Chapter 18 -- The Portrait Painting

EIGHTEEN

The Portrait Painting

         My mother saw on the moon not the face of a man, but the profile of the Madonna and Child.

         I don’t remember how old I was when my mother illuminated me about the image on the moon. But I was young enough to sit on her lap and old enough to recall the gorgeous night and the star-studded velvet black sky. Most importantly, the moon looked awesomely large and brilliant as if it had come a lot closer to earth. So there we were in the veranda, her arms around me as we studied the moon. It was one of those poignant moments in my life that will forever be etched in my memory.

         "I still can’t see it, Ma."

         "Because you’re trying too hard, child," she said. "Look beyond the image that everyone sees. Now close your eyes and clear that image from your head then open them again"

         I did as she said. Alas, I saw not the face of a man, but the hazy profile of the Madonna and Child. I screamed with excitement and almost fell off my mother’s lap. "I see it, Ma! I see it!"

         "Good girl. Now, isn’t it better to see the picture of a mother holding her baby than a face of some man on the moon?"

         "It is, Ma. It is. Is it okay to say a prayer to Mary and Jesus when I look at it?"

         "Yes, but say it to yourself only. It’s more meaningful that way."

         And every night when I prayed before I went to sleep, I would stare at the image of the Madonna and Child on the moon. Then I would turn to the statue of Mary and Jesus on the shelf above my bed and recite the Hail Mary.

         For a long time, I continued to say the Hail Mary whenever I saw the image of the mother and child on the moon. Then one day, Sister Rosario of St. Mary’s Elementary School overheard my conversation with another girl about it. Sister Rosario dragged me to the Mother Superior’s office where I received another illumination: It was wrong and sacrilegious to pray to an image on the moon.

         "Why is it sacrilegious, Mother Superior," I argued, "when my eyes see the image of Mary and Jesus?"

         As I knelt at the corner of the Mother Superior’s office, reciting fifty Hail Marys, I realized the true reason why Ma had told me to pray to the image on the moon to myself only. Since then, I confined my praying to Mary and Jesus in my room.

         Even now, I still see that ambiguous outline of the Madonna and Child on the moon; and when I want to, one blink and I see the face of a man. It’s like when you’re watching a slide show, you hear a click and the screen goes dark, then another image comes up.

*

         There are times when visual ambiguity makes for better likeness, especially when viewed from a distance. Just like in cooking -- those who are outside the kitchen are likely to smell the food better than the cook can because she’s too close to it. This is my excuse for not instantly seeing my mother’s face from the indistinguishable brush strokes I created on the canvas.

         Yes, my siblings did see it immediately—the suggestion of a painterly impression of Ma’s face on the canvas -- and I didn’t. According to Malia’s analysis, it had something to do with my myopic view toward our mother’s true character. She could be right. Why didn’t I see the care and appreciation my mother felt about my talents? Why did it take all these years for me to fully become aware of her goodness and martyrdom? Hmm, then again, I also failed to see the other side of the wonderful father I knew and idealized blindly. I guess I wasn’t really blessed with the acuity of mental vision as I thought. I have a very creative imagination, sure, but probably not the most insightful when it concerns people’s character.

         Just like the image on the moon, it took a couple of blinks before I finally saw my mother’s face on the canvas. But as soon as I did, I felt my muse embrace me and I couldn’t wait to start painting Ma’s portrait.

*

         The human face and figure present a greater challenge to the artist than landscapes, still lifes and seascapes. It involves more than simply achieving a likeness of the overall face. It has to give that feeling of atmosphere and project that certain essence in the subject’s character. Have I achieved this in my mother’s portrait that is now delineated more fully with forms? Some might even say it’s finished already and I should stop messing with it lest I ruin it, which I’ve been known to do occasionally. One of my weaknesses as an artist is not knowing when a painting is really done.

         With the palette still on the flat of my left forearm and a brush on my right hand, I take a break to assess the painting. I stand well back from the easel to evaluate whether the form and colors on the painting work in harmony when viewed from a distance. I nod with satisfaction as I see that the interaction of forms is complete and subtle. I reviewed the thickly painted white highlights in her eyes and on the lower lip to give an exaggerated effect of moisture in her face, giving it the effect of life. But the portrait seems to project a feeling of melancholy in her countenance. I didn’t notice it earlier, but there is the slightest squint that suggests otherworldliness in her expression, making her gaze seem focused on the infinite. Yet, it is this introspective and enigmatic quality that also makes her look hypnotic. I didn’t plan for it to come out this way, but I think I like it.

         I move around the room to view it from different sides. I turn down the lights to see if the eyes would glitter even in semi-darkness to give that piercing illusion of life in her eyes. And they do! Not only that; they seem to follow me wherever I go. Of course, it’s only an illusion, but a nice effect nevertheless. It was a big gamble to experiment with very fine bits of glass that I mixed with the paint. But it paid off. I have achieved the effect I wanted.

         Malia’s sudden appearance jerks me out of my concentration. "Why are you working in semi darkness?" she asks, and turns up the light then her jaws drop when she sees the painting. "Oh, my God!" she exclaims, mouth wide open in astonishment. "I can’t believe it. You’ve finished it!" She rushes toward the painting. "Mary, it’s absolutely beautiful! Is it dry?" She examines the painting closely, looking as if she’s fighting the urge to lay a finger on any part of it."

         "It’s almost dry. I mixed a fast-drying medium with the paint."

         "It’s unbelievable that you finished it so quickly."

         "I prayed for something mystical to happen. I guess my wish came true."

         "Did it ever--"

         "I think I need to do a few more finishing touches."

         "I don’t know where. It looks perfect to me." She cocks her head to the left, to the right then nods approvingly. "By George, she’s got it! You did it, sister. You really did it. It looks just like Ma." She leans over to scrutinize something in the painting. I hold my breath as she supports her upper body by holding on to the ends of the easel’s shelf that holds the canvas. "How did you make her eyes glow like that?"

         "It’s a trade secret."

         "Aw, c’mon, tell me."

         "I mixed tiny bits of glass into the pigments."

         It’s funny that I would be talking about an art technique used by the masters when I never had a single art lesson my life. To this day, I’m still not knowledgeable about many of the technical terms and techniques used in art. When other artists start shooting words at me that an art-educated person would immediately understand, I either ask for clarification or pretend that I understood or wasn’t listening.

         "Fascinating," Malia says. "I really love that special glow in the light." She takes a few steps back, not taking her eyes off the painting. I give a little sigh of relief that she’s now standing away from the painting. Accidents happen, and she’s the most accident-prone person I know. Falling off a tree when she was twelve that paralyzed her for two years is an everlasting testament to that.

          "Even back here, the eyes seem to sparkle," she says. "As if they’re alive."

         "I’m really pleased you’re happy with the painting."

         "Happy? I’m ecstatic. You’ve found a way to immortalize Ma. By the way, where did you get the pieces of glass?"

         "From one of your precious crystals," I say guiltily. She darts me a squinted look with furrowed brows. "Relax, it was the one with the crack. You even mentioned sometime ago that you might throw it away because no one’s going to buy it when you move to the States. Plus, aren’t you happy that you’ve got some contribution to this artwork?"

         She ponders my words for a moment. "Well, when you put it that way—."

         "You really think Ma is going to love this?"

         "Not just Ma. Everybody’s going to love it. You finally did something to put Ma in a place of honor. I think this might be your redemption from all the years that you’ve dishonored her."

         There she goes again with that knife in my heart. "I’ve dishonored Ma?"

         "Well . . . that’s too harsh of a word. You know I’m not as good as you in choosing just the right word to describe something. I’m sorry I said that. Forget about it."

         "It’s forgotten," I say, but it’s not true. Her occasional judgmental remarks get on my nerves sometimes. Because she’s older, I try not to fight with her. Our parents raised us to respect our elders irrespective of the difference in our ages. Anyway, she might be right about my unconscious attitude about our mother.

         "She would have been about your age then."

         "I think you’re right," I say, trying to remember the date on the original drawing.

         "I don’t remember that picture. Where did you get it? Or did you just imagine it?"

         "Just from memory," I say.

         I have not shown the contents of the envelopes to my siblings. I wanted to wait till the emotions of the discovery have settled down. One thing that my family has been admirable of is the fact that we try to avoid anything that might result in any one feeling to be a favored child. Our parents were very careful of that. Jealousy or envy never had any place in our huge family.

         The fact that our mother kept all those mementos from my youth shows that she felt a lot of affection and love for me, not to mention the admiration and respect for my talents. She never made me feel these things, and I imagine that it's because she didn't want my brothers and sisters to think that I was favored. Ha! Imagine that.

         “You're simply amazing, sister. I do wonder sometimes where your artistic talents would have taken you if you had gotten any formal training."

         "I can’t blame our parents," I say. "With nine children to feed, an art school like the one in Bacolor was simply out of reach."

         "True." She gestures to go back upstairs. "I can't wait for Johnny and Lisa to see the painting."

*

         I am glad Malia's gone. I need more time to complete the art project. Not Ma's portrait, but the secret painting on the back of it.

         Except for my signature, none of the paintings I’ve done in my life contains anything other than the artwork on the canvas – until now. Directly on the back side of the canvas is another painting, about a tenth the size of Ma's portrait on the front. It is a picture of a mother and child -- a clear profile of my mother holding me on her lap -- reminiscent of that wonderful moment in time at the veranda.

         I wonder what kind of controversy it may create if and when many years from now they discover the painting behind the painting. Will it increase or decrease the value of the artwork? I guess it depends on where my talent takes me.

