Chapter 6: The Legend Of Baby

SIX

  The Legend of Baby

 

 

I walk up the stairs into the family room and find the kids lined up like sardines in their sleeping bags.

                   “Goodnight kids.”

                   “Goodnight, Auntie Mary,” they chorus.

                   “Auntie,” calls Kristie. “Stay and tell us a story.”

                   “What kind of story do you want to hear?”

                   “Monsters and ghouls!” Luke and Clay quickly exclaim.

                   “No! No!” protest the girls. “We want fairy tales!”

                   “Well, only one story tonight because it’s late. If you can’t agree on the story, then I’m afraid . . .” I pretend to turn around to go back downstairs.

         “Wait Auntie Mary!” shouts Nora. “Why don’t you tell us your favorite bedtime story?”

                   “You mean the one I wanted your grandma to tell me always when I was young?”

                   “Yes, that story. The girl with seven names and seven godparents.”

                   “Oh, but you’ve heard that so many times before.”

                   “But we want to hear it again.”

                   I am so pleased that my nieces and nephews find the story interesting and engaging.  I remember how I had wanted my Mom to tell me the story every night. It wasn’t really every night because my mother only told me a bedtime story twice a month. With so many children and all the housework and other responsibilities she had when we were growing up, she did not have the luxury of time to tell a bedtime story to each one of us, unless we all gathered around and agreed on a story. I step forward and sit down in front of my audience. Every one sits up in anticipation. “Okay, okay. Then you go to sleep?”

                   “Yes Auntie.”

                   I get down on the floor, swivel into position from the hip joint, and draw my knees as close together as possible while maintaining a straight back.  The kids call this lotus pose the Buddha position.  I clear my throat and assume a serious attitude. “All right, here we go . . . .”        

                   “Once upon a time there was a girl who became the envy of every child in the community because she received more gifts than any of them at Christmas time. Not because her godparents were wealthy, but because she had seven of them. What made this girl so special that she was blessed with seven godparents instead of the traditional two?  I’ll tell you.

                   Before this girl was born, her family had spent three consecutive Christmases with sorrow.  Prone to complications during pregnancy, her mother’s last three pregnancies ended tragically in miscarriages.  Midway through her pregnancy with this baby, her mother felt the symptoms of yet losing another child.  She and her husband and their three children prayed like they had never prayed before. The sympathetic community joined the family in a daily vigil, praying for a happy Christmas for the family.

                   Their prayers were answered.  The fourth child in the family was born. It was a very happy occasion in the community that was celebrated with a sumptuous feast. Many friends and relatives wanted to be a godparent to the miracle child, which became a dilemma for the parents. But the issue was resolved in an unprecedented manner to the delight of the seven persons chosen for godparents who also felt privileged to name the child.  But they could not decide on a specific name, so each one gave her a name.

                   Hence, the seven names: Milagros Concepcion Marria-Angelia Trinidad Perla Mahal Emerald.  Whew!

                   But with all those names came the quandary of what nickname to call the baby, and you know how Filipinos love nicknames.  The issue went unresolved for a long time.  In the interim, everybody started calling her . . . ?”

                   The kids raise their fist toward the ceiling and cry in unison. “BABY!!!

         “Yes! And the name stuck. Baby became the most popular kid in the neighborhood. But every Christmas, other children, including her brothers and sisters, were jealous of her because--?”

                   “She got more gifts at Christmas!”

                   “Yes, she did.  But it made her unhappy because many of the envious children would not play with her anymore.  One day, her mother said to her: ‘Child, it is better to give than to receive.  And you, as our miracle child already got the best gift of all.  So, I suggest that you share some of your blessings and give away some of your gifts to other children, especially to those who need it most at Christmas time.’  So what did Baby do?”

                   “She gave away most of her gifts to other children!”

                   “That’s right. And Baby lived happily every after. To this day, even though she’s already verrrry old to you -- 32 -- many still call her “Baby.”

                   I jump at them and start a tickling frenzy to which they always look forward at the end of the story. They scream and bury themselves inside their sleeping bags trying to avoid my fingers.

                   “And if she catches any one calling her Auntie Baby, what is she going to do to little people like you?”

                   Their heads come out of their covers like turtles. “You're going to eat them alive, Auntie Baby!”  Quickly, they pull their covers over their heads again, laughing, squirming and screaming. Lisa, Malia and Clara come running up the stairs. “

                   “What’s going on here?”

                   “What’s all the commotion?

                   I stop tickling the kids.

                   “Just telling them a bedtime story,” I say, trying to catch my breath.

                   “Ahhh . . . the legend of your nickname Baby?” says Malia laughing.

                   ‘Hey kids,” I call out, “what do I do when adults call me Baby again?”

                   “You don't give them Christmas gifts!”

                   “That’s right! And who gives the best Christmas gift every year?”

                   “You, Auntie Baby!”

                   The room erupts with laughter and cheers.

                   “Okay, okay,” says Lisa. “Everybody go to sleep. It’s almost midnight. You, too, Baby.”

                   I give Lisa a soft slap on the head. “No Christmas gift for you this year.”

                   Everyone says goodnight and the adults go back downstairs. 

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 5: Remembering Mount Pinatubo's Wrath

FIVE

Remembering Mount Pinatubo's Wrath

         "I will never forget that day," my sister Lisa narrates, as we set the dinner table at Malia's house. "It was day time, but when Carlos and I stepped out of the grocery store in Dau, we saw that it was so dark like night and it was raining ash all around. People were screaming and running in all directions, covering their faces from the gritty ash and smell of sulfur. We were very confused. We had never seen anything like it. I thought of my children right away and chastised myself for not being with them. The cell phones were not working so I could not call home. I was frantic. Driving home, we could hardly see anything. The windshield wipers could not wash off the sticky ash well enough for Carlos to see the road. So I would get out of the car often and wipe it off with grocery bags."

         Lisa pauses for a moment. I feel her grief. She clears her throat and continues. "It was the longest drive home. I thought we’d never get there. The lahar was already thick around the house. We found our children at the corner of the living room huddled together, crying. They jumped when they saw us. We hugged each other so tight. I was afraid I’d never see them again."

         I wrap my arm around my sister to comfort her. "You’re lucky that you incurred damages only on material things. You still have your family, and everybody is healthy."

         Malia enters the dining room with a huge serving plate of  prawns from the fresh waters of Pangasinan Province. My mouth waters at the sight of the yummy anthropods steamed in lemon, garlic and salt. As always, Malia made sure they had these insects to welcome me every time I came back to visit. They’re my favorite. They taste so fresh and delightful.  I grab the plate from her and set it on the table.

         Malia turns to me. "Go ahead. I know you’re just dying to grab one . . . or two."

         "Oh, thank you, thank you," I exclaim, and pick the biggest prawn I can find. "I had so looked forward to these since I decided to come back. There’s nothing like them in the world. They’re absolutely to die for."

         Malia chuckles. "Well, glad to satisfy your cravings."

         While eating my first prawn, I continue to set the table while Lisa helps Malia in the kitchen. As I retrieve plates from the antique china cabinet I notice the valuable sets of dinnerware, glassware and silverware that I don't remember. She'd been busy shopping in Manila again since the last time I was here. I wander around and peruse the expensive furniture and other decorative things around the house. Imported, luxurious items from the U.S., Japan, Hong Kong, Thailand and India ostentatiously display my sister’s materialistic consumption in life.

