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--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 11 -- The Walking Furniture Stores

ELEVEN

The Walking Furniture Stores

We can’t procrastinate any longer. We’ve spent hours touring Bacolor. It’s time to gather strength and proceed to Mabalacat and see what remains of the house our father built.

         On our way, Johnny stops at a shopping center to withdraw some cash from an ATM machine. A man appears, carrying two wrought iron baker shelves about seven-foot high and five-inch wide, one in each arm. I am dumbfounded. He carries the furniture as though they are made of rubber or cardboard. I wonder if he is selling them or just moving them.

         I remember a few days ago when my sister and I were walking down the street to the neighborhood store. We came upon two men; one much taller and bigger built than the other. Both of them carried large wooden furniture on their backs and shoulders. I can’t remember the smaller man’s cargo, but I remember distinctly what the larger man hauled on one shoulder that he balanced on both hands without bending his frame: a large, five-shelf wooden bookcase.

         They walk casually—these ant-like creatures—oblivious to their surroundings, hoping that one would generously have them unload their merchandise, hoping they could come home with a smile and food for their family. Everywhere I go, I see men, women and children risking their lives in heavy traffic, peddling anything they can sell to make a little money to get by. Most of them probably make about five dollars the whole day, if they’re lucky. As much as I can, I buy newspapers from children—young children who have no business working, but family survival demands it.

         A lot of educated Filipinos are either jobless, or doing something not in any way commensurate to their qualifications and education. It would not be surprising if the watermelon man had been a recipient of a college degree. I know of someone, a Master’s Degree holder, whose monthly income is less than what his young son receives from a relative as a birthday gift. In spite all this, I can’t help but admire these enterprising Filipinos who can probably do better begging than working. I wonder what is in store for these people who get no government assistance to survive.

         As my brother walks back towards me from the ATM, he stops the furniture man. I roll down my window so I can hear their conversation. The man is indeed in the business of selling the metal shelves. The shelves look well made, but he admits that he is merely selling them on commission. He wears a pair of thin, worn out rubber sandals, a wrinkled floral shirt with a big tear on one sleeve, and a pair of oversize shorts. He wears a Washington Redskins’ cap that might have been retrieved from a garbage can. When he smiles, his eyes remain dim and lifeless.
My brother is impressed with the workmanship. He had just built a three-room extension to his house. He could use these shelves, but he is not in a position to buy because we are on our way to Mabalacat. The mere thought of getting there makes my chest tighten.

         "I own 'JPB Enterprises' in Angeles," says Johnny to the vendor. "My wife, Clara, is there now. Tell her I sent you. She might be interested in buying those."

         I see the faintest glimmer of excitement in the man's otherwise very dark eyes. He humbly thanks my brother.

         What is it about these vendors that seem to generate some humanitarian spirit in my brother? I think it's very nice, but I've never thought of him as a giving man before; at least, not to our family. Johnny is probably the most moneyed of all my siblings, but he never volunteers to help any family member in dire financial need, and there’s been a lot of it. I don’t think he ever once sent any money to our mother; in fact, it was Ma who would give him money every time she came back to visit – money that came from Lety and me. I take that back, he did pay for Jaime’s airfare to Hawaii when he emigrated from the Philippines to the U.S. in the Eighties.

         “That’s nice,” I say to Johnny while he fastens himself to his seat.

         “What is?”

         “What you do. You could easily go to fancy stores and buy what you want, but you seem to want to support those who need your business more.”

         “Ahh . . . I’m not that charitable. Those shelves are very nice. And a lot cheaper than what you’d find in fancy stores for the same quality.”

         “Oh, for sure. Still, it’s nice of you to buy from that guy.”

         “Well, I haven’t bought any yet.”

         “I think Clara will like those shelves.”

         “I hope so. We need them.”

         We have only driven about 500 feet from the ATM machine and we’re already caught in a heavy traffic. Volcanic debris and other wastes still embedded on roadsides have narrowed the streets even more. So much time is wasted sitting in traffic.

         “I’m surprised you didn’t know him.” I say to Johnny.

         “Who?”

         “The shelving guy.”

         “Why would I?”

         “Oh, I don’t know. Just thought you might.”

         “Just because I knew the watermelon guy doesn’t mean that I know every one who peddles on the streets.”

         Our conversation is interrupted by the blaring sirens coming from behind us. The traffic is so congested that we can’t even move out of the way. An ambulance tries desperately to seek passage through the comatose traffic. It crawls its way to our left. I see two apprehensive EMT’s inside, one looking down at his patient, the other looking out, perhaps wondering if they’d be able to reach the hospital in time. I peruse the sea of vehicles around me. I shake my head from left to right. If the patient is in critical condition, I hope the Grim Ripper is on vacation.

         The ambulance finally finds its way out of the procession of cars, trucks, busses, horse-drawn carriages, and vendors. In my fertile and morose imagination, the ambulance turns into a hearse.