         I take my camera and take pictures of both paintings, wondering if I should tell my family about the secret painting. I decide not to, for now. I can always show the picture to them later on. So, I finalize the secret painting by applying layers of gesso over it, so that the only way anyone can ever see it when I'm dead and famous, is through x-ray or reflectography.

*

   In my younger days, I once dated a gifted portrait painter named Michael Stanley. I met him through a national juried art exhibition in the Midwest, which he had won with his mural size Nude Polynesian Woman Bathing oil on canvas. The exotic woman was luxuriating in a pool of water with the illusion of waterfalls, rocks and trees in the background. She wore only a red flower on the left side of her head, her breasts partly covered by her long, wet and wavy black hair. The portrait was eerily true to life that curious viewers were often caught trying to feel her olive skin. My entry, a traditional and unexciting autumn scene of rural Indiana, captured the coveted consolation prize otherwise known as Honorable Mention. I think I still have the ribbon in some box somewhere in storage.

         Michael was not only a great painter. He was also extremely handsome. He was six foot tall, had a full head of curly, dark hair, with aquiline nose, full lips and mesmerizing eyes underneath the bushy eyebrows. A quick glance at his well-defined features, you’d think it was sculpted by one of the renaissance masters. Needless to say, I was very proud to be seen with him, even though sometimes I felt overshadowed by his beauty when even some men stared at him more than at me.

         One day, Michael and I attended a seminar on art conservation and techniques at the Cincinnati Art Museum. A group of scientists spoke about x-ray and reflectography examination of ancient artworks using infrared light. During a thirty-minute refreshment break, he decided to confide in me about his own technique to immortality.

         "If these scientists would only do an x-ray study on my paintings," he whispered in my ear, "they would find a sample of my DNA in each one."

         "Like what?" I asked nonchalantly. It was no secret to me that many artists often left a part of themselves in their paintings: a strand of hair, a piece of fabric, saliva, or blood that they might mix with the paint.

         "My semen," he said with a wide grin and a twinkle in his eye.

         At that juncture, the illusion of an Adonis face was suddenly shattered into a million pieces. I saw something diabolical instead. "That is absolutely perverse and revolting," I exclaimed. I could only imagine how ugly my face also looked with the contorted expression I gave him.

         Before he could form a response, I swung on my heel and sprinted to the ladies room and tried to relieve myself of the nausea. I never saw him again after that. And to think I almost agreed to pose for him.

         Today, that episode in my life comes back every time I read about him in art magazines. His DNA secret is no more since he has proudly revealed it in a special documentary about artists who include a souvenir of themselves in their paintings. Michael's revelation has created such a huge controversy not only in the art world but also in the general public. But the controversy only helped him, which captivated a growing list of art patrons and collectors.

         I have not reached the status that Michael enjoys in our profession, but I am very satisfied with what I have accomplished as an artist. I have won a few first place awards in various juried art shows, and have garnered a loyal group of patrons to keep me busy. Sometimes I even splurge at Neiman Marcus and Saks 5th Avenue after completing a huge commissioned artwork. But there’s no security of income in art; therefore, I keep my daytime job. I have been fortunate in the US as a successful professional with a huge Fortune 50 corporation. Still, it’s the arts that always gave me any consistent degree of satisfaction, challenge and pleasure, not to mention a profound sense of creative accomplishment.

         Even today, except for my signature, none of the paintings I’ve done contains anything other than the artwork on the canvas – until now -- with the secret painting on the backside of my mother's portrait.
 

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 17 -- The Artist Searching For Her Muse

SEVENTEEN

The Artist Searching For Her Muse

         In my childhood, I perceived visions of my future: first, as a nun—an incarnate of Maria in the Sound of Music, then as a police detective solving crimes and being hailed as a heroine like the Wonder Woman. There were other motion picture characters that I emulated, including Tarzan who inspired the vine-swinging soul in my tomboyish adolescence. Interestingly, I never saw myself as the future Georgia O’Keeffe or Frida Kahlo. Yet here I am, a self-taught artist who, in addition to her corporate career, has also accumulated a respectable amount of patrons with a growing art portfolio.

         As promised, Father Tayag did not waste any time in procuring the pieces of lumber for my brother and me. Sales proceeds from the original paintings donated by various artists from all over the country have been a great source of revenue for the rebuilding of the church. I hope to be a major part of this charitable endeavor.

         Johnny has sanded the boards and even applied several coats of gesso on the smooth surface. Now, I just wait for my elusive muse so I can execute this vague illusion for an oil painting -- so obscure that I am uncertain of its form. A field of flowers? A mountain scene? A still life? A portrait of the Virgin Mary? I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been standing here for more than fifteen minutes staring at the 20x24 wood board perched against a wooden easel. I keep waiting . . . and waiting . . . for some divine guidance from the holy wood that once graced the walls of St. Guillermo Church before Mount Pinatubo claimed the historical Minster.

         I stand back a couple steps and continue to fix my gaze at the board. In a few minutes, or sometime today, or before the year is over, I hope I’d be able to brush a few strokes of paint on it. There’s not enough natural light in the basement. A little daylight trickles through the window and it’s predicted to rain later in the afternoon. It looks like the clouds are starting to roll in. But I’ve worked under fluorescent light many times before, so I can’t use the lighting as my excuse to procrastinate.

         I pick up a tube of alizarin crimson and squeeze some paint onto the palette on the art table. I follow this with globs of Chinese white, yellow ochre, burnt sienna, magenta, and more. Smelling the thick scent of oils, I begin to long for the slide and density of it under my brush, yearning for the excitement of colors melding together and producing the colors I develop in my head. My process is not scientific. It’s mostly instinctive and many times, serendipitous. This is probably true with any artist who never took an art lesson in her life. I open the bottle of turpentine and pour about an ounce of it into the aluminum cup attached to the palette.

         I grab an artist knife and begin to dab and blend a little bit of this, and a little bit of that on my palette. With determination I retrieve the wooden palette from the table and place it across the flat on my inner forearm. I secure a brush and apply the bristles to a daub of purple—my favorite color for the initial paint-drawing. Now maybe I can get this show on the road. Let the brush dictate what I should paint. . . . like a mystical being that will guide me throughout the project. Yes, something supernatural like that because at this moment I still don’t have any command of my muse.

         I bend my arm, stretch it, flex it, and as I exhale a deep sigh I close my eyes and engage the brush with the canvas, right smack in the middle, making some bold strokes here and there. I open my eyes, and still . . . nothing comes to me.

         Frustrated, I put the palette and the brush back on the table, take off my artist apron and throw it over the swivel chair. My feet lead me back upstairs where I find Malia opening the front door for Johnny.

         “Hey, sis,” he calls when he sees me. “All done with your painting?”

         I give him an exasperated look. “A few murky bold strokes, that’s it.”

         “Good timing you guys,” Malia says. “Lisa and I made some “halo-halo.” Let’s have some merienda.”

         “Yummy!” I exult. “I was craving for something icy cold.”

         Halo-halo (“mix-mix”) is a delightful icy dessert or snack (merienda) served in a tall, clear glass that shows its colorful contents. It is eaten all-year round, but is most popular during the scalding summer months, from March to June.

         Lisa enters the living room with a tray containing four tall glasses of halo-halo. “It’s too hot in the dirty kitchen; the ice cream is going to melt too fast out there,” she says.

         Johnny takes the tray from Lisa and sets it down on the coffee table. I grab my serving of the exotic fare and peruse the bulk and substance of the mixture on the surface of the glass. My taste buds explode with anticipation. I see the usual ingredients of sweet preserved red beans and chick peas and tropical fruits. There’s macapuno (coconut meat), langka (jackfruit), pinipig (pounded dried rice), and leche flan (cream flan). These are all available at most grocery stores; except that Malia makes her own leche flan, and I have not tasted any flan as good as hers. The top part of the glass is filled with thinly crushed ice saturated with evaporated milk. Finally, my favorite mango and ube (sweet purple yam) ice cream crown the concoction.

         How many calories do you think there are in this dessert?” I ask the group.

         “A million?” Lisa says with a giggle.

         “This is no time to worry about calories,” Johnny says directly to me. “You’re on vacation, and you’re just going to sweat it out of your body from the heat, anyway.”

         "Heat and perspiration diet? Never worked for me," I say as I take one of the spoons from the tray and start digging into my culinary delight. First, the purple ice cream ube—my favorite. “How about you, Johnny. Are you done with your painting?”

         “Almost,”

         “See? I knew as soon as you put your mind to it, you can start painting again without any problem.”

         Johnny shakes his head skeptically. “I’m not creating anything new. It’s a scene I’ve painted many times before . . . you know, the classic Philippine rural landscape with a Bahay kubo, a carabao with a farmer riding on it, trees and mountains in the background.”

         “That sounds terrific,” Malia says. It’s a popular scene so I’m sure it will sell right away.”

         “I wanted to do something I’ve never done before, but I’m really just too busy with the business. I don’t have the time.”

         “I am sure Father Tayag will be very happy with your donation,” I say as I stir the mouth-watering halo-halo mixture with a long spoon.

         “How about you, Mary,” asks Lisa. “What did you decide to paint for your project?”

         “I’m afraid my canvas is still blank. I can’t seem to find my muse.”

         “Speaking of muse,” Malia says, “Dado called. He said if you’re not doing anything tonight, he’d like to drop by.”

         “Only if he’d toss a few coins my way,” Johnny says. “And tell him the kickback rate has multiplied by 1000%”

         “So what’s going on between you and Dado,” Malia asks, her tone and expression serious. Although she likes Dado and treats him like a member of the family, she knows that his intentions are of a romantic nature. And because I’m married, she doesn’t approve of me going out with him, unless, of course, another member of the family accompanies us. Norma, bless her heart, is extremely old fashioned. I am, after all, 32 years old and I don’t think I still need a chaperone when I go out, especially with someone like Dado.

