Huia Short Stories 11 (9 page)

It wasn't heavy any more.

Tears fell from the sky and yearned like little droplets on my hair and jacket.

‘Koro, the sky is crying too,' I'd told him at Aunty Pare's tangi.

He'd smiled sadly. ‘Yes moko, that's what happens when a loved one dies. Papatūānuku will cry with us.'

Papatūānuku was crying for you today, Koro. She opened up her heart, and tears have been thundering down since I woke up this morning. She knew how special you were, Koro. Mum was wailing so I took her hand like you took mine, Koro. I comforted her and told her it was going to be okay, but I lied because I dunno if it will be. When your coffin was lowered, I stopped Mum from going after you. I made sure my grip was real strong 'cause I wanted to be strong for you, Koro. Now you can be proud of me.

‘Ka kite ano, e Koro.'

Old Tōtara tapped at the window. It was time.

He heard him, and eased away from his sleeping wife, dressing quickly. It was cold. He packed the things he needed into a haversack and paused to think if he'd forgotten anything.

He moved silently through the darkened house to where his children were sleeping. The large double bed had a jumble of warm bodies nestled together in the middle where the sagging spring almost touched the floor. For a moment he savoured their warm earthy smell: his offspring. He left the room.

His large hands pumped up the tilly lamp and he grabbed the haversack and stepped out in to the night. Old Tōtara stood guard, his branches reaching out protectively. He greeted him and passed under his leafy shelter.

He found his way easily through the black night and entered the hut, holding the lamp high. The dark retreated, and he saw her curled up in the corner; her waters had broken.

‘It's me.'

He easily lifted her and carried her to the wooden cot.

With her small hand in his, she smiled weakly and closed her eyes tightly as if to squeeze off the tears that were welling up. Another wave of pain caused her body to convulse; she made no sound, just clutched his hand harder.

Her eyes were closed.

He remembered when she first arrived here, almost two years ago now, her eyes full of hope and love for her young man. She was so young, still young, but her face was now weary and lined.

He thought of how it was when he first arrived here, many years before: a big bold cocky boy in a shearing gang. The farmer's daughter had said nothing to him, but he knew she checked him out.

He told the others in the gang she was the one. He took no notice of their laughter. Even the threat of being sacked or the bullying brothers failed to dampen his enthusiasm; she was definitely interested.

That's when her mother arrived to have a quiet chat.

This steely eyed matriarch knocked him down and put him back where he belonged.

But, the farmer's daughter was also her mother's daughter, and with the same deliberate intent she achieved what he couldn't.

He was not what her parents wanted for their daughter, but they owned her wilfulness and what she carried in her belly.

They married in the local registry office, and seven months later their first child was born. More children arrived, and with each one, he took the afterbirth, the
whenua
, and buried it deep near the roots of Old Tōtara. Old Tōtara would feed and know his children. They would belong here in a way that he never could.

The girl on the bed opened her eyes. She stared at this man who picked her up off the floor. She barely knew him. He'd arrived to help her several months ago. She didn't know why. She was calm and waited for the next wave of pain. It came and she stirred awkwardly. He pulled his wandering thoughts back and looked at her. She managed a weak smile.

‘Do you need anything?'

She shook her head. What she needed was the beautiful young man who stole her heart and took her away from her nanny.

She'd met him at teachers' training college in Auckland. He'd brought her here as a newly married bride. His mother's disappointment failed to dent their happiness. Her young lover assured her that she would come around. She never did.

A year into the marriage, her beautiful young man got caught up in the war fever. An officer in the 28
^th
Māori Battalion, he went off with other young men of the tribe.

She became a land girl on a nearby farm. She was raped repeatedly by the farmer, an arrogant overbearing bully. Several months later she fell pregnant. The farmer wanted her off his property before his wife became aware of her condition.

She never told anyone what had happened; she knew the knowing would make no difference. What grew inside her womb condemned her.

