Royce calmly explained, “The Philippine army is short on equipment. They make guns from bamboo for practice drills.”
“Just as well,” Max said. “They’d shoot holes in their own feet.”
“I thought the Filipinos had a well-trained army,” Margie said.
“They do—the Philippine Scouts,” Max said. “They’re part of the US Regular Army, commanded mostly by American officers. The reserve divisions you see here are ragtags from the rice paddies. Thousands of them are in this so-called training. I wouldn’t want my life depending on them.”
The road took them through miles of flat farmland before skirting the southern shore of a large freshwater lake. From there, the terrain became hilly. In a little while, they reached a small town in the foothills of the Sierra Madre. Max stopped the car, and they got out.
The town itself was worth the journey. They snapped pictures of one another posed in front of its magnificent arched gate, grand ancestral homes, and panoramic views of pristine hills and crystal waters. Max retrieved a picnic basket from the trunk and carried it to a riverside dock, where he haggled with two locals. Money changed hands, and Max put the basket in what appeared to be a floating log. He waved Evelyn over.
“What’s this?” she said.
“It’s a banca and the guides are bankeros. Get in.”
“You serious? Will it hold me?” She stepped in and squealed as the banca tipped. Max grabbed her arm to steady her.
Royce helped Margie into their banca, she in front, he behind with his legs stretched on either side of her. The boat rolled, and he grabbed her around the waist. “Whoa! If it turns turtle, you go in with me.”
The bankeros paddled against the current, making their progress upstream lazily slow. Margie leaned back against Royce and watched the multicolored birds that fluttered in the coconut trees fringing the river’s edge, and the monkeys frolicking among wild orchids. Intermittently the calm was interrupted by gushes of rapids that they traversed on foot, transporting the bancas on their shoulders.
The river widened as they entered a gorge where lushly vegetated cliffs soared three hundred feet straight up, and the emerald water around them reflected the clouds in the heavens. No sound disturbed this spiritual paradise. Margie felt Royce’s arms tighten around her, and they shared their first kiss, cautious and inquiring.
When the bankeros landed the small craft on a sandy point, Royce retrieved the picnic basket, Evelyn laid out sandwiches and apples, and Max opened a bottle of wine. They ate while lounging on the sand, toasting their good luck in coming to this spectacular place. Then, stripping to the bathing suits they had worn under their clothes, they played an inventive game of water volleyball with a beach ball provided by the guides.
After lunch, the trip continued upstream. A distant rumble increased to thunder as they approached a falls. Water surged down four hundred feet from above in torrential splendor that pulsed the air and eddied the river as light danced in a rainbow mist. While the group watched in awe, the bankeros put down their paddles and let the bancas drift back in the swift downstream current.
“You shoot rapids?” a bankero said in stilted English, and laughed heartily.
“What’d he say?” Margie asked, but before Royce could answer, the banca flew like a winged horse on a mission, bucking in the turbulence and barely missing outcrops of boulders. With river water pelting her, Margie gritted her teeth and clung to Royce’s legs, expecting in any second to be ejected from the boat and her life.
The trip back was short and furious. At the end, Margie wobbled out of the banca with Royce right behind her. He gathered her in his arms, their knees weak, their hearts thumping. Max and Evelyn joined them on the shore, and they all breathed sighs of relief before breaking into whoops of laughter.
Back in Manila, hungry and sunburned, they stopped in a bar frequented by the hospital crowd. Its thick walls, heavy beams, and dark wood bespoke Spanish influence. It was cool inside, and they found a table under a fan. Max glanced over the menu. “I recommend the house specialty, beef and vegetables cooked with garlic and vinegar and served over rice.”
Evelyn said, “It’s too heavy. I’d rather have a salad.”
Max said, “You eat like a bird. You need some meat on those skinny bones.”
Margie grimaced and glanced at Royce. He winked in return.
They ordered their meals and pitchers of cold beer. Max said, “Who’s in for a hike in the mountains next week? I know a trail through a gorge. There must be a dozen waterfalls. Can you girls handle the food?”