         “Nothing’s going on between Dado and me,” I tell them. “We have a long history together and we will always be friends.”

         “How come Rob is not calling you?” Malia continues to probe. She’s really on an investigative mood about my love life. “Is everything okay with you two?”

         “That’s personal,” Johnny says.

         “It’s okay,” I say to Johnny. “No, everything is not great between Rob and me. And that’s all I’m going to say at this time on the matter. I hope you’ll respect that.”

         My words silence the group. We can hear Johnny slurping the melted ice cream and the liquefied ice milk. He likes to consume his Halo-halo this way, saving the ingredients in the bottom for last. Malia prefers to blend everything together, while Lisa likes to dig way down for the fruits and beans right away, saving the melted ice cream and ice milk for the climax.

         “Well,” exclaims Johnny. “Why don’t we go down in the basement and see what Mary has accomplished so far on her canvas.

         “I told you, it’s still empty.”

         “No, you said you’ve made some murky strokes. So let’s see how murky the strokes really are.”

         “That’s silly.”

         “Well, I’m a silly kind of guy.”

         “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

         Holding our respective drinks, we exit the living room and trudge toward the basement. Johnny starts singing, "We're off to see the wizard, the wonderful wizard of Oz."

         Halfway down the cemented stairwell I stop and look up at my entourage. "Well, might as well have a party down here, because you're not going to see any painting to critique."

         "It's a cooler place to party!" says Lisa.

         I reach the floor first. I walk toward the easel and canvas and turn it around so they can see it directly under the light. "See? Nothing," I say. "Nothing but murky bold strokes."

         "What do you mean nothing?" says Malia.

         "You decided to paint Ma's portrait!" Lisa exclaims.

         Johnny takes a few steps closer to the canvas. "Good start," he says, then faces me. "You know what would even be better? Ma holding you as a baby."

         "You're all crazy!" I exclaim. "You don't really see Ma's image on the canvas. You're taunting me."

         Everyone gives me a perplexed look.

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 16 -- Conversation with my Father

SIXTEEN

Conversation with my Father

All the emotions . . . all the sadness, all the joy wrapped in an hour of discovery has drained me of my energy. Clutching all the materials to my chest, I lay there on the dusty floor in a fetal position.

          Ma, what happened to you here the last time? What have you discovered that made you change? Why all the forgiveness to all those who trespassed against you? Why do you want me to do the same?

          I close my tired and teary eyes. I feel the hairs on my neck prick, not from fear, but in feeling my father’s presence. I feel the movement of his spirit that hovered this house for years . . . and maybe even now. I feel him all around me, his love, his happiness, his sadness, his troubles.

          I fall into a slumber.

          I thought I heard, on the wind, strange sounds up ahead. And then suddenly, the earth below me seems to vibrate. Then a hum emanating from the mountain sounds like the drone of a million bees. I stare at the mountain. She is filled with awe and a sense of mystery. It has a presence, a spirit. And thoughts of what has haunted me in my dreams grip me with a sudden sense of urgency. Pinatubo breathes all around me. I feel its energy; almost as if a living thing is talking to me, waiting for me to deliver myself into her heart.

          I don’t know where I am. I feel lost. I see me creeping slowly in the dark, feeling my way along the walls of the mountain where my father had taken me many times in my youth. I cautiously put one foot in front of the other. I have no idea that darkness could be so absolute. I've never seen darkness as deep, as formidable as this, although I've heard my father say that I had the eyes of a cat when it came to seeing in the dark. As I make my way through the blackness, I stretch my eyes wide, as if doing so would help me see well.

          And there he is, glowing in the dark. I stare at his face . . . at the high cheekbones and full mouth, and the stray curl from his unkempt hair that caressed his forehead. Wait a minute. But it’s Lou Diamond Phillips’ face I see. What is this actor doing in my dream?

          "Because you’ve always said to everyone that he looks like me," my father says to me. "By the way, if you suspect that he's also my son, he’s not. I wish he were, though."

          My father making a joke now? I can’t believe it. He sounds like he did when he was alive and young.

          “Pa, I need to talk to you about Ma.”

          "Actually, I think Benjamin Bratt looks more like me . . . minus a foot and two inches."

          “How do you even know about Benjamin Bratt? Forget that. Really, Pa, I need to talk to you about Ma.”

          "Not now, Mary. You will have your answers soon."

          “But I have a lot of questions for you now.”

          He smiles wide, nodding his head up and down as if in agreement or approval of something. "Later," he says.

          And I watch my father walk away, and eventually, he blends into the night.

         I swallow back my sadness and say a silent farewell to him.

          I feel myself being jolted awake. I open my eyes and I see Johnny tugging at my foot. “Wake up, sleepy head,”

          I shake my head to clear it of its daydreams. “You’re back,” I say.

          He helps me up on my feet. I grasp on my stuff tighter so I won’t spill any of it.

          “How can you even fall asleep in this mess,” he asks. “You look like you’ve been crying. Your eyes look bloodshot.”

          I brush the dusts off my clothing and don’t say anything.

          “Well, I understand,” Johnny continues. “We all cried when we saw this place for the first time. What’s all that you’re gripping with your life?”

          I ponder his question for a moment, then with a smile, I say dreamily: “Wonderful things about being my mother’s daughter.”

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 15 -- The House My Father Built

FIFTEEN

The House My Father Built

         I feel the walls of my heart quake as we stand in front of the old house—the house our father built—the house that had stayed in the family for almost four decades.

         The house, or what is left of it, sobers me for a long moment. I stand motionless, staring silently at the structure that was once my world, where many dreams were woven and made me into what I am today. All that has remained is a shell of a house with a few useless remnants of the past.

         Johnny and I ascend the stairway—the top three steps of what had been about twenty wooden steps before lahar buried the first floor of the house where all the bedrooms used to be. Johnny unlocks the door with a key and pushes it hard with his forearm to open. I stay in the doorway for a while, not wanting to go in.

         “Are you all right?” Johnny asks.

         I nod only, afraid that if I speak, the tears that I am suppressing will break loose.

         “You’re going to have to enter sometime,” Johnny says.

         I take a few steps. My feet feel leaden. For a moment I can’t catch my breath. The air is stale and stifling. I shake my head and walk on, pausing in the middle of the room that was once full of life. I examine what used to be the living room. Now it’s empty, and all that’s left are broken frames all over the floor;` cobwebs, dust and grime everywhere, and curtains weighted of dried mud from lahar.

         I continue to move slowly like one through a dreamlike melancholy. I look up at the shattered mirrors on the wall, and gaze at the heavily soiled jacket still draped over a chair. The books, pencils, notebooks and other school materials glued onto the coffee table by lahar conjure up images of Lisa’s children studying here when Pinatubo exploded.

         I walk into the family room where images of my brothers and sisters playing games, watching TV or chatting with friends flash before me; their voices competing as to who can talk and laugh the loudest. Situated at the center of the wall is a tall nine-drawer chest, three drawers on each row, with beveled edges and carved detail around the base. I remember Pa buying the chest unfinished, which he then painted in ivory and decorated with rustic handles. He was so proud when he finished it. “Nine big drawers,” he announced to his family, his arm circled around Ma’s shoulders. “One for each child. See . . . I even painted your names on them, so you don’t place anything in the drawer that doesn’t belong to you. That way, you always know where your things are.”

         The chest is heavily damaged and probably not worth fixing. I try to rub the dirt off my name on the drawer—the one right smack in the middle—but the grime is too thick, I manage to expose only the R on my name. I used to keep my drawings and my writings and miscellaneous mementos in this compartment when I was young. I feel a strong urge to see what’s inside it now. I pull on the drawer, but to my disappointment it’s stuck. I try the other drawers and they all open after several tries. They contain only unimportant items such as old clothing, school supplies and other miscellaneous objects. I don’t know whether my drawer has been stuck for a long time, or just corrupted by lahar. I pull on the handle again, this time much harder, but it only pulls me back. I try again but it doesn’t budge.

         “What are you trying to do?” Johnny asks.

         “Open this drawer.”

         “What for?”

         “What do you think? This is my drawer, remember? Don’t just stand there. Help me open it.”

         “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. I don’t think you’ve even checked this drawer in years.”

         “Exactly. Now, just open it, please?”

         Johnny tries a pull and tug maneuver to no avail then his cell phone rings. It’s his wife. He steps away and talks to Clara. I continue to pry the drawer open by shaking, kicking and pounding on it with my fist.

         “I’m sorry, but I have an urgent business call,” Johnny says. “A customer is demanding to deal with me or no deal.”

         “That’s fine. I’ll stay here,” I say, breathing hard from all the pounding and kicking.

         “Sure? You think you’re going to be all right?”

         “Yes, of course. Go ahead and take care of your business. Pick me up whenever you’re ready.”

         “Okay.” Johnny gives me a hug. “I know it’s hard. I’ve been here several times; still, it gets to me.”

         “Yes. A lot of memories in this house.”

         “All right, gotta go. Call me if you need someone to pick you up sooner.”

         “No need. I’ll be fine. I can wait for you.”

         “I’ll bring a crowbar when I return,” he says then swings his feet toward the door. Before I could say: Never mind, I think I got it, he has closed the door and locked it behind him .

         On my knees, I take a few more hard tugs and the drawer comes loose and is now about an inch open. I clamp the top and bottom edges with my hands, inhale deep, and as I exhale, I pull on it with all my strength.