She went to the house of her mother-in-law. She was beaten and slapped and driven from the house. The angry mother took no time in telling everyone about ‘the slut who opens her legs while her husband is away fighting for his country'.

He looked for her and found her on the beach, staring into the stormy sea. The wind whipped her hair and wrapped her dress around her already swollen puku.

‘Do you have family?' he asked.

She shook her head. ‘My nanny died.'

He took her to an old broken hut that belonged to his wife's grandparents.

‘Why?' she asked.

‘You are like me,' he replied. ‘We don't belong.'

It was wartime, but she managed. Years growing up in the bush with her nanny were not wasted. People shunned her; some were hostile and the kids were cruel. Others – not many – felt sorry and left anonymous gifts. He did not fear their judgement and openly shared food and bounty from the sea.

He had pāua and kina and found her slumped on the porch step, telegram still clutched in her hand. He offered to go but she refused, and he stood powerlessly by as she pulled her grief deep inside, put on her coat – it barely covered her swollen belly – and moved resolutely down the road to tell his mother.

The bed squeaked and he looked to see her staring back at him.

‘How did you know to come?' she asked weakly, the sweat glistening on her brow under the flickering lamplight.

He shrugged. She wouldn't understand if he said, ‘Old Tōtara'.

Her body stiffened, and her desperate eyes closed tight. The baby was coming. He wasn't here to help birth the baby. She did not scream or thrash as the pain ebbed and flowed and built. He watched. Her small hand gripped his large one so tightly it caused him to wince.

Suddenly she reached out and grabbed at him for support. She hauled her sweaty swollen body off the cot and squatted at his feet beside the bed.

Everyone came to her nanny to have their babies; she knew what to do.

She grunted deeply and strained hard; she rested and started again and again. She screamed, and with another loud grunt she expelled mucous, blood and living tissue on to the earthen floor.

Exhausted, she crawled back on to the cot, taking no interest in what was left behind, attached and pulsing.

He moved quickly and sorted through the bloody mess.

The baby lay in his large hands; small and moving weakly. He turned her body back from the wall. Her face stayed there. He uncovered her breast and laid the baby against her nipple; its small mouth opened instinctively and latched on. He arranged her arms to hold the baby and returned to clean up the afterbirth.

He looked at the whenua in the old bucket and wondered what to do. Old Tōtara wanted nothing to do with it. A feeble cry returned his attention to the cot. The nipple was dislodged and the small mouth turned and sucked at nothing desperately. She had not turned her head from the wall. Like Old Tōtara she wanted nothing to do with it too.

He knew what to do.

It was still dark when he arrived home. His youngest daughter must have crept in after he left and was now snuggled in to his wife's back. He gathered her warm body in his arms and returned her to the saggy nest.

As he undressed, he heard his wife say softly, ‘How is she?'

He wanted to say, ‘Why would you and your relations care?' But he didn't. That would be unkind. She had never questioned him about her grandparents' home or chided him about food going missing.

‘She is strong: she will be all right.'

He climbed in to the bed and nestled down in to the space warmed by his daughter. He wrapped his great arms around his wife and pulled her back in to the curve of his body.

‘Mmmm,' she sighed contentedly. She asked sleepily, ‘What about the baby?'

‘It was stillborn.'

Later, much later, when he thought she was asleep, she felt his large frame racked with silent sobs. The dampness spread across her back where his head rested. She reached back and pulled his arms tightly around her.

The new dawn chased the night off his leafy cloak. He stood guard as usual, protecting them. He declared proudly to the new day, ‘They are tangata whenua, my family.'

I sit on the wooden bench where I left my bag earlier, leaning back until my head's resting against the brick wall behind me.

The changing rooms always have this nasty smell to them after a game, a weird mix of dirt and Deep Heat, strapping tape and sweaty unwashed balls. It's nasty as hell, but also really comforting. It's one of those smells that become so familiar it can put you at ease.

It was a fuckin' hard game. Some kid twice my size rucked the top of my back, and my left hip is aching so bad I just know it's going to be purple in the morning.

