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--

 

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