         Malia reenters the dining room with a pot of shrimp soup we call sinigang-- a favorite comfort food that is distinctly Filipino as chicken soup is to America.  And for me tor me, the more sour it is, the better; this is done by adding more kalamansi (fresh lime or lemon juice) and raw tamarind.  "It's amazing, isn’t it?" Malia says when she finds me looking at her material possessions, "You spend a lot of time and money buying all this to make the house look nice, then one day, it all suddenly becomes so unimportant and worthless."

         One of Mount Pinatubo's legacies might be surmised as an awakening to what is truly material in life - life itself. As my sisters plan to move their families to the U.S., they consider following the principle of scant materialism. "I have donated a lot of it to charity," Malia says. "Since we can't take most of it with us to the States, a lot more will be donated to the needy."

         The front door opens and enter Johnny, Clara, and their three daughters The girls start screaming and attacking me with their hugs and kisses.

         "Auntie! You look more beautiful than the last time I saw you!"

         "Auntie! You look so sexy!"

         "Auntie, did you bring us pasalubong (homecoming gifts)?"

         "You guys don't have to flatter me just to find out if I brought presents, or not. But of course, I did. But after dinner, okay?"

         "There they are!" screams one of the girls, pointing to the wrapped packages at the corner of the living room.

         Quickly, the three girls run toward the gifts. Malia's and Lisa's children come running down the stairs after hearing their cousins’ excited voices. It’s so great to see my nieces and nephews enjoy each other – just like my siblings and I did when we were young -- something that our other relatives have always envied in us.

         "You do look so young, so slim and beautiful!" my sister-in-law says. "You’re the youngest-looking 32-year old I’ve ever seen."

         "Thank you, thank you." I say bowing to Clara.

         "It’s funny," Malia says, "when Mary was only 14, she would lie about her age, claiming she was already 16 or older. And she looked it, too."

         "Because I always acted more mature than my elders," I say defensively, but it’s true that I’ve always looked and acted older than my older sisters."

         "And why would she claim to be older?" Inquires Clara.

         "To get older boys," Malia replies jokingly then her speech turns serious. "Actually, so she can find a job and help put food on the table for you," she says, pointing at Johnny and Lisa. "That was the time when Pa was stabbed many times and was hospitalized for two weeks, remember?"

         The children are horrified.

         "Grandpa was stabbed?"

         "Why was he stabbed?"

         "Who stabbed him?"

         "Did they catch the bad guy?"

         We should not have mentioned the stabbing to the kids. The last thing we want is for them to have any bad impression of our father. It’s bad enough that they’d never met their grandfather; there’s no reason for them to know the dark secrets in the family.

         "There, there," Malia addresses the children. "It was a mistaken identity, and yes, they caught the bad guy. Case closed. Now, let's all gather at the table while everything is still hot."

         Theo, Malia’s husband, arrives from work just in time for the grace.

* * *

         After dinner, we assemble in the living room. As always, I put on my Santa Maria hat, and one by one, I hand my gifts to everybody. It’s a homecoming tradition, like Christmas.

         "Auntie, are these our homecoming pasalubong?"

         "Yes. Auntie, do we get more gifts for Christmas?"

         "Now, kids," Malia admonishes, "that's not nice to ask."

         "That's all right, Malia. Yes, kids, I have Christmas gifts for you. You see that big box there at the other corner? Those are it."

         The children start screaming again in excitement..

         "Can we look at them later?"

         "Can we count them?"

         "Sure," I say.  More excited screaming.

         I am so pleased that they all like their respective gifts, and all the clothes fit the intended recipients. I never get any gift from anyone. It’s my choice and I demand it. I have everything I need in life and I don’t want any more gifts that I might not need or want, and won’t know what to do with them. Sometimes I give them away or donate them to Goodwill. After clearing the living room of the wrapping paper and boxes, we start another tradition: Karaoke. Everybody must sing, and sing we do, no matter how bad some of us perform. A few of the kids are very good, but Theo might as well be a professional singer. He is a very successful regional sales manager for Abbott Laboratories, a U.S. pharmaceutical firm. Once he gets a hold of the microphone, he can sing all night long, and sometimes we let him.

         As the kids have gone back upstairs to play, and Theo has stopped singing songs from the Sixties, the adults stay in the living room and chat some more. I would like to stir the conversation towards Mama's issue of all-out forgiveness, but I can’t seem to find the perfect opportunity. Either that, or they manage to keep these issues away from the topics of discussion. That’s all right. We’ll have plenty of time for that. There’s still so much to catch up on. I am particularly interested in hearing more about the details of their experiences during the volcano eruption and their evacuation and refuge to Cavite City--our father's birthplace. Because of the high cost of overseas wireless long distance calls, their stories were always short and condensed when they called the U.S. to keep us informed of what was going on.

         Malia recalls vividly how she found Mama in her room gripping a rosary in both hands, fear in her eyes. "I ushered Ma into the living room where Theo and the kids nervously clung to each other on the sofa. We didn’t know what was going on. Something was rumbling awfully loud, like elephants stampeding toward us, making the house dance. The noise was unbearable and frightening. We thought the world was coming to an end. Suddenly, heavy mud-like rain came down continuously. We thought the roof was going to cave in on us. Then Johnny called. Thank goodness some of the land phones still worked. He told us to pack our essential stuff and evacuate to Cavite. We could not get in touch with Lisa; luckily, they decided to drive to our house."

         "Before the eruption," Clara remembers, "I thought I saw what looked like steam or smoke coming from the top of the mountain. I shrugged it off as clouds."


         "Some complained why it was never taught in schools," Lisa says. "I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know anything about it . . . and I was a school teacher."

         "Nobody I know had ever heard of Mount Pinatubo till its eruption," says Malia.

         "Why there were no early warnings and evacuation plans was beyond me," says Johnny.

         "Back in the States," I interpose, "I saw on TV where the vulcanologists and the U.S. military officials were talking to the Aeta tribes and urging them to evacuate days before the eruption."

         "I’m not surprised," says Johnny. "The Americans love the Aetas. Do you know that they train the soldiers how to survive in the jungles?"

         I nod in agreement. "Yes, I’ve read that somewhere."

         "Don’t you know," Lisa addresses Johnny, "that Mary knows everything about the Aetas? I think she was once an Aeta tribal princess thousands of years ago."

         "Don’t even get her started on that," Malia says amused. "Next thing you know, she’d be asking Johnny here to take her to their resettlement areas."

         I smiled secretly because, as a matter of fact, that was on my agenda. Johnny did not hear what Malia has just said. He’s still brooding over the lack of communication from the government about the eruption. He has always disliked the local politicians and he condemns them every chance he gets. "Our inept local officials should have at least made a public announcement that a nearby volcano was threatening to erupt," he says.

         The warning did come - just shortly before the mountain first exploded -- before the "big one" -- and it was a little late. Most people did not hear the radio announcement, and the cops with the bullhorn urging everyone to evacuate did not have enough time to warn everyone before the eruption. Johnny gathered his wife and daughters and evacuated their new home. Together, Johnny, Malia and Lisa and their families formed a convoy and joined the caravan of crawling vehicles and walking humanity, some pulling their carabaos, goats, chickens and pigs behind them. They fled their homes and hoped to find safety somewhere.

