Read Online Huia Short Stories 10 by Tihema Baker - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tihema Baker
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âLazy, lazy, lazy,â they chanted in chorus, making a hymn of their cruelty.
But two good things evolved from this. Maaka learned to draw really well, and his memory was amazing. He once repeated to me the speech from Hamlet âAlas, poor Yorick,â although I had only read it to him once.
He liked me. I knew that, and when I visited he would hurry me off to see his intricately constructed model airplanes or his latest drawings of horses. I didnât much appreciate the models that hung in constant limbo from his ceiling, but the drawings were amazing. The horses leapt from the sketch pad, manes and tails flowing, eyes wide and flashing in panic, hooves uplifted in flight. Never anything but horses â until the day I saw a sketch of me. It was sensual, beautiful, how I looked through his eyes. And I was naked.
He had forgotten the drawing was there and tried to hide it, making excuses, finally ripping it into pieces and throwing it in a bin. It put a different slant on our relationship, and I felt uncomfortable around him and didnât trust him the same. We were no longer cousins or friends. I sensed he wanted more, and withdrew. I stopped going with my mother when she visited, and made excuses not to be there when they came to our house.
Maaka probably sensed my renunciation of him and was hurt by it, but I was young and didnât care.
In the years that followed, I occasionally caught up with him. His mother, my aunt, died a miserable death from cancer. The son sheâd favoured ignored her â didnât visit the hospital even when she asked to see him. Maaka took his mother home, cleaned and washed her as she became incontinent, and wept inconsolably when she died. Pita had to be reminded twice to attend the tangi.
He married in his early thirties, a woman who was an alcoholic. I doubt Maaka knew that at the time, as he didnât drink at all â the signs may have been there but he didnât recognise them. His wife grew large with age and drink, but he never abandoned her, nor to my knowledge looked elsewhere. It wasnât a happy marriage, but then what marriage is when one partner is an alcoholic with no plans for redemption or redemptive measures? âA slow jog to hell,â as my father would have said.
There were three children, two boys and a girl. One boy, Pita, was called after the brother who no longer spoke to Maaka. Wiri, like his father, was happiest tinkering with cars and bikes, and was an artist of ability. The girl, Mereanne, was the apple of her fatherâs eye. She called him âPopsâ, and although he threw off at her, he would have walked on hot coals if sheâd asked. She never did.
One day I got a call to say that Maakaâs oldest son had been killed. Like his father and brother, he loved motorcycles. He had been riding up the driveway to his parentsâ house when a stray dog ran in front of him. Pita braked, came off the bike and hit his head on the concrete curb. He died instantly.
I went to the funeral, held in a small chapel reeking of incense and ripe lilies. My cousin Maaka and his brother, although no longer speaking to one another, talked to me. Sadness hung in the air like a scene from a primeval tragedy. Maaka shed no tears, blaming speed and the errant stray dog for his sonâs death.
Two years later, almost to the day, Wiri was dead. As he was driving through the Karangahake Gorge on his beloved motorbike at speed, the chain of his bike came off and wrapped itself through the front wheel, and he was catapulted over the safety barrier onto the rocks below. Maaka had to identify his son. He told me every bone in his body was broken.
The morning of the accident, there had been words. Maaka had recognised the chain was loose, and had given Wiri money to have it fixed. It didnât happen, and the price, though not in dollars and cents, was paid. Again my cousin didnât cry at the funeral, blaming fate and
But two good things evolved from this. Maaka learned to draw really well, and his memory was amazing. He once repeated to me the speech from Hamlet âAlas, poor Yorick,â although I had only read it to him once.
He liked me. I knew that, and when I visited he would hurry me off to see his intricately constructed model airplanes or his latest drawings of horses. I didnât much appreciate the models that hung in constant limbo from his ceiling, but the drawings were amazing. The horses leapt from the sketch pad, manes and tails flowing, eyes wide and flashing in panic, hooves uplifted in flight. Never anything but horses â until the day I saw a sketch of me. It was sensual, beautiful, how I looked through his eyes. And I was naked.
He had forgotten the drawing was there and tried to hide it, making excuses, finally ripping it into pieces and throwing it in a bin. It put a different slant on our relationship, and I felt uncomfortable around him and didnât trust him the same. We were no longer cousins or friends. I sensed he wanted more, and withdrew. I stopped going with my mother when she visited, and made excuses not to be there when they came to our house.
Maaka probably sensed my renunciation of him and was hurt by it, but I was young and didnât care.
In the years that followed, I occasionally caught up with him. His mother, my aunt, died a miserable death from cancer. The son sheâd favoured ignored her â didnât visit the hospital even when she asked to see him. Maaka took his mother home, cleaned and washed her as she became incontinent, and wept inconsolably when she died. Pita had to be reminded twice to attend the tangi.
He married in his early thirties, a woman who was an alcoholic. I doubt Maaka knew that at the time, as he didnât drink at all â the signs may have been there but he didnât recognise them. His wife grew large with age and drink, but he never abandoned her, nor to my knowledge looked elsewhere. It wasnât a happy marriage, but then what marriage is when one partner is an alcoholic with no plans for redemption or redemptive measures? âA slow jog to hell,â as my father would have said.
There were three children, two boys and a girl. One boy, Pita, was called after the brother who no longer spoke to Maaka. Wiri, like his father, was happiest tinkering with cars and bikes, and was an artist of ability. The girl, Mereanne, was the apple of her fatherâs eye. She called him âPopsâ, and although he threw off at her, he would have walked on hot coals if sheâd asked. She never did.
One day I got a call to say that Maakaâs oldest son had been killed. Like his father and brother, he loved motorcycles. He had been riding up the driveway to his parentsâ house when a stray dog ran in front of him. Pita braked, came off the bike and hit his head on the concrete curb. He died instantly.
I went to the funeral, held in a small chapel reeking of incense and ripe lilies. My cousin Maaka and his brother, although no longer speaking to one another, talked to me. Sadness hung in the air like a scene from a primeval tragedy. Maaka shed no tears, blaming speed and the errant stray dog for his sonâs death.
Two years later, almost to the day, Wiri was dead. As he was driving through the Karangahake Gorge on his beloved motorbike at speed, the chain of his bike came off and wrapped itself through the front wheel, and he was catapulted over the safety barrier onto the rocks below. Maaka had to identify his son. He told me every bone in his body was broken.
The morning of the accident, there had been words. Maaka had recognised the chain was loose, and had given Wiri money to have it fixed. It didnât happen, and the price, though not in dollars and cents, was paid. Again my cousin didnât cry at the funeral, blaming fate and
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