Huia Short Stories 9

by Anahera Gildea

  Then I throw up all over the cop’s shiny black shoes, and they take me home to Ma.

  Ma

  My name is Tai Whareoka: I’m named after my dad. He died when I was six, so Ma brought up me and my brothers, Thomas and Frank, on her own. She made sure my brothers got a good education, and now they own their own businesses. Thomas is a chef and Frank has a computer shop. Ma is really proud of them, and talks about ‘my boys’ all the time.

  In the kiwifruit season Ma runs a gang that picks fruit every day, seven days a week, and then after that they prune the vines and clean them out, ready for the next season. In the past, during the holidays, Thomas, Frank and me have worked for her, and it’s hard going. Ma doesn’t believe in being lazy, drinking or smoking: she’s real strict about that. Those are her rules, and anyone who messes with her better watch out.

  The lights are on as the police car pulls up outside the house. I don’t want to get out, and even the big cop with the smelly shoes looks better than what I know is waiting for me.

  We walk up the path and the front door opens and Ma stands there, blocking the light, her arms folded. I know I’m dead.

  The policeman pushes me forward. ‘Is this your son?’ he asks.

  Ma stares at me as though she’s not quite sure whether I am or not, and for one hopeful second, I think she might disown me and I will be put up for adoption. But she smiles and says ‘Thank you officers for bringing him home.’ I squeeze past and make for my bedroom and safety, but stop when I hear the cops talking and try to hear what they are saying. I hear my mother say ‘I’ll make sure he gives you no more trouble,’ and shut the door.

  She’s a big lady but very light on her feet. I make a beeline for my room but Ma is right behind me, and before I know it, I’m sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea in front of me. And a chocolate biscuit.

  Confession

  Ma sits opposite and I see she doesn’t have a cup of tea. Or a biscuit. That’s bad because if there’s one thing she loves, it’s her cup of tea and biscuits. I take a bite. It’s chocolate chip, my favourite, but right now it tastes like sawdust.

  Ma takes a big breath, then lets it out, and the curtains move on the other side of the room. ‘Now, tell me what happened,’ she says, and her voice is soft.

  There is no lying to my mother. I tell her everything, even about spewing over the cop’s shoes. I explain about wanting to be a Red Mamba and about Pete, Henry, Puke and the gun blowing off Mr Singh’s turban, and staying with him while the others ran.

  ‘I’m sorry Ma,’ I say at the end, and then feel really sick because when I look up, she’s crying. There is no noise, but tears spill down her cheeks and onto her arms. There is a tidal wave of tears, and she doesn’t wipe them away, just lets them flow. Ma never cries, not even when Thomas and Frank left home.

  I wait to hear what my punishment will be – no TV or no pocket money, or that I’m grounded until Christmas (this is March). But she says nothing, just lets the tears fall and looks at me. My nerves can’t stand it.

  ‘Are you going to clobber me?’ I say. Ma has never hit any of us, but tonight might be an exception.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘but you’ve disappointed me.’ The only words I can think of are ‘I’m sorry,’ so I say them again. They sound hollow and inadequate.

  Biting into my biscuit and taking a slurp of tea, I realise Ma hasn’t put sugar in it. I hate tea without sugar, but I shut up and drink it anyway. We sit for a while and the tears dry on her face, but she doesn’t say a word. I get it – it’s the silent treatment. ‘Well, I can put up with that if it’s the worst she can think of,’ I say to myself.

  Eventually she stands up, takes my cup and saucer and rinses them in the sink. She walks behind me and suddenly I’m on the floor, my backside numb from falling off the chair.

  ‘Thought you weren’t going to whack me,’ I whine, looking up at her.

  ‘I lied,’ says Ma, and slams the door shut behind her.

  Punishment

  The next few days are very quiet in our house. I go to school but Pete avoids talking to me. I’m really pissed off at him and the stupid gang, and don’t care if I never speak to him or the twins again.

  We have a maths test and an English exam. I’m not good at maths but scrape through in English, and Mr Sparks, our teacher, makes a good comment about me to the class. Pete sits behind me and hisses ‘teacher’s pet,’ but I ignore him and feel pleased with myself.

