Advance praise
“With its enticing undertow of secrets and magic, The Hour of Daydreams will seduce readers with its reverence for mystery, its gentle humor, and its deep empathy for its characters’ longings and losses. Sometimes it takes a village to tell a story as extraordinary as this—and Renee Macalino Rutledge has managed to do just that.”
—Cristina García, author of Dreaming in Cuban
“Macalino Rutledge’s debut novel is a tale of dreams and secrets and what is hidden inside a marriage, and what cannot be denied. The writing is vivid and evocative, the world richly textured and alive. Here the duende speaks!”
—Micheline Aharonian Marcom, author of Three Apples Fell From Heaven
“The Hour of Daydreams isn’t just a wonderful book—it’s a lyrical and poetic journey, one that’s simultaneously magical, surprising, and mesmerizing. It’s a love story, fable, fairy tale, and contemporary novel woven together with seamless thread, reminiscent of Isabel Allende. A brilliant start to a beautiful literary career.”
—Erin Entrada Kelly, author of The Land of Forgotten Girls
“Lyrical and compelling. You won’t forget the characters and myths Renee Macalino Rutledge brings to life in her stunning debut.”
—Vanessa Hua, author of Deceit and Other Possibilities
“A beautiful book that collapses the boundaries between reality and fairy tale, The Hour of Daydreams is both gritty and poetic. The atmosphere is fresh and vivid, like a broad green leaf shimmering with raindrops.”
—Elena Mauli Shapiro, author of 13, Rue Thérèse
“An honest love story is of two minds—it reveals and confounds, it wounds and redeems. The Hour of Daydreams is nothing short of an honest love story, and Renee Macalino Rutledge is a singular talent.”
—Jamie Duclos-Yourdon, author of Froelich’s Ladder
“Rutledge combines the fantastic with the realist. She infuses a literary story of a husband and wife with fabulist elements, and by doing so creates a reading experience that feels more like a dream than a story. At times the beauty of the sentence-level writing is enough to break your heart. Other times, it’s the imagery that seems magical. But the strength of Rutledge’s writing is that even at these more fantastical moments, the complexity and nuance of the characters’ rich emotional lives are very real. This is a wonderful debut, and a promising new voice in the literary landscape.”
—SJ Sindu, author of Marriage of a Thousand Lies
“Confident and imaginative storytelling. Multiple perspectives weave together and explore the secrets that lurk between lovers, friends, and family members. The Hour of Daydreams has stuck with me since I finished reading it . . . always a good sign that a story has dug its way into my bloodstream.”
—Elise Hooper, author of The Other Alcott
“The prose is lyrical and descriptive, perfect for the curiously unfolding story.”
—Oakland Magazine
“Renee Macalino Rutledge’s The Hour of Daydreams is a stirring and haunting exploration of marriage, culture, and gender roles. You will find yourself cheering for Tala and Manolo as they stumble through fears and desires, and you will celebrate the choral narration with its multiple perspectives on love and community. This debut novel is a delicate weaving of mythology and everyday lives and it is a necessary addition to the literature of the Filipina diaspora.”
—Daisy Hernández, author of A Cup of Water Under My Bed: A Memoir
“It may be difficult for some cultures today to reconcile the tales and superstitions of earlier generations with modern society, yet we lose something when we forget about the past. In The Hour of Daydreams . . . fables may help us understand and embrace certain truths about our background, family, and community, and come to terms with who we really are and what we value. Ultimately, this is a story about human connection, ambition, and dreams.”
—Sandi Ward, author of The Astonishing Thing
“From the very first line of the book, you know you’re in for something different. . . . Lovely and utterly unique, this is definitely worth a read.”
—Kathleen Barber, author of Are You Sleeping
“This is a book you can read for the pure pleasure of a great story well told, or for a challenging and thoughtful reflection on the meaning and value of storytelling itself. . . . At every turn, something or someone is more than they appear. But though the reader wonders along with protagonists about what is real and what is true, one never feels lost or abandoned along the way. The story slowly ripens, revealing increasingly subtle and delicious flavors.”
—Bob Kanegis, professional storyteller
“Reading The Hour of Daydreams is like waltzing with words as Renee weaves folktale with the sweet and deceptive love story of Manolo and Tala. Be prepared for the moments the story shifts to folktale. The brief detours will quickly bring you back to Manolo and Tala, so enjoy the language, savor the images, and tuck them in your pocket.”
—Karen Sargent, author of Waiting for Butterflies
“Renee Rutledge’s beautifully crafted novel examines marriage, family, and identity. Inspired by a Filipino folktale, Rutledge deftly knits fable and contemporary story to explore the power of secrets in everyday lives. This lyrical, stirring first novel invites the reader to linger and dream.”
—Kate Brandes, author of The Promise of Pierson Orchard
The Hour of Daydreams
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance these characters have to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 by Renee Macalino Rutledge
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any form, with the exception of reviewers quoting short passages, without the written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-942436-28-7 (ePub)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Macalino Rutledge, Renee, 1976- author.