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 10 -- The Land Mount Pinatubo Devoured

TEN

The Land Mount Pinatubo Devoured

         Unbeknownst to most people in Central Luzon who previously had never heard of Mount Pinatubo, the volcano's seismic activities began early in 1991. A team of vulcanologists from the United States and the Philippines worked together to closely monitor the volcano from the United States Geologic Service Center at the U.S. Clark Air Force Base in Angeles City. At that time, although tensions were brewing between the U.S. and the Philippine governments over the renewal of the US military bases in the country, the theater of life was at its jumbled simplicity. Then Mount Pinatubo wreaked its havoc all over and the area was never the same again.

         Wasting no time, my tour of the once fertile and lush grounds of my native province of Pampanga begins immediately with my brother Johnny--my tour guide--the day after my arrival in the Philippines. The town of Bacolor, near my hometown of Angeles City, was the epicenter of devastation where eighty of its population of three hundred fifty thousand have migrated elsewhere; the remainder has either perished in the disaster or remained and survived it all.

         Looking down at the submerged homes with only the rooftops jutting out of the lahar-covered landscape conjures up images of a lost community that we are only accustomed to seeing in National Geographic. Some of those homes still contain many of the priceless possessions that had been collected for years, or probably even handed down through ancestral bequeaths.

         This must be how it looked like in the beginning of time when the earth was still being formed by volcano eruptions.

         Bacolor, which is situated at the edge of Mount Pinatubo, was a very progressive and populous town before the volcano erupted. It was originally the capital of Pampanga for almost two hundred years; also, it was once the seat of the Spanish government or the capital of the Philippines.

         Known as the Athens of Pampanga it was the birthplace of many prominent men and women who excelled in the arts, literature, education, law, government, culinary arts and other fields. A series of lahar avalanches that took place after the eruption had forced many residents to migrate, move to Manila and various other cities and resettlement centers. I remember dreaming about studying art at the town’s distinguished Don Honorio Ventura Memorial College of Arts and Trades, where many of the nation’s accomplished artists received their education and training. My father’s death put an end to that dream.

         Johnny and I walk down and hike a deep canyon carved out by Mount Pinatubo’s eruption. He calls my attention to the structures protruding from the eroded walls of lahar and debris. It’s such an eerie atmosphere. I feel as if I am in a twilight zone.

         "There it is!" Johnny shouts, pointing to a church steeple with a white cross on top sticking out of the ground. "It’s what’s left of San Guillermo Church!"

         The historic church, one of the oldest churches in the province, is one of the things we’ve been looking for since we started touring the area. Because all the paved roads have been buried in tons of volcanic mud and debris, it is hard to locate any of the historical landmarks with which we have been familiar around the town of Bacolor.

         "Wow," I say, shaking my head from left to right, disbelieving the sight before me. It’s incredible. What was once a three-story-tall church has been reduced to its bell tower and spire standing in the middle of a death valley. "This is awesome. It really gives you a true perspective of the destruction, doesn’t it?"

         "Yes, it does."

         "I once attended a wedding here of a very close friend of mine," I say. "And I’ve heard that Pa once stood as a godfather to a child baptized in this church." I felt a jab inside my chest. There are times when the sudden remembrance of our father still brings a jolting wrench at my heart. I was always Pa’s daughter; everybody in the family thinks that I over-idealized him.  Not that they think there’s something wrong with it, they just think it’s misplaced, and that it should have been Ma on top of that pedestal.

         "Really? But did you know that my first born was baptized here?"

         "Ana? No, I don’t remember that."

         "Of course, you wouldn’t. You didn’t come home for the occasion even though you were one of the godparents."

         "Sorry. It was around Christmas, and that’s the busiest time of year at the store."

         "I understand. I was just giving you a hard time. How’s the store doing?"

         "It’s doing great on our second year at the Forest Fair Mall, which is truly spectacular and beautiful. The developers  spent tons of money on it. It’s the second biggest in the country. The anchor stores are all New York and Parisian style. This might be Rob’s long awaited dream come true. He deserves it."

         "What would you do with all that money?"

         "What money? We don’t have it yet. You have no idea how much it costs to build a store."

         "Well, when you do, don’t forget about us. Wink. Wink."

         "Same goes for you, brother," I say, hitting him again on the shoulder.

         "Aww!" he screams, feigning pain unconvincingly.

         "Let’s hike closer to the church," I say and start running.

         "You said hike, not run. "I have weak knees, you know."

         "C’mon, you’re only twenty-six."

         "Twenty-six going on forty-six. I’m not athletic like you."

         He runs to keep up with me anyway, but out of breath when he catches up with me at ground zero.

         We find wood scraps pile up on the ground of the churchyard, as if there’s some willful destruction of property going on. Noticing my reaction, Johnny explains that Father Tayag, San Guillermo’s parish priest, has authorized the retrieval and recycling of church materials for the reconstruction of the church.

         "At first, there were some vandalism," Johnny says. "You know how it is. It happens everywhere. Some just want souvenirs, some sell it for profit. I’ve read a story where as Father Tayag was surveying the scraps that scattered everywhere, he picked up some of the wood that must have come from the floor and ceiling of the church. An idea came to him. What if Bacolor’s famous artists now living in Manila and elsewhere, could recycle and create something out of the church’s wood? The tireless and ingenious priest immediately contacted some key people. To make a long story short, some of the artworks produced using the church’s wood are now on exhibit at the Filipinas Hotel, and also at other hotels and other commercial buildings in Manila. As I understand it, they’re selling well, and selling for a lot of money."