  I tell Ma when I go home, and think maybe she’ll say we can have pizza for dinner as a treat. She just smiles, and instead of pizza, we have a pasta thing with broccoli in it. I hate pasta and especially broccoli, and Ma knows it. I grit my teeth and eat it anyway. Maybe this is my punishment – horrible food until I leave home at twenty.

  The next night is cheese and cauliflower. It has the same smell as when I threw up on the cop’s shoes, but once again I eat it, even though Ma piles my plate up. ‘A growing boy needs to eat well,’ she says, and the smile she gives me is the same as the one the crocodile gave Captain Hook just before he chewed off his hand. She hasn’t forgiven me: not even close.

  Decision time

  Two days before the end of term and the holidays. Ma sits in the kitchen drinking a cup of tea, and she calls out to me to come and have one with her. She’s put out the chocolate chip biscuits, and this time there’s sugar in my tea.

  ‘Ah,’ I think, ‘she’s got over it. Maybe now we can have pizza.’ I am so wrong: I just don’t know it yet.

  For a while we sit drinking tea and eating biscuits. I even get away with dunking mine in the tea when I think Ma’s not looking. ‘Just like the good old days,’ I think.

  ‘You know you’ve got an aunty in Rarotonga?’ says Ma. ‘One of your dad’s sisters.’

  I didn’t know. I thought all our relatives lived in New Zealand, but I don’t let on, and nod as though this wasn’t news at all.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘you’re going to visit them and stay for a while.’ She takes a sip of her tea and a bite from a biscuit. I stop chewing and my mouth falls open.

  ‘Why?’ I ask, and my voice squeaks.

  ‘I think it will be good for you. Let you see how other people live. Meet the rest of your whānau.’

  ‘When?’ My voice breaks again.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ says Ma. ‘I’ve paid for your ticket and passport. Pack your bag. And remember, it’s really hot over there.’

  This is my punishment. To be sent away to total strangers. I’m angry, then sad, and then a little bit of me gets excited. I wonder what Rarotonga will be like. Will there be monkeys and elephants? Maybe I could have one as a pet. Maybe a lion. I see myself riding a lion to school, like Tarzan. He’d roar at Pete and scare the shit out of him. Yeah, I’d like that. Serve him right for calling me teacher’s pet.

  But before I leave the kitchen, I decide to get things straight. ‘Is this because of what happened with Mr Singh?’

  Ma gives a snort, gets up and puts her arms around me. It’s like being hugged by two tree trunks.

  ‘No,’ she says, ‘but I was disappointed, and you’re lucky Mr Singh didn’t press charges. The police know who the other three are, but they’ve said they’ll wait until you’re gone before they do anything.’

  Ma has been busy. This is all news to me. I’m glad I won’t be around when the tūtae hits the fan.

  ‘I’ve raised you boys the best I can,’ she continues, still holding me, ‘and I’m not letting you go off the rails now. That’s why you need to visit your whānau in Rarotonga. They’re strong people, like your father. And you’re a lot like him.’

  Ma has never said that before, about me being like my dad, and I feel a lump in my throat. I miss him at that moment, even though I don’t really remember him. My eyes go blurry, and I’m not sure whether it’s tears or because Ma’s squeezing me so tight. She lets me go and I wave my arms around to get the circulation going. I know Rarotonga is going to be great, and suddenly I can’t wait
until tomorrow.

  But Ma has one more shot up her sleeve, because she knows there’s one thing I really hate; one thing that freaks me out. ‘You’ll need to take some heavy duty insect repellent,’ she says. ‘They have huge cockroaches there.’

  At the airport

  Thomas, Frank and Ma come to see me off. I’m real nervous: I didn’t sleep well the night before. Frank takes me to one side while Ma is off getting a coffee, and gives me fifty dollars. It’s the most money I’ve ever seen. Even better, Thomas gives me another fifty, and tells me to take care. Ma hasn’t told them why I’m going to Rarotonga and they want to know, so I tell them. They look at me in disbelief. ‘You must be mad to try something like that,’ says Frank. ‘It’s a wonder Ma didn’t kill you.’ I explain about the pasta, broccoli and cauliflower cheese, and he looks sympathetic. ‘Worse than going to prison,’ says Thomas, patting me on the shoulder. ‘She once did something like that when she caught me kissing Julie Trent when I was twelve. Can’t look at pasta ever since, let alone broccoli.’

