Read Online This Is Paradise by Kristiana Kahakauwila - Free Book Online

show of cleaning up the yard, as if the birds were gone for good, and then I came back inside the house. The Indian was on the living room couch with a book of Bashō’s poetry in his lap. He had a poker game later that evening, so I knew he would leave for town soon.
    I clunked around in the kitchen for a while, pouringmyself water and mopping up spilled salad dressing, but the Indian didn’t say anything. Finally, I couldn’t stand the silence anymore. “I like think you’re happy.” I leaned on the couch’s armrest, still dressed in my jeans and work shirt, reeking of bird shit and sweat.
    “About what?” He had a bag of barbecue chips on the couch next to him, and he crunched on the chips without looking up from his book.
    “I just gave my birds to Uncle Lee.”
    “Oh?”
    “I gave them away. All pau.”
    The Indian closed his book. He looked up at me, his eyes clear and black as obsidian. “Done for good?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Thank you.” He rested his hand on mine. “You’ve given me the one thing I wanted most. I don’t know what I’d do if you went back.”
    “Why go back?” I smiled, but I felt queasy.
    “I’m going into town tonight. I have my poker game.”
    “Really? I was thinking that was next week.”
    I waited until the Indian left for town before driving to Uncle Lee’s. Al was hosting, and Uncle Lee had promised to announce this fight rather than participate in it. Uncle Lee drove us to Al’s along the back way, on a dirt road that wound for almost a mile through a dense forest of eucalyptus and New Caledonia pines before opening into a broad clearing. Al’s house was a well-kept, one-story bungalow with checked blue-and-white curtains in the windowsthat spoke of a woman’s presence. I wondered if Al’s wife would be working with him. The smaller fights were usually all men, but the larger ones, like this one, drew out wives and girlfriends and even children. It was rare to see another woman by herself, but when one assisted with the weighing and banding, I was always glad. I felt calmer, and my birds seemed more relaxed as well.
    The pit was set up behind the house beneath a large canopy the size of a basketball court. Stadium seating had been built with concrete blocks and wooden boards, and most of the pitters were already gathered near the pit, having their birds weighed and banded by Al and his nephew. I didn’t see Mr. Oh, but I noticed that the pitters banded in front of Al now.
    Uncle Lee parked his truck next to the podium, where he’d be making his announcements. The other men took turns keeping an eye on each other’s roosters, or they kept the birds in cages under their seats. I kept my birds in the truck, where my uncle could watch them. I counted some two hundred entries on the matching board, meaning at least fifty pitters had come. The tent was crowded and misty with cigarette smoke, and I couldn’t see much of anything in the blue haze hanging beneath the tent’s eaves and along the top row of risers.
    At around midnight Lono fought a runner, and we won easily. I had laid a sizable bet, so I collected nearly threehundred dollars. An hour later the black I had borrowed from my uncle fought. He took the first ten-second count but got hung on the second ten, and my opponent, Hao, a man I had lost to the year before, had to pull the spur from his bird’s wing. Hao was short with a dark complexion and acne scars running like train tracks across his forehead. When he pulled the spur from his bird, he squeezed my black’s leg and the bird pecked at the air.
    “Watch it!” I said.
    Hao glared at me. I glanced up at Al, but he shrugged as if he hadn’t noticed, and I didn’t want to make a fuss. My black would win this fight, I felt sure. I heard Al say, “Get ready!” I held my black at the score and put my left hand on my hip. My opponent did the same. “Pit!”
    I released my black and he went at the other bird, pecking at its face and neck. The other bird