         The drawer opens halfway. Catching my breath, I peer inside and am instantly assailed by the musty order. Excitedly, I reach in and start pulling things out. My heart races as I realize that the treasure contains old memorabilia: my drawings, cartoons, poems, short stories, diaries, letters and other souvenirs from my childhood. “Oh, my God!” I squeal jubilantly. “They’re still here!”

         I wonder if anyone even knows that these things are in this drawer. Probably not, and even if they did, it probably didn’t interest them at all. I examine the sketches and the comic illustrations and I am amused by their lack of artistry and sophistication. The short stories, written in Tagalog—the country’s national language, read like they were penned by a young girl trying to sound like an adult.

         I giggle merrily as I continue to peruse my childhood’s treasure chest. My diaries reveal names of childhood friends, my teachers, the boys I liked, including Dado. My most recent diary before I migrated to the States is here, too. I check the last entry and I am transported back in time when I was about to leave for the airport to begin a new life in the States. I was packing then when Ma came into the room and gave me a big manila envelope.

         “You don’t have to open this now,” she had said, her voice throaty. “It contains some of your school records, sketches and other things that you may cherish many years from now. I’ll put it in your drawer.”

         “Thank you, Ma,” I said and hugged her tight.

         Ma is a woman of a few words, not that she has a limited vocabulary because I’ve heard her rattle on extemporaneously a few times. I remember one time when she was arguing with one of my godmothers. She just went on and on, saying words that I’ve never heard her speak before. I never really found out what that was all about or what was upsetting my mother. I was about twelve then, and we also never questioned our parents about anything. She rarely has ever shown extreme emotions as well. The most emotional I’ve seen her was when Pa died. She stayed in her room most of the time and cried there. We could hear her sob through the night.

         I spot a large brown envelope at the bottom of the materials. It must be the one Ma gave me when I was leaving for the airport. I pull it out and blow away the dust. It’s really thick but I think nothing unusual about it. “Mary’s Art and Writings,” it says in fancy lettering on the front of the envelope. Is this Ma’s chirography? I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ma’s script before. I am impressed.

         I open the paper and turn it upside down to release the components of my past that had been incarcerated in this paper jail for too long. As the parcels of my life come cascading down and settling on my lap, I see the various drawings and pen and ink portraits I’ve done of my family. I don’t remember ever giving these to Ma nor to any one in the family. And Ma kept them. I never thought she appreciated them this much.

         Oh, my God, here’s a sketch of my Kuya -- older brother Narcing. He must have been about twelve or thirteen years old here . . . before he got sick. This means that I did his portrait when I was only four or five. Did I really draw this? Yes, I did, noting my signature at the bottom. I can’t believe it. What a talented kid! Kuya Narcing looked just like Johnny without . . . without the bulge on the side of his face and neck. Finally, we have a remembrance of our Kuya other than the one and only faded picture we have of him with the bloated face and neck.

         And here are drawings of Ma and Pa. Ma, even with the faintest smile at the corner of her mouth looks serious but beautiful and elegant in her wedding dress. Pa looks happy and so young in the picture. He was three years Ma’s junior and it shows in the drawing that I only copied from a photograph. I caress the artwork with the tips of my fingers when a teardrop falls to my surprise and lands on my father’s face. I wipe the tear away from my father’s face with my forefinger then from my face.

          I still can’t believe that my mother kept these all those years that I thought she didn’t care about them at all. I never heard her praise me or encourage me like my father did. Oh, Ma . . . why didn’t you tell me. You don’t know how much it hurt me to think that you didn’t appreciate my talents.

         I continue to peruse the items on my lap: my grade reports, the glowing comments from my teachers about my excellent grades, a lock of my hair in a tiny plastic bag, the poems I wrote about my family, and the birthday cards and anniversary cards I hand made for Ma and Pa . . . and many more.

         And what is this? Another envelope. It’s a thick one. I hold my breath as I open it. What I pull out of it stuns me. A copy of the comic magazine that printed my story when I was only fourteen. The only copy I have because I gave away all the copies I had till there was nothing left. How smart of Ma to keep this copy. Why didn’t she say anything? She knew that I tried to obtain copies from the publisher who informed me that they were out of print. I flip to the two pages of my story with my own illustration. Not bad at all. I wonder if they retouched my work. Probably. I clutch the magazine to my  chest. Thank you, Ma . . . Thank you.

         Lastly, what is this? A manuscript? The top page has a note from my mother, in her less fancy penmanship that I recognize more. I feel my heart jump in my throat when I start reading. It says: Mary, I made a copy of your story before I mailed it to PBC as you requested. I kept it because I didn’t want you to lose it. Congratulations in getting it accepted. I am proud of you. I’m so sorry your Pa didn’t get to see your story on TV. But he’s very proud of you. He made sure all his friends saw it.

         Oh, my God, Ma. How come you never showed me this side of you before?  My eyes grow dreamy and faraway as I remember that night when the whole family, minus our Pa, gathered around the television to watch my teleplay breathe life on that magnificent tube. All the while I kept my ears cocked toward the door for the sound of my father’s footsteps coming up the stairs, but the TV drama ended without him seeing it. I wished, more than anything, that he could have heard his wife and children jump and cheer when the credits rolled and saw my name in big print: “Story by Mary Concepcion."

         I flip the cover page of my manuscript and there it is . . . my first big success in fiction writing. Sign of great times ahead with the written word? Regretfully, all the dreams of literary accomplishments by an up and coming teenage writer came to a quick halt as fate would curtail the life of my father.

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 14 -- Pandora’s Box Of Revelations

FOURTEEN

Pandora’s Box Of Revelations

She stood in front of the class, reciting a poem. The teacher seemed to have lost control over her class as she tolerated the children who continued to heckle the girl. They called her names, mimicked her speech, and threw crumpled paper at her. As always, the girl was resolute. Oblivious of the disturbance and provocation, she finished her recitation, then with her chin up she ambled back to her desk.

         A woman--her mother—came into the classroom that day. The rapid tapping from her heels echoed as she stormed inside the stunned classroom. Without a word, she grasped her daughter by the arm and dragged her away, ignoring the teacher’s protest. For the first time, I saw terror and helplessness in the girl's eyes.

         I followed the teacher outside, and the whole class marched right behind me. Outside, a man was waiting in the driver seat of a big black car. The girl’s mother pushed her inside the back seat and closed the door to her face then she wrenched the door to the front seat and threw herself in.

         All I could see through the window of the back seat were the girl’s eyes, intense with fear. I waved to her until the car vanished in a shower of dust.

         And I would never see her again.

         “It’s so clear to me now,” I murmur. “How could I forget such a significant event in my childhood?”

         “You blocked it out of your mind,” Malia says.

         “Why would I do a thing like that?”

         “Because you've always been prejudiced when it comes to our father that you erased all bad memories about him. Consequently, these bad memories come back as nightmares.”

         I make a face and shake my head to disagree with Malia's interpretation of my dreams. “I really didn’t know about the girl. Nobody told me.”

         “We tried, but you wouldn’t listen.”

         “Did Ma know?”

         “Of course, she did. But she never talked about it, and she didn’t want us to talk about it.”

         “So it’s true. How many?”

         “We don’t know for sure.”

         “You mean there could be more than two . . . three . . . five?”

         “Maybe.”

         “How many do you know for sure?”

         “Four.”

         “Four? Oh, my God!”

         “How long have you known?”

         “This girl was the first one.”

         “Who was next?”

         “Danny.”

         “Danny? As in Danny -- Johnny’s best friend growing up?”

         “Yes.”

         “He spent so much time at our house. I never suspected anything. When did you find out?”

          “When Pa ordered both of them to stop flirting with this pretty girl in Sapangbato.”

         “And. . .?”

         “The girl was the two boys’half sister.”

         I shake my head from left to right. “That’s just totally outrageous. I don’t believe it.”

         “And that’s how you’ve always acted when you heard rumors like this.”

         “Oh, poor Ma.  How did she take all this?”

         “You didn’t suspect much, so she must have done very well in pretending it never happened.”

         “You mean Ma just kept quiet throughout Pa’s philandering?”

         “Not exactly.”

         “What do you mean?”

         “You never knew that Ma occasionally would wake one of us up in the middle of the night when she suspected that he might be with another woman?”

         “No. And then what did she do?”

         “She would drag one of us all over to find him.”

         “And . . .?”

         “One time, when I was with her. I remember we took a jeepney to this area, and had to walk part of the way in the dark. I was so scared. We found Pa in the balcony of this widow’s house.”

         “What was he doing?”

         “Sleeping.”

         “That wasn’t incriminating.”

         “No, but why sleep there when he could have gone home? The house wasn’t that far away from ours.”

         “What did Ma do then?”

         “She dragged him out of there and we all went home together in Pa’s jeepney.”

         “Ma did that?”

         “Yes.”

         “Did they quarrel?”

         “No, they were quiet. You know that Ma and Pa never fought in front of us.”

         “Oh, Ma. I never realized she had it in her . . .”

         “No, you wouldn’t because you were always blind when it came to Pa’s sins.”

         I shrug off Malia’s indictment. “Did you ever catch him with a woman?”

         “Not when I was with Ma. I think she and Ate Lynn caught him with another woman. Unfortunately, the woman’s husband did, too. Don’t you remember the time when Pa was jailed overnight?”

         I pause, trying to remember. “No.” I lie. The scene forever looms in my nightmares-- one of those that I’ve tried in vain to erase from my memory. Malia's right. These bad memories come back in my nightmares.

         The scene was the city jail. I remember it was crowded with scraggly looking men who could use a bath. Pa clearly looked out of place there. He smiled when he saw us and sounded confident when he talked about his arrest. “They have no case," he declared.  "Nobody caught me with my pants down.” He was right, and was released the following day. No charges were filed.

