EIGHT
Oh My Papa
I was sixteen and in my first year of college. I had looked forward to becoming one of the youngest degree holders of the university--a dream that would not come true because a single devastating event would shatter not only that dream, but also those of my mother’s dreams for all her children. On this day, my father was kidnapped and brutally murdered, forever changing the course of our lives
I would never forget Johnny's look of panic on his ashen face when he appeared at the door of my history class with two cops who immediately spoke to my professor. I felt a sudden tingle of electricity run down my spine. Johnny didn't have to say a word. Something horrible had just happened, and my lurching heart told me it was about our father.
"They found a body in a field in Mabalacat," my brother had said, choking the words. “They say it's our father’s body." These were the only words I could remember he had said to me that day.
I felt as if I were floating in a sea of semi-consciousness the whole time we were in the Police car. When we reached home, some neighbors that had gathered outside the house spoke to us, but everything seemed to move in slow motion, and their voices were of an indecipherable song playing on slow speed.
Inside the house, I had to push through a gathering of relatives and friends to find my anguished mother and siblings huddled together in the living room, like survivors on a plane crash with no hope of a rescue. It was then that I felt overwhelmed by a powerful wave of terror. My knees weakened, and I clutched an arm of someone to steady myself. It was not real, I thought. It could not happen to my father. Everybody loved him, and he was indestructible. But the nightmare was all too real.
My mother wailed miserably at the sight of me. Everybody thought I was my father’s unspoken favorite, and Mama must have felt that I would be most affected by his death. It wasn’t true, of course. Every one of my brothers and sisters was deeply affected by Pa’s death. Truthfully, I worried about my younger brother Johnny. He was the one who had spent most of his time with our father while training for and learning about the transportation business.
I looked around the crowded room that seemed to turn upside down. I prayed for some kind of a miracle, like my smiling father emerging from the other room with a paper bag of goodies that he always brought home for his family after work.
My mother put her arms around me and hugged me tight. Her tears spilled over my cheeks, and I felt her pain through the violent beating inside her chest. She was shaking all over with grief, and I thought she was having a heart attack. I guided her toward the sofa as she fought for air. Malia fanned her vigorously as she ordered everyone to give her more space and a glass of water.
The day seemed interminable as we waited for that dreaded phone call from the morgue. And when the phone rang, the deafening sound shattered all my hopes that it was all a dream. My mother chose me over my older sisters to accompany her to the morgue. I didn’t ask why; I suspected that it was because they were better at taking care of the younger ones than I.
Pedro, one of my father’s mechanics who’d been his occasional driver as well as his best friend and confidant since I was a little girl, drove us to the city morgue. He, too, appeared devastated by my father’s death. We had always considered him a member of the family so it seemed natural for my mother to invite him to accompany us to the morgue. Pedro held my mother tightly to keep her steady on her feet as the white sheet was pulled to reveal the corpse. My mother’s hand shook as she grabbed my arm. “My God, my God,” she murmured, a dismal croak from the deepest part of her throat. Then as I hugged her, she gave in to an inconsolable grief and began to cry desolately.
Pedro could not help himself anymore, and he cried like a little boy who had just lost his best friend. “If only I’d been with him, this would not have happened,” he said with a guttural sound as though coming from a crazy animal.
The moment seemed too surreal for me. I felt numb, and for some reason, devoid of emotion to feel grief so tears did not come. I studied my father’s face and felt mesmerized by the dark circle on his forehead, just above the center of his eyebrows where he had been shot execution style. The bullet must have shattered the back of his head because his face still looked perfect and beautiful, save for the hole that had been filled with a skin-color paste.
Who had done this horrific crime against the most loving and kind man I had ever known? Slowly, anger rose through every fiber of my being as scenarios ran through my head to profile my father's kidnappers. They were ruthless people who must have premeditated his murder for quite some time. It wasn't just the vehicle and the money and jewelry they had wanted from my father, though they certainly made it look that way. No, it was something very personal; otherwise, they would not have found it necessary to hog-tie him, bind him at the wrist and ankles, execute him then dump his body miles away. They were barbaric, cold-blooded murderers who desperately wanted my father out of the way. But who would hate him that much to kill him?
As we had feared, not a single person was ever charged, detained or prosecuted for the murder. It was not, however, a mystery to some people. We would only hear that eventually, all of those suspected to be responsible for my father's death would also be killed . . . some in broad daylight, and not a single witness would come forth and testify.
There had been a little taste of satisfaction in me to know that what the Philippine judicial system could not accomplish, others did. It was a Wild-Wild West style of justice, but in the heart of a young girl raging with anger, it was good enough for her. My only regret then was my inability to face the murderers myself. Unbelievable as it might sound perhaps I had wanted to claim justice with my own hands.
