by Alan Duff
Mrs Mac, not that attractive, believed she was. She thought my mother one of the most beautiful she'd ever seen and yet shook her head that she did not appear to believe it of herself. Guess she was saying my mother should stand taller. I did know I felt pretty lucky in the looks area, from a mum who told me every day how handsome I was. Maybe like Mrs Mac, though, I wasn't in fact good looking?
She gave me books to read, when our house had few and none but a handful of Waiwera homes had any books at all. When you live in a place like Waiwera reading is not the activity you think of and anyway, as Mrs Mac said, Maori culture is oral. We did not have the written word until it was introduced by the Europeans.
The post office handled not just mail but banking, post office savings accounts, foreign currency exchanges for the tourists, and the staff took added responsibility for the gossip and private affairs of every Waiwera inhabitant worth talking about.
Like when the letter addressed to Lena Takahe came, bearing a United States of America postmark and Mrs Mac herself phoned my mother on the party line knowing eavesdropping was common practice, told Mum there was a letter she should collect in person, or would she rather her son bring it home this evening?
I was there when Mum turned up, a bit breathless in that way of hers that says why would anyone write to me, or even give me one thought? (Henry had taken something vital out of her, I was certain. I wanted her to walk around being proud of herself. Not this unassuming, modest woman who most of our village said was still one of our finer-looking specimens. Disgusting how some of the men, when they were drunk, tried to chat my mother up and got angry when she ignored them, called her a bag, a slut, said they know she turned it up for more than the Yank while Henry was away. Cruel hypocrites: knew she won't run to Henry. On my enslavement list too. My American father and I were going to have quite a few people to confront on Judgement Day.)
For you, Lena. Mrs McDowell handed over the letter. The staff whispering it had been sent from America. America! With all that that meant. My mother occasionally filled in for guides; often tourists not just from America but other countries were so impressed they sent a postcard, or started regular correspondence with the guides or locals they'd met. There could be no other possible explanation, not even to the person of greatest hoping, me.
From my father? Impossible. Never mind the years of fantasising he'd one day turn up in our lives. Absolutely impossible.
I saw Mum look at the letter, glance up, back down, up again — her face transformed.
She was white. Trying to speak but words wouldn't come.
I heard Mrs Mac say, why don't you go and find somewhere on your own and read it without interruption, dear?
I knew not to go after her to see who the letter was from.
Mum told me much later she clutched the letter and just started walking into town, three miles away. On through town and down to the lake to end up in Marsden Gardens, walking aimlessly round and round the big spread of well-kept park. Ended on a park bench sitting there stunned in the manicured surround.
All week she refused to say anything about the letter other than it was just from a tourist who remembered. I knew she was holding back and I thought it might be possible she had heard from him, my dad. But he would have written years earlier, not waited till I was thirteen. Still, he might not know of my existence; why would he? So many thoughts going through my mind.
The following day, Saturday, was our money-earning day in the river to go to the afternoon pictures. Mum said, go to the eleven o'clock picture and I'll meet you at two thirty at the park by the big pool. Don't tell a soul, not your best mate, not your big sister or Wiki. And don't ask me why. It figured this was to do with the letter and yet I saw no sign in her face to say it was epic news like that, of my dreamboat dad suddenly popped into existence.
I don't remember anything of the flick. Came out blinking in the sunlight, told Chud I had to go somewhere and he wanted to know where and why I was keeping it secret and why wasn't I heading back home with him and why had we come to the early flick? Asking for the fiftieth time.
Told you, I don't know.
Chud still looked hurt and hell, if you had to choose between killing your mother or your best friend, it's a very hard pick.
I'll tell you in a couple of hours, Chud, I promise. But tell him what? I had a nervous feeling now.
My mother beside me on a park bench, as nearby steam growls its presence, a four-foot stone wall built around it. This one's a sigher, not very interesting. At our backs the vast poster portrait of Tudor-style building, imposing gable spires, stripes of dark-stained wood against white plaster of its walls, old grey slate roof. The times I was the loner coming here I imagined the building our family castle, my king and queen parents, me the prince. The immaculate bowling greens laid out before the grand old building were emerald carpet offerings to us, the American Royal Family.
One of our smaller palaces the Green Baths building in art deco design. Named for its green pool tiles, a place kids cram at weekends, it's got a high diving board and uses thermal heat for the smaller pools. Nothing compared with the natural wonders of Waiwera. Though Chud and I loved going there when flooding made our river too dangerous. Mixing with white kids, governed by quite strict rules: Chud for some strange reason seemed to enjoy the rules and even the company of white kids who weren't into fighting and acting aggressive.
Never seen my mother so agitated, not even when Henry was talking himself up to giving her a belting. She is shaking like a leaf.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SON, SHE SAYS. Your father is alive.
What father? I'm suddenly confused though a moment ago I was sitting in yonder building on my prince's throne right beside him, Mum the other side. What are you talking about?
Your father, his name is Jess. He is alive, son. He's alive! And she breaks down in tears.