“I wouldn’t know what to bring,” Margie said. “The food’s different here. What I’m hungry for is potato salad with chopped eggs, green onions, and a little mustard to season the mayo.”
Evelyn said, “A taste of home. I know where we can get green onions, and they might have potatoes. I don’t know about the mayo, though—it could go bad in the heat. How about if we have a lunch packed for us at the cafeteria?”
“I vote for that. Will I need hiking boots?” Margie asked.
“Sturdy shoes should do. It’s a trail. How about Thursday?”
They all agreed.
Evelyn finished her salad and pushed the plate aside. She turned to Margie. “At the end of November, there’s a holiday dance, the biggest one of the year, and it benefits the children’s wing of the hospital. Would you two like to go with Max and me? It’s mucho swanky.”
Margie looked at Royce for an answer. He smiled and nodded.
Evelyn said, “Oh! Goody! Margie, do you have a dress?”
“Not one that fancy. There’s a sewing machine in the common room. I could make one.”
“Don’t bother. I know this fabulous Chinese tailor. He’s cheap and fast, and he can work from a magazine picture. We’ll shop for material in Chinatown; the silks are gorgeous.”
The meal finished and their social calendar arranged, they danced to a Billie Holiday song playing on the jukebox. As Royce and Margie swayed to the music, he asked, “Are you a golfer?”
“I’m a duffer. Does that qualify?”
“Close enough. If you’re free tomorrow afternoon, I’ll get us a tee time.”
Delighted, she tilted her head up to look at his smiling face. The slowness of his speech and deep, rich timbre of his voice conveyed a calmness so different from Abe’s cocky sureness. Though their breakup seemed long ago, some hurt still lingered, troubling her on the nights she felt lonely.
She said, “I’m free. I’d like that a lot.” He pulled her in closer and she felt comfortable in his firm hold. Laying her head on his chest, she mused over his name—Royce. When the music changed to a jitterbug, they stopped for a smoke.
Cheers arose from the dance floor. Evelyn and Max were putting on a show, bopping to the boogie-woogie beat of the Andrews Sisters. Max twirled her around and reeled her in with one smooth motion, Evelyn swiveling her hips like a woman walking sexy. Other couples stopped dancing and formed a circle around them, clapping and chanting, “Get hot! Get hot!”
Margie was amazed.
“He’s a pro,” Royce said. “Max worked as a dance instructor when he was in medical school. That guy lives for dancing, booze, and women.”
That wasn’t what Margie wanted to hear. This egotistical man would hurt Evelyn. How could her best friend be so blind?
“Cock your wrists,” Royce told Margie. He stood behind her, his hands over hers on the golf grip, giving her a lesson. There had been several over the last few weeks. “Swing through, shift your weight, bend your knees, and pivot. The power should come from your legs, not your arms.”
She collapsed, giggling. “What about hitting the ball?”
“You have to keep your eye on the ball.”
“How can I do that when I’m twisted up like a pretzel?”
He sighed. “I think it’s time for a break.” He put the clubs in the bag, hoisting it to his shoulder, and they strolled toward the clubhouse. He said, “Max and I signed up for a g
olf competition. We need cheerleaders. You up for it?”
“Cheerleaders? No way. Golf is quiet.”
“Yes, cheerleaders. And costumes.”
“Costumes? Are you kidding? Golf is stuffy.”
“It’s for Halloween.”
“That’s only a week away! What kind of costumes?” She stopped walking and turned to him.
His gaze traveled from her face to her breasts, prompting her to pose, chest out and head tipped to one side. Grinning, he said, “Surprise me.”
She found she enjoyed his scrutiny as much as the intimate stroke of his hands when they were alone. She caressed his cheek and slipped her thumb into his mouth. “Naughty or nice?”
He nibbled on the tip of it. “You choose.”
Margie never knew what to expect from her new crowd of friends. There was always a reason to party—picnics on the beach, cocktails around the pool, dinner out, and theater afterward. The day of the golf competition, she and Evelyn wore harem pants and midriff-baring tops made of shiny yellow satin and veils fashioned from fluttery pink chiffon.