         “Where’s this woman now?”

         “We don’t know. We don’t even know who she is, or was.”

         “And the husband?”

         “Nope.”

         The oven buzzed. The Bibingkang Malagkit is ready. Malia gets up from her chair. “I’ll get it,” I say. “I’m closer to it.”

         I walk over to the oven, grab a pair of mittens, open the door and carefully pull out the pan and place it on the counter. I lift the cover and the sweetest, most delicious aroma emanates from it.

         I walk back to my chair.

         “Aren’t you going to have a piece while it’s hot?” asks Malia.

         How can she expect me to eat now after all the bombs they've dropped on me? My brain is still spinning from all that I’ve heard. “I’ll wait when it cools off a bit,” I say in a small voice.

         We sit there for a while, not saying anything. I notice from their demeanor, however, that there’s more they want to say to me. A lot more? I don’t know if I can take it. But, why not? Bring it on, sisters. Tomorrow when I wake up from sleep, I will just think of all this as another nightmare that I will try to erase from my memory.

         “Spill it out,” I say to them.

         “What?” they both say simultaneously.

         “Ah, don’t act so innocent . . .you know what. You’ve got a lot more in your sleeves than you want to bring out, so . . . lay it all out on this table. I can handle it. Ma already gave me the captions; now it’s your turn to give me the detailed descriptions.”

         “Relax, relax,” says Malia. If I remember right, she was the agitated one earlier.

         “I am relaxed.” I shift in my chair and take a deep breath. “See? I’m quite relaxed. In fact . . .” I get up from my chair and walk toward the oven. I take a knife and start slicing the bibinka. “Let’s have more coffee and indulge in this delicious, mouth watering delicacy. One of my favorites in this world.”

         “That’s the spirit!” Lisa says, looking a lot calmer now. Her tears have dried and there’s the famous dimpled smile back again.

         My sisters and I have recovered from the torturous confessions, and now, we’re ready to open another Pandora’s box of revelations.

         “I think we should take our coffees and our bibinkas to the dining room,” Malia suggests with a big smile now. “Let’s get comfortable because you . . . Mary . . . need it more now than before.”

         “Oh, boy!” I exclaim. “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”

         My sisters laugh. “Hey, don't be sacrilegious!”

         We situate ourselves comfortably at the dining room table.

         “I can’t believe how you’re taking all this,” Malia says. “I was so sure you’d be so devastated that you’d be flying back to the States right away.”

         Lisa nods in agreement.

         “Give me a little bit of credit, will you? I’ve grown up a lot since my arrogant days here.”

         “Ah, but it’s that arrogance that saved the family after father died. If you hadn’t convinced that department store owner that you were older, he would not have hired you,” Malia says.

         “And we would have starved.” Lisa adds. “We’re grateful for your strength and determination.”

         “Now you’re making me blush.” I spoon a piece of the bibinka and gingerly put it in my mouth. “Hmmm . . .” I purr with my eyes closed. “This is heavenly.”

         “Yeah, this is really good, Malia,” Lisa adds.

         “Thank you, thank you,” Malia says, bowing her head several times.”

         I lean back, scoot down, raise my legs clear across under the table and rest my feet on the opposite chair. “I think this moment calls for wine. Got any?”

         “You don’t drink!” Malia says in surprise.

         “Yes, I don’t, but I think I need it before we resume the second part of the revelation.”

         “No, you don’t need it. Plus, I don’t have it. I only have Theo’s Vodka and Whiskey, I think.”

         “Bring out the Vodka, or both.”

         “No, I won’t. Don’t be ridiculous. Here . . . just get drunk on caffeine.” Malia refills my cup.

         “You’re a killjoy.” I straighten up, lift myself up from the chair and raise my cup. “And now, ladies and gentlemen . . . I mean, lady and lady . . . Welcome to the second part of The Family Revelation. Fasten your seatbelts for it will definitely be quite a bumpy ride.”  I take a bow and sit down.

         “She’s really taking this surprisingly well,” Lisa says to Malia.

         “Well, are we going to get this show on the road, or not?” I press on.

         “OK . . . here we go.” Malia sighs deeply. “That girl . . . our half sister . . . well, she is back here.”

         “Whoa! What a way to begin this episode. Good job. Just dig into my belly and snatch my guts out.”

         “You said, we should get this show on the road.”

         “OK. Where did she come from?”

         “The States.”

         “Really. So how did you find out she’s back here?”

         “Johnny. You know he’s got the connection. He knows a lot of people.”

         “How did this girl manage to go to the States? They were very poor.”

         “Remember when she was pulled out of your class that last day you saw her? Well, as it turned out, her mother gave her up for adoption.”

         I raise my eyebrow. “Is that the Catholic way of saying . . . her mother sold her for money?”

         Malia nods. “It’s more common now than you think.”

         “I read. I know. So . . . have you met with her yet?”

         “No. I think Johnny has.”

         “You’re not sure?”

         “Just a suspicion from the way he talks about it.”

         “She came back to her mother even after she sold her out?”

         “I guess so. Frankly, I admire her for that. It shows character.”

         We are silent for a moment, fetching for other things to say.

         “I would like to see her,” Lisa says under her breath.

         I look at her inquisitively. “Why? You hated her.”

         “I was young then. I had just found out that the girl I thought was my friend was actually my sister. But it wasn’t her fault. It was her mother’s fault . . . and our Pa’s. I want to see her again . . . and apologize for stoning her.”

         Malia nods in agreement. “This is so mature, and I’m so proud of us. We can’t hate people who didn’t have any choice for parents. We should be grateful for we’re the lucky ones because our parents were married, and they raised us in an environment filled with love for one another. Sure, Pa was not perfect, but his faults were a family curse. All the men in his family did the same thing. It was in their blood. Pa took care of us, provided for us, protected us, and nurtured us. And look how we turned out. Of course, Ma had a lot to do with it, too. It was the legacy of their partnership and love for one another that made us who we are now.”

         I raise my empty cup. “Here, here, sister.”

         My sisters raise theirs, too. “Here’s to maturity.”

         “Here’s to forgiveness.”

         After drinking so many cups of coffee, we pay a visit to the bathroom, once, twice . . .

         On my third trip to the "CR," acronym for comfort room, as restrooms are popularly referred to in the Philippines, something dawned on me, and images start flashing across my mind: Johnny’s curious expression when he was talking about the Balikbayan girl who came back from the States to be with her family – the family who perished from the volcano eruption. And how about Dado’s reaction when Sonny asked him to find . . . Rosario . . . My God, how long has Dado known?

         I finish my business, wash my hands and rush back to the conference table.

         “I know who she is!”

         Both startled by my exuberance, Malia and Lisa simultaneously exclaim, “Who?”

         “The girl . . . our sister. It’s Rosario, isn’t it?”

         My sisters can’t seem to find their voices in amazement. They simply stare at me with rounded eyes.

         “You didn’t think I was watching you closely when Johnny was talking about Rosario the first time. I was studying your faces intently—your movements, your furtive glances, your uncomfortable gestures, and I knew from the start that there was something about this woman that somehow had something to do with Johnny, or me, or the whole family. I am right, aren’t I?”

         Both of them fidget in their seats, still missing their voices.

         Feeling as if I had just won the million-dollar question on Jeopardy, I flop back on my chair. I grab the pitcher to pour more coffee in my cup but it was empty. “We’re out of coffee!”

         “Do you want me to brew another pot?” Malia asks. Glad she finally found the words.

         “But it’s already past 3:00 in the afternoon,” Lisa objects. We need to start dinner. The vegetables are probably wilting in the kitchen by now.”

         “Wait! This conversation is not over yet.” I protest.

         “Okay, okay, you’ve figured it out. Good for you,” Malia says. “We’re impressed. But the kids are going to be home soon. We’d better get ready for them.”

         “I have a lot of questions,” I say as I follow them outside to the dirty kitchen with my dirty cup and dessert plate. I don’t know why we even call it a dirty kitchen when it’s always clean. It’s funny that she’s got a beautiful kitchen inside the house but she hardly ever uses it. Her very nice oven is used as storage for miscellaneous things like paper and plastic products. She has expensive cookware displayed on the cupboards, but she uses the old ones outside. She has a dishwasher but she washes the dishes on the sink and uses the dishwasher to drip dry them. So the water drips from the dishes and collects in the bottom of the machine, which she then spends some time to clean until it’s totally dry. In my opinion, she should enjoy her beautiful and new things now before something, I don’t know, like a volcano eruption, destroys them.

         Interesting homemaker I have here for a sister.

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 13 -- Stoning A Girl

THIRTEEN

Stoning A Girl

         Standing at the mouth of a long tunnel, I see a mysterious woman at the other end, her hand outstretched, beckoning me. I saunter toward the woman and as I take her hand, we are instantly transported into another dream dimension. Lush green grass carpets the landscape with towering trees, surrounded by jasmines, lilacs, sampaguitas and rosals. The sun is rising over the hills, while the birds chirp a lovely melody. Nearby is a building where a flagpole rises from the center of the playground, flying the red, white and yellow flag of the Philippines. I recognize the architecture. It’s my old elementary school, with the familiar sound of children playing.

         One girl is jumping the rope with her arms crisscrossed. Two other girls are watching her jump and chanting to the rhythm of the jumprope slashing the hard dirt.

         "Red, white and blue. Stars over you. Papa said, Mama said, I love you."

         The jumping girl stops suddenly and looks up. I see my own face staring at me. She is me! And I’m looking up at another girl who’s alone and standing under a banana tree. She seems to be communing with nature, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face.