‘That forward nailed you, man,' Bryan laughs, voice raised to be heard over the angry complaints and hurt rants going on around us. He tugs his black and burgundy rugby jersey up over his head. ‘I thought you were dead for a minute there.'

‘
I
thought I was dead for a minute there,' I say, forcing a hand through my damp fringe. ‘My body's on fire.'

He just laughs a little louder, pushing his black shorts down his legs.

Bryan's a big guy, six foot four and nothing but tanned muscle. And he's not ugly, either. He's some sort of Polynesian, but he doesn't have a flat nose or overly big lips, and his eyes are a grey-blue, not brown like you'd expect.

I can see why all the underdressed stick figures are constantly batting their lashes in his direction.

I haven't quite figured out why he never seems to notice.

‘Does that mean you're not going to Dean's party tonight?' he asks, hands resting on his hips. ‘Assuming he's still up for it.'

‘Shit no,' I say, back straightening. ‘The party will be even bigger now that we're losers. They're going to burn something tonight.' I run my palms over my bare knees. ‘I'm definitely going. You?'

He puckers his lips. ‘I have to babysit till eight, but I guess I could hang out after.'

‘You haven't suddenly started drinking, have you?'

He shakes his head slowly, and I feel my lips curl, a smirk spreading across my face.

‘Fine,' he says, hunching over to open his bag. ‘I'll get your drunk ass home.'

‘Thanks, man,' I say cheerfully, getting to my feet.

He waves me off. ‘Yeah, yeah.'

. . .

I know Dad's in the kitchen before I step through the lounge archway. The familiar
thunk-thunk-thunk
of him cutting vegetables on the marble bench is unmistakable. I pass the long beige sofa, stopping when I reach the L-shaped bench my father is stood at slicing mushrooms.

‘Hey, Jake,' he says when he realises I'm watching him, his deep voice low as always. He pushes the mushroom away and reaches for a red onion. ‘Dinner should be ready soon. Moira from work gave me a recipe for this eggplant, spinach lasagne thing she makes. It's really nice. You'll probably like it.'

‘I'm on my way out, actually,' I say, eyeing the splash of colour where his sleeves have been rolled up. Sky blue and turquoise, a hint of crimson. A tail I know belongs to a fierce-looking dragon.

‘Oh,' he says, knife hesitating, ‘just me then.'

‘Where's Mum and Ari?' I ask, looking around the silent room like I'll suddenly see them somewhere.

‘Ari's spending the night at Allie's, and your mother went out with Valerie,' he informs me, his pointed nose crinkling the slightest bit.

I roll my eyes and put my palms on the countertop. The stone is freezing despite the heat coming from the large open fireplace just a few metres away. ‘She digging for gold again?'

He chuckles, the sound so quiet I'm not sure I actually heard it at all. ‘Moneybags put a ring on a nineteen-year-old instead of her,' he tells me, turning to check the cheesy mix in the oven.

‘Poor Valerie,' I say, taking a seat. I curve my back, forearms resting on the bench. ‘On the bright side, her new tits will make it a little easier this time round. The guys will actually be able to see where she is.'

Dad lifts both hands, making an arc as he says, ‘Husband hunt five.' He drops his voice an octave. ‘Platinum card required.'

My laughter spills out and fills the open room we're in. Dad joins in too, his laughter doing more than mine to lift the mood. He laughs so rarely that it actually tickles my insides.

When we finally manage to settle ourselves, Dad clears his throat and says, ‘You better get going.'

I scratch my head. ‘Uh, I um, I might just stay for dinner. No one will notice I'm missing.'

Dad doesn't say anything, just bobs his head and continues making the salad. I know he's pleased though. I can see it in the curl at the corners of his mouth.

. . .

‘I can't believe you fuckers,' Noah complains from the wooden deck chair beside mine. ‘I looked like a fuckin' loner. You turn up an hour late and Bryan doesn't show at all.'

‘He'll be here soon,' I say absently, tapping the glass bottle I'm holding.