Title: The hour of daydreams / Renee Macalino Rutledge.
Description: Portland, Oregon : Forest Avenue Press, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016034358| ISBN 9781942436270 (paperback) | ISBN
9781942436294 (.mobi) | ISBN 9781942436300 (pdf)
Subjects: LCSH: Physicians--Fiction. | Brides--Fiction. | Family
secrets--Fiction. | Identity (Psychology)--Fiction. |
Philippines--Fiction. | Psychological fiction. | BISAC: FICTION /
Literary. | GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A225 H68 2017 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016034358
Distributed by Legato Publishers Group
Cover design: Gigi Little
Feather modified from an original image by Partha S. Sahana
https://www.flickr.com/photos/ps_sahana/14852448109
Other images: Morguefile
Author photo: Tesa Lauigan
Interior design: Laura Stanfill
Printed in the United States of America
by Forest Avenue Press LLC
Portland, Oregon
Forest Avenue Press LLC
P.O. Box 80134
Portland, OR 97280
forestavenuepress.com
Contents
Prologue
Part I
1. Stolen Luck
2. What Lies Within
3. A Second Look
4. Openings
5. Ghosts
6. The Veins of a City
7. The Inner Sanctum
8. Road to a Landslide
9. Stowaway
10. Out of the Lonely Sky
11. Possessor of Fortunes
12. Shapes in the Water
; Part II
13. Playing at Life
14. They Disappear
15. Shadows, Ghosts
16. The Debt
17. Wakefulness
18. Shapeshifting
19. A Dream
20. She Leaves, Returns
21. The Mourning Lover
Part III
22. The Hour of Daydreams
23. Many Colors
24. Conception
25. A City Rising
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Readers’ Guide
For Maya and Raina
Prologue
They whisper that my mother was not one of us, and whatever she was disappeared beneath a pair of wings. At school, talk of my mother floats up from a restless place beneath the ground, surfacing into the soles of their feet and out of their mouths like fog, capable of taking many shapes, spreading in the form of their laughter and murmurs then thinning to nothing, waiting to shake loose from the same furtive earth.
They whisper, but never quietly, of how I will sprout wings or horns of my own, how their mothers command them to stay away from the weird Lualhati girl. But I don’t believe what they do. The fog is blinding but I know too well you can walk right through it.
She was a demon evaporates and fades to the mountaintops. She was an angel leaks with a thousand holes. She was a witch echoes once, overshadowed by the sound of my own breathing. She was a saint sinks beneath endless footsteps walking and forgetting.
The most surprising thing is how it goes on after school, how even the wrinkly and gray-haired can act like children and believe in such ridiculous stories. The neighbors and shopkeepers, every boy and girl, aunt and uncle and their third cousin needs to be home before dark, stay away from this cursed watering hole or that haunted tree, avoid stepping on the duwendes hiding under their feet, flee the coming aswang hungry for the taste of their blood. It’s like an infestation of the mind, these fairy tales, the way they’ve taken root in the bodies of our people. Are our lives so bland that we need this magic, this spice to fill up the holes? Are we ghosts ourselves without them? Or is it the land itself that cannot sleep, packed with lost secrets and layers of bone by the millions, scattered for centuries across seven thousand islands?
Theories can’t change the way things have been or the way things already are. My mother was just an ordinary woman who could not be strong for us, who left her own daughter motherless. I grew up with a father, two grandparents, and the endless gaping of her absence.
I grew up not knowing her.
Papa never forced her memory upon me, didn’t assume I needed to fill the ripped pages or continue forth a twisted legacy. I could cry with Papa, and he understood it was simply because I fell, not that my every tear was stored up just for her.
Instead, I formed a picture of her face with the help of Grandfather Andres, whose slow and raspy words held fragments of a real person, and from these I could imagine the way she might have chewed or laughed or plucked stray petals from my hair. She walked with the eagerness of a child—always quickly, with a longing for her destination imbued in her lean, her far-off gaze. She couldn’t cook to save a starving monkey’s life. She had long, thin fingers that could sew ordinary cloth into anything and big front teeth that added character to her smile. She enjoyed books, but only Grandfather indulged her with discussions about their complex and elaborate plots. She was an attentive wife and mother who liked to find pretty flowers and place them in my hair. She curled up with me during my naps and responded quickly to my cries, but all along hid a terrible secret.
When he talked about my mother, with love instead of taunting, inside of me a river began to flow, stirring me from wonder into longing and, ultimately, bitterness. At her absence and the way they all glorified it. That was when the stirring stopped, the river never growing strong enough to trickle out of me in the form of tears. With Grandfather gone and no recollections of her to hold, there is nothing stirring me now, no river inside; I miss even the bitterness, because at least it was the one thing that made her feel real.