         The two girls walk toward her and start yelling: Anak nang puta," daughter of a whore, they chorus, and start gathering small rocks from the ground. They continue the vicious chant as they march toward the girl, then they start throwing the rocks at her.

         The strange girl stands undaunted, blood flowing from her forehead where a rock had hit her. She stares motionless at the two girls.

         The school bell rings, and the two girls quickly vanish. I run toward the injured girl but she holds out her hand to stop me, fixing me with a piercing stare that makes me shudder.

         And I wake up shuddering.

         “Hey, Mary, wake up.” It’s my sister Malia’s hand shaking my shoulder gently.

         I open my eyes and instantaneously squint at the brightness of the room.

         “Where am I?” I say, feeling dazed and disoriented. I blink to clear my vision, looking for familiar things in my bedroom in Cincinnati.

         “I think you were having a bad dream.”

         With my senses barely following the awakening of my mind, I realize I’m not in Cincinnati. I sit up and massage my temples. “What time is it?”

         “It’s about noon.”

         “Noon?” I quickly rise and start making the bed. Malia fluffs my pillows. I can’t remember the last time I slept in so late. “I was dreaming that Pinatubo erupted again . . . No. I was dreaming about a strange girl . . . the kids were taunting and throwing rocks at her . . . I was there. I tried to help her.”

         Malia laughs. “Boy, you really cannot handle Benadryl, can you?”

         “Benadryl? Was that Benadryl you gave me. No wonder. But why did you give me Benadryl?”

         “Because, my dear, you were so shaken up last night. Dado practically had to carry you inside the house. I had to calm you down and put you to sleep.”

         My awareness has now fully ebbed back into my organism; life and energy now coursing through my veins. “Pinatubo’s eruption? Oh, my God, yes! I wasn’t dreaming. It was real! Oh, how exciting!”

         “Exciting, my foot. You were scared. The woman who never got scared, the woman known to be a volcano lover, was terrified! And it was only a minor eruption that lasted a few seconds.”

         “It didn’t seem minor. I remember Dado and I falling on the ground.” I examine my legs for any bruises. “We were on our knees . . . I must have a cut somewhere . . .” I don’t find any.

         “It probably was worst where you were. The tremor rattled some dishes on the cupboards, other than that, it was uneventful here.”

         “I feel embarrassed. All my life I wanted to get caught up in the midst of a huge volcano eruption, and now, I panic at the slightest blast.”

         “Well, don’t be embarrassed,” Malia says. “We’ve just gotten so used to it, it has become a part of our daily life.” She picks up the clothing I wore yesterday and drapes them over her arm. “You have any more dirty clothes? Nanay is doing the laundry today.”

         I go in the closet and pick up a few dirty clothes and hand them to her. “In the States, I do my own washing. I don’t have a live-in maid there like you do here. ”

         “We don’t treat Nanay as our maid, you know that.”

         “Yes, I know.”

         I grab my toiletry bag and a towel from the closet. “What did Dado say?”

         “Not much. He was in a hurry. He said he had an urgent call from his Commander, I think.”

         “What else is new?” I say, remembering all the interrupted dates we had had because high-ranking officials would always summon him for an official duty. “He must think now that I’m such a sissy.”

         “Why is it so important to you that someone might think you are not the strong and tough cookie that we all know you are?”

         Her words stun me. “I don’t think that.”

         “Well, you are acting like it. But don’t worry; we don’t think less of you now just because you got scared last night. You climb mountains, you skydive . . . we know you’re adventurous, brave and tough. You’ve been that way since you were a little girl, and you’ll always be.”

         “Now, you’re making fun of me.”

         “Me? Making fun of you? Wait till Johnny and Lisa hear what happened last night. I can’t wait to tell them.”

         Malia rushes out of the bedroom to avoid my long fingernails. “You’re going to regret this!” I scream at her.

         In the shower, a huge bucket of warm water is already waiting for me. Malia had warned me that the hot water has not been working for a while. I feel guilty that Nanay prepares this for me every morning by boiling a pot of water and pouring it down into the bucket half-filled with cold water. I can handle the cold shower; in fact, after the initial shock, I welcome it in this heat and humidity. But no matter how many times I tell her to stop pampering me this way, she doesn’t stop. She’s spoiling me.

         I come out of the shower with a towel wrapped around my body. I feel rejuvenated. The bathroom is right outside my bedroom so I take a few steps and I’m in there. My sisters’ voices halt me from going inside my room. I turn around and I trace their voices outside the house, in the dirty kitchen, doing what they love to do most: cooking. I am feeling hungry, so I rush back to my bedroom and replace the towel with an oversize man’s shirt—my favorite to wear around the house. I buy them for me. I like them because they’re very comfortable. I grab my hairbrush and proceed to join my sisters.

         I slowly and stealthily open the door to the kitchen to surprise my sisters. Malia and Lisa stop their conversation right away and spin their heads around to my direction so quickly they almost snap. It’s clear that I totally caught them off guard.

         “Hey guys, what were you talking about?”

         “God, you scared us!” Malia exclaim.

         “That was my intention,” I say laughing. I pick up a hot pandesal from the basket and quickly take a bite of it. These famous Philippine hot rolls are smaller than what I remember, but they’re still quite delicious. They’re like Starbucks in the States; you can find them everywhere, and always hot.

         “We were just talking about your experience last night with the minor eruption,” says Lisa. She seems so serious. I thought for sure she’d be mocking me by now. I'm positive that Malia had already related to her my embarrassing experience last night with Dado.

         “Well, I swear it didn’t feel or sound like a minor eruption to me,” I say. Malia hands me a cup and I grab the pot from the coffeemaker, pouring the hot beverage into the cup and quickly take a sip. “Hmm, this is good coffee.”

         "Sorry, we don’t have Starbucks here.”

         “This is better. Is this the famous blend from Batangas?”

         “Yes.”

         “Got to bring some of this back to the States with me.”

         “I’ll have Leo bring home some before you leave.”

         “Two pounds, beans only, please. I’ll pay for it.”

         “You don’t have to. Christmas gift.”

         “In that case, five pounds, please.”

         Curiously, they don’t react to my joke. I look at them quizzically. “Smile! You’re on candid camera.”

         Malia pulls a chair and motions me to sit down. I raise an eyebrow. “Wow . . . are we being serious this morning. What’s up?”

         Lisa quietly continues with her chore—chopping amd slicing various kinds of vegetables: bitter melon, okra, eggplant, tomatoes -- looks like the ingredients for pinakbit. Yum.

         “We were talking about your dream last night.” Malia begins.

         “Pinatubo? But we’ve decided it wasn’t a dream. The eruption was real.”

         “No, about the girl in your dream.”

         “You were interested in my dream about that girl? Why?”

         Lisa stops chopping and looks up at me. “Don’t you remember that you used to talk about a strange girl in your school?”

         My curiosity heightens. My sisters are acting stranger by the minute. “You can’t expect me to remember that . . . it was a long time ago. More like another life for me. I can’t even remember my schoolteachers’ names, much less a certain girl in school.”

         “This was different,” says Malia. “Think hard.”

         I pause and ruminate for a moment or two . . . but nothing comes to mind.

         “I’m sorry, but I still don’t remember,” I say, shaking my head from left to right. “Maybe if you’d just go ahead and tell me what this is all about, it would save us a lot of time.”

         Malia gets up from her chair, walks over to the stove and stirs the pot of boiling coconut milk. She adds malagkit--a type of sticky rice, stirs it again then lowers the heat from high to low. She grabs an aluminum pan from the cupboard and lines it with wilted banana leaves where she would later pour the mixture in, then bake in the oven. She is making one of my favorite Philippine desserts called Bibinkang Malagkit. I can’t wait to have a slice of it for my late breakfast. I wonder how many pounds I’m going to gain this time. No wonder Rob always comments at how I always come back from the Philippines looking like I’ve eaten well here.

         Malia reclaims her seat and starts what I think is a revelation of some kind.

         “Try to remember,” Malia begins. “You came home after school one day very upset about this girl in school. You called her the strange girl. You said she was constantly harassed by other kids because she was different.”

         I stare at Malia’s face as if therein lay the memories of the girl that I can just pluck one by one.

         “What else did I say?”

         Malia goes back to the stove and stirs the mixture again with a large wooden spoon then turns the heat off. “Don’t you remember the time when the girl’s mother came to your school and grabbed the girl from your room, and you never saw her again after that?”

         She seems to remember it clearly. Why can’t I remember any of it? “This is starting to make me feel light headed,” I say. “Nothing is coming to me.”

         I get off my chair and help Malia by grabbing the pot by the handles and pouring the malagkit in the pan. She spreads a can of rich coconut milk on top of the malagkit and sprinkles it with anis seeds. Traditionally, live coals would be placed on the cover over mixture until it browns. But most people now bake it in an ordinary oven and finished off by putting it under the broiler to brown the topping.

         Watching Malia maneuver around the kitchen, bending down to grab heavy pots from the lower cabinets, carrying heavy serving bowls and plates filled with foods, hacking and chopping huge pieces of meats, is nothing short of amazing. It’s nice to see her looking so strong. This is the woman who was paralyzed from the waist down for two years when she was thirteen. And the doctors said she’d never walk again. Boy, did she prove them wrong.

         Lisa puts the knife down and sits back, but not relaxed. She seems to be holding back some emotions.

         “Okay, enough of this mysterious talk,” I say. “Obviously, there is something very important going on here, so let’s just get straight to the point, shall we? Who is this girl? What’s her connection with me?”