One year later, my father’s death began to pose financial hardship on the family. I had to quit school and find a job to keep my family afloat from the shipwreck of life. This, however, did not stop me from pursuing my quest for the answers as to whom was responsible for my father’s, and why? Deep in my heart, I knew that I would find the answers someday.
***
Suspicions that the group called Hukbalahap--the country’s underground Communist rebels--were involved in my father’s murder, brought the Philippine Army into the case. The officer assigned to the investigation was a handsome 28-year old Lieutenant named Bondolino Flores. He was very tall for a Filipino man, dark complexioned like most of the people from the Ilocos Region, extremely fit, and his uniform made him look even more dashing, at least, as far as my sisters and I were concerned. Everybody in my family took an immediate liking to the LT, especially Johnny, who called him James Bondo.
When we received several tips about the vehicle that my father was driving the night of his disappearance, LT asked if Johnny could go with him to the towns where they had been sighted. “They’ve been stripped down completely,” he explained. “I need someone who can recognize the vehicle with authority. I tried to find Pedro but I haven’t been able to locate him. We need to find the vehicle before it’s too late.”
Johnny was the obvious choice for the assignment since he had helped with the manufacture and assembly of the vehicle. He was so happy and could not wait for what he considered an adventure. But he got sick the day they were supposed to leave. I jumped at the chance and volunteered.
“Do you know the vehicle well enough to make a positive identification?” he sounded skeptical, but I caught the gleam in his eyes when I volunteered.
“I know the vehicle by heart. I watched Papa and his men build it, and I helped Papa with the paperwork. Most of all, I am determined and passionate to find and punish his murderers. I want to do this. I must do this”
“I admire your conviction, but the closest town we need to visit is an eight-hour drive from Angeles. It would require an overnight stay somewhere.”
“I have an aunt who lives around there. I’m sure she and her husband would just be delighted if we stayed with them for the night.” I turned to my mother and pleaded for her approval.
Mama vehemently opposed the idea. She thought it was too dangerous for me, not to mention that traveling with a grown up man could present an opportunity for neighborhood gossips.
But majority ruled, namely, those who were old enough to voice an opinion: Johnny and my older sisters who loved the idea and rallied behind me and the LT. Soon our mother gave her consent. Her expression was precious; it was as though she were losing a daughter and gaining a new son.
“Will you promise to protect her with your life?” It was a demand more than a request.
“I promise. I will not let anything harm your daughter.”
My sisters acted more excited than I was. Each one of them had a crush on the LT, but they all agreed that the LT seemed to like me better. “He thinks you’re the oldest girl in the family,” joked Malia.
“You’re so lucky,” said Lisa. “You get to go off with the LT with Mama’s permission.”
For my older and beautiful sisters to consider me lucky with envy was something I cherished for it was a rare compliment from anyone. I was always the tomboyish girl who shunned girly things like frilly dresses, cosmetics and jewelry. I preferred action and adventure, preferring to play with boys than with doll-playing girls. I read, drew and wrote, creating comic books with my own stories and illustrations, and even getting one of my stories published at the age of fourteen. Meanwhile, my sisters were always glorified for their beauty, gracing various events as beauty princesses and queens. I was not jealous, even though some people thought I was, or should have been. I found immense pleasure in watching my sisters get crowned as beauty queens by local and national celebrities.
One thing that people always praised me for was my complexion, which was white, as white can be in a country of olive and dark-complexioned people who revered light skin. People would come to me and touch my sun-kissed rosy cheeks. I would be so pleased and proud that many times I would walk home in the sun after school instead of taking the public transportation so that people would stare at my cheeks in admiration. I marched home tall and proud. But Mama would not be as happy to see me all red-cheeked. “My child, why do you refuse to use an umbrella? How many times do I have to warn you that you could get skin cancer for being in the sun too long?“
I thought that if the priest had allowed it, one of the seven names my seven godparents gave me would have been stubborn. I continued to soak in the sun whenever I could. I discovered that I truly loved it, whether or not people noticed my rosy complexion.
One day I got carried away and stayed in the sun too long, I looked like a roasted pig; it was so painful I cried. The red skin eventually turned brown and crusty. I was peeling my skin from my face, chest and arms for days. I looked so ugly I hated to go to school, but I had to. Some of the pretty girls laughed and ridiculed me behind my back; they knew better not to do it in my face lest they got punched in the nose. Everybody knew about the episode in grade school when I delivered a mean punch on a pretty girl’s nose that caused it to bleed. The principal wouldn’t listen to my explanation. He didn’t care that the pretty girl had suggested and urged me to use the clothespin technique of nose-lifting then laughed about it with her friends. Of course, Mama was horrified to find me snorting in my sleep with a clothespin clamping my nose. Apparently, there had been a case where a girl died from this procedure.
Don’t ever let anyone bully you into doing something harmful to yourself, Papa always said to me. He was the only one who was secretly pleased about my knock-out revenge on the pretty girl. I wondered if Papa refused to be bullied that caused his death?
--o0o--
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