         "That’s incredible. A lot better and more profitable, I suppose, than relying solely on contributions from his parishioners."

         "Oh, it would take years before the church is rebuilt if they relied on donations from citizens alone."

         I throw him a semi-furtive gaze. "You know so much about this. Are you involved in the creation of some of these art pieces?"

         "Me?" he exclaims in surprise. "No, no. I am not good enough to be considered for the project. These are world class artisans."

         "What do you mean you’re not good enough? You’ve sold a lot of paintings in your heyday as an artist."

         "I haven’t painted since I started my used car business. That’s five years ago. "Plus, I am not a distinguished product of artsy Bacolor."

         "Well, I’d like to see the art show sometime."

         "At Filipinas Hotel? Sure. Whenever you’re ready."

         I pick up a small piece of wood and examine it. "When was the church originally built?"

         "I think sometime in the late 1570’s."

         "You think this is the original wood?"

         Johnny takes the piece of timber and runs the flat of his palm over it, studying it very closely. "If it is, it’s remarkable. There’s no sign of decay. A little damage from lahar, but other than that, this is high quality wood. What I would give for a large size piece of this lumber and use it as wood canvas for an oil painting."

         Noticing my brother’s dreamy expression, I take the material back from him. "I knew you still have the heart of an artist in you. I think you should keep this scrap with you as a reminder of this poignant moment. Whenever you start getting bored as a rich used car entrepreneur, go back to this wood and start painting again."

         "I wish it were that easy. I am not as good as you."

         "Of course, you are."

         "No, I am not. I can never paint a portrait without copying from a picture and without using a grid."

         "You’re an excellent artist, brother. We just approach the process differently, that’s all."

         "Nah. You’ve always been a natural. Everybody knows that."

         A voice from behind us makes us turn our heads swiftly. It’s a man of the cloth.

         "Well, let me settle that argument then," says the priest.

         "Father Tayag!" Johnny exclaims. "Are we trespassing?"

         "No, you’re not. Glad to have you here."

         Johnny offers to shake the priest’s hand. "My name is Johnny. This is my sister Mary."

         "Glad to meet you both. First time to see the church . . . or what’s left of it?"

         "My first, father. I just arrived yesterday from the States."

         "Are you from here?"

         "No, father. From Angeles. My brother lives in Mabalacat. He owns PBJ Enterprises there."

         "Ah, yes. I’ve looked at your cars one time. I think I spoke with you then."

         "You did, father. I’m impressed you remember."

         "I almost bought one of your Hondas. It’s a good thing I didn’t because a day later, a rich parishioner donated one of his cars to the church."

         "That's nice," Johnny says.

         "We have good people here.  But right now I am most interested in your conversation that I overheard earlier. If you want a big piece of wood from the church, I can make that possible."

         "Oh, you don’t have to do that, father," says Johnny. "I’m sure you need all the wood you can get from the church for your fund-raising."

         "I’m not giving it to you totally free. I’ve seen your work hanging in your office. You are very good."

         "Thank you, father."

         The priest faces me and says almost apologetically: "I’ve not seen your work, but if your brother says you’re a better artist than he then I believe him. This is what I propose to both of you. I will give you the board and you paint something on it, anything you want. We exhibit it, and if it’s sold, which, I am sure it will, we split the proceeds – seventy-five percent for the church, and the rest is yours. How about it?"

         "But father," Johnny hesitates, "I haven’t painted in years. And if I could, I would even give all the proceeds back to the church. But I don’t think I will be able to deliver."

         "And I’m only visiting, father," I say. "I will be leaving in a few weeks."

         The priest ponders our arguments. He takes the wood scrap from Johnny, looks around the desolate grounds and says in an attitude of a sermon: "Today, Bacolor is a ghost town and may remain so for years. Someday, people will begin an exodus back to their beloved town and start a new life. They will pave the roads to recovery and rebuild our churches, the schools, hospitals and museums. There will be many more fund-raising events sponsored by big and small firms, humanitarians, and prominent citizens who’ve made it big in their respective professions. Already, only six months after the big bang, the few businesses that survived Mount Pinatubo’s fury, especially the gift shops and other retail stores, have been experiencing an economic boom because of the many tourists who come to tour the spectacular devastation, like you. Nearby, a notable hotel that suffered only minor damages on its property is now having an art exhibit featuring the works of various Bacolor artists who’ve been living in various resettlement areas. I am confident and hopeful of a bright and prosperous future for this town. Yes, someday, Bacolor will experience an incredible recreation and resurgence, and will once again stand proud of its people and illustrious history."

         Father Tayag pauses and searches our souls with his deep brown eyes.

         "Wouldn’t it be wonderful to watch San Guillermo rise again from the ashes of lahar and regain its grandeur? And to think that you could be a big part of all that."

