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

didn’t run, but it didn’t fight back either, just dodged like a boxer. My bird took the second ten count. The last ten count went much the same, but in the twenty-count my black hung himself on his leathers. He wasn’t bleeding, just confused, and he went back on the mat with a vengeance. The other bird looked tired. His wing was bleeding, but he was a tough rooster and didn’t run. Still, the count went to my black and we won the match. Again, I collected.
    I carried my black to Uncle Lee’s truck and untied the gaff. I wanted to get him some water and a tablespoon of cornmeal with milk, but I needed to hold him first, calm him, thank him. I tucked him under my arm, hummingslightly, and he went still. This was the praise he had been waiting for. I looked at the mat, where a couple of battlecocks were pecking at each other, and then glanced into the stands. Men with cash in their hands were cheering on their birds. Other men were walking around outside, strolling to the porta-potties and back, or just taking a smoke break. To my left, I could see lights twinkling behind the windows of Al’s bungalow.
    “Good fight, girl.” Al was behind me, his lopsided smile long and sweet. His nephew was judging this round.
    “Thanks, Uncle.”
    “You ready fo’ go up ’gainst Mr. Oh?”
    “As ready as I eva be.”
    Al reached out and gave me a hug. When he pulled away, he looked at me for a long time, until I became embarrassed and stepped from him toward the truck. “I tell you someting, girl. Mr. Oh, he run an honest fight, but dese days I give anyting fo’ have yoa papa back.” Al kissed me softly on the cheek, as my father had once done. “I miss him. He was one good friend, no matta what.”
    I watched Al make his way back to the pit. He paused to shake hands with a couple of men, another he clapped on the back. The way those pitters watched him, I could see they respected him. They trusted him. Men didn’t used to look at Al like that. They had never looked at my father like that.
    I thought back to what the Indian had said about my father, and I wondered if I had been told the truth. Had mydad really been throwing fights? Switching bands? And had my uncle known this all along?
    I felt confused, unsure of what I knew and didn’t, of what was right and what wasn’t. I wanted the Indian with me to tell me what to do, what to listen to. I longed to finger his short, wiry hair, to stroke his earlobes, soft as a chick’s down and dotted with the old puncture marks of piercings. I wanted to hear him say “Poi Dog.” I wanted to hear him say “Wanle.” I wanted him to associate me with the dissipation of fear.
    I looked around the tent for guidance or a sign, but all I saw was Mr. Oh on the opposite side of the pit holding his bird while his gaffer tied the knife. The other men watched Mr. Oh with awe and respect. I felt his power, and I wanted to take him down, for my father and my uncles. For me. What did it matter if my dad had been throwing fights? I asked myself.
    I placed the black in his cage and brought out Keoni. He was restless, wriggling in my arms. I had to cover his eyes with my hands and sing to him before he’d calm down. Zoo wandered over to talk story. “Eh, Uncle,” I said, kissing him on the cheek.
    “Can help.” He held his hands out to hold Keoni so I could tie the gaff. As I wound the leathers and checked the knife for its proper placement, Zoo chatted away, giddy with anticipation. Apparently, word had gone out that Mr. Oh and I were up next, and even the men who hadn’t previously known the significance of the fight knew now.Zoo watched me tie off the leather and grinned broadly.
    “Jus’ like da dad, you. Mo betta even.”
    “My dad, was he really da best?”
    “Ah, babe. He one of dem.”
    “You said he wen get help. What you mean?”
    “Help is help. No mean yoa dad neva a great pitta, but. Jus’, you know, da dad and Al and all us, we go way back, since we kids togeda. Da