         My family would find their refuge in Cavite City, where relatives welcomed them with open arms. Abacan Bridge, the main artery connecting Angeles City, Mabalacat and the Clark Air Force Base collapsed shortly after the small family fleet crossed it. "We wondered if our homes would still be standing when we returned," Malia says.

         Close to a thousand people would perish in the calamity, and hundreds of thousands would lose their homes or their livelihood, or both.

         "Back home," I recollect, "I watched in horror as the event unfolded on TV. Lety kept in touch with me from San Diego several times a day. We were very worried about Ma. With her history of heart problems and diabetes, what if her medicines got lost in the chaos? Would she be able to obtain those medicines there? As you know, telephone communication was out of service in the region and we were totally out of touch with all of you. Not even text messaging worked."

         "Yes, it was great when we finally got connected to you," says Malia. We were already in Cavite then. Everybody was okay. The children were actually having a good time with their cousins. But Ma, obviously traumatized by it all, was always anxious. Her blood pressure was up, but not dangerously high. She had all her medicines with her. She was good about that, which was really amazing because most of the time, she’s very forgetful."

         "We stayed at cousin Lolita’s house in Cavite," Johnny says. "It worked out great for everybody. Lolita’s family was vacationing in Boracay then and won’t be back for another week. Only the maid was staying in the big house. Lolita was very happy to hear from her short-term refugee cousins and willingly offered her home to us. But on one condition: that we would not leave till her family got back so we could have a family reunion with all the other relatives in Cavite."

         Theo, who had stopped singing to join the group discussions, contributes his memorable experiences about the Cavite relatives. "I had never really gotten to know your Cavite clan until then. I had the best time of my life with the male characters. Now, I don’t know if this is true, or not, but they told me that the reason why your genealogy records don’t go beyond your grandfather’s clan is because your great, great grandfather changed the spelling of your family name and moved out of Cebu where he originally came from, so he could never be traced. Apparently, he was such a shady character -- a big gambler who owed big time money to many people in Cebu. And women. There were also many women who were after him. So, I guess this womanizing thing is —."

         A nudge in the elbow by Malia stops Theo from completing his sentence. But he didn’t need to for I already know what he meant to say.

         "I’ve heard that story before," I say. "It’s such a colorful story, but nobody really knows if it’s true or not."

         A soulful ballad starts playing on the radio. I’ve heard that song many times since I arrived in the Philippines: at the airport, in traffic, in Johnny’s SUV. "Wow, that song is really popular, isn’t it?" I observe.

         I immediately notice something curious in the way my brother and sisters surreptitiously looked at each other.

         "Do you know what it’s about?" Johnny asks.

         "Something about a woman whose entire family died in the eruption?"

         "Yes, and it’s a true story," Johnny replies. "It’s about a Balikbayan nurse named Rosario who returned to her hometown of Bacolor with her bank savings, jewelry and other valuable goods. She wanted to build a nice home for her mother and share her good fortune in the States with her brother and sister. The family and their relatives and friends celebrated her homecoming and generosity with a huge feast and barrels of San Miguel beer. The party went on through the night. Everyone in the household was still asleep when Pinatubo erupted. The volcano took everyone’s life. Rosario had left the house early to go to the bank and see a building contractor. Her life was spared . . . but not her sanity. She never returned to the States. People say that they sometime see her roaming the ghost town like a phantom in the night."

         It sounds like a fable made for movies. Is my brother over-dramatizing a story again? He’s been known to embellish tales to captivate and entertain his audience. Could this be one of those?

         "That’s an incredible and tragic story," I declare. "Who’s this woman; do you know?"

         "Umm . . . not really."

         I threw him a quizzical look. I think he’s lying. I think he knows who the woman is. But why would he lie about it?

         "Pinatubo truly left a lot of legacies for us to reflect on," I ponder. "And there’s got to be a silver lining to all this."

         Malia frowns. "So far, I can’t think of any," she deliberates with a crisp tone of discontent. "It took my livelihood away."

         Malia was a popular beautician inside Clark Air Force Base, which is situated at the base of the mountain, just a few miles from our house. On some weekends when she was off, some of her favorite customers would lease her for home service: hair styling, make up and manicure/pedicure - the works. Her income from tips was ten times more than her regular salary. All of that is gone now, of course, because this upheaval may have brought the permanent closure of the American Military presence in the Philippines. What the leftist anti-American Filipino rebels had tried to do in decades was accomplished by Pinatubo in mere seconds.

         "At least your homes are still intact," Lisa laments. "Theo still has a wonderful job, making more than enough to support you and your children." She turns to Johnny. "And your business is doing even better now after Pinatubo’s eruption." She pauses and unleashes an exasperated sigh of self-pity that she doesn’t exhibit often. "I don’t know how long we’re going to be homeless."

         "You’re not homeless," Malia says. "Our home is your home. It’s a big house. You can stay with us for as long as is necessary."

         "You are a very good sister. How can we ever repay you?"

         Johnny jokingly interrupts, pretending to wipe nonexistent tears in his eyes. "All right, all right. You’d better stop this mush. You’re making me cry."

         "Well, it’s getting too late," Clara remarks. "Better get the kids and let’s go home."

         "Good idea. I’m getting very tired myself."

         Johnny gathers his daughters who refuse to go home. "We want to sleep here with our cousins. Please Dad, let us stay here."

         "Why don’t you all stay here," Malia suggests. "The kids sleep upstairs, and the adults will camp out in the living room like we used to do when we were young."

         "That’s a great idea," I second.

         "How fun," Lisa says. "I’ll gather all the blankets and futons and pillows!"
Johnny’s girls excitedly run back upstairs screaming: "We’re staying! We’re staying!"

         Clara shakes her head from left to right. "Well, some people are not going to be brushing their teeth tonight."

         "One night of plaque is not going to kill us," Johnny says laughing.

         "Don’t worry," says Malia. "We have enough extra toothbrushes for everyone."

         What a reunion. What a homecoming celebration for me. This is so much fun. But wait till tomorrow . . . when Johnny takes me to Bacolor – the epicenter of the devastation from Pinatubo’s explosion. And in Mabalacat . . . to see the house our father built.

(End of Chapter Five)

 Copyright 2006 writeartista  All rights reserved.

Chapter 4: The Homecoming

 

 

FOUR

The Homecoming 

       

  My brother Johnny picks me up from the airport in his Toyota SUV. He's looking more and more like our father since he started losing weight from dieting and exercising. And he looks healthier because of it. His high cheekbones and jaw lines are more prominent now, and he even looks taller because of his slimmer physique. His used-car dealership must be doing great. Not bad for a twenty-six year old guy who never went to college. He received his entrepreneurial discipline from our father’s school of practical knowledge and training in the automotive industry. It started when he was only ten years old, and he knew he didn’t have to attend college to succeed in business – the philosophy our father instilled in him.

          In the Philippines, Johnny's success in business is an extraordinary achievement. Most college educated Filipinos can’t even find a job here, that’s why they flock to the U.S. Embassy trying to migrate to the U.S. or Canada. Many of the Filipinos who manage to get a tourist visa to the U.S. jump ship and become TNT’s (acronym for tago nang tago or hide and hide). Most of these TNT’s are educated people and are not a burden to the American taxpayers. If the Philippines were only a neighbor of the United States, I am sure the Filipinos would be crossing the border in millions everyday, rivaling the Mexicans, and multiplying the number of illegal aliens in the U.S.