         Johnny and I are dumfounded. Who can ever say no to a man who could deliver a spontaneous sermon like that? But then, maybe it wasn’t spontaneous at all. I wonder how many times he has recited the speech to his congregation, or his prospective donors.

         "Well, you think about it. When you’re ready, come and see me. My temporary office is at the Sto. Rosario Church. You know where that is."

         With that, the priest bids adieu and walks away. Johnny and I stare at each other in awe.

         "Oh, by the way," the priest says without stopping in his track. "It’s the original wood. It dates back to 1576."

         Johnny and I gasp in unison with rounded eyes. "That’s it, I’m in." Johnny declares.

         "Me, too."

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 9 -- The Lieutenant

NINE

The Lieutenant

          LT and I left early in the morning to avoid the traffic. We discussed the leads as extensively as I was allowed to know, I suspected. He showed me a thick file with photographs of the vehicles in various garages. A couple of them were even being driven around town. They did look similar to Papa’s vehicle design, but none of them seemed to squeeze my heart with recognition. I tried to elicit more information from the LT about my father’s case, but as in the past, he apologized for being unable to talk about the ongoing investigation with me.

          Uncle Rico and Auntie Ana were very happy to see the LT and me. “He’s so handsome, and such a gentleman,” whispered my auntie in privacy. We were preparing a meal in the kitchen while Uncle Rico and LT were chatting in the living room. “We’re very impressed with him, and we think he likes you. I noticed the way he looked at you.”

          “I like him too. Everyone in my family likes him.” I tried to play the innocent girl, ignoring her insinuation of something romantic going on between the LT and me. But again, I was happy to hear that she noticed something that might hint a special feeling from the LT toward me.


          “That’s not what I meant. Oh, you’re not that young not to understand.” She laughed, and I shared her contagious laughter. With that, Auntie gave me a wink, and I reciprocated with a nudge to her side. “But wait a minute,” she said with a frown that marred the softness of her forehead. At 45, she maintained a flawless skin on her soft features. “Don’t you and Dado sort of have something going on?”

          I smiled wide. “Since we were born, I think.”

          In a pondering attitude, she gave me a look of reprimand. “Ah . . . you’re too young to be playing this game.”

          “What game is that, Auntie?” I said playfully.

          Her reply would astound me. “Your Papa’s game.” She sounded very serious. “Listen to me, girl. Don’t follow in your father’s footsteps. It’s dangerous.”

          Auntie’s words pierced right through the core of my heart. Before I could say anything, Uncle Rico appeared at the kitchen door and asked how we were doing with the food preparation.

          I was bothered by Auntie Ana’s meaningful remark, which affected my demeanor at the dinner table. Everyone asked if I was feeling all right. “I’m just tired,” I said. “It was such a long drive.”

          “Then you should go to bed early,” Auntie Ana suggested. “You have quite a mission to accomplish tomorrow.”

          “She’s such a brave girl to do this,” said the LT. “What she is doing is critical to the investigation. I can’t thank her enough.”

          “She’s always been a brave and strong girl,” Uncle Rico said. “She has her father’s diamond-sharp mind, strength, and iron will. Nothing was impossible for them. Yes, she’s her father’s daughter in every way.”

          Auntie Ana stared at me meaningfully with those dark eyes that bore something cynical. My favorite aunt was slowly stepping down the ladder of my favorites list as she continued to behave strangely toward me.

          “I wish I could have known him when he was alive,” LT said. “He must have been quite a man.”

          “But let’s not forget her mother—my sister,” Auntie Ana chimed in. “Mary definitely got her looks and her beautiful complexion. She may not look it now, but my sister’s skin was like Mary’s skin now . . . soft, silky and very light.” My skin crawled when Auntie gently ran her fingers on my forearm.

          I couldn’t wait to leave in the morning. I was completely ready by the time Auntie Ana knocked on my door to wake me up. “Listen, Mary,” she began with the familiar softness in her voice that I had come to love about her. “I apologize if I acted strangely toward you last night. It must have been noticeable because your uncle mentioned something about it. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. It’s just that I care about you a lot. You’re like the daughter I never had. I just want you to be careful, okay?”

          Breathing in and slowly nodding, I gave Auntie Ana an unusually small hug. “It’s all right, Auntie. I understand. Don’t worry about it.”

          I could not wait to get out of there. Since my father died, rumors of his infidelity had been proliferating, but I did not expect anyone, especially my favorite aunt to imply that I might follow in my father’s footsteps with my own tales of exploits. My God, I had never even been kissed, and I was already sixteen.

          “You’re suspiciously quiet,” LT said. “We’d been driving for an hour, and you’ve hardly said anything.”

          I turned my head toward the daunting figure next to me in the car. He had rolled up the sleeves of his civilian shirt, which exposed the powerful arms and hands clutching the wheel. He did not wear his military uniform to avoid any unwanted attraction. I could not help noticing the inviting lips and strong chin. A strange feeling surged through me.

          Nothing could have prepared me for what would happen next. He pulled the car over and turned the engine off. By this time I started shaking all over, and my heart was beating wildly.

