Hero hates freestyle, Rosalyn said. She made me listen to her music in the car when I picked her up. She only listens to music about white people having feelings.
Are we going clockwise or counterclockwise? Hero asked loudly, pointing around the table.
Counterclockwise, Jaime said. You’re next.
Hero put down a four of spades.
Rosalyn was undeterred. She demanded of the table in general: You ever heard of Lotus Eaters? Fiction Factory?
Without waiting for an answer, she put down the king of clubs, and both Jaime and Isagani groaned.
Why do you always have to jump to the face cards when we’re just getting started? Jaime demanded. You play like a fuckin’ kid. Then he looked at Roni: My bad.
Roni shrugged again, started slowly moving sideward, away from Hero, toward Jaime, taking a peek at his cards. Sit down here, he said, yanking over another folding chair, its metal legs screeching on the concrete floor. She climbed into it, folding her legs beneath her as usual. Jaime switched his ashtray to the other side of the table, waving the smoke away from Roni.
Do you know how to play pusoy dos? he asked. Roni shook her head. Okay, just watch me, I’m gonna beat all these suckers and take their money.
Lowme, quit flirting with a kindergartener, Rosalyn said, examining her cards.
I’m in the third grade, Roni corrected.
Oh, okay, never mind then. Rosalyn rolled her eyes, then pointed down at the king of clubs. Anybody? Everyone begged off, and she preened, put down a pair of tens; hearts and spades.
I hate your ass, Jaime muttered. Pass.
Hero looked down at her cards. She had three aces she was saving for a future play, but—fuck it. She put two of them down, spades and diamonds. Her hands didn’t hurt anymore, or she didn’t feel them. It might have been the rum and Coke; she knew it wasn’t. Now Rosalyn was crowing, Look who came to play—
* * *
A few games later, Boy came into the garage from the kitchen, asking Rosalyn and Jaime to move their table down, so the older relatives could play mah-jongg next to them. A woman who looked a lot like Rosalyn approached Jaime and Rosalyn, put a hand on Jaime’s shoulder. Did JR come out of his room yet? she asked.
Rosalyn said, I knocked just like an hour ago. He already got some food, he’s eating it in his room.
The woman tsk-ed, then her eyes fell onto Hero and Roni. Are you Roni?
Roni, in the middle of balancing two cards against each other in an improvised teepee, nodded.
I’m your Auntie Rhea! I used to work with your mom! I’m the one who told your mom about Lola Adela. How’s your eczema, ha? Is it getting better?
Roni withdrew from Rhea’s bombast, face shuttering. She nodded into her own chest. I think so.
You think so? Rhea repeated, stepping closer, smiling. That’s good! Let me see. You’re— She reached a hand out to take hold of Roni’s arm, but Roni jerked back so quickly she nearly fell sideward out of her folding chair. Hero shot out both arms instinctively to catch her, but Rosalyn was already there, pushing Roni back onto the chair with one brusque shove, then letting go just as swiftly.
Mom. You’re embarrassing her.
How, I’m embarrassing her? Then Rhea turned to Jaime. Am I embarrassing her? Jaime held up his hands, staying out of it.
Rhea lost interest in Roni, and turned stern.
Jaime. You go up and talk to JR. Get him to come down.
Mom, Rosalyn said.
JR listens to Jaime, Rhea argued. Tell him you’re playing cards. He likes cards.
We’re taking a break right now, Jaime said. I’ll go up and ask him again if he wants to eat down here.
See, Rhea said to Rosalyn, pointing to Jaime, who was already leaving. See how easy that is? She followed Jaime into the house. Rosalyn didn’t move, face stony.
Hero stood there, awkward, along with Roni, Rochelle, and Isagani. Gani broke through the silence first, said, I’m hungry, too.
On their way back into the house, Rosalyn leading the way, Rochelle untangled herself from Gani’s arms, turned around. Held out a paper gift bag to Hero.
Hey, hold on. Here. Christmas gift for you.