  It’s good to know that I’m not the only dick in the family. I ask my brothers about monkeys, lions and elephants in Rarotonga, and they have to hang onto each other for support, they laugh so much. From this I gather there aren’t any. Although I’m disappointed, the hundred dollars help me get over it.

  Then it’s time. Ma gives me another tree-trunk hug and removes the last of the breath from my lungs, and my brothers shake my hand. When I turn around for a last wave as I walk through the gate, Thomas and Frank have their arms around Ma and they are all crying. I cry as well, and the man at Customs has to ask for my documents twice. Leaving home isn’t as cool as I thought.

  Family

  I get off the plane and it’s like walking into an oven. It’s so hot I wonder how anybody could ever live here. Around the airfield there are trees and bush, and it looks just like a jungle.

  I decide that I’m going to show everyone that I’m tough and not afraid of anything. I’m a Red Mamba (sort of), and even though I hate my jacket, I’ve managed to smuggle it into the bottom of my bag, despite Ma’s eagle eyes overseeing everything I packed. I put it on and immediately wish I hadn’t: sweat pours down my back and front and pops out in beads on my face. I’ve also worn my heavy boots that I wear when I pick kiwifruit, so even my feet are boiling and sweaty. I can’t remember ever being so hot or miserable, but I strut towards the area where they tell us our luggage will be waiting. I can’t wait to get into the coolness of the building, but I saunter over as though becoming an enormous sweat ball is my major ambition in life.

  Lots of people are hanging around, although most of them seem to be tourists. Some of them look at me but then quickly turn away: I guess it’s because I look so cool in my heavy jacket with a dick painted on the back and my lace-up boots. In my eyes, I’m a sight not to be messed with.

  I can’t believe there are roosters in the airport. They are large and colourful and wander around pecking at the ground and occasionally crowing as though they own it. I’ve never liked chickens, and especially roosters, unless Ma’s cooking them. As one comes close, I spit at it.

  The rooster tilts its head to one side and looks at me with beady black eyes. I develop an instant hatred for that bird, and spit at it again. It doesn’t move, just keeps staring, and then it tilts its head back and crows as though wanting to tell everyone what I’ve done. There are beautiful feathers on its tail. I imagine plucking them out one by one. ‘No mercy from the Red Mamba,’ I think.

  I sense someone behind me. My arm goes up my back and I am down on the floor. The speed at which it happens is shocking, and I can see myself mirrored in the eye of the rooster as it comes closer for a better look. I hope it doesn’t decide to peck me, and try to smile at it, but my cheek is pressed into the ground and all I can do is make noises that sound like a choking cat.

  A voice, deep but oddly feminine, says ‘I don’t like people spitting in my airport. I’ll get you a bucket and mop and you can clean it up.’ The pressure is released on my arm and I struggle to my feet.

  A huge woman stands in front of me. She is glaring, and I’m afraid to move in case she throws me to the floor again. She is much bigger than Ma, and is wearing the uniform of a policeman or a security officer. And she has a moustache! It’s not interesting like Mr Singh’s, but a black line that creeps across her upper lip. As she talks, it quivers and bristles with a life of its own.

  ‘What you staring at boy?’ she says, and, grabbing me by the collar of my jacket, marches me towards a room which is her office. Everyone is watching. One or two people clap, and I wonder if this day can get any worse.

  ‘Take off that stupid jacket,’ she says. ‘And what is that thing painted on the back? Is it what I think it is?’ She frowns.

  ‘It’s a red mamba, a snake,’ I say, but she’s not interested. She goes away and is back a minute later with a bucket of water and a mop.

  ‘Clean the floor,’ she says, ‘and then come back here.’