          "You're looking fit and gorgeous, Sis," Johnny says as he scans my appearance from head to toe and feeling the fabric of my silky cotton blouse. "That's a great looking pair of designer jeans. Have you been modeling in the States?"

          "Yeah, right. But look who's talking. Our sisters told me you've lost a lot of weight and that you're looking quite the handsome guy nowadays. They were right."  I give him a slight nudge and a wink. "I hope there's not another woman that's inspiring the change,"  I say in a singsong voice.

          For a nanosecond there, I thought I saw an expression of guilt, but it's probably just my imagination. Could the rumors be true? Does Johnny have a girlfriend somewhere? I doubt it. I truly don't think Johnny has the courage to continue the womanizing legacy left by the men in my father’s family. Or does he? No, Johnny is too much of a family man; but then again, so was our father. Is it a contradiction in terms if I said that Papa was a great husband and a womanizer at the same time? Nonetheless, Papa was still a great father, protector and provider.

          "Are you serious? I'm not our father. And you know how Clara is. She'd kill me if I even for a moment think of it."

          All my life, I’ve heard tattle tales about our father’s philandering, which I never believed. He was a handsome and charismatic man and it was understandable that women would gravitate toward him. I never saw any evidence of it, but why were those women crying so much at his funeral? And who were those children with them? Could they have been his? I still cannot believe it. The father that I idolized and idealized could never have done anything like that to his wife and children. He loved us so much. He was the best father anyone could have asked for.

          I raise an eyebrow when I notice the generous tips Johnny hands to the porters who hauled my baggage all the way to Johnny’s SUV. He must really be doing well, I say to myself.

          I release a huge sigh of relief once I am inside the air-conditioned SUV and Johnny starts driving away from the hectic and crowded airport parking lot. At last I am out of the oppressive heat and humidity. No matter how often I come back to the Philippines, I can never get too prepared for the sauna weather. I don't know how I survived this weather growing up here. I pull out a moist towelette from my purse and wipe the perspiration off my forehead. My hands are so moist, there's no need for hand lotion here.

          "Feeling better?" Johnny says.

          "Much better, thank you."

          "Now we just have to battle the traffic through Manila."

          "Is it worse than ever?"

          "Worst. It’s critical! All major arteries in the heart of Manila are terribly clogged. More than ever, the roads need multiple bypass operations to survive."

          "Wow, brother. How'd you learn how to use metaphors like that? "

          "I can be creative sometimes, especially when I'm in the company of a prodigal child."

          "Flatteries pay, so keep those buladas coming."

          "Don’t worry. There's plenty more where that came from.”

          In a densely populated city where the number of vehicles seems to have tripled in just one year, Manila’s arterial transport has become the most congested and chaotic I’ve ever seen in all my international travels. Each driver never keeps to his lane, snaking here and there, some at a breakneck dispatch. Pedestrians are equally bold, daring and without law. I am always at the edge of my seat, knuckles white from clutching anything I can grab whenever something or someone aggressively tries to pass us.

          Johnny quickly breaks when another car cuts in front of us, jerking us forward. It’s true. People have adapted to everyone’s offensive driving habits that they've learned how to drive defensively, avoiding accidents. “I give the drivers credit for playing offense and defense at the same time.”

          "It’s just a matter of being alert and knowing how to react quickly," says Johnny. "This is the way it’s always been here and it’s never going to change."

          The light is green but the traffic is so congested that we don't even move. Traffic is really worse than I have imagined and seen since my last visit.

          "More Filipinos own cars," Johnny says, "some families own more than one. You'd think this might signal an economic improvement, but roads have not improved much to accommodate the increased number of transportation."

          I notice that the number of street peddlers has likewise mushroomed to a staggering proportion. Surely, this is due to the unemployment legacy left by the closure of the U. S. Naval Base in Olongapo, Zambales, and the U.S. Clark Air Force Base in Angeles City, Pampanga. Both bases were heavily damaged by Mount Pinatubo and have not been reopened since. Speculations are that the U.S. will completely pull out of the Philippines, and the Philippine Armed Forces will take over the bases.

          These peddlers, these one-man private enterprises sell everything and anything they can either carry on their small bikes, or on their shoulders, back, arms and neck. They’re a walking retailer store where you can buy anything from hot rolls or pandesals, peanuts, clothing, dolls, leis, cigarettes and trinkets, to cabinets and bookshelves. My heart goes out to small children who peddle chewing gum, sweet yams, rice cakes … anything that can be stuffed in small bags.

          "You probably should not have come back this soon," Johnny says.

         "How come?"

          "Pinatubo still erupts every now and then, sending more lahar down its slopes. Every time it rains . . . the same thing happens. Every time a big storm is predicted, they warn us to evacuate. We’re still trying to clean up from the minor eruption last month. It’s a big mess."

          "I’ll help with the clean-up."

          "And ruin your pretty nails? You won’t believe how heavy lahar is."

          "You know how strong I am."

          "Yeah, yeah. I’ll never forget the time you carried that Singer sewing machine down a flight of stairs."

          "And it wasn’t one of those modern sewing machines that are made of plastic either. No sir. It was made of heavy metal. Did you know also that it was attached to a metal cabinet?"

          "I think it was more of a stand."

          "Stand . . . cabinet. Who cares? It was heavy metal, brother."

          "Okay, okay, you’re famously strong for a girl," he says laughing. “But you know, adrenalin can do that to a person …the fire was getting too close to our house--”

          "I agree with you there, but remember, I was only ten then. And also, I was only about twelve when I would carry Ate Malia up and down her bed when she was paralyzed."

          "So you’re Wonder Woman. I will let you shovel the lahar off our roofs and driveways."

          "Well, don’t get carried away now. I was thinking more of the windows."

          "That’s all right, sis. My drivers do the cleaning up. I even loan some of them to Malia."

          "Really? When did you become so nice?"

          "Excuse me?"

          "Just teasing. How about Lisa's house?"

          I catch the shift in Johnny’s expression.

          "I’m afraid we’ve lost the old house. It’s three-foot deep in lahar. Everything they had is buried in that mixture of volcanic ash, mud and debris. It’s sad. It’s sad. But let’s not talk about it now. You just got here. I don’t want to depress you." He changes his expression back to cheerfulness. "I saw Dado yesterday. I told him you’re coming home to visit and he was overjoyed by the news."

          The information excites me, but I don’t show it. "I know how much you worship and idolize my childhood boyfriend, brother, but in case you’ve forgotten, I’m still married."

          "I’m not saying you run off with Dado and leave your husband. It just makes me so glad to see you together every time you come back. It brings back fond memories when I was young. Not just because he always gave me twenty-five pesos every time he came to see you. You were always so happy together and I enjoyed that."

          I slap him on the shoulder. "He gave you money?" I exclaim in disbelief.

          "Not just me," he says laughing, stroking his shoulder. "And Jaime, too. Damn, that hurt!"

          "Unbelievable! No wonder all you guys liked him so much."

          "True. But he’s also such a hero. Do you know that he’s the most decorated youngest high-ranking official in the Philippine Army? They call him Lion of Pampanga because of the number of communist rebels and terrorists he has captured."