Hero blinked down at it, then felt horror creep up from her feet into her stomach, her chest. Sorry, I—don’t have a present for—
No, no, no, Rochelle said, waving her hand. Don’t sweat it, I didn’t even buy it myself. It’s just some Avon perfumes my mom had around the house. We had some Sweet Honesty, I remember from when we were talking about it. I threw in some other stuff, too. We don’t even use it, it’s just in storage. I saw it and thought of you.
Hero’s hands felt like they were made of old clay, dried out and crumbly. She took the bag, didn’t know what to say. Thank—thanks, I mean.
She stood up straight, met Rochelle’s eyes, her warm, questionless face. Amihan, the third or fourth year in, handing Hero a plastic bag full of elastic bandages, saying: Maligayang Pasko, doktora.
It’s really nice of you, Hero said, making sure the words were said clearly. Thank you.
No big, Rochelle said, while Isagani hugged her from behind, kissing at her ear. Hero felt, more than saw, someone watching her. When she looked, Rosalyn’s back was obscuring Roni’s, stepping into the kitchen, her cheerful voice saying, You wanna eat the best lechon in the Bay?
* * *
In the backyard, the pig had long been pieced apart on the patio, most of its left flank missing, head still intact, apple in its mouth. The wooden pole it had been spitted on was lying in the grass, glistening. Several bottles of Mang Tomas were scattered around. Jaime, Rosalyn, and Roni were hovering near an old plastic slide, Roni perched at the top, Rosalyn leaning with one knee on the steps, Jaime at the bottom, unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, telling Roni she needed to put more sauce on her lechon. Isagani and Rochelle were sitting on the ground, sharing one plate between them. Hero had a plate of food, given to her by Adela, too much meat. She wasn’t really hungry, but she knew better than to say that out loud.
She made herself another rum and Coke, approached the slide. There was hardly any light in the backyard. The whole space itself, including the yard and garden, was surprisingly expansive, much bigger than the one at Paz and Pol’s house. There were rows and rows of something that looked like vegetables or herbs, and here or there, trees that might have been lime. Hero pointed to one. Is that calamansi?
Rosalyn looked up. Yeah. Grandpa and Grandma planted all those. All the vegetables, too, over there. Kamote and everything.
Hero squinted toward where Rosalyn was pointing. Rosalyn hopped up, put her plate down on the step. I’ll show you, come on.
Hero looked back at Roni, who was glowing with laughter, dipping lechon in Mang Tomas, the scars on her face looking faded in the dim light. She’s fine, ate, chill, Rosalyn said, wiping her hands on her jeans, setting off toward the far end of the backyard.
Hero left her plastic cup on the step next to Rosalyn’s food, and followed. Rosalyn started pointing out things in the ground, shrouded in darkness. In the summer there’s tomatoes there, and eggplant, and green beans, and kangkong. We still have some sweet potatoes. And Grandpa grows all kind of herbs for Grandma’s work. They had friends and stuff bring them seeds from the Philippines. Some of it doesn’t grow so well, but most of the time they find a way to make it work. Depending on the time of the year we have akapulko, and lagundi, and sambong, and tsaang gubat and niyog-niyogan, komprey, abang, buyo-buyo, tanglad, gumamela, luya, malunggay.
Rosalyn listed them all off by heart, like it was nothing to know them all, like they were the first words she’d ever spoken. You know a lot, Hero said.
Rosalyn shrugged, looked away. Grandma taught me all that. Since I was a kid she said I inherited some of the power, so. But really it’s my mom who should be knowing all that shit. Grandma says my mo
m’s power’s even stronger than hers. But she doesn’t want to. You know. She likes being a nurse.
Kind of the same thing, Hero said. Rosalyn bent down, stroking at a plant leaf, maybe a kamote top, then tearing off a piece and chewing at it.
Kind of, she said doubtfully.
Lola Adela isn’t really so much a bruha, anyway, right, Hero said. She’s more like an—albularya.