Royce came dressed as a sultan, his headdress adorned with sequins and sparkling jewels, and Max came costumed as a thief, a dagger tucked into his belt. They played on the scenic course that skirted the ocean, with Margie and Evelyn trailing behind, buzzing kazoos, jangling tambourines, and offering the competition whiskey shots. Max smirked and Royce ogled. Everyone passed way beyond tipsy by the end of the day.
The next morning, Margie stretched languidly between the sheets. Her mouth was dry, and her head ached. She kept her eyes shut, because they hurt too. A hangover day, like too many others. She would take aspirin, then go float in the pool with her ears under the water to block out noise. While sinking back into a snooze, she heard a rustle. She opened her eyes. Royce lay in the bed, smiling down, propped on one elbow. He said, “Nothing happened.”
Her gaze darted around. The room was unfamiliar. On the floor by the bed lay her billowy costume and the kazoo. The world popped sharply into focus—Royce’s bed! She grabbed the sheet and tucked it under her chin. “Nothing?”
“Not a thing.”
“Humph. That’s not saying much for either one of us.”
He chuckled, falling back on his pillow. “Well, maybe I remember just a little.”
Rolling to face him, she demanded, “Gimme all the details.”
“We passed out. End of story.”
“Passed out? Are you sure?”
He played with her tangled hair, fanning it out on the pillow, combing it with his fingers, crushing it in his hand. Rising up, he leaned over her. “I’m sure I didn’t do this,” he murmured, kissing her.
She took pleasure in the feeling of his lips on hers, soft and wet, and she caressed them with the tip of her tongue. So often in the past weeks her thoughts had wandered to this moment, leaving her weak with yearning for him. Of their own accord, her fingers played with the stubble of his beard, the curve of his ear, the line of his jaw, the taut muscles of his chest.
Peeling back the sheet, he ran his fingers up her back and down again, causing her to shiver with desire. “I’m sure I didn’t do this,” he said as he gently squeezed her breasts, caressing them, kissing them, flicking the nipples with his tongue, hungrily squashing his face into them.
Margie whispered, “Hmm! That feels familiar. Are you sure you didn’t do that?”
Chuckling, he pulled back so he could reach the flat of her stomach, softly tracing figure-eight patterns with his fingertips. “You’re more beautiful than I ever imagined.”
“Have you been undressing me with your eyes?”
“Every minute of the day and night.”
Savoring the image of Royce lusting for her, she moved her hips to the rhythm of his caresses. Closing her eyes, she let the heat of the moment carry her away as his hand slipped lower, his finger flicking and stroking until she grabbed his hand and crushed it into her, every nerve in her body firing and every muscle contracting. She cried out, then went limp in his arms.
Rolling back, she pulled him on top of her, wanting the feel of his weight. Pulsing with pleasure, she wrapped her legs around him to hold him tight against her.
He murmured into her ear, “My darling, are you sure you want to do this?”
“There’s nothing in the world I’ve ever wanted more.”
CHAPTER 8
Manila, November 1941
Margie crawled out from under the mosquito netting tenting her bed and almost stepped on a gargantuan cockroach. Yelping, she jerked her foot back as the hard-shelled critter skittered through a gap in the wall. Despite the chemicals sprinkled in the cracks, the creepy-crawlies got in anyway, unrelenting and dangerous, carrying malaria, dengue fever, and dysentery.
She showered in the communal bathroom, then combed her hair and applied lipstick at the dressing table in her room. Opening her closet, she caught a whiff of mold, though keeping the light on supposedly prevented it from growing. The formal dress made for tonight’s holiday dance crowded the space. She caressed the ivory silk of the skirt, slinky as a nightgown. The breeze from the ceiling fan offered scant relief from the oppressive heat, so she dressed and moved slowly.
Royce came to mind, often now. She found pleasure in his steady, easygoing manner. Together they explored the baroque cathedrals and museums of Intramuros, shopped in Chinatown, and sampled strange foods in restaurants. His passion for golf became hers too; under his instruction, she was getting the ball into the air. In a world of their own, they walked on the beach, or swam in the ocean, then changed into formal dress for dinner and the theater. They attended pool parties and dances, and played euchre with friends. Margie’s favorite times, however, were when they were alone, sharing a bottle of wine and a crossword puzzle with music playing softly in the background.
