Free Huia Short Stories 10 by Tihema Baker

circumstances.
    Over the years, he would pop up now and then. ‘Tēnā koe,’ the voice on the phone would say. ‘Do ya know who this is?’
    Of course I did, but I would pretend not to, and we’d go through the charade of me guessing Brad Pitt, George Clooney, until I got it right, or in desperation and frustration he’d say, ‘It’s your cousin,’ and we’d laugh, though we were too old for such games.
    One year he told me his wife was drinking more than ever, and I think, from his tone, he’d given up on her. Visits from the police were regular occurrences, as she often verbally abused the neighbours and physically abused him. He didn’t seem to care, and I thought afterwards it was his way of punishing himself for the loss of his boys.
    A Christmas later, a card arrived, not glittery or fancy, not even festive. There was a note from his wife wishing our family a Merry Christmas, and underneath one line to say Mereanne was expecting a baby in the new year. ‘Wonderful,’ I said to my husband.
    â€˜Maaka won’t care,’ he grunted.
    â€˜He will, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t,’ I replied.
    The phone rang a few weeks later. ‘Kia ora, cuz,’ a voice said. ‘Know who this is?’
    â€˜Frankenstein,’ I replied, as we began the dance. I wasn’t going to ask, but from a mixture of boredom and curiosity after five minutes and because it didn’t seem like he was going to mention it, I said, ‘You’re going to be a grandfather soon?’
    â€˜Never thought it would happen. Girl doesn’t even like kids. Prefers cows and mucking around with cars.’ And try as I might, he would say no more on the subject. I knew Mereanne was thirty-five, so maybe it was an accident, not something planned or wanted. ‘Please just don’t ever buy it a motorbike,’ I prayed.
    It was a long time after that when I heard from him again, and even then it wasn’t a phone call or a card. It was a photograph. Only two words were written on the back – ‘Pop’s girl’ – and it showed my cousin, old now with a beard long and silvery, seated on a bench looking down at a little girl. She was a small twin of her mother, curly brown hair and golden eyes. A small hand was tangled in her grandfather’s beard, and she nestled against him like a snug pocket in a comfortable pair of jeans.
    I was never really sure if I liked my cousin Maaka, even though I had known him most of my life. The photograph changed all that. In it, I saw there was someone who was sure she liked him. I was glad.

Pig Sticker
    Ann French
    The van has stopped when I wake up, and Dad is crying. I’m so shocked, I make a hiccup sound, and he looks at me. I’ve never seen Dad cry; not even when he got a big fish hook stuck in his leg. That time he just swore, went to the doctor and had it cut out.
    So it’s a relief when I realise it’s the shadow of raindrops on the windscreen running down his face. If Dad cried, it would be the end of the world.
    He reaches over and ruffles my hair. ‘Come on, Tiger. We’re here. Time to go and see your aunty. With any luck she’ll cook us some bacon and eggs for breakfast.’ He doesn’t mention Uncle George, but that’s because Dad doesn’t like him much, and I’ve heard him telling Mum he’s ‘a lazy bastard who wouldn’t do anyone a favour unless he got paid for it’. In Dad’s book that’s not a good thing, because Dad would help anyone, any time.
    Mum had smiled and said, ‘Well, he must be good for something, or my sister wouldn’t have married him.’ Dad didn’t like Mum siding against him, and went outside and chopped enough wood to last us all winter and the next one as well. I know because I had to stack it.
    I’m glad to stretch my legs. It’s been a long way from Auckland to Ōpōtiki. We