          He put the palm of his hand on my forehead with a look of concern. “You feel warm. Are you feeling feverish?” He grabbed my hands, sending bolts of electricity erupting through me. “Your hands are clammy. Do you feel sick? Should I take you to a doctor?”

          I shook my head vigorously; overwhelmed by a wave of sensation I had never felt before. I thought my heart would leap out of my chest. “I am fine,” I managed to say through the huge lump in my throat. “Let’s proceed. We don’t want to lose time.”

          LT stared at me for a long moment as if caressing me through those incredibly sensual black eyes. His hands were still on mine, which continued to burn fire through my whole being. He relinquished my hands and he powered on the engine once again. I wanted those hands permanently holding mine. Dado and I had held hands many times, but none had given me the intense heat that the LT’s touch had flared up in me. I was confused, afraid, and excited at the same time. It was the weirdest feeling.

          As if a bucket of freezing water dropped on me, I thought of Auntie Ana and her meaty message: “Don’t follow your father’s footsteps.”

          Is this what Auntie Ana was talking about? I asked myself, as if I didn’t know what she meant. I already had a boyfriend—someone everybody in the community thought I would eventually marry. The popular joke was that my father and Dado’s father had arranged the marriage between Dado and me as soon as we were born. I felt a pang of guilt.

          What was I really doing with the LT? What did I think I would get out of this adventure? Did I really think I was going to help solve my father’s murder? How about the LT? Was he seriously thinking that I could be instrumental in cracking the case? I was at this point convinced that he liked me in a romantic sort of way; was this whole thing just a ploy to get me to travel with him? If so, what did he think could happen between us?

          Admittedly we had a moment there, and I was half excited and half afraid, but totally pragmatic to let anything happen between us. He was 28, I was 16. Not a good thing.

          Following the leads about a few vehicles did not produce any concrete evidence that any one of them was my father’s vehicle. Except one . . . maybe. It was in a garage along with other jeepneys that the owner of the place said he had bought from a small dealer; yet, he could not produce any proof of the acquisition. He told us that in his line of business, everything was handled in cash, and no questions asked. As LT was talking to the man, I was inspecting the vehicle. It was the same length, width, height, design and mechanical structure. It could have been it.

          When I touched the driver’s seat and the wheel, my heart jumped. It was as if I felt my father’s presence. LT noticed and commented on my reaction and promised me later that he would further investigate the origin of the vehicle. It wasn’t going to be easy because we noticed that the serial number had already been scraped off or chemically dissolved.

          LT asked me to go back in the car while he talked to the owner. Through the rearview mirror, I could see the LT and the man arguing with each other. The man went back inside his house and came back with a thick folder. LT reviewed the file and pulled out some of the papers and shoved them inside his shirt. The man appeared furious but seemed outwitted by the LT.

          There was an unmistakable look of satisfaction on LT’s face as he rejoined me in the car. He turned the ignition on without saying a word and drove off, but all the while, his lips were curled in a smile of pleasure.

          “I assume something good came out of this trip?” I said as soon as we got on the main road. Somehow I felt a twinge of sadness that the day was coming to an end.

          “Indeed. Indeed.” He turned the radio on and Aerosmith came out of the speakers screaming. LT started drumming the wheel with his fingers. At that particular moment, he looked ten years younger to me.

          “I didn’t figure you out as a hard rock fan,” I said, enjoying the pleasure of his sudden youthful presence.

          He quickly threw me a glance. “Ah, there’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

          “For instance?”

          “Well, for one thing, I’m a great dancer. And I don’t mean ball room dancing either.

          "Cool."

          "And I once played with a rock band.”

          "Let me guess. . . “A drummer?”

          “How did you know?”

          I smiled. “Just a guess. Any other interesting tidbit about you that I would enjoy knowing?”

          “Sure. Let’s discuss them over cocktail and terrific dinner. I know a restaurant you’d love not far from here. It has a view of the ocean.”

          “I’m only sixteen. I can’t drink.”

          “Ah, yes. Sorry. Sometimes I forget you’re still a teenager.”

          The way he said that made me feel like a young girl who hasn’t yet had her first period.

          “Are we celebrating what we accomplished today?”

          “Of course, we are.”

          “Are you going to let me in on it?”

          Instantaneously, his expression changed from playful to something serious. He turned the radio off, and he slowed down, looking all around him. He coasted down a small hill then pulled over to the side. Here we go again, I thought nervously. He got out of the car and walked around to my side. He opened the door, took my hand and helped me out.

          For a few moments, we simply stood there quietly and watched the glorious orb slowly plummet behind the mountains. I wondered if he could hear the drumbeats inside my chest.

          “Mary,” he said softly as he faced me. “As far as the Army is concerned, this trip today never happened. This was never authorized by my officers. Therefore, I cannot share with you any information about what I discovered today. I am sorry. I’m sure you must be disappointed.”

          I looked away and returned my gaze toward the golden sun that was making its final descent, leaving in its track ribbons of orange, yellow, white, violet, crimson and ultramarine. I didn’t know what to think. I had been possessed for so long about my father’s murder and who killed him and why, but now that we might have gotten some substantive information for the first time that could lead us to the killers, he told me I didn’t have the right to know because officially, today never happened.

