Read Online This Is Paradise by Kristiana Kahakauwila - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kristiana Kahakauwila
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dad like win, and Al, he like host. We all like when he stay host. Or we did befoa Mr. Oh.”
Zoo handed back Keoni. He brushed his fingers through the bird’s hackle gently, fondly. “You folks helping me?” I asked.
“No. Yoa uncle said dis one yoa way.” Zoo wrapped his arms around me, and Keoni pecked at the air. “Now go win ’em fo’ Uncle Zoo. Get plenny money on dis fight!”
I watched Zoo shuffle back into the stands, and I understood: My dad hadn’t been the greatest pitter after all, just a very good cheater. The Indian had been right. Uncle Lee and Zoo and Al all knew, were all part of my father’s indiscretions. But Mr. Oh had talked, and my dad had been killed. No matter what he had done in the past, his honor still rested with me.
I looked up into the tent again and found the Indian on every riser. I shook my head and took my place on the edge of the pit. Mr. Oh stood not five feet away in a pair of crisp brown slacks and a blue polo shirt. He looked out of place, a country club man lost in the country. When I glanced in his direction, he gave me a curt nod.
We carried our birds to the mat and held them above the center score. His rooster was already cawing and scratching for the ground. Keoni seemed to have retreated into a deep meditation. When Al said, “Get ready,” we both put our left hands on our hips. “Pit!” We dropped our birds.
Mr. Oh’s black went for mine fast, and Keoni started to run. But at the second score he turned and held his ground with a couple of well-placed pecks to the face. Mr. Oh’s bird responded in kind, and the first count went to them. Al called twenty seconds of rest, and then Mr. Oh and I lined up our birds at the second score. Keoni was more aggressive this time, pecking and using his gaff, and we took the second count. In the third ten, Mr. Oh’s bird got his gaff into Keoni’s breast feathers and was hung. I removed the knife and checked for a puncture wound. Blood had pooled beneath the feathers, but once I wiped down my boy with a damp washcloth, I could see the cut wasn’t deep, just long.
I lined up Keoni at the third score, and at the call of “pit,” Mr. Oh’s bird went at my boy again. Keoni sustained cuts to his left wing and thigh. Mr. Oh’s black took the count.
In the final rest I held Keoni under my arm and hummed. He was upset, in pain, snapping his beak in the air. I had only twenty seconds to calm him, to remind him I was there, waiting for him after he completed the fight. I smoothed his comb and patted his hackle. I cooed to him, then tugged gently at the gaff, testing its tightness,reminding him where it was. I walked to the center score, and at the call, dropped him on the mat.
For the first eight seconds the birds pecked at each other’s faces. Keoni took a bad one to his right eye. Mr. Oh’s bird had a deep cut beside his beak. Both birds raised their knives but neither could get a good hold on the other, and they mostly stabbed the air. At twelve seconds, Keoni managed to get his gaff into his opponent’s breast, and he was hung. Mr. Oh’s bird lifted its wings and tried to back away, but Keoni was stuck to him, tied by a knife and a will to win. Mr. Oh held his bird while I removed the gaff, and only then did I see how long and deep the gash was. Keoni had lunged the other bird. Mr. Oh righted his black on the mat and we let them go, but his bird was dizzy, blood filling the lung where my boy had stabbed. Keoni went at the other bird’s face, pecking at its eyes and cheeks, and by the time the fight was called, Mr. Oh’s black was on the ground, huffing, his eyes already turning misty and blue. Keoni continued pecking, relentless.
I lifted my boy off the other, who was trembling and shaking. Mr. Oh didn’t even bother to look down. He held out his hand to shake mine. “You are not your father’s daughter,” he said in careful English. He paused before adding, “I will be honored to meet you again.” Finally,
Zoo handed back Keoni. He brushed his fingers through the bird’s hackle gently, fondly. “You folks helping me?” I asked.
“No. Yoa uncle said dis one yoa way.” Zoo wrapped his arms around me, and Keoni pecked at the air. “Now go win ’em fo’ Uncle Zoo. Get plenny money on dis fight!”
I watched Zoo shuffle back into the stands, and I understood: My dad hadn’t been the greatest pitter after all, just a very good cheater. The Indian had been right. Uncle Lee and Zoo and Al all knew, were all part of my father’s indiscretions. But Mr. Oh had talked, and my dad had been killed. No matter what he had done in the past, his honor still rested with me.
I looked up into the tent again and found the Indian on every riser. I shook my head and took my place on the edge of the pit. Mr. Oh stood not five feet away in a pair of crisp brown slacks and a blue polo shirt. He looked out of place, a country club man lost in the country. When I glanced in his direction, he gave me a curt nod.
We carried our birds to the mat and held them above the center score. His rooster was already cawing and scratching for the ground. Keoni seemed to have retreated into a deep meditation. When Al said, “Get ready,” we both put our left hands on our hips. “Pit!” We dropped our birds.
Mr. Oh’s black went for mine fast, and Keoni started to run. But at the second score he turned and held his ground with a couple of well-placed pecks to the face. Mr. Oh’s bird responded in kind, and the first count went to them. Al called twenty seconds of rest, and then Mr. Oh and I lined up our birds at the second score. Keoni was more aggressive this time, pecking and using his gaff, and we took the second count. In the third ten, Mr. Oh’s bird got his gaff into Keoni’s breast feathers and was hung. I removed the knife and checked for a puncture wound. Blood had pooled beneath the feathers, but once I wiped down my boy with a damp washcloth, I could see the cut wasn’t deep, just long.
I lined up Keoni at the third score, and at the call of “pit,” Mr. Oh’s bird went at my boy again. Keoni sustained cuts to his left wing and thigh. Mr. Oh’s black took the count.
In the final rest I held Keoni under my arm and hummed. He was upset, in pain, snapping his beak in the air. I had only twenty seconds to calm him, to remind him I was there, waiting for him after he completed the fight. I smoothed his comb and patted his hackle. I cooed to him, then tugged gently at the gaff, testing its tightness,reminding him where it was. I walked to the center score, and at the call, dropped him on the mat.
For the first eight seconds the birds pecked at each other’s faces. Keoni took a bad one to his right eye. Mr. Oh’s bird had a deep cut beside his beak. Both birds raised their knives but neither could get a good hold on the other, and they mostly stabbed the air. At twelve seconds, Keoni managed to get his gaff into his opponent’s breast, and he was hung. Mr. Oh’s bird lifted its wings and tried to back away, but Keoni was stuck to him, tied by a knife and a will to win. Mr. Oh held his bird while I removed the gaff, and only then did I see how long and deep the gash was. Keoni had lunged the other bird. Mr. Oh righted his black on the mat and we let them go, but his bird was dizzy, blood filling the lung where my boy had stabbed. Keoni went at the other bird’s face, pecking at its eyes and cheeks, and by the time the fight was called, Mr. Oh’s black was on the ground, huffing, his eyes already turning misty and blue. Keoni continued pecking, relentless.
I lifted my boy off the other, who was trembling and shaking. Mr. Oh didn’t even bother to look down. He held out his hand to shake mine. “You are not your father’s daughter,” he said in careful English. He paused before adding, “I will be honored to meet you again.” Finally,
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