Oh, Mum. I put an arm round her. But my mind is trying to find a place to fit this information. I'm peering at the letter to see if a photo came with it. My father? The man who, who made my mother pregnant — with me? How can this be? And who is going to help carry me through my shock?
Dear Lena
Don't know if you remember me. It's Jess Hines. The American GI from all those years ago. I survived the war and if you ever gave me a thought you may have assumed me dead, killed in action, as I did not write as I promised. I have long anguished over whether to write or let you alone and get on with civilian life like so many millions did. But your face, the memories, refused to let me go.
I got one letter from you. You may have written others but a mail boat was sunk by a Japanese sub and Lord you can't imagine the disappointment, it was like an incident of multiple deaths to men who so looked forward to getting letters from loved ones. I don't mean to be presumptuous there.
My mother gives a silly grin at that.
Conditions in Guadalcanal were such that letter writing was out of the question. But please believe I thought about you an awful lot. Even though knowing you are married and likely regretted what we shared. For that I ask your forgiveness, as—
He must have written something intimate. She read this letter the day before. Knows what's coming and where the embarrassing bits are.
What a hellhole we were sent to after the dream world of New Zealand. The battles took place in steaming barely penetrable jungle. Bitten mad by malaria carrying mosquitoes — death and terrible sickness in itself, blood-sucking leeches, scorpions, snakes, biting flies and an enemy we hardly saw, only the deaths he caused us, or their maggot-ridden corpses and our own gruesome dead. You would not have believed how swift and hideous the decay of life in that Hell. To think, a proud soldier would actually be grateful to be wounded and invalided home. But that's how we all felt. Wanting to be injured enough to be sent home, never to have to go to war again.
Seven months there I was quite badly wounded with multiple gunshots. Took five bullets. Was flown home with scores of other wounded men. Three
months recuperating and I was assessed fit to return to combat duty. Europe this time.
Again my mother feels this Jess guy is writing private stuff and she turns away to read it to herself. Then looks at me and says, you have two more half-sisters, Yank.
A thought that repulses me. I don't want two more half-sisters.
He was married, got divorced a few years ago, Mum says.
I feel better: divorced at least.
I've thought and thought about writing to you, asking myself what is the point? You'll either not remember me or not wish to, given you are married. I am presuming your husband came home safe to you and your daughter. But then I thought, don't be silly, you'd be lucky if Lena remembered you—
Dad. Dad? (Dad?)
Nope, just won't take. Wish Mum would stop crying now. People going past looking are embarrassing me. All because of a letter from a man who didn't even send a picture of himself so I could confirm or reject my years-long fantasy on the spot.
Did he send a photo, Mum? She shakes her head. Have you got any photos, Mum? I never asked you about it — about him. Ever.
No, you didn't. And I wouldn't have told you anyway. Not when I thought he was dead.
He's alive, Yank. I can't believe it.
Feels like a good movie spoiled, ended too soon, halfway through the story. It's reality now, of him actually stepping up and saying, Hi. I'm Jess. I believe you're my son. But where's a photo at the very least? What if he's not a cowboy figure hero, a war hero, a film star, is just an ordinary person? I ask my mother, what was he like? Yet not wanting an answer.
Through her tears she smiles and says, you really want to know?
What a stupid question. Yes, Mum.
Wonderful. Treated me like a princess.
A married princess, I can't help saying. To someone else.
But she just smiles the more. Says, and look what it gave me.
Huh? Oh, she means me. Well, you're a pretty special mother too. But did you really have to go with an American? And now what do we do? Write back, tell him he's got a son here and ask if he feels like visiting?
Settling back to civilian life was tougher than I thought it would be, she read on. Seems society and officialdom treated servicemen in different ways. Some missed on veterans' loans for business and housing. Serving in two different parts of the world meant 'papers had been mixed up'. Meaning lost. I moved to Jackson, our state's biggest city, to get work, provide for my family. My wife worked nights, we shared looking after the children. We were arguing a lot. We managed though to save close to a deposit on a very modest house. Then the marriage fell apart and naturally I gave her our savings—
Mum? Why don't you suggest he comes here as a tourist, with a group? That way Henry won't know, we can arrange to meet like we have here.
I'm suddenly getting excited.
No, she shakes her head. It's over, Yank. He's single now. But I am not.
Huh? She may as well be.
Sure, I want you to meet him one day. But the past is the past.
I haven't had that past yet, Mum.
And you'd like to. I know. Her face is glowing like I've never seen. The colour in her eyes has grabbed some light source and has them burning like pale green flames. She's flushed. And look, the hand holding the letter is trembling. I'm shaken too. He's alive. My God, my father actually exists.
Life is pretty good now. Hoping very much yours is too. Been such a long time.
The rest of the letter doesn't say much, just how America is a wonderful country to live in — for some.
Fondest regards
Jess.
Dear Jess, I began, uncertain at what to call him, but not Dad, and Mister Hines would be too formal.
Not sure what to say or how to start. I can say it came as the biggest surprise of my life to hear from you. Mum thought you had been killed in the war and me, I guess not knowing or hearing anything about you, I invented this person in my mind. Boy, did I imagine you in so many different roles! Actually, I was given the name Yank long before I knew the reason.
