Witi Ihimaera - Uncle's Story

‘I saw it all, Michael,’ she said. ‘I watched Dad shovel dirt over Sam. Once it was over, I ran like the wind to get back to the homestead before Dad. When I arrived, Mum was waiting for me. She was out of her mind with grief. “Did you see where he buried Sam? Did you?” she asked. I told her, “Yes, Mum.” She asked me, “Will you be able to find the place again?” I said, “Yes, I’ll be able to find it.” Half an hour later, Dad arrived. When he had washed up he said, “Florence bring the family Bible to me.” He tore out the page which had Sam’s birth details on it, and he said, “Nobody is to mention Sam’s name in this house again.” Then he told us we had to burn all Sam’s things.’

Auntie Pat paused for a moment. I thought she might start weeping again but —

‘No, I’m all right, Michael.’

Her memory went back to that night again.

‘Mum tried to stop Dad. She followed him into Sam’s room, and when he started to throw everything out of the window — the bedding, Sam’s clothes, Sam’s records and Sam’s books — she ran at him and started to hit him with her fists. “You bastard,” she yelled, over and over. Then Dad found Sam’s secret place under the floorboards where he’d kept his diary, photos and letters, Mum launched herself at him and started to scratch his face. While they fought, I saw Sam’s diary fall from Dad’s arms. I picked it up quickly, and hid it. Monty saw what I did. “Sshh, don’t tell Daddy.” A few letters fell also, and the photograph. Next minute, Dad threw Mum off him and walked out the door. He went to the car, opened the boot and took out the can of spare petrol. He splashed the petrol over Sam’s things and set a match to them. There was a whoosh and, next minute, the sky was alight — and the updraught was carrying burning ash into the air like they were birds on fire. I heard Mum say to Dad, “You’ve told us we are never to speak Sam’s name again. Let me tell you what I have decided. You will never hear me speak your name again, ever.” Dad just looked at her. “Do what you like,” he said. He’d long passed caring about her. After a while, he stopped caring about me too. All he really cared about was Monty.’

Auntie Pat wiped her brow.

‘My father broke Mum’s heart,’ she said as she stood up. ‘But he never broke her spirit. Every year while Dad was alive we always brought flowers to Sam’s grave. Dad must have wondered how we knew where Sam was buried, but he said nothing. When he died, Mum was no longer tied to the farm — or to him. People think I was the one who decided to shift to Gisborne, but it was Mum’s idea. We still kept bringing flowers to Sam. Every anniversary of his death. Mum would say to me, “Patty? Patty! Hurry up and bring the car around to the front! It’s time to see Sam —”’

Auntie Pat looked up at the sky.

‘You never stopped loving him, did you, Mum. Neither did I, and don’t you worry — I’ll still come back out here every year.’

Then Auntie Pat put her fingers to her lips and placed a kiss on Sam’s grave.

‘I’m sorry, brother. It was all my fault. Everything that happened was all my fault.’

I held Auntie Pat close to me.

‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ I said. ‘You loved your brother. If you’d been able to, I know you would have tried to save him.’

Auntie Pat sighed, took my hand, nodded and addressed Sam:

‘Well, at least you’ll have some sun this winter, brother.’ She turned swiftly to me.

‘When I die, you are to bring me up here and bury me next to my brother. The others can go to the family graveyard if they want to. But my brother is not to lie here alone. Do you hear me, Michael? Do you hear me?’

Auntie Pat called me Michael only when she was angry. Boy, was she getting her wild up now.

‘Okay, Auntie,’ I answered. ‘You and Uncle Sam might be starting up a family tradition.’

Auntie Pat looked puzzled.

‘Well,’ I continued, ‘you don’t think they’ll be wanting me in the graveyard, do you? I’ll be better off with you two!’

Auntie Pat pulled a face.

‘Listen to the boy,’ she said to Sam. ‘God, he has some dumb ideas.’

She looked at her watch.

‘We’d better get back. You have a plane to catch.’

Then, with a rush, it was time to go to Canada. Half an hour before Roimata and I were due to leave the office for the airport, the telephone rang. Roimata was in her usual panic and thought I would answer it, but I was having a little panic of my own and thought she would pick it up. It was just as well I realised in time:

‘Hi, Michael.’

Click click, crack.

‘Ada!’

‘Oh, you naughty boy!’ she said, crack, swallow, laugh, click. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Mr Harper had one of those hyphenated names, Clifford James Addison -Harper! You go stand by your fax machine right now, because I’m sending down to you all the information I’ve got on him.’

‘You mean he’s alive? And you’ve found him?’

‘Sure thing, honey!’

‘Ada, I could kiss you!’

‘Oh, honey, you’re making me blush and that’s hard for a sixty-five- year-old woman to do!’

‘You’re sixty-five?’

‘Every bitty year.’

‘I don’t care. Here’s the kiss!’

I blew her a kiss down the telephone. Heard her pause. Then click click clickety click, crack crack CRACK — sigh.

‘I guess that’s the closest to telephone sex I’ll ever get,’ Ada drawled. ‘Take care, honey, and here’s Mr Harper’s details coming at you.’

A few seconds later the fax machine began to spit, curl and hum with Cliff Harper’s telephone number and address: Back of the Moon, Muskegon Harbour, Illinois.

I rang Auntie Pat. ‘We’ve found him, Auntie Pat.

‘We’ve found Cliff Harper.’

‘Oh, no,’ Roimata said.

Auckland International Airport on a Friday evening was absolute bedlam. Loud, noisy and full of people queueing at the check-in counters. The lines for United Economy in particular were very long, and that meant a full flight to Los Angeles. There was nothing for it but to try to be patient, shuffle forward in line and, once we’d finally made it to the desk, pass over our tickets and passports and wait for our seat assignments — right at the back next to the toilets.

‘At least we’ll be the last to die if the plane goes down,’ I said to Roimata.

She batted her eyelids. ‘And we’ll be together, up close and personal.’

Even so, I was puzzled at the length of time it was taking to check us in. I often wondered exactly what counter clerks tapped into their computers. I suspected that by the time each passenger had been processed, their names went out the window and were replaced by fifty-digit bar codes. Finally the clerk stopped tapping and smiled at us encouragingly:

‘Mr Mahana? Your upgrade has been confirmed. You and Miss Williams have seating in business class.’

‘Upgrade? There must be some mistake.’

‘No, Sir. It’s been arranged by Mr Carlos Poulsen. Best wishes at your international fisheries conference, and enjoy the flight.’

Roimata’s mouth dropped open. ‘That boy has class,’ she said as we beat a fast track through Customs and into the business lounge. There Roimata kicked off her shoes, helped herself to a drink and pretended to be a film star. I picked up the phone and dialled Wellington.

‘You’re full of surprises,’ I said to Carlos when he answered.

‘I’d much rather you were up front where you’ve got flight attendants to look after you than at the back with Roimata in the dark. You tell her to keep her red-painted fingernails to herself.’