          "Yes, I know. I’m proud of him. And yes, we were so happy together when we were young. But I’m happy and contented with Rob."

         No one in my family knows that Dado continues to write me. He hopes that someday I would leave my husband and marry him instead.

          "Rob is a good guy, too. But tell me, why did you break up with Dado?"

          "That’s personal. Anyway, I met Rob and we fell in love. So I married him."

          "Are you really happy?"

          "Being married to Rob?"

          "Yes."

          I hesitate, then I say: "Yes . . . yes, I am."

          Johnny gives me a skeptical look.

          "Enough about me. Let’s talk about Ma."

          There’s that variation in his expression again. "Yes, how’s Ma nowadays?"

          "She has changed. She seems strangely different since she came back. I can’t believe she has forgiven all those people who’ve wronged us. Do you have any idea what caused her to be so forgiving all of a sudden?"

          "The volcano disaster has affected everyone. It was such a horrifying experience that we’ll never forget. I thought she was going to have a heart attack when she saw the house partially buried in lahar. She didn’t say anything. She just let her tears tell us how she felt."

          We reach a tollgate and we come to a full stop. The queue of vehicles is long; maybe twenty, and we don’t move for a while.

          “I guess if I think I might die from the eruption, I would also start forgiving my enemies, if any.”

          “There you go.”

          I look around and I notice a man standing at the corner alongside the road, the mercurial sun beating down on him. The sweat-soaked paper he uses to wipe the perspiration off his face has lost its absorbency. At his feet are four watermelons on a sheet of dust-covered brown paper. One has a small triangle incision on the side, with the cut out part perched on top to expose the redness of the fruit’s inside that indicates its sweet ripeness. The driver of the truck behind us revs up his engine, emitting black smoke that covers my view of the man. For a moment, the watermelons and the man disappear from my sight.

   
      No one offers to buy any of the watermelons. I cannot help but feel sorry for the vendor. He looks to be in his late thirties, and does not typify a person that has been destitute all his life. I sense that from the way he looks -- well built, pleasant demeanor, and what could be a very handsome face veiled in adversity. I wonder where his watermelons come from. Perhaps he buys and sells fruits, or maybe he sells them on commission. I wonder how many children he has to feed from this business. Regardless, it’s an admirable thing and I feel ample compassion for him. I consider buying all of them if it weren’t for the fact that they have been exposed to excessive heat and pollution from the heavy traffic.

          "Here’s five hundred pesos," Johnny says as he pulls the paper bills from his wallet. "Buy them all."

          "What? But--"

          "You’d better hurry. We’re starting to move now."

          I roll the window down and quickly feel the intense heat and humidity in my face. It feels better in a sauna. I signal the watermelon man by waving the money to him. He approaches us with two uncut watermelons then opens the trunk and carefully sets them on the floor. It’s as if he has done this with Johnny several times before. "Thank you, Johnny," he says as he takes the money from me. He slips them in his pocket without even counting them. I give my brother a look of You know this guy? But it’s not really surprising for he knows a lot of people as a businessman, just like our father did. In a way, I see our father in him a lot.

          "You’re welcome," Johnny says. "By the way, this is my sister. She just flew in from the States."

          He gives me a curious look for a second then he shakes my hand. "Lando," he says with a pleasant smile. Something about that smile . . .. "Very nice to meet you," he continues. His hand doesn’t feel as rough as any one would suspect for a watermelon vendor.

          "Mary," I say. "Nice to meet you, too."

          "I’ll get the rest of the watermelons," he says and runs back to his produce.

          "That’s all right," Johnny yells, shifting gear to drive and steps on the accelerator.

          "We have to go. Keep the change."

          "Thank you, Johnny!" Lando screams back. "God bless you!"

          We reach the gate and Johnny hands the fee to the collector. He looks serious as we drive away. He is curiously quiet. I wonder what’s going through his mind. His girlfriend, maybe? Nah. I still don’t believe he’d do anything so stupid. Could he be thinking about Lando? Is there something about Lando that I should know?

          "That was interesting," I say to him to break the silence.

          "What was?"

          "The watermelon man . . . and your generosity. You paid five hundred pesos for two watermelons that you probably won’t even eat. Granted, that’s only ten dollars for me, still . . . I don’t know. Something tells me that you do this on a regular basis."

          "I just feel sorry for the guy. He has a wife and five kids to feed."

          "And he supports his family by selling watermelons?"

          "Sometimes he sells furniture; sometimes blankets; anything he could carry and peddle around on his back. "Book shelves, chairs, curio cabinets . . . anything."

          "This is so sad."

          "He lost everything when Pinatubo exploded -- his very nice house in Bacolor and his teaching job. His wife used to be a bank manager there, and now, she’s always sick and can’t even take care of her family very well. Too much volcanic dust got in her lungs. Pinatubo really created a lot of new destitute people in this area. Ate Malia and I feel blessed because the damages on our properties have been easy to fix."

          "Yes . . . you’re very lucky."

          "I wish I could say the same for our other sister," he says, referring to Lisa.

          For years, Lisa has made the old house her home with her husband and three children. Except for her husband who is currently working in Saudi Arabia, she and her children have been staying with Malia for the time being.

          "Lisa is a very strong woman," I say. "She and her family will survive this. Thank God she’s got you and Malia to help her get through this hardship."

          "I wish I could do more. It kills me every time I think that we’ve totally lost the house."

          "Me, too."

          I dread the thought that we may be seeing the end of an era. The saddest part of losing the house is losing the family pictures in photo albums, especially those that were hanging on the walls. Our parents’ only wedding picture, our baby pictures, and our grandparents’ photographs from both sides of our parents. How many times did I tell myself that I needed to scan those pictures and print copies for everybody, but never done it? Procrastination! Procrastination! Oh, what I would give to be able to retrieve those photos.

--o0o--

 

© Copyright 2006 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 3: William, and Mary

THREE

William and Mary

         At long last, I am home again … to the place where my life began--my native land, the Philippines—the country I have renounced to pledge my allegiance to another: the United States of America.  Yes, the prodigal child goes back home again, wondering what life-altering events await her this time around.

         I feel the belly of the 747 aircraft taxiing to a slow stop and I suddenly feel two conflicting emotions.  Part of me feels rushing out of the plane and getting home as quickly as possible, while another part of me wants to delay everything to prolong my time with William.  Ahh…William—the man who has captured my fascination and infatuated me like a schoolgirl in such a short time. 

         The plane rumbles and convulses slightly as its engines wheeze their last inflated breath.  After a long whistling sound it sighs into silence, as if grateful the long, arduous flight is finally over.  As a frequent traveler, I always appreciate a great and uneventful landing.  The aircraft and the crew deserve a standing ovation for a job well done.  From my window I watch the accordion pleats of the jet way ease forward to mold its mouth against the curve of the aircraft.  The sound of metals clanking and clicking fills the cabin as passengers unbuckle in unison.  To my delight, William stays put, not showing any sign to race the crowd to the finish line.

          “It’s going to be awhile before we start getting off,” he says.  “I’d rather stay seated till the cabin clears up.  What do you think?”

         Can he read my thoughts? “I’m usually one of the last to leave the plane,” I say with a partial lie.  “I hate tripping over legs and bags and suitcases.”

