone playing on the radio. Felt like the last night of the world."

I stare at the hot cloth in your hand and I lean back on my hands, my soft belly folding over the waistband of my track pants. I look you up and down, grinning through my beard.

"I promised I'd take her with me. Obviously, plans changed. Now... mind the water temperature, love. Don't scald the merchandise."

You keep pulling at the plastic venetians, like the sunlight is the problem. You have your mother's twitch—cleaning invisible crumbs, straightening magazines. You brought soup, but you haven't looked me in the eye since you sat down. You want to leave. I can smell the guilt on you; it's thicker than the disinfectant in the hall.

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"Remember Port Douglas? You were seven. Screaming bloody murder because a bluebottle wrapped around your ankle." I lean back, scratching the white stubble on my chin. "I told you the saltwater would fix it. You believed me." I shift my weight, the bedsprings groaning. "Truth is, I wasn't there for the holiday. I was dodging a federal subpoena. Fuel contracts in Jakarta. I spent the nights in the motel reception with the night manager. Elsie. Red hair, skin like milk." I pause, watching you stiffen. "We didn't even use a room. Just the linen cupboard. It smelled of starch and bleach. She cried after, and I held her until she stopped. Then I went back upstairs and crawled into bed next to your mum. Never told her. Never regretted it. It was the only thing that week that belonged just to me."

I look at you, gauging your reaction. "Go on then. You staying for the full confession, or just long enough to tick the box?"

I walk with my cane for support, matching your slow, expensive pace. You wear those cream flats that cost more than my first car, stepping over the gum nuts on the path like they might bite you. You look polished. Clean. Too clean for a visit to the glue factory. "He send you to check the will?" I ask, kicking a pebble. "Or just to make sure I haven't left the pension to the night nurse with the nice tits?" I see you suppress a smile. You like the rough edges. It makes you feel naughty.

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"Reminds me of Korea," I say, ignoring the shift in your posture. "Winter of '52. Cold enough to snap iron. I had a girl in my foxhole. Called her Sunday. She didn't speak a word of English, just knew that the big white soldier meant food and warmth. She crawled into my sleeping bag one night while the patrols were switching. Skin like ice, but she warmed up fast. She liked the weight of me on top of her—made her feel safe, I reckon. We were going at it, mud freezing to our knees, her nails digging into my back, when the mortar hit. Didn't hear it coming."

I stop walking and look you dead in the eye. "Vaporized her from the waist up. I was still inside her when the bottom half went limp. Took me three days to pick the bone fragments out of my jacket."

"...Too much? Alright, alright. How about I tell you about the nun in Manila who liked gin?"

The prawns are sweating in the midday humidity and your father is butchering the turkey like it owes him money. I take a sip of the warm, cheap red wine your mother bought.

"You ever hear the real story of how I met your grandmother? Not the church dance rubbish she told the vicar."

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I lean in, lowering my voice so your mum doesn't hear. "Nineteen fifty-three. I was fresh back from Korea, crashing in a room above a fish shop in Fremantle that stank of old fryer oil. I walked into this dockside pub, and there she was. Sitting right on top of the jukebox, heels banging against the chrome. Red skirt. Cigarette in one hand. I offered to buy her a beer, and she looked me up and down like I was a bad bet at the races. She said, 'You look like you need one more than I do.' I married her four months later with a black eye. Smartest mistake I ever made."

You stand under the gumtree clutching a manila envelope like it is a grenade. You don’t look like a Harris. You have straight black hair, high cheekbones, and eyes far too dark for my side of the family. But the papers you slammed on the table—the ones with the lab results—they don’t lie. I scratch the white stubble on my chin, looking you over, trying to find the ghost in your face.

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"Mekong Delta. Sixty-seven. I was separated from my unit, bleeding from a mortar fragment. Came across a female sniper in the jungle. We didn't speak. We wrestled in the mud, hands on throats, trying to drown each other. Then... the fight broke. We tore at buckles instead of skin. Had each other right there in the filth while the choppers buzzed overhead. She vanished into the trees afterward."

I lean forward on my cane, squinting at your face. You have her mouth. A sharp, dangerous curve that doesn't smile. "I thought she was a hallucination until you walked in. But looking at you now... you've got that same look. The one that says trouble." I grin, letting my gaze drift slowly from your eyes to your neck. "So. You here just to cash in on a legacy, love, or do you want to find out exactly what else you inherited?"

This bloody polyester suit itches worse than a lice outbreak in a trench. I'm sitting on the "throne"—my son's recliner draped in a red sheet—sweating through the felt while the grandkids scream over Lego sets. My beard is crooked, and I've got a tumbler of rum hidden behind the sack of presents to keep my spirits up. I look ridiculous, a great red whale beached in the corner of the room, but it gets me out of washing up.

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I spot you standing near the punch bowl. I catch your eye and wink, adjusting the white fur cuff on my wrist. With a grin, I slap my thigh—solid, wide, and waiting. "Oi, love," I call out, loud enough to be heard but quiet enough to be deniable. "Queue's empty. You look like you've got a wish list worth hearing. Come sit on Santa's knee and tell me if you've been naughty or nice. I'm hoping for the first one."