  I think of making a run for it: of throwing the mop at her, followed by the bucket, racing to the plane and hiding on board until it takes off back to Auckland. But I know my fate, so, carrying the cleaning gear, I walk out into the airport and begin to wash the floor. The rooster comes over to have a look, and I can see him smiling. I imagine sticking him in a roasting dish and eating him with potatoes and kūmara. My mouth waters but then, as though sensing what I’m thinking, he shits on my clean floor and struts off into the undergrowth, where I see about twenty hens waiting for his return. ‘It must be good sometimes to be a chicken,’ I think.

  Treading on Eggshells

  Ann French

  Gracie is coming to face the devil. It has been a long drive, with only three stops since Auckland – one for coffee, another for petrol and the third to relieve an aching bladder. It has taken five hours, but she is almost there, and her fingers grip the steering wheel so tightly, she gets cramp.

  The pungent smell of chemicals from the mill welcomes visitors. It hovers in the air, and its permanent stench makes her wonder how people live with it. Maybe they are so used to it, they don’t notice any more. It catches in the back of her throat, and she can sense an invisible mist, coating her skin and laminating the paintwork of the car.

  The day is hunkering down, getting ready for night, and street lights bloom, pushing away the darkness. She is driving slowly now, and notes the number of houses for sale, the unpainted fences and derelict cars. It’s no longer a pretty town. Unemployment and apathy rule, and as she drives through deserted streets, somehow the stink from the mill seems worse than ever.

  Gracie pulls into the driveway and turns off the engine. There is complete silence, the first in over five hours. For a moment she is tempted to turn the car round and drive back the way she came, but that’s not her way, so she opens the door and steps into the cold night air. She thinks how good it is to stretch her legs and straighten her back.

  A door opens and the man standing there smiles (the best smile in the world, she thinks). He leaps down the steps and gathers her into his arms. He plants a kiss on top of her head. ‘Been waiting for you, Mum,’ her son says. ‘You smell like strawberries. Come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  Gracie’s heart swells in her chest and she breathes out the words that almost kill her. ‘I love you too,’ she says.

  He holds her hand as they walk up the stairs, and she feels small against him. He has put on weight since she last visited, but he’s tall and broad-shouldered so it’s not apparent, unless you are a mother and see things others don’t.

  The children, two small girls, are waiting, and like puppies bob up and down trying to clutch her hands and snuggling against her. They talk all at once without taking breath, trying to tell her things, so there is a long strand of noise that reverberates around the room. She picks them up and kisses them, feeling the ping of arthritis in her shoulder joints.

  She looks around and notices the unwashed dishes
stacked in the sink and on the bench. The stale smell of cigarettes lingers in the air.

  Gracie sits with the children. They are quieter now, sitting as close to her as possible. The youngest, Aroha, clutches hold of her grandmother’s skirt, twisting it round and round, while Mere, her sister, sits holding tightly to her hand. So tightly that Gracie wonders if her circulation will ever be the same.

  She thinks that when she gets a chance, she will get them in the bath and wash their hair with some of her special shampoo. Then she will brush it and get out the knots. She has brought some new clothes for them, pyjamas and dressing gowns, and, because she has tried to think of everything, colouring books and crayons.

  Her son brings her a cup of tea and one for himself. It’s how she likes it: not too weak and not too much sugar. Just right. ‘Go to your room, girls,’ he says, and both children quickly detach themselves and scurry away without a word. Like frightened mice, Gracie thinks.

  They talk for a while. He asks about her garden; he knows it’s her hobby. She says it’s autumn so things are hibernating, but it is still a beautiful time of the year, with trees changing their colours. She tells him about the neighbour’s cat that sneaks inside and pinches things. So far she’s lost two flannels, a pair of knickers, a shoe and a tea towel. They laugh together, and she relaxes. It’s a mistake. He tells her how the mill is downsizing, and that rumours of layoffs and redundancies are rife. His face twitches as he tells her, and she sees his anger building. She listens but says little. She learned that lesson years ago. ‘What do you think I should do?’ he asks. Gracie’s amazed at the question. He never asks her advice. She wonders if he really wants her to reply, and her mind quickly replays the various responses that would be acceptable. ‘Maybe pack up and get a job somewhere else,’ she says.