         He smiles, nodding in agreement.  Ah, that smile… gosh, how I miss him already. I can’t believe I’m missing a stranger when there is a husband I left behind and should be missing instead.  I used to.  There was a time when I would miss him terribly even if we were just separated for just a day.  One time at the airport, a woman next to me asked how long Rob was going to be away.  She’d been watching the tearful send-off as if Rob was going to war.  She laughed when I said he was coming back the following day.  “Oh, that’s so sweet,” she exclaimed.  What happened to Rob and me?  Why did we change?  How did he become so unjustly jealous and possessive?  I’ve been nothing but a faithful wife to him in all the years we’ve been married.  Sure, there had been men who tried to change that, but I never succumbed to the lure of any extra-marital affair.  I didn’t want to be any part of my father’s shameful legacy.  I believe in the sanctity of marriage and our “Till-death-do-us-part” vow, but more and more Rob has been making this promise difficult to fulfill.  I understand he’s been under a lot of pressure since his retail business started to suffer, but why take it out on me, especially when I’ve been helping him stay afloat in every way I can?

         William’s voice brings my mind back to the present.  “Do you have a ride home?” he asks.  “A colleague is picking me up.  It’s an Army truck so there’ll be plenty of room for us, and your luggage.

          “Thanks, but my brother lost a coin toss to my sisters, so he’s picking me up,” I say jokingly.  Too bad; how wonderful it would have been if William and I were to ride together all the way to Pampanga.  Another two to three hours in his company would just be fantastic.

          “Just one person? I thought maybe a whole tribe was coming to welcome you.”

          “It used to be that way, but after several homecomings, it became such an ordinary event.  Remember when the Space Shuttle launching used to be such a big deal and everyone watched? Today, most people don’t even know when the shuttles are being launched till they see it on the news.”

          “You’re right.  Unfortunately, I’m one of those people.  I bet I know something that never changes for you though.”

          “Oh yeah? What?”

          “I bet you always know which volcanoes are erupting or will be erupting.””

         I smile coyly, knowing exactly what he means.  “Ah, now you think I’m a psychic?  How can I possibly know?  I’m not a volcanologist like you, and I don’t have the equipment to track seismic activities.”

          ‘You do: the Internet. I’m pretty sure you’re on the subscribers list of the USGS website as well as every major volcano site there is.  And I bet, too, that you get their newsletters on a regular basis.”

          “You’re amazing.  How could you know me so well already?"

          “Simple.  It takes one to know one.  I’ve done it all my life; at least, since the Internet was invented.”

          “Like two peas in a pod?"

         "Like two peas in a pod. . .yes."  He laughs a pleasant rumble like tiny pebbles softly rolling down a smooth mountainside.

         The line has thinned out considerably with just a few more passengers standing behind us.  It’s time to prepare and collect our carryall bags from the compartment bin.  He gets up and retrieves his duffel bag first then sets it down on the empty seat in front of ours.  He reacts vehemently when he tries to pull my bag. “Whoa!  What in the world did you pack in this little bag? Your dresser?” He brings the bag down in one over-dramatic motion as if it were too heavy even for one as muscular as he is.  Yes, I’ve been admiring his forearms since he rolled up his shirtsleeves hours ago.  They look pretty strong—all muscles and sinew.  I’m sure he could carry me in one sweeping movement; and I’m not a skinny girl.

          “And my library,” I say laughing.  “And my art and photography room.”

          “I believe you,” he says, and carefully drops the bag down on the other empty seat. 

         I get up, too quickly I’m afraid, because I immediately feel a jolt in my right knee.  It does that sometimes; hopefully nothing of the arthritic variety.  I hope I don’t start limping.  I want to be able to keep up with him…in case…in case he’d want to stay in contact with me and show me Pinatubo’s devastations himself.  Yeah…dream on, Mary.  Dream on.  This is going to be it.  He’s not going to mess with a married woman.  He’s not that kind.  I’m not either, so, oh, well…it’s been great while it lasted. I hold onto the back of the seat in front of me for balance as I stretch the leg muscles for a moment. 

          “Have you ever been in any seismology center before?” he asks.  His question takes me by surprise.  I wonder how long he’s been thinking about asking me this question. I like it.

          “Yes, in Hawaii and at the Visitors’ Center at Mount St. Helens.”  Please invite me, please, I pray silently.  It would be a total shame if we don’t see each other again, but I would never ask a man first. We start to walk down the narrow aisle without a break in the conversation. 

          “I was thinking… since we share the same obsession, maybe you’d like to come and experience how volcanologists work.

          “Oh, my God, are you serious?”  His invitation is better than anything I’d imagined would happen.  Well, maybe for now.”

          “Of course, I am.  Is that a yes?”

          “Of course, it is.”

          “I could pick you up, if you wish.”

          “Oh, that would be great.  I love it when somebody else does the driving for me.  I still haven’t gotten used to the way people here drive.  Nobody follows traffic rules.”

          “There are traffic rules here?  Just kidding.  I thought foreigners are the only ones scared of driving here.”

          “I’ve been gone for so long, I sometimes feel like a foreigner myself.”

          “I feel that way when I visit my birthplace.  It’s hard for me to comprehend how I could feel like a stranger in a place where I spent the first eighteen years of my life.”  Oh, before I forget—“ He pulls out a tiny pocketbook from his shirt pocket and hands it to me with a pen. “I need your address and phone number, please.”

         I write my sister’s address and phone number where I will be staying then we exchange our normal business cards.  Now that the date is settled, I can relax and look forward to our date.  Relax?  No way!  We still have at least an hour or so before we get through Customs.

         It seems that for the first time in my jet-setting life, the disembarkation is going too fast.  As we say goodbye to the crew on the way out, I wonder if their smiles signify an understanding that there is something brewing between William and me.  I’ve noticed throughout the flight how some of the flight attendants glanced at us with suspicious smiles.

         The sound of our footsteps and wheeled luggage join those of the other passengers’ as the mass of humanity rushes down toward the baggage section.  The wait is long, as usual, but not long enough for me.  Usually I’d be sitting down somewhere, reading while waiting.  Not this time.  I was glad the weak knee has recovered fast so I am able to stay standing up next to William.  It seems that our luggage came too quickly.  His one bag is dwarfed by the two huge boxes I have.  All around the place you can see similar Balikbayan boxes, which characterize returning U.S. expatriates to the Philippines who love to bring gifts.

          “You think you brought enough baggage with you?” he joked.  “It always tickles me when I see all you Balikbayans hauling so many of these boxes when you come back here.”

          “I know.  Actually, I prefer to travel light; but Christmas is coming.  How about you…just one bag?”

          “I was only in Hawaii for two days; and I have most of my stuff in the house.”

          “You’re renting a house here?”

          “USGS does.  There are five of us in the house.  The first one in Zambales was destroyed by Pinatubo.”

         A scandalous thought unbecoming of a married woman seizes my mind.  No privacy at all?  What if we-- Oh, this is just awful what I’m thinking.  God, strike me with your fiercest lightning, right now!

         William signals a porter for service and the guy with the name tag Manuel Royo comes rushing toward us with a big smile.  They love it when an American calls them because they usually give huge tips, and in dollars instead of pesos.  The porter is half William’s size, but the way he handles the boxes, you’d think they’re empty.  William tries to assist, but he refuses.  More work, more dollars that way.

