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.

Chapter 6: The Legend Of Baby

SIX

  The Legend of Baby

 

 

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

                   “Goodnight kids.”

                   “Goodnight, Auntie Mary,” they chorus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   “But we want to hear it again.”

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

                   “Yes Auntie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   “She got more gifts at Christmas!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   “What’s going on here?”

                   “What’s all the commotion?

                   I stop tickling the kids.

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

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

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

                   “You don't give them Christmas gifts!”

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

                   “You, Auntie Baby!”

                   The room erupts with laughter and cheers.

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

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

                   Everyone says goodnight and the adults go back downstairs. 

--o0o--

© Copyright 2008 writeartista. All rights reserved.

Chapter 5: Remembering Mount Pinatubo's Wrath

FIVE

Remembering Mount Pinatubo's Wrath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         "Auntie! You look so sexy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         The children are horrified.

         "Grandpa was stabbed?"

         "Why was he stabbed?"

         "Who stabbed him?"

         "Did they catch the bad guy?"

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

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

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

* * *

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

         "Auntie, are these our homecoming pasalubong?"

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

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

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

         The children start screaming again in excitement..

         "Can we look at them later?"

         "Can we count them?"

         "Sure," I say.  More excited screaming.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

         "Umm . . . not really."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(End of Chapter Five)

 Copyright 2006 writeartista  All rights reserved.