circumstances.
Over the years, he would pop up now and then. âTÄnÄ koe,â the voice on the phone would say. âDo ya know who this is?â
Of course I did, but I would pretend not to, and weâd go through the charade of me guessing Brad Pitt, George Clooney, until I got it right, or in desperation and frustration heâd say, âItâs your cousin,â and weâd 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, heâd given up on her. Visits from the police were regular occurrences, as she often verbally abused the neighbours and physically abused him. He didnât 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. âWonderful,â I said to my husband.
âMaaka wonât care,â he grunted.
âHe will, but heâll pretend he doesnât,â I replied.
The phone rang a few weeks later. âKia ora, cuz,â a voice said. âKnow who this is?â
âFrankenstein,â I replied, as we began the dance. I wasnât going to ask, but from a mixture of boredom and curiosity after five minutes and because it didnât seem like he was going to mention it, I said, âYouâre going to be a grandfather soon?â
âNever thought it would happen. Girl doesnât even like kids. Prefers cows and mucking around with cars.â 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. âPlease just donât ever buy it a motorbike,â I prayed.
It was a long time after that when I heard from him again, and even then it wasnât a phone call or a card. It was a photograph. Only two words were written on the back â âPopâs girlâ â 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 grandfatherâs 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. Iâm so shocked, I make a hiccup sound, and he looks at me. Iâve 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 itâs a relief when I realise itâs 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. âCome on, Tiger. Weâre here. Time to go and see your aunty. With any luck sheâll cook us some bacon and eggs for breakfast.â He doesnât mention Uncle George, but thatâs because Dad doesnât like him much, and Iâve heard him telling Mum heâs âa lazy bastard who wouldnât do anyone a favour unless he got paid for itâ. In Dadâs book thatâs not a good thing, because Dad would help anyone, any time.
Mum had smiled and said, âWell, he must be good for something, or my sister wouldnât have married him.â Dad didnât 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.
Iâm glad to stretch my legs. Itâs been a long way from Auckland to ÅpÅtiki. We