Nah, nah, nah, Rosalyn said. She just works on like a case-by-case basis, whatever people need. Herbs, prayers, whatever. She’s a bruha for sure, though. You know, when I was a kid, before we left the Philippines? I was like four. I started having seizures. No reason, I didn’t have epilepsy or anything. Just in the run-up to us about to leave, I’d go into these fits, like, foaming at the mouth, speaking in tongues and shit. Grandma treated me. I don’t even remember what happened, but even my mom said that it was like hella scary, Grandma started talking in a voice that wasn’t hers, like, outta The Exorcist. People said it was a bunch of things that were causing the fits. There was someone in our neighborhood who was jealous that we were going to the States, so maybe they put a hex on us. Plus there was a kapre nearby who didn’t want me to leave either. So it was like, a double whammy. It was wild.
Hero waited for more, and when more didn’t appear forthcoming, said, Then what?
Rosalyn shrugged. I don’t know. I guess we just left. I think Grandma might’ve sacrificed something, like a rooster or a kambing. No one really explained it. I’m just saying, she’s a legit bruha. I’m more like an apprentice.
Hero smiled, couldn’t help it, let the words hang in the air for a beat before speaking again. Makeup artist and apprentice bruha.
Rosalyn laughed, standing up, dusting her hands off on her thighs. I’ll put that on a business card. Rosalyn Cabugao, Makeup Artist and Apprentice Bruha. Bruha-in-Training.
I’d hire you, Hero said.
Rosalyn’s laugh faded as she started wandering along the edge of the backyard, even farther out, close to the fence that separated them from the next house, pointing out more vegetation like she was introducing Hero to family members.
Grandpa planted these trees here when I was a kid, when we first moved in. Another calamansi, and then there’s a couple persimmon trees around here, too. We have the persimmon trees you can eat right off the tree like apples, not the ones you have to let get mushy before they taste good. Look, there’s still some fruit. You should’ve come by in October, we were giving bags of them away. Now just the ones that stayed green or ripened all weird are left. Look, this one’s—too hard. Probably still green, I can’t see. Wait. This one’s good.
Rosalyn yanked a persimmon off of a tree, wiped it on her shirt, tossed it to Hero, who couldn’t grasp it, dropped it on the ground.
Even in the shadow, Hero saw Rosalyn’s face go pale. Sorry, she stammered.
It’s fine, Hero said. It was fine. She picked the persimmon up from the ground, wiped it on her own shirt. Bit into it; sweet and overripe, icy cold to the teeth.
A long silence. Then: Your hands, Rosalyn said.
Hero didn’t stop chewing; she’d known this was coming, ever since Rosalyn had rushed to say, That’s fine, about Hero not being able to handle a knife.
It looks worse than it is, Hero preempted, knowing that wouldn’t be the end of it.
It was darkest here, in the farthest reach of the backyard, outside the grasp of the patio light, outside even the gradually darkening halo it cast onto the soil. Jaime and Roni and the others were in another world entirely, too far away to hear their voices. Hero couldn’t see the expression that was on Rosalyn’s face when she said,
Can I ask how that happened.
Hero looked down at the persimmon. If she thumbed along the place she’d bitten, she’d feel her own teeth marks; see them, if she held it up close.
I was part of the New People’s Army for around ten years. I got captured. I was in a prison camp for two years. It happened there.
That was something else to discover, then—another of the funny, dug-deep, wrenched-open, torn things: it was possible to say it, just like that, in four sentences, easy, short, in a backyard with someone she’d known for only a couple of months. Bones shivering, clenched up, still not used to the new weather, hurt thumb inside the flesh of something sticky.
She wasn’t finished; there was more, the hardest part. I was a doctor, Hero said.
Her voice sounded steady, at least to her own ear, but she could feel the shaking, gripping her from neck to ankle, elbows, in her knees, in all of the badly mended joints of her hands. She brought the persimmon back up to her mouth, bit into it, just to do something, to stop the shaking. She tried to bite, but couldn’t. Her teeth wouldn’t sink in. She didn’t have the strength to bite down.