          “Mary . . .”

          He put his hands on my shoulders and turned them gently toward him. I looked down to hide the emotion in my eyes. He lifted my chin with his forefinger and our eyes locked. I took a deep breath to quell the churning feeling in my stomach. Then tears sprang to my eyes.

          “Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry.” His arms were now around me as I sobbed in his chest.

          “This day never happened?” I said, fearing that I was sounding like a whining little girl.

          He loosened his embrace of me, pulled out a hankie from his pants’ pocket and wiped my tears as delicately as he would handle a precious jewel. “Only about the investigation, Mary. Everything else has been very real. This is real . . . you and me together like this . . . holding each other. This is very real, this connection between us.”

          My gaze shifted to those lush lips, sending erotic thoughts through me. I watched them slowly come down to my level, and before I could react, he had grabbed me by the waist and pulled me tightly against him. His lips were surprisingly soft and oh so wet. I was stunned. I had never been kissed on the mouth before. His mouth seemed hungry as he devoured mine. I surprised myself when I started to relax, coiled my arms around his neck, and reciprocated to his kisses. I had always wondered what French kissing was like, and now I knew. It didn’t nauseate me as I had thought it would back in my younger days when my girlfriends and I would talk about it. This felt natural, and I even enjoyed it as his tongue slithered inside my mouth.

          My first kiss! It was delicious beyond my imagination.

          But then it was over . . . as suddenly as it swept me off my feet and carried me to the seventh heaven of bliss.

          “I’m so sorry,” LT said guiltily. He released me as though I were Eve in the Garden of Eden who’d just tempted him with the apple of sin.

          “What’s the matter? What did I do wrong? Did I kiss that badly?”

          “You kissed unbelievably well, Mary. It’s just that . . . I took advantage of you. You’re only sixteen. We could get in a lot of trouble for this.”

          “First of all, you didn’t take advantage of me. Second, who would tell? Not I.” I sounded almost pleading. How pathetic.

          He lovingly took my face between his hands and kissed me on the forehead. “Sweet, beautiful, irresistible Mary. I adore you so. Please believe me . . . this is much more difficult for me than it is for you.”

          Then it suddenly dawned on me. He could be married. I was afraid to ask because he might say yes. But I felt I had to, so I did.

          “Are you married?” I held my breath.

          He gave a throaty laugh before answering then he put one arm around my shoulders and walked me to the car. “No, my darling, I am not. Never had a wife and never had a child.”

          I didn’t feel like talking during the drive back home so we listened to the radio instead. Both of us didn’t feel like eating anything either so we didn’t have dinner at the restaurant he had mentioned earlier. I fell asleep and awoke hours later with my head on his right shoulder. Quickly I straightened up and felt the corners of my mouth for any sign of drooling. Fortunately, there wasn’t.

          “Feeling rested?” he asked while doing some stretching exercises on his right arm.

          “Is your arm all right?”

          “Just a little tingly, but it’s fine.”

          “Sorry--”

          “No need. I enjoyed it. It was really quite nice. You looked so peaceful and delightful. You sleep like a baby . . . Baby.”

         He'd never called me by my nickname before, although he seemed always tickled every time he heard my family call me Baby.His playfulness with my name broke the awkward silence between us. I started to feel better again. Soon we were having a great time talking about anything and everything.

          “You know, you are a lot more mature and intelligent than I had previously thought.”

          “And you are a lot more youthful and fun that I ever thought possible.”

          With that we laughed heartily. All of a sudden, I didn’t want to get home anymore. I wanted the trip to go on and on, never reaching the end.

          But everything must come to an end. And it came way too soon for me.

          It was about nine o’clock at night. The house was well lighted, and from the car I could see figures moving about inside. I was sure Mama, Johnny, Lisa and Malia were still awake and waiting for my arrival, anxious for any news. They would be so disappointed to hear that “nothing really happened.”

          LT delivered me to my family. Surprisingly, everyone was still awake and very excited to see me back. Normally LT would hang around and visit with the family, but not this time. The long and tiring trip was a good enough excuse.

          I walked LT to his car. I could feel my sisters’ eyes follow us from the window, which prevented me from attempting to show any intimacy to LT. We stopped by the driver’s side where people inside the house couldn’t see us from the shoulders down.

          “I will never forget this day,” I said, emotions getting the best of me. “Oh, God. I can’t cry. I have to go back inside the house. They’d be suspicious--”

          “There’s no reason to cry, Baby. It’s been a fantastic day. I will remember this day for the rest of my life.”

          “I will never see you again, will I?”

          He seemed to struggle with his answer. "Maybe in a couple of years when you’re old enough for me. Although I’m pretty sure that by that time, you’ll have forgotten about me.”

          “No way.”

          LT briefly scanned the surroundings with his eyes then took my hand and squeezed it. “I would very much like to hug you and kiss you, but I have a strong feeling that some of your neighbors are waiting for exactly that to happen so they can gossip about it tomorrow.”