Without Grandfather Andres here to light a candle in my heart, I gaze at Papa differently, curious about the stories he hides, of the real woman and not the fairy tale, seeking her there in his hidden quiet. Without the stories, I realize there is nothing left.
Part I
1. Stolen Luck
Manolo watched his new bride and felt like he had stolen the luck of the gods. He sat at the breakfast table with one leg crossed over the other and a newspaper spread across his lap. He pretended to read, but in truth, Manolo hadn’t absorbed one word. He was too busy noticing that even in a simple housedress and slippers, with her long hair tied back, Tala was beautiful.
Mother sat to his right, nodding and smiling eagerly when Tala offered to butter her roll or serve her another slice of fruit. Ever since Tala had moved in, Mother came to breakfast with her silver hair combed and her jewelry on. She’d coached Tala on how to thaw the breakfast meat, brew the coffee to perfection, and season the garlic rice just the way the men liked it. She was delighted to see how well her instructions were followed as her daughter-in-law took to handling everything. Father, whose habit had been to sleep through breakfast, sat with them every morning with a newfound appetite.
Manolo never anticipated this change in his parents, who seemed to have reawakened into the carriage of their bodies, into their awareness of each other and the pleasures of being catered to. It wasn’t just his marrying that sparked this transformation—it was Tala. He was sure because the burning inside began the first time he saw her, and he saw the fire’s glow reflected in his parents’ cheeks, a bright sheen disguised as sweat.
But Manolo could not flip himself inside out as the old ones had done, let the fire out of his skin so she could know how deeply it consumed him. He sat behind the shield of his paper, grunting or nodding when Tala refilled his coffee cup or offered him another serving of food. He didn’t look up into her eyes, but lingered on the delicate slimness of her wrist.
Behind the guise of reading, he didn’t miss a single sigh or syllable. He knew whose feet tapped beneath the table or scuffled across the floor, which plate was licked clean and which was still half-full. Without looking at their faces, he could even tell when one of them was smiling. He listened to their words, some running on at full speed, others peppered by interjections or emphasized with a familiar squeal, a knowing grunt, or an unexpected snort that turned into combined laughter even he could not resist partaking in. His parents relished every attention from their new daughter-in-law. Tala teased Mother and Father, calling them the newlyweds because of the way they sat, with their chairs touching. Like sweethearts, Tala said. Father proudly placed his arm around Mother’s shoulder, and Mother giggled like a girl. Father began telling Tala a story about the early days courting his Iolana, one Manolo had never heard before.
“I waited for hours outside the market where Iolana chopped meat,” Andres said.
“I thought of him as I severed chicken legs,” Iolana added.
“She did not even know that I had tracked down where she worked, bribing her little brother with sweets.”
“Little Roland. We still call him that, you know. Little Roland. Even though he’s forty-eight years old and weighs two hundred pounds.”
“When she finally came out, I thought she would be happy to see me. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Surprise indeed.” Iolana giggled into her hand.
“She looked at me and ran off in the other direction! I never imagined her skinny legs could fly that quickly, in so much haste to avoid me. I would have chased her, but the flower vendor saw the whole thing, saw me waiting for hours, saw the sting in my eyes when she ran! How he laughed at me!”
“It was my dress. It was my dress. I didn’t want him to see me in my bloodstained dress, smelling of cow guts!”
Manolo smiled, enjoying his wife’s unbridled laughter even more than he
did Father’s story. She was a wonder indeed to stimulate the old ones as she did. Surely he deserved such a wife. After all, he was a doctor and a dutiful son who would see his parents through old age. He had hired Old Luchie to do the cleaning so Tala could keep her pretty hands soft.
But still, Manolo was afraid. He was not yet thirty, but already silver strands dotted the hair at his temples. He was no longer young nor burning with ambition, and worried that Tala, ten years his junior, might look at him one day and realize that after all, he was nothing but a simple, provincial man. His world began and would end right there in Manlapaz. He was certain word of Tala’s beauty had already spread to neighboring provinces. A beauty that was not of this world, they would have described her. She was happy now as his new bride. But how long would she stay content with such a life?
Manolo surprised himself with how outrageously he was behaving, letting the business of men and women, love and marriage, spiral into the dimensions of a soap opera, even if in his thoughts alone. He kept his composure behind the protective folds of the newspaper, convincing himself that he was neither obsessed nor overbearing. Any man in his position would be foolish to ignore the circumstances. Too many a husband shut down his emotions, depriving his wife of attention with the belief that she would spend a lifetime trying to please him. Manolo didn’t buy into this machismo attitude. He neither showered his wife with romantic overtures nor denied her from knowing her hold on him. But who was he to preach the formula for longevity in a marriage?
Watching Tala, he forgot himself. She could not be more graceful in the kitchen, serving his portion before her own, catering to his parents like a daughter should. She had a woman’s body with a child’s joy. Even the house stood more erect on its beams, waking to the tickle of her footsteps.
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