         Lisa puts away the knife, pushes the chopping board and the vegetables aside and adheres her arms flat onto the table and leans over, her face close to mine. “You know those girls in your dream who were throwing rocks at the strange girl?”

         I give her a confused look. “Yes . . . what about them?”

         “Well . . . one of those girls was me.”

         “That’s ridiculous. It was just a dream.”

         “It wasn’t just a dream. It happened in real life. How can you forget such a thing?”

         “I don't know. But assuming it's true, why would you throw rocks at the girl? What did she do to you?”

         “Nothing.”

         I blast off my chair and throw my arms up in the air. “Now that makes real sense. You are not that kind of girl. I’ve never seen you bully anyone at all when we were young.”

         “But I did and you saw it happen. That’s why you were so upset when you came home that day. But you didn’t tell Ma and Pa because you were afraid they would punish me.”
         Lisa is now on the verge of crying. And I still don’t have any idea what this is all about.

         “But why? Why would you do a thing like that?”

         A dreadful silence hangs in the air.

         Lisa pounds the table with her fist and shoots me an expression I had never seen in her before.

         “Because . . . because she was my friend . . .”

         “You are not making any sense. Friends don’t stone each other like that.”

         “She was my friend before I found out.”

         “For goodness sake,” Malia interrupts. “Just say it, Lisa.”

         My heart is pounding now. I have a suspicion that I am going to hate whatever I am going to hear next.

         “Because she is our father’s daughter!”

         All her pent-up emotions have been released. Lisa is now crying. Malia comforts her with a hug.

         I feel as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of me. My breath is caught up in my throat and stays there. I remember feeling this way when I was hiking Mount Rainier in the State of Washington. I thought I was having angina. The altitude was getting to me. My heart felt like a brick in my chest.

         "It is true then. . ." I say under my breath. "Pa had other children besides us."

         As I lower myself to the chair, everything starts coming back to me.

         I cannot remember her name, but she was in my class. Everybody made fun of her in school because she always acted and looked strange. She could have been pretty behind the long scraggly hair, and the teeth that always looked in dire need of a good brushing. The wide gap between her two upper front teeth made her even more self-conscious, always covering her mouth with her hand when she flashed her very rare smile. She wore only second-hand clothes, it seemed, and most of her clothes didn’t seem to fit her, and those that did she wore over and over, never looking ironed or washed. She was always pulling and stretching her dress, as if doing so would make it looser and longer.

         Illegitimate children in the Philippines are always treated like outcasts. Often I witnessed the meanness and cruelty of young people and their vicious words tore at my heart. Nevertheless, the strange girl remained fearless and never spoke or complained of the scorn and brutal treatment she received.

         What exactly happened on that day she disappeared remains a mystery to me.

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

TWELVE

Diosdado--Lion of Pampanga

         I pull up into the parking lot of Sonny's Tavern on Johnny’s bike that he never rides, when a stray dog suddenly dashes out at me. I quickly squeeze the brake handles and come to an abrupt stop. I try to shoo the dog away but it merely stands transfixed, staring at me with a deathlike expression that makes me shiver. I get off the bike, gather a few small rocks and hurl them at the dog who scuttles away shrieking.

         What the devil is the matter with the animals lately, I mumble, remembering Malia’s dogs that howled relentlessly last night. And when did the roosters start crowing at two o'clock in the morning?

         I recognize Dado’s bicycle leaning alone against the side wall of the tavern. Grinning, I chain the two bikes together. Looking up at the sky, I remove my helmet and shake my head slightly, letting my hair fall about my shoulders then raking it with my fingers. I wipe the perspiration off my forehead with an oversize cotton handkerchief I keep tied around my neck. Why did I even put make-up on? The day has been oppressively hot again. How did I ever manage to survive the heat growing up in this torrid place, I wonder, feeling nostalgic for the winter in the States. As I take in the sunset's rosy hues, with pink and purple waves spreading above the mountain range, the beginning of twilight promises some relief from the heat.

         Sonny’s Tavern is located in Balibago, a suburb of Angeles City, just outside the U.S. Clark Air Force Base. It is one of the very few establishments in the area that has been salvaged from Pinatubo’s destruction. It has always been a popular place for the locals and the G.I.s, and from the looks of it, that popularity has not subsided, due perhaps to the fact that there aren’t many choices for people to mingle and forget for a few moments that life has not been the same since Pinatubo’s eruption.

         I look around and feel my heartstrings pulled by the sight all around me. I am at the heart of Angeles City’s former G.I. entertainment district, where rows of bars and discos promised to fulfill every U.S. soldier’s wild fantasies. This once flashy suburbia was an off-base housing, but the magnified dollar power had turned it into a red-light district, a place threaded in purple, fuschia, orange, red, yellow, criss-crossing the bars and honky tonks with panther grace. Yes, Angeles City was alive and gyrating to the rhythm of American servicemen with unholy madonnas in micro-mini skirts.

         And now, all of that is gone and what remains is merely a ghost town.

         "Are you just going to stay out here?" says the familiar voice—the voice that I’ve known so well since childhood.

         I turn around and see Dado approaching. My heart skips a beat at the sight of him. He wears a plaid cotton shirt that is open at the throat, the cuffs folded back. His five-eleven muscular physique and his half-American mestiso good looks still radiate sensuality. At thirty-six, the fascinating bones and angles in his face seem tougher; probably because of his tough job in the Military.

         "I was just admiring the changing colors in the sky," I say, remembering the old days when Dado and I would sit on a hill and watch the glorious orb sink behind the rim of the mountain range. We were so much in love.

         "You've always been a sucker for beautiful sunsets," he says, giving me an appraising glance. "You know, you can get arrested wearing that spandex suit. What do they feed you in the States anyway?"

         "Cheeseburgers and French fries," I say, feeling conscious of his gaze traveling thoughtfully over my face as I speak.

         "Welcome back, Frankie," he says grinning.

         To Dado, I will always be Frankie – the tomboyish girl with long braids and always a dirty face, often barefooted, and who grew up punching boys in the nose when provoked. Including him.

         "Good to see you, Dado de Leon—Lion of Pampanga."

         "Ahh . . . as you know, I don’t fit that symbol the media gave me. I’m more of a pussy cat than a lion."

         "Well, you’ll always be a pussy cat to me, but for the rest of the country, you will always be a lion. Even today, you’re Johnny’s favorite hero, you know."

         "He still can’t forget all the money I gave him and his brothers whenever I came to se you, huh?"

         "You were bad. You didn’t have to bribe them to see me. They loved you even without the fees."

         "It didn’t hurt, though. But I also did it for my personal pleasure. I loved watching them get all excited over the little money I tossed at them."

         "Well, I hope you didn’t bribe him this time."

         He darts me a flirty semi-furtive look. I welcome his arm around my shoulders by winding my own around his waist. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and immediately I feel that familiar heat that his touch always gave me.
         "It’s great to see you again," he says, squeezing my shoulder hard and sensually.

         "You, too."

         "Shall we go in? Sonny can’t wait to see you."

         A rush of nostalgia assails me when we venture inside the tavern. Sonny's place has always been more than a boisterous gathering place to me. It is an important part of my youth, a place embedded in layers of deeper meaning. It resonates love and friendship, camaraderie, and growing up. Even with all the damages from lahar, and the customers, which now consist mainly of Filipino locals, Sonny's Tavern has not changed much.

         I feel absorbed by the aura of charm and ambiance that pervade the room. The windows are covered with light-faded curtains, the hardwood floors shriek louder now at the lightest step, the scratched tables and shabby chairs could use some refinishing and repair, the high shelves are filled with dusty and tattered books and magazines, and the walls are peppered with constant rearranging of framed photographs, posters and political clippings. But I see not these material imperfections, but the strength, simplicity and sentiments of the past.

         I peruse the faded photographs on the wall. One large collage of photographs hangs precariously as if the hole has become too large for the nail to support the frame. Resisting the urge to straighten it, I view the pictures, wincing at my image without any makeup, looking so young and radical. The picture was taken with my friends outside the Malacanang Palace when I came back here to visit in early 1981. We carried placards and banners demanding political reforms from the authoritarian rule of Ferdinand Marcos. In another picture, Sonny, Dado and friends were picketing outside Clark against the renewal of the American bases. At the time, Sonny got most of his revenues from Clark’s business, and Dado at the time was working for Marcos who was pro-US Military presence. So, I never understood their motivations for wanting the US bases closed.

         Another handmade poster contains a collection of images of Benigno Aquino’s assassination that ignited the "People Power Revolution." I feel envious when I see the pictures of my friends witnessing the birth of a major historical event in the Philippines. I wish I had come home in 1983. I wish I could have joined my friends in welcoming Marcos’ worst nightmare--Benigno Aquino--who ended his self-imposed exile in the States to commence non-violent demonstrations against Marcos.

         The details of Aquino's fatal homecoming are still very clear in my mind as if I have actually witnessed everything: Aquino traveling with an illegal passport; a crowd of thousands waiting at the Manila airport to give him a hero's welcome and a military boarding party leading him out through a side door. Seconds later, shots ringing out. Pandemonium!

         "Aquino Shot To Death," was the headline on the front page of the Cincinnati Enquirer posted on the wall with a picture of Aquino lying face down on the tarmac. I sent the clippings to my family and relatives in the Philippines because the government-controlled media totally shut down the news and left the Filipino people little information except what could be pirated from foreign publications.

         "Mary! Good to see you again!" Sonny, the short and stubby owner of the tavern, yells excitedly from behind the bar, causing heads to turn.

         Dado and I hasten to the bar. The guys shake hands, and Sonny leans over the counter and kisses me on the cheek.