          “I’m going to miss you, LT.”

          “And I’m going to miss you much more, Baby.” One last squeeze then his hand slipped slowly away from my grip.

          I mouthed the words I love you as I waved goodbye to him and watched him drive away.

          That night, I wrote these words on my journal:

          All in one day, I helped discover clues to my father’s murder. I experienced my first romantic kiss. I fell in love. He broke my heart. We said good-bye. Will I see him again?

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 8 -- Oh My Papa

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--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 7 - Life Encapsulated In Pictures

SEVEN

Life Encapsulated In Pictures

         What is it about coming home that makes us want to walk through memory lanes and resurrect some childhood experiences that might only bring more pain and tears?

         Mount Pinatubo’s eruption has made me think of the friends I’ve known since childhood. Where are they now? How come no one’s banging on my door to welcome me and invite me to a Hail Mary homecoming party? What happened to those people who could never wait to see me again whenever I came back to visit? Did Pinatubo drive them away from our city like it did to thousands of people? This pondering, however, is somewhat frustrating because as I complain of no reception from these old buddies, some of the names elude me now. It’s scary that at 32, I am already becoming forgetful of names. I need some Ginko Biloba!  Ahh, but this is when visual aid becomes quite important -- to enable me to connect faces with names and events.

         Inevitably, old photo albums are exhumed from their resting places --the photo cemetery located somewhere in Malia’s attic. After the sticky cobwebs and dusts are swept off the album covers, the ghosts of yesterdays are released from the pressed pages. Now I am ready to stroll down foggy lanes of memory.

         Viewing old photographs makes me wonder where time has gone. Has it really been that long ago since I last saw--what’s their names? We all look so young.  I don't feel a day older than when these pictures were taken, yet, as I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and then back at these pictures, I see the truth. Reality rings with stinging clarity, for there they are--the star witness photos that carbon-date my generation. Pictures don't lie. They have the power to check our level of humility and admit that we are much older than we feel or think.

         Here’s a group picture with my closest friends in High School. Six schoolgirls in white and gray—Holy Angel Academy’s uniform--but only two of them can I identify with a name. Where have all these girls gone? I have shared so many memorable moments with them while in school, and now, only washed out, yellowing and brittle pictures can attest to that period in my life with them.

         I really appreciate the way my sister Malia has collected, arranged, organized and maintained our family photos. She has created an album for each of our brothers and sisters. But why do we file pictures away without taking the time to identify the subjects? Do we think we’d never forget the people who have made a significant difference in the quality of our lives? Do we assume that our mind will always remain sharp as we age?

         So many pictures; so many faded photographs that look as though they belong to a former life. Was that really me in micro-mini skirt with a waistline to die for? What happened to that girl they used to call waist because of her 18-inch waistline? Well, she went from size 2 to 6, and depending on the make, maybe an occasional size 8. Too much hamburger, French fries and soda pop in America before she had the sense to quit. Granted that I feel healthier now with my athletic pursuits, such as tennis, running, volleyball, and other physical activities, and I can still demand some heads to turn as I walk into a roomful of people, or when I walk down the streets; but I wish I still had that waistline. I dread the thought of never seeing a smaller size again; in fact, I have a feeling that as my metabolism decreases with age, chances are greater that I would someday be wearing a larger size.

         Gee, look at my sister Malia being crowned by Imelda Marcos at a beauty pageant. When was the last time any one saw the former First Lady of the Philippines with a figure still fit for a beauty queen? I remember vividly where I was that very moment -- behind the stage -- watching the first lady crown my older sister as Miss Angeles City. Four very handsome men surround my sister in her court, one of whom is Romy, the tall and handsome guy with whom I shared a lot of love letters in our youth. I so loved his crisp handwriting and the sweet wings of poesy he had sent my way. If only they were meant for me.

         The creaky stair steps to the attic announce an intruder’s arrival. Who else could be awake at this ungodly hour? It must be 1:30 in the morning.  Malia’s face emerges from behind the door.

         "I thought that might be you. May I come in?" she asks.

         "Great timing! Come on in. I was just looking at your pictures with Romy."

         "Your childhood secret love!" Malia exclaims laughing as she sits down next to me.

         "Just a childish crush," I reply sheepishly.

         I’m only kidding. But I got to hand it to you. I couldn’t believe that my younger sister almost stole my boyfriend away from me. He was really falling for those letters you wrote him."

         "Can you blame us? We wrote each other lots of love letters. I was beginning to feel that his letters were for me instead of yours."

         I credit Romy in planting the first spirit of romantic letter-writing in me, inspiring me to find the appropriate words that can make a heart flutter with dreamy delight. Malia would pay me a few pesos for each love letter I wrote Romy under her name. Eventually, I branched out to other customers—my sisters’ friends. That’s when I realized that one could make money by stringing words together to create mellifluous letters. Not long after that, I got one of my short love stories published in a Comic Magazine. Not bad for a 14-year old girl who was yet to experience romantic love.

         "Do you know whatever happened to him?" I asked.