‘You fucking homos,' he rambles. ‘Cunts.'

The garden we're in is actually really, really nice. Pretty, even. Stone planters line the edge of the patio we're on, and I can make out the spiky stems of roses from where I'm sat. Quirky little solar lights are scattered amongst the flowers, dragonflies and gnomes and even a cat with big glowing eyes, and fairy lights have been coiled around the trunks and branches of the trees, the sail shade posts too.

‘I was here, man.'

The voice is nasally and a fraction higher than any of the ones I'm used to hearing, and I turn my head to see Josh slouched on the other side of Noah. An average, unmemorable kiss-ass who's only on the first XV because his dad played for Aussie like a million years ago.

I look away again, eyes rolling.

If I was going to suck up to someone, it wouldn't be Noah Hastings.

‘Seriously man, you coulda text or something,' Noah continues, brushing Josh off. ‘I couldn't even hang with Gio because he brought the fag with him. Fuck knows why.'

I stare at the mouth of my bottle. ‘It's his twin.'

‘And what?'

I skull half my drink.

‘I wouldn't be caught dead hanging out with a faggot, brother or not. And if he was my brother I'd fuckin' smash him until he got the message.'

Matilda and a few of her lap dogs appear all of a sudden, walking up the slightly curved yard with a few of the boys, and they've got so much skin exposed that
I
shiver.

‘I thought him being gay was just a rumour,' Josh says.

When they come to a stop I notice Matilda's playing with her phone, but she soon looks over at me with a smile.

‘Someone must have seen something or there wouldn't be rumours,' Noah replies.

I get to my feet, eyes going to the boys beside me. ‘I have to piss,' I tell them.

I walk away before Noah has a chance to bitch about me leaving him on his own again.

I wasn't wrong when I told Bryan that tonight was going to be crazy. The backyard is pretty much deserted, but in the house you can't breathe without bumping into someone else. It's as if the entire school showed up to mourn our loss.

When I don't find a free toilet, I find a nice tree out of sight.

My heart jerks my body forward when something touches my right shoulder in the darkness, and I spin around swiftly, dick still in hand. A hooded figure stands a metre or so away from me, staring silently. They tilt their head a fraction and the little rays of moonlight spilling through the tree's top hits their face.

I recognise the straight-shouldered silhouette instantly.

‘You scared the fuck out of me, Matty,' I say sternly, tucking myself away.

The hood falls away and the familiar face becomes clear. Dark hair and round eyes, symmetrical lines. Matty's lips curl and I'm immediately reminded of Giovanni and the look he gave me when I arrived earlier.

‘Not sorry,' he says, pulling a small baggie from his back pocket. ‘Smoke?'

‘Like you have to ask.'

He pulls the bag away from me, keeping it out of reach. ‘It'll cost you.'

I snort. ‘Doesn't it always.'

He doesn't say anything else, just walks towards the front of the house.

I follow after him.

We've just reached the bottom of the driveway when Bryan suddenly comes into view, moving towards us so silently he'd go unnoticed if he weren't so huge. He hesitates when he spots Matty by my side, scanning him from head to toe, frowning.

Matty pulls a pack of cigarettes out and slips one between his lips. He lights up, casting a glance my way.

‘Thought you would be drunk by now,' Bryan says, arms crossing over his broad chest.

‘Oh, I'm just …' I nod towards Matty. ‘He's got something for me.'

Bryan's eyes flick between us. ‘Do you still need a ride home?'

Matty lifts a shoulder when I look at him, smoke billowing out of his mouth.

‘He can take me,' I tell Bryan, ‘But thanks, man.'

Bryan's eyes thin like he wants to say something, but he doesn't. He just bobs his head and makes his way towards the noisy house.

Matty clucks his tongue, getting my full attention. ‘What was that about?' he asks, nodding in Bryan's direction. ‘He wondering why you're with the school fag?'