They talked endlessly. She told him about her mother and dad, her home in Michigan, her experiences with the Red Cross, and her college days when she had met Evelyn. She confided that she had been engaged to her high school sweetheart, but it hadn’t worked out.
He told her about his older sister, who still bossed him around, of his years in medical school, and his fantasy of being a golf pro. “I grew up on a ranch in Texas with horses and dogs. Someday, I’ll return there. I want you there too, Margie. Would you consider it? Just hypothetically, of course.”
She saw Evelyn on days when their schedules allowed, and they sometimes double-dated. These occasions were trying, though, because Margie found Max insufferable. She also had heard rumors of his conquests of Filipino girls, some of which were allegedly not consensual. Over a drink in the bar, she discussed her worries with Royce.
“There’s something off about that guy. I hate how he treats Evelyn.”
Royce swirled his drink. “He lives by his own rules; brilliant people often do. Maybe that’s what attracts her.”
“I think he’s sinister. There’s the Filipino nurse who was raped—”
“There’s no evidence it was Max. She won’t name her assailant. Don’t spread rumors, Margie.”
“I’m not. I’m only telling you what I heard.” She emptied her glass and debated if she wanted a refill. “The woman is scared. She’s afraid she’ll lose her job. I think Evelyn should at least be aware of what’s going on. Don’t you?”
“Only if there’s proof that it was Max. Even then, she would blame you for being the messenger. Are you willing to risk your friendship?”
No, she wasn’t, and that only made her quandary more problematic, because the nagging thoughts persisted. Max had no regard for anyone but himself, and Evelyn could be in harm’s way.
The night of the holiday dance, the residence hall lobby overflowed with fine-looking men greeting dazzling women in colorful dresses. High-heeled shoes clicked on tile floors, and perfume and shaving lotion mingled with the scent of fresh flowers.
Royce’s smile widened as he watched Margie make her entrance down the staircase, a vision in ivory silk and pe
arls. In her fiery red hair looped and curled from the heat, she had pinned a white gardenia. Grinning like a Cheshire cat, he whispered into her ear, “You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
Evelyn was equally stunning in her mint-green gown, which flaunted her ample bosom. Her blond hair, pulled back into a soft chignon, accentuated her small, even features and flawless complexion. A clear glass-bead necklace and dangling earrings sparkled multicolored in the light, and a huge orchid encircled her wrist.
“The car’s waiting,” Max said, ushering them toward the door. “Evelyn—stop a minute.” He inspected the back of her leg. “You’ve got a run.” He turned to Margie. “Do you have a stocking Miss Clumsy here can borrow?”
Dresses swished and heels tapped as the girls ascended the stairs. “Why do you let him talk to you that way?”
“What way? Oh that.” Evelyn shrugged. “It’s just the way he is. He grew up with six older sisters.” In the room, Evelyn unbuckled her silver sandal and peeled off the damaged hosiery. She waggled her newly freed toes. “I have some news. Promise not to say a word.”
“I promise.”
Evelyn tapped a cigarette out of the pack. “Max asked me to marry him.” She lit the smoke, glancing at Margie over the top of the flame.
“And what did you say?”
“Yes, of course.”
Margie reached for the pack to cover her crestfallen expression. Her hand shaky, she couldn’t get the lighter to flick a flame, so she banged it against the edge of the table. What could Evelyn be thinking, planning a life with this unbearable man? She tried the lighter again with success. Recovering her composure, she said, “That’s wonderful. When’s the big day?”
“We haven’t set a date, but soon.”
“What’s your hurry? You don’t really know much about him.”
“That’s not so! We’ve been dating for months. He’s told me all about his family. His grandparents still live in Italy. His mom and dad came over to start an import business. His sisters are all married, and he has dozens of nieces and nephews. It was his mother’s dream that he became a doctor.”
A Pledge of Silence Page 6