From the Summer Writing Institute 2002
By Diane Awakuni
Koko Head Elementary
“We can dilute the milk with water so Papa won’t notice that we took some to make pudding,” Mama whispered. Minutes later, Papa staggered through the front door. Slamming the bottle of whiskey on the kitchen table, he signaled Mama to bring the bottle of milk from the icebox. Whiskey and milk wasn’t his drink of choice, but only milk could soothe the excruciating pain from his ulcers, and there was no way he was going to give up the booze, no matter what the doctor said. He poured some whiskey into his cup, careful not to spill a drop. He lifted the bottle of milk and eyeballed it suspiciously. He glowered at Mama, then started to turn his head in my direction. I looked down before our eyes could meet. My heart thumped wildly as my tiny fingers pressed hard on my butter and sugar sandwich I pretended to enjoy. If only the milkman would deliver milk more often. Mama had pleaded with him, but he refused. He said he couldn’t afford the risk of the milk bottles breaking on the bumpy dirt road leading to our house. My body trembled at the thought of what happened the last time Papa discovered someone drank some of his precious milk.
It was during the summer of ’61 in Kapa’a. That summer brought the birth of a litter of baby pigs, twelve to be exact. It was a happy time watching those tiny, pink creatures squealing loudly and scrambling to suckle their mother’s milk. One floppy-eared piglet was so tiny and weak, he struggled to get to the food source and was nearly trampled in the process.
“We need to remove him from the litter and hand feed him or he’ll starve to death,” Papa said.
“I’ll feed him! I’ll take care of him,” I replied excitedly. He agreed and walked to the shed to mix a special solution to make the runt healthy and strong. As I waited, I cradled the frail piglet in my arms and stroked his soft, furless body. “I’ll call you Pork Chops.”
Papa returned a short time later and handed me a baby bottle filled with a bright green solution.
“What’s this green stuff? Where’s the milk?” I asked bewildered.
“Just feed the runt. It’s good for him,” he ordered as he climbed onto his run-down tractor and headed toward the dried-up cornfields.
I put the nipple of the bottle to his mouth, but Pork Chops wasn’t remotely interested. I took a whiff. Phew! The smell was so putrid it curled the hairs in my nose. “Yuck! Who wants to drink this stinky green stuff. Don’t worry, Pork Chops, I’ll get you some real milk.”
I emptied the baby bottle leaving a green puddle on the dirt. With Pork Chops tucked under my arm, I headed for the icebox and removed a half-full bottle of milk, poured some into the baby bottle, snapped on the nipple and put it to Pork Chops’ mouth. He hungrily sucked on the nipple as white foam formed around his mouth. Suddenly my collar jerked. I felt myself being lifted and flung into the air. The force catapulted me through the open door, my right cheek slamming onto the hard ground. A searing pain shot up my neck. Lying stunned and helpless, I felt Papa’s wrath breathing down my neck. Not wanting to look at him, I shielded my face with my hands. My body stiffened as I anticipated another blow. I braced myself and waited. Instead, a low menacing growl penetrated the air. It was Duke, my faithful dog. He barked ferociously, ready to lunge at Papa, who reluctantly retreated into the shed.
Cautiously, Duke crept towards me. He lay down next to me, and slowly licked my face. Hugging him tightly, I buried my face in his matted fur, and cried. Tears seemed to be brimming from his eyes, too. He laid his head on my lap and nuzzled close to me. At that moment I was no longer afraid, like when I had a bad dream and Mama would come into my room and hold me in her arms. Later she would make me my favorite comfort food, warm chocolate pudding. As she stirred the pudding on the stove, she held on to me as I tiptoed, craning my neck to see it bubbling in the pot. I remembered how she skimmed her finger over the top of the pudding, blew on it, and smeared it like lipstick over my lips. The sight of me savoring the taste, so intent in licking every single speck of pudding from my lips, amused her. Laughing, she drew me close to her and gave me a big hug. With Mama, I felt safe and no longer alone.