I laugh, shoving him playfully. ‘He's probably trying to figure out why the richest kid in a school full of rich kids is dealing drugs.'

He shrugs, taking another drag. ‘It's good business,' he informs me, laughing to himself after. ‘Daddy would be proud if he wasn't such a cunt.'

He exhales heavily, tossing half a cigarette on the ground by his feet. He doesn't bother to stomp it out.

‘You're so wasteful,' I tell him.

He gets his keys out with a smirk. ‘I can afford it.'

. . .

The park has an eeriness about it that sends a prickly shiver down my spine. The swings are completely still, the bark beneath them undisturbed. I take in the rustling trees that line the park edge, half expecting rotting corpses to come stumbling out of the untamed bush that lies just beyond them. Snarling zombies.

I need to stop letting Ari pick the movies we watch.

Matty strolls towards the playground like the dark, secluded area isn't the slightest bit creepy. He doesn't bother to follow the curved path, just stomps across the moist grass.

I slip my cold hands into my jean pockets and follow his lead.

Matty drops down on a wooden bench and starts rolling a joint. I sit beside him, watching his nimble fingers. People always say that dealers shouldn't get high on their own supply, but he clearly doesn't follow that rule. He smokes so much weed that he can probably roll and light up with his eyes clamped shut, not a single crumb wasted.

Matty takes the first hit and I inch towards him, throat tightening. He exhales in my direction and I breathe the musky smoke in eagerly. He takes another drag, longer than the last, and I snap my fingers impatiently.

He shakes his head, holding the smoke away from me. ‘You get what you want when I do.'

He keeps his eyes on mine when he sucks on the smoke again, making the burning tip glow. I lick my lips slowly. He leans forward, blowing smoke into my face. I snatch at his hoodie, fingers twisting tightly in the fabric at his neck. I pull him towards me.

‘Cunt,' I say, face inches from his.

‘Faggot,' he returns drily.

I breathe in deeply, breathe out.

I close the slight gap between us, lips pressing to his.

He tastes like sweet grass and sharp nicotine, bitter and awful. My fingers lose their grip and I lean into him, mouth pulling at his desperately like I can lick away the residue of his habits, like I can take away the filth. I feel his fingertips on the nape of my neck, the touch so slight you could miss it.

He pulls away from me with a sharp breath, finally handing the joint over.

I watch him silently, smoke pinched between my fingertips. His eyes are on the sky above us, searching. He's staring at the stars like they know all of life's secrets, like if he stares hard enough a beautiful weed angel is going to float down and whisper everything he's ever wanted to know.

‘Can I stay tonight?' he asks, voice low.

I don't say anything, just kiss his cheek and take a drag.

Matty has a journal that he takes pretty much everywhere, but he doesn't write his thoughts like most people do, he draws them. He lets me look at it whenever I please, but he rarely shows anyone else. And it stirs feelings in me that I can't really explain. It does something to my nervous system that makes me want to keep turning pages and look away at the same time.

The two of us have been in the same art class since year 9, and somehow, despite the fact we've been taught by the exact same people, our styles are polar opposites. I enjoy drawing animals in their natural environments. People, too. I draw life. Matty though, well, he's drawn to death. His journal is a dark place, full of lost and tortured souls.

I asked him about it once, when we were stoned and on the verge of sleep. I asked him why he was drawn to bones and suffering.

He just grunted at me and said, ‘They'll eat my brain if I don't get them out.'

I laughed and went to sleep.

. . .

I step carefully, wading through a sea of dirty washing and empty Red Bull cans to reach Matty's black, perfectly made bed. I step up onto it and sit cross-legged in the centre, eyes scanning the poster-clad walls. Heavily tattooed men cover every inch of available space; some holding expensive custom guitars, others screaming into microphones. Most are just huddled together with stern expressions on their perfect faces, their lined eyes narrowed and their lips pressed into straight lines.

Matty moves towards the bed carelessly, feet managing to miss every discarded item like he's following an invisible path. He flops down on the bed beside me, half hanging off the right edge.