         "We saw each other a few years ago in Manila. He introduced the woman next to him as his wife. She looked much older than Romy and didn’t look like his type, but I guess her money as a medical doctor makes up for the stark contrast in their appearance."

         "Why did you two break up?"

         "Well . . . I think it’s clear. He opted for the financial security."

         "Isn’t he an engineer?"

         "He was an engineering student when we were going out.  I don’t know what he’s been doing since we broke up."

         "I don’t think you would have been as happy with him as you are with Theo, though."

         "No. You’re absolutely right. Theo is a great guy. I never thought I would marry a former actor. I’m lucky to have found him."

         "I think he’s much luckier to have found you."

         "Thank you! That praise just earned you five more of the biggest prawns for tomorrow’s breakfast omelets.  Your favorite."

         "Yum. Thank you.  Thank you."  I turn the album page and there is an old picture of our oldest brother at 12 sitting under a tree. I can hardly make out his face. He was playing mahjong with Tita Milarosa and Tito Ben. My sisters and brothers and I never played with him because he was kept away from us.

         "Just think of the wasted time that we could have spent with him," I lament. "We could have made his life a happier one if only we were not prevented from getting near him."

         "It wasn’t our parents’ fault," Malia says defensively as she has always reacted every time I brought up the subject in the past. "Unfortunately, at that time, even the doctors did not know what kind of a disease kuya Narcing had in his neck that made it grow out like a goiter. They just wanted to protect us from what they thought was a potentially contagious disease since the doctors could not tell what it was."

         "I did feel very bad when I put Ma on the spot. I will never forget that day in Cincinnati when you came to visit me. You remember?"

         "How can I forget? You drilled her about it. Poor Ma, I had never seen her look so remorseful and guilty as you were interrogating her."

         "It wasn’t an interrogation. It was more like an interview. You know how I like to gather facts for these kinds of family stories."

         "Well, it was a little cold and insensitive of you. It was as if you were castigating her for not knowing any better.  I felt so awful for her. You did hurt her feelings very much. "

         There’s that word again: insensitive.  My family thinks that my corporate persona has made me cold and unfeeling sometimes.  Maybe they’re right even though I don’t mean to project such characteristic.

         "Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Now you’re making me feel bad."

         I recall when Malia, Ma and I were discussing the matter of my parents’ first born. As far as I know, it was the only time ever that my brother’s illness and ultimate death had been discussed in the family. I was only four years old then, but certain aspects of my brother’s life and eventual death are forever engraved in my memory. It is unimaginable what kuya (older brother) must have thought and felt the whole time he was sick. He was denied of the kind of childhood that his brothers and sisters all enjoyed in life. To me he was always someone to view from afar and to love from the distance. At his deathbed, he made a last, desperate attempt to make us come a little closer to him. He held a Baby Ruth candy in his hand and tried to lure us into the room. We stayed outside the door peeking in. He died shortly after that.

         The family would find out much later that the disease that killed my brother turned out to be not contagious at all. But no one spoke about it . . . until many years later in my house.

         Ma, Malia and I were having such a great time at the dinner table enjoying our desserts after supper and reminiscing about the happy past. Then the fun stopped when I started asking questions about kuya Narcing. I should have stopped when I noticed her usually poised manner slowly collapse, her face dimmed, her breathing quickened, her lips pursed.

         "I am so sorry," my mother cried. Tears now rolling down her face. "We didn't know. We just wanted to protect you all."

         "I think this conversation is over," Malia had said looking at me with consternation, circling her arms around Ma.

         "Why do you keep bringing back bad memories?" Ma said painfully. "Why can’t you just leave the past alone?"

         Malia grabbed Ma gently by the elbows and escorted her to the living room.

         Family guilt trips: they become so embedded in our conscience that we could never be free from their emotional tentacles.

         Old photographs are a great vehicle to sentimental journeys down memory lanes. We make occasional stops to pick up some of the pieces in our past so we could come to terms with the present. We reflect upon the choices we've made and wonder, what if. . .? There are times when the memory trips produce some unexpected remembering so painful that we wish we never embarked on the journey. In a family such as ours that has traversed a lot of rocky roads, encountering many obstacles, tribulations and tragedies along the way, there is an unending windfall of disclosures from the pages of family albums and journals. As a diarist I have learned to deal with life’s harsh realities and family secrets in my attempt to savor all memories and to chronicle events to archive for our future generations.

         Malia startles me by gently slapping me on the forehead with a photo.

         Hello! Malia calling Mary."

         "Sorry. Where were we?"

         "I’ve been here all along. I don’t know where you went."

         Malia holds up a picture of our father at 18. "Look how handsome he was," she says. "No wonder women went crazy over him." She shakes her head from left to right. "Such a waste. I wonder how life for us might have been if he hadn’t died so young. Do you know that there were rumors that a woman’s husband was behind the murder; that it wasn’t political or business at all?"

         Rumors, rumors, rumors.  I hate these rumors that have plagued the family forever.  "I don’t believe it." I snap. I take the faded picture from my sister’s hand and examine it.

         Indeed, what if Pa had not died so young?  Where would we be now?  

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.