         Sonny serves each of us a beer. "For my favorite couple, it's San Miguel time," he decrees, referring to the locally-brewed beer. "It's on the house."

         I really don’t drink beer, or anything alcoholic. Sonny knows that. Everybody knows that. But it’s the thing to do at Sonny’s, and I enjoy socializing with the cold bottle in my hand and taking a small sip of the bitter beverage every now and then.

         I remember the first time I tasted beer . . . I was about nine. My father and his drinking buddies were having beers at the veranda of our house. I asked him what beer tasted like. He looked at me and handed me his beer. "Here," he said, "taste it so you can find out." I took a little sip, and immediately, I coughed it up, showering him in the face. "How can anyone drink that awful stuff?" I cried out, inciting spontaneous laughter among his friends. "And remember that for the rest of your life, my dear girl," my father said. "If you don’t like it, don’t do it."

         And here I am, many years later, still haven’t acquired a taste for the beloved beer.

         A mixture of sad rumination and hilarious camaraderie cheers Sonny’s place. But the mood starts to disintegrate as soon as the conversation shifts toward the American bases--a subject that has always rattled Dado.

         "I do not resent Americans. I'm against their foreign policy and their military presence in this country," Dado equivocates, reminiscent of the impassioned anti-American college student he once was. "As long as the American bases exist in this country, the Filipinos will never outgrow their colonial mentality. It has a certain psychological effect on our people in the sense that it is deeply embedded into our culture--that we are a country that cannot stand on our own two feet."

         "I seriously don't think the Americans were exploiting the Filipinos," I argue in a flat and resolute voice. "And if we're true, it's our fault for letting it happen. "

         Silence hangs over us for a long moment. Sonny excuses himself and tends to the other customers.

         "I believe the nationalists are going to win and force the bases out of the country," Dado argues.

         "I have news for you," I say firmly. "The treaty has expired, and the bases, I’ve heard, are beyond repair, so they’re probably not going to be reopened. Mount Pinatubo beat you and your nationalist friends to it. Anyway, whether you like it or not, the Philippines is no longer vital to U.S. defense policy as it once was when the Soviet Union was still a threat to the Pacific region. The Americans are going to leave, no matter what. Still, I hope they reopen, because I pity the thousands of Filipinos employed by these bases. The U.S. contributes more than $600 million dollars a year into the lethargic Philippine economy, and the towns around them depend almost entirely on these bases."

         A smirk twists Dado's lips. "Ten thousand unemployed Base employees will not make much difference in a country whose population is well over 50 million, most of it existing on poverty level."

         "Hold it you two," Sonny reprimands, throwing up his arms. "As much as I enjoy your famous arguments, I think this is a moment of celebration, not political debates." He turns to his customers and directs them to sing Auld Lang Syne. "All right, everybody! Let’s raise our beers and welcome our beautiful prodigal child, and sing!"

         Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
         and never brought to mind ?
         Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
         and auld lang syne?
         Dado takes my hand and squeezes it. "I’m sorry," he says. "I’m such a brute."

         "It’s all right. It’s always nice to see such passion in you."

         For auld lang syne, my dear,
         for auld lang syne,
         we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
         for auld lang syne.
         And surely you’ll be your pint-stoup!
         And surely I’ll be mine!
         And we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
         for auld lang syne.

         Genuflecting to the crowd, I give them my appreciation. Thank you, thank you. Now, the beers are on me. Sonny . . . another round for everyone, please."

         The herd cheers.

         "Mom says Hi to you," Dado says, seeming calm again.

         I smile. I’ve always loved his Mom. "How’s your mother doing?"

         "She’s fine. She’s living with me now."

         "It must be hard for her to see Clark close like that. How long did she work there? Fifteen? Twenty years?"

         "My mother would be better off without Americans always hanging around her," he says, looking down at his beer as if it’s his only friend who can understand him.

         I realize that Dado will never get over his animosity toward the Americans. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and tell him that it is all right to be a bastard son. Yes, he was ostracized because of it. He was an outcast in his youth. His mother will always be labeled as a puta or a whore for having a son by a U.S. soldier who never came back for them, but none of that matters to me, nor to all his friends, and to all those who admire him. He is a national hero. He almost single-handedly captured high-ranking communist rebels and Muslim terrorists in the country. Still, it torments him, and it breaks my heart to see him this way.

         "When are you ever going to forgive your mother for what happened, Dado? Personally, I don't think there's anything to forgive. Just look how successful and respected you turned out to be. You must stop being so resentful and vindictive. This city is full of abandoned Amerasian children. And you tower over all of them. Not just in physique, but in character as well."

         Dado draws a steadying breath and takes a sip of his beer.

         "Thank you. But I'm not going to apologize for my feelings and my opinions." He moves closer to me as if wanting to put his arms around me. "But I'm sorry for making you upset again. I guess we were born to argue with each other."

         "I think you’re upset about something else. It's not just the difference in our political views, it's something more personal."

         He releases a deep sigh. "You're right, Mary. I resent my mother for bringing me into this world without my father even knowing I exist. I hate all the American soldiers who left behind illegitimate children like me. And I hate America for taking you away from me."

         There...he finally said it, I say to myself. "America did not take me away from you, Dado. It was my choice to go there."

         "And marry an American," he snaps.

         Sonny comes to my immediate rescue upon hearing Dado’s remark.

         "Hey, Mary," he calls loudly. "I’m having a fundraising event here next Sunday. I hope you come."

         "Sure," I respond without any hesitation. "What’s the fund-raising for?"

         "To erect a small memorial for the family of the Balikbayan nurse. Have you heard of the story?"

         "Rosario? The song about the tragedy?"

         "Yeah, so you’ve heard of it."

         "My brother told me the story. It’s so sad. Is she going to be attending the event?"

         "Well, that’s going to be a problem. You see . . . we can never find her. There are occasional sightings of her, but nobody knows where she’s staying."

         Sonny turns to Dado with brightened eyes. "Hey, buddy. You know how to haunt people; do you think you can find this woman?"

         Dado’s expression resembles that of Johnny’s when we were discussing the same matter. I give him a quizzical gaze.

         "I’ll try," Dado says noncommittally.

         "Great!" exclaims Sonny, although he, too, looked surprised at Dado’s cold response.

         "Are you coming to this party?" I ask Dado.

         "I’m not sure," he says, which I find interesting. I thought he would jump at the chance of being with me again. But why should I assume that he is at my beck and call? Who am I to be so presumptuous? He is a very busy man. He leads a dangerous life by protecting the country from the bad guys. After all, isn’t that the reason I did not marry him? He could never belong to me. He belongs to his country.

         And men like him . . . don’t live very long.

         "Well, I hope you do." After a while, I get off the bar stool and whisper to him: "I’m going outside to get some fresh air."

         "Still allergic to cigarette smoke?"

         "Yes."

         "May I join you in a moment?"

         "Please."

         "Okay, I’ll be right there."

         A few minutes later, Dado finds me in the parking lot on my knees, my palms flat on the ground, and my head tilting sideways as if eavesdropping.

         "Mary, is anything wr--"

         "Ssshhhhh," I interrupt, raising my arm to silence him. I lower my head further until my right ear is almost touching the ground. A second or two later, I get up on my feet, rubbing the sand off my hands. "It's very strange," I say in a thoughtful frown. "The air is too still and sultry. And I thought I heard a roaring sound coming from underneath the earth ... like it's breathing or something."

         Dado smiles. "This is the Philippines, remember? The ground breathes every now and then."

         Suddenly the ground shakes underfoot, followed by a groaning noise that seems to originate from the mountains -- a familiar sensation. I remember the unusual animal behavior, the roaring from underneath the earth and the calm, oppressive air -- all ominous signs of imminent geological danger.

         "Earthquake!" I scream, feeling my heart thud against my rib cage.

         Dado pulls me gently into his arms. "It's all right, Mary. It's just a minor tremor. It will be over soon," he says stoically. "We’ve been getting a lot of these since Mount Pinatubo erupted. It’s going to quiet down soon. "

         I feel embarrassed. In the Philippines, which is part of the `Ring of Fire' a perceptible quake occurs every day, with or without Mount Pinatubo’s eruption.

         "I’m sorry. I guess I've been away too long," I say, rediscovering the delicious comfort of Dado’s embrace, and feeling guilty at the same time. I am married, after all.

         I wonder if Dado is going to ask to me to stay again, like he has always done everytime I came back. I wonder if he is going to ask me to divorce Rob and marry him. I love Dado, and will always love him, but I also love Rob, and I will try everything to save our marriage.

         "You look like you’re a thousand miles away," Dado says.

         "Hmm. Not so far away. I’m just troubled by something."

         "Me?"

         "No." I lie. "I was just wondering why you don’t want to find Rosario and bring her to the party."

         His forehead furrows at the unexpected inquiry. "What makes you think I don’t?"

         "Just a hunch."

         He turns his gaze away from my face and inhales a deep breath then looks at me again – that same look that Johnny gave me when he came to my classroom that day they found my father’s body.

         "Have you talked about this to your siblings?" he asks.

         "Why? What’s Rosario’s connection to my family?" My heart is suddenly beating fast now. "Tell me please."

         "Mary, I. . ."

         By nature’s design, Dado is saved from doing what he doesn’t want to do: to divulge a secret so huge everybody’s afraid to tell me. Pinatubo stops him by rumbling, followed by a sound resembling a cannon fire rolling over the town. Then the ground shakes again, this time more violently, causing us to stumble and fall. I scream. Dado flings himself beside me, pulling me against him.

         It’s not just another earthquake. Mount Pinatubo, is acting up again.

--o0o--

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