         Manuel stays with us throughout the Customs inspection; no doubt already relishing the thought of a big tip.  I hope he doesn’t get disappointed.  While waiting, I catch William sizing me up once in a while and I wonder if he sees me doing the same thing.  I’ve noticed how much taller he is from what I’ve previously estimated during the flight.
 
         We’re running out of time.  William needs to hurry up and set the date.  I hope he wasn’t just being friendly and polite when he invited me.  People do that.  Let’s get together sometime, they often say, but they never do.  I decide to do something about it.  For the first time in my life, I think I am about to ask a man for a date.  Okay, take a deep breath…here we go—.

          “So, Mary…” he says before I could open my mouth.  “You think maybe we should go ahead and set the date?” His voice soft and smooth like a late night whisper. 

          “Next Saturday at 6:00 pm?” I say without any hesitation.  I don’t even know where that came from since I haven’t actually considered the day and time.  Anyway, any day, any time, would be just perfect for me.  I’d drop anything I’m doing to be with him.

         Grinning, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to think about it for a while?”

          “Now, I’m embarrassed.  I think my Gemini twin said that, not I.”

          “Why should that embarrass you?  I’m very pleased actually, since we don’t really have plenty of time to negotiate a date.  “Saturday at 6:00 pm would work for me very well.  It’s a date.”

         It’s a date?  Really?  A real date?  I feel like a teenager who just made a date with her Prince Charming.   “Great!  I look forward to it.”

         Outside the airport, we step into a sauna-like atmosphere and blinding light from the mercurial sun.  I feel as if a hot, wet blanket has been dropped over me and wrapped it all around me, suffocating me.  I raise a hand to my forehead to shield my eyes so as not to lose sight of William’s face now partly hidden by dark sunglasses.  My eyes rake the area for my brother while my hand digs for my sunglasses in my purse.

          “I see my colleague,” William says, waving to a man who’s approaching us swiftly, his arm up in the air.  He seems to be in a hurry with a concerned expression etched on his face. 

         The men extend their hands to each other in excited greetings.  “Glad you’re back,” the man says.

         I let the men talk while I gaze through the crowd in search of my brother, wondering what’s keeping him.  I notice someone who looks like Johnny shouldering through the crowd of greeters.  I wave my hand vigorously toward him.  He does not wave back.  Then I feel a hand on my shoulder; that familiar tender and subtly sensual touch William had given me earlier, and whose effect still lingers on the other shoulder.  I turn my head and see both he and colleague looking at me.

          “I want you to meet my dear friend and colleague,” William says to me, keeping his hand on my shoulder.  He turns to the man and says, “Simon, may I introduce Mary—the one who might know more about volcanoes than you and I put together”

         I catch a glimpse of Simon’s look of intrigue.  The thoughts he must be entertaining in his head as he grips my hand tightly with a slight bow.

          “I’m pleased to meet you, Mary.”

          “Likewise,” I say.  It’s clear to me that Simon is on a mission, and that is, to snatch William as fast as he can out of here.

          “I’ve invited Mary to come and visit us at the center,” William says to Simon.  Much to my chagrin he retrieves his duffel bag from the mountain of luggage on my cart and slings it over his shoulder.

          “Is that so?”  Well, we’ll be delighted to have you there … you’ll certainly brighten up the place.”

         He speaks fast as if racing through time.  He seems like a very nice man.  I suspect it has something to do with Pinatubo, and the thought makes my heart skip a beat.  I hope nothing serious is happening up there.

         Simon leans over to grab William’s other bag, signaling they should go.  William circles his arm around my shoulders that appears casual enough for me to consider sexual, although I can’t escape the thrill of it.

          “I’ll pick you up on Saturday at 6:00 pm?”

         I raise my eyes to his. “I’ll be waiting,” I reply, sounding nonchalant. What does he see in my eyes? I wonder.  Can he trace the dread of parting etched in them? Can he feel the ache of having to go our separate ways? How wonderful this moment would be if he kissed me now.  I shush the thoughts away as I am sadly reminded once again that I am a married woman. 

          I feel a twinge of loneliness as I watch my Prince Charming walk away.  Where have you been all my life, William?

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 2: William, the Volcanologist

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This character (William) is inspired by one of the vulcanologists with the USGS (United States Geological Survey).  He doesn't know it, nor does he know about this novel.  All writers need inspirations for their characters, and when I saw the film about Pinatubo's eruption, I immediately said to myself: "He's the one!"  But he'll never know it.  :-)

TWO

William, the Volcanologist

         My sister Lety said, “Take Benadryl to help you fall asleep on the plane. It always works for me.” I followed her advice. It didn’t work on me. It merely induced a feeling of inebriated melancholy.

         Here I am somewhere in la-la land, struggling to open my eyes, but my lids feel weighed down. I manage only a slit, just enough to perceive a figure leaning over me. The overhead light casts a shadowed glow on his features. He speaks, but his voice sounds as if it’s coming from the abyss. I trace the sound directly to the mouth beneath the spectacled eyes, and a Caucasian nose that suggests extended time in the sun. And that subtle but wonderful scent from his cologne or shaving cream . . .I'm pretty sure it didn't come from a drug store product. As the image develops, I recognize the man who occupies the seat next to me – William, I think. We made our introductions as we were taking off from Honolulu where he had boarded the flight. If I had known he was going to be my seat mate, I would not have taken the pill before Honolulu. I can’t even remember now what made me do it.

         "Are you all right?" he says.

         I hear muffled voices around me, the faint sound of someone flipping crisp pages from a magazine, and another snoring like a one-man orchestra. Most of the passengers seem asleep, and there is something marvelous about it.

         "You were moaning. Bad dream?"

         "Uhh. . . I don’t know. Maybe,” I mumble incoherently. “Sorry."

         "Nothing to be sorry for. I bet half the passengers around us are having nightmares right now.”

         I look at him quizzically.

         “Remember that rambunctious boy who wouldn’t stop screaming?"

         I wince at the recollection of the obnoxious little devil a few seats to our left that inspired me to pop the pill in my mouth. He was disrupting the passengers continuously by playing cowboy in the aisles, playing with his utensils, and spitting his food and drink on the floor.

         "Where is he now?"

         "I saw a woman take him in the back. Maybe she sent him to the baggage section."

         "That sounds great. "

         The details of our earlier conversation before the Benadryl drugged me quickly follow my wakefulness. I remember the excitement I felt when I learned what he does for a living: a vulcanologist, and a member of the USGS team that studies and monitors the seismic activities at Mount Pinatubo. I think I recognize him now from the constant coverage of the eruptions on CNN. He looked so charming and young compared to the other geologists. I also remember an immediate rapport developing between us earlier, and how I scolded myself for flirting with him – a behavior unbecoming of a married woman, albeit a not-so-happy married woman. He’s not wearing a wedding ring, but nowadays that’s not an absolute indication of someone’s marital status.

         I check my wristwatch, and I calculate that we have about six hours left before reaching Manila. Six hours! What I normally consider an endless flight now seems fleeting with William to talk to. He had been impressed when I described my obsessive fascination over volcanoes, and that I have hiked and explored Mt. Rainier, Mt. St. Helens and other Pacific Cascade mountains. I think he was most fascinated by my childhood stories of my experiences with the Aeta tribes of Mount Pinatubo when my father would take me up to the mountains to deliver goods to the villagers. I can’t recall how much I’ve told him since the Benadryl was already taking its toll on my senses at the time.