I'm thirteen, in first year of high school. Mum and teachers want me to go to university. But I'd like to be a musician, a singer, play guitar too. I'm obsessed with music. It must be from you because Mum is not that musically inclined. Henry — her husband and kind of my father — is a wonderful singer —
Not that I'll be telling him of how Henry has treated Mum and me.
Rugby is a big thing here, most boys and men play the game, everyone goes to games and talks about rugby all the time. I'm not such a good player and secretly glad I'm not. I want to be a musician.
My best mate Chud is the best young player anyone's seen in years. But do I want to be like him? No. He's had a tough life. His parents are terrible to him. But anyway you don't want to hear about that I just want you to know he's like a brother. And if we do meet, he'll not be far away. I know you'll like him.
Seeing you've been here, you'll know what an amazing place Waiwera is.
Saying that evoked all sorts of mental images of my mother and him writhing in sexual union. God. The sights of Mum not Waiwera.
I work a few hours a week at the local post office. The manager, we call her Mrs Mac, is very kind and really likes me. Don't know what more to say. When I get over the shock of getting used to you actually existing, I'll write back.
Kind regards
Mark.
My real name feels awkward, but signing it as Yank to a Yank was silly. Can't even write Takahe, as I'm officially known at school. That name belongs to someone else too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
YOU'RE TOO HARD ON HER, Henry, my war buddies kept telling me after we came home. All right for them, they don't have a living reminder resident in their homes. Have to hear his name Yank echoing in my home patch. Easy for them to say I'm too hard.
Not that my wife was the only one: a few others had flings too, just no children came of it except when an unmarried village girl had a child to a Yank. No one gave that kid a permanent name reminder.
The biggest day of my life spoiled — felt as if my officer's rank was also rendered worthless. I was the senior man. My heavy responsibility to stand in the meeting house and read out the names of my killed relations and mates, with no sign of my wife, the daughter I hadn't seen, my mother averting my questioning eyes. Responsibility claimed me; I had to stay at the party at least till the last of the formal speeches was over. A sick feeling in my gut.
What a shock. This kid in the house I and my late father built for my and Lena's children. What am I supposed to do, celebrate? Sign him into my will?
As for her, Lena. How could she? I could have beaten the bitch to death, not just given her a hiding. I felt like throwing her into a hot pool, and her kid. Lord, I never knew such anger and hurt. All the deaths of a brother, close friends in that war didn't compare to this. If I had been asked to imagine the worst possible thing to happen in life, this was beyond that.
I went into my shell for months, could barely function, not even the big plans I had to improve life in our village were enough to pull me out of the gloom. I even contemplated suicide for the first time in my life. Couldn't speak to Lena and if she'd dared open her mouth — even in apology — I would have put a fist in it. The kid by association was on my hate list. And yet I love children.
Time is a kind of healer. Except my wound felt permanently infected: I couldn't get rid of it, kept festering there in my mind my heart. Even thought I might go crazy — my emotions were like one of our boiling pools, never going to cool.
A man has to work though. The Waiwera Hotel as good a place as any. Got on well with the Irish publican; we knew we were good for each other. I could handle the drunk Maoris. I was soon running the show, the public bar first, then the private bar after hours which was as much social for me and the owner, drinking with hotel guests who legally could drink beyond the hour of six o'clock, and our inner circle of mates, including my close army buddies. But back at
home things weren't good.
I just couldn't stand the sight of the kid, the damn name the village had given him, public declaration my wife had slept with a Yank. My public shame personified in the kid's very existence, my manhood mocked by his every living moment. Took years to learn to live with it.
We slept in different beds, Lena and I. Naturally a man has sexual needs but damned if I was going there with her. Found my release in a few other women over the two years of my anger. But I'm no womaniser: I prefer a settled home life. I wanted my kids to grow up in a stable home environment. But in our situation?
One night I walked into her bedroom to find her undressed and lust — maybe vengeance — took over. She just took my breath away. It was over pretty quickly, bordered on savage. Yet I realised I still had a spark for her and that she was mother to our daughter, even if Mata was gun-shy from her very first encounter with me.
Ended up sharing the marital bed again. On far sides of the bed to each other but the inevitable did happen. Not saying I was lover boy extraordinaire. Just that sexual activity did take place and so did another child come about. I called her Wikitoria, after my mother.
Mum lived a few doors up the rise and never graced our house on account of her refusing to forgive Lena. Couldn't blame her. Our girls had open invite to go to their grandmother's, and of course the boy didn't. Nor could he have expected it. Not his blood. To hell with him.
In my mind I'd think, you want your grandparents, boy? Then fuck off to America. My spiteful, nasty side. But we all have one. I hardly ever hit the kid unless he'd done a wrong that couldn't be overlooked. Greed a quality I hated and so if Yank ate more than his share he got some hard face slaps from me. As well he should. Us Maoris are brought up to share. Greedy people don't fit in our community. Funny how I never saw him as a complete Waiwera boy even though he knew no other place. But I didn't have too much of a problem with him — as long he kept out of my way. Not much to ask in your own house, is it?