         "So, did your husband enjoy exploring St. Helens and Rainier with you?"

         Hmm. He has noticed the ring on my finger, but I welcome his interest and curiosity about my marital status. "No, he was quite busy at the time, although . . .I think he just wasn’t interested. He’s had his share of volcano hikes when we were in Hawaii one year. That was mostly what I wanted to do for a whole month, and he got tired of it."

         "You went by yourself?"

         "Oh, no. I’m not that adventurous. I was with a Sierra Club mountaineering group."

         "I’m impressed."

         "Don’t be." It’s my turn to probe. "How about your wife? Does she ever join you in your expeditions?"

         He flashes an endearing smile. I notice that his eye structure resembles the creaseless Far East Asian eyes with no visible folds on the lids, but an inner fold covered by fat. If it weren’t for his height, his ash brown hair, natural red lips, pointed nose, and a very white skin that’s reddish from sun exposure, I’d say he’s part Asian. "I’m not married," he says. "Came very close one time, though. Unfortunately in my field, I never stay in one place enough to keep any relationship going."

         "I can understand that." I don’t know why I’m delighted to hear that he’s not married. I should slap myself to remind me that I have a husband waiting for me back in the States. So what if Rob’s jealousies and possessiveness have been getting worse and he’ll probably never change. How many more trial separations should we try to see if we could save this marriage? He’s such a great guy, but he’s too possessive of me. I’m starting to feel suffocated. I needed to get away again, much to his objection. I was grateful when this trip presented itself, although I wish the circumstances were of a more pleasant nature.

         "You were about to tell me why you’re taking this trip to the Philippines before you fell asleep," William says.

         "Oh, yes. I took Benadryl just before you boarded in Honolulu."

         "Allergies?"

         "No, not really. It was supposed to give me a restful sleep . . . it’s a long story."

         "That’s okay. I was afraid I was boring you with my stories."

         "Quite the contrary. I loved it."

         "Good. So why are you going back to the Philippines? I’m not sure it’s quite safe for you yet. There’s still a lot of seismic activity going on deep inside Pinatubo, you know."

         "So I’ve heard. But I have a family mission."

         "Another long story?"

         "I’m afraid so."

         "I didn’t mean to pry."

         "It’s all right. It’s no big deal, really. Well, it’s sort of a big deal, but . . ." I feel heat rise to my face, which has probably taken the color of blood. "I’m blabbering. I am really much more intelligent than I sound."

         There’s that smile again that narrows his Asian-like eyes to a slit.

         "And much more charming than you probably realize," he says.

         I think he surprises himself for what sounded like a flirtatious comment. It’s his turn to blush, which only heightens his boyish look.

         He straightens up, and looks away from me. For a long moment or two, we are quiet, and I don’t like it. There’s much more I want to learn about him and his global experiences as a volcanologist. Before I sank into a semi-conscious state earlier, I remember him talking about his near-death experience when pumice dust filtered into the engine of their chopper, and they were forced to make an emergency landing.

         "Did you finish your story about your near death adventure over Pinatubo?" I ask, almost startling him with my question. He seems pleased that I ended the awkward silence.

         "I think so," he says. "How much do you remember?"

         "Not much; just that you had to make an emergency landing close to the epicenter of the eruption."

         "Well, let me continue then." He turns slightly to face me, and I am pleased. I have a feeling that we’re going to be exchanging stories all the way to Manila. He clears his throat, and begins to retell the story that starts to come back to me, but I don’t let him know. I love listening to him talk. He’s filled with schoolboy enthusiasm over his profession that he clearly loves.

         So . . . after walking for about three hours on muddy mountain path that was quickly getting blanketed with ash, we found an abandoned water buffalo, or carabao, as you call them. My colleague and I rode the animal on its back for four grueling hours. Imagine how painful that was. I couldn't walk straight for weeks." He pauses, breathes in deeply, and sighs. "Then Pinatubo collapsed, sending down the mountainside a glowing avalanche of ash, rock and gas heading our way." He shakes his head, looking pensively as if calculating what the future might have been. "We can't figure out how we escaped that, but I'm just so happy we made it back. God, the fatality list could easily have been two names longer."

         "That was you!" I exclaim in excitement. "I remember that footage on CNN. They were talking about these two USGS guys flying over Pinatubo studying the pyroclastic flows from the past eruption. I couldn’t make out your faces, but I think it was you who said: "This is big! We’re going to be in for a big explosion!"

         He looks at me in amazement. "Wow. I can’t believe you remember all that. How impressive."

         "No, I’m impressed. You’re a hero."

         "It’s my job."

         "I just know that the death toll could have been a lot more appalling if it had not been for you guys. If you hadn’t flown over the volcano, you would not have been able to accurately predict the potential apocalypse. Because of what you did, you decided it was time to urge the immediate evacuation of everyone in the vicinity."

         He laughs. Not a half-shy chuckle, but a hearty laugh that makes his eyes disappear even more. "I can’t believe you. You talk like those TV news reporters. No, better. You must have a photographic memory."

         "Don’t be too impressed. I watched the tape over and over."

         "You tape news broadcasts?"

         "It was a two-hour special. Hey, it’s a historical event, which happens only every 600 years."

         "True." He flashes me a conspiratorial look with a smile. "But why do I have this feeling that you record any program you find about volcanoes?"

         He has figured me out. What a perceptive guy. Or am I that transparent? "Guilty as charged," I say with a throaty laugh. "You should see my VHS collection."

         "I believe it." He pauses thoughtfully for a moment then resumes with a serious tone in his voice. "It still saddens me though when I think that the casualties could have been a lot smaller if people didn’t wait too long to leave."

         There's something compassionate about him that endears me. He has probably witnessed a lot of deaths in his profession, and that must bother him immensely. "People feel the safest in their own homes, so they stay; some are too old to move."

         "Yes, we’ll never forget Harry Truman when St. Helens erupted."

         "How can any one forget him? Also, remember that majority of the people who died from Pinatubo's eruption were mountain people who never knew any other home except Pinatubo."

         ". . .who also thought the mountain was their mother and protector."

         "Indeed."

         I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this much fun on the plane. I am so drawn to him, to his ready wit, and sometimes, to the flirty intelligence that he conveniently hides behind his shyness. I love the way he talks about his profession. To me, it is a good indicator of his depth and passion that I admire so in a man. Our intriguing conversation, and sometimes, philosophical exchange of ideas, indicates that we might have been cast from the same mold. I feel infatuated like a schoolgirl. But the pragmatic side of me says it’s all because the object of my attraction is a real life volcanologist. What a dream-come-true episode in the life of a girl with an obsessive fascination with volcanoes.

         We’ve been talking to each other continuously for almost four hours. I feel intoxicated, not from the five cups of dark coffee I’ve consumed, but from the thrill of the conversation. But, oh, dear, I think the Benadryl’s true power is finally kicking in. I’m getting sleepy.

         "You know, I think there's still a little bit of that Benadryl left in me. If you don't mind, I'm going to surrender myself to sleep."

         "Not at all. I do need to get some rest as well. It’s going to be busy at the USGS Center tomorrow."

         "Good night, William."

         "Good night, Mary."

         William and Mary, I think to myself. It has a nice ring to it.

--o0o--

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