Rosalyn was still watching her, though Hero couldn’t see her face. She had another one of those bolo-sharp thoughts, absolute: if Rosalyn tried to hug her, she might vomit.
Rosalyn didn’t try to hug her. Gimme that, she said, holding a dim hand out to the persimmon Hero was trying to bite into. Hero gave it to her, glad to have a hand free again. She heard, rather than saw, Rosalyn biting into the persimmon herself.
Put out your hand.
Hero put out a hand, dumb. Rosalyn placed a small fragment of persimmon—invisible, saliva-wet, juice-sticky—into the center of Hero’s open palm. Hero looked down at it absurdly; then just as absurdly, put it in her mouth. Tried to chew, found she could.
She heard Rosalyn take another bite, heard the wet, crunching sounds. Hero held her hand out without having to be told. The second piece of persimmon was even softer, like Rosalyn might have chewed it a little bit before putting it in Hero’s palm.
This is—hella gross, Hero said, copying Rosalyn’s way of speaking, knowing Rosalyn would notice, because it was the kind of thing Rosalyn would say, the kind of thing Hero found herself sometimes wanting to say, because she was hanging around Rosalyn so much. She put the second piece in her mouth. Her face was hot, the only place in her cold-stiffened body where blood was starting to churn again, thawing out. Something in her was shaking, and she thought that was all it was, until she heard the words Are you—laughing? come from Rosalyn’s shadow, her voice still low.
Hero didn’t, couldn’t, answer, but held her hand out for the third piece of persimmon she knew was coming. Rosalyn put it in her palm. It tasted yeasty, like Budweiser and pig fat, and then chalky, glacial; one side of the persimmon was unripe. Hero knew then, with a wry, bleak, doubtless humor, that life was long, that this third or fourth life she was on was long, long, long, not even all the way started up yet, not even close. She’d fallen down another slope; now she was being carried back up the mountain. Listening to Rosalyn’s chewing noises start up again in the dark, Hero’s throat ached, all the way down the arteries, down to where the throat met the heart. She held her hand out for the next bite.
* * *
The music had picked up considerably since they’d decamped to the backyard; now the garage was full of people Hero had never seen before, men, a few girls clustered to one side, listening as Isagani spun a Jungle Brothers record, the bass of it thudding up from the floor into Hero’s chest. Jaime was behind the decks, sitting on the ground and chatting to Ruben, smoking. Roni was on her second wind, drinking hot chocolate out of a mug that said World’s Best Grandpa.
I don’t wanna go home, she said when Hero told her it was time to go. I wanna stay here.
Your mom’s waiting for us.
So? Roni said, licking her lips.
Rosalyn came up to Hero. I’ll drive you, she said. Then she turned around to call to Jaime. Lowme, move your car out the way, I’m gonna drive them home.
Jaime pushed himself up, parking the cigarette in his mouth and jogging over to his car, a dark brown Supra that looked more beat up than Rosalyn’s Civic, with a large spoiler on the back, larger even t
han the one on Pol’s Corona. Without bothering to close his driver’s side door, he backed his car into the street, to make room for Rosalyn to back out herself.
Merry Christmas, he yelled when he was done, hanging out of his car, words warbled by the cigarette, voice echoing all the way down the long street. Yo, Hero, we’re going up to the city for New Year’s Eve, you doing anything?
No, Hero said. Jaime sounded drunk. Okay, come up with us, then! I’m driving. Rosalyn, you tell her. Roni! Roni! Night, Roni! Next time we’ll watch some Dragon Ball, okay?
Roni was still holding the cup of hot chocolate, half empty, so Hero took it out of her hands. I’ll just put this back in the kitchen, she told Rosalyn, then jogged back.
Adela and Boy were there with a group of other older aunties and uncles, picking at the food, talking. They’d cleared some of the food away and set up the mah-jongg pieces, but looked like they hadn’t been playing for a while. Adela turned wide-awake-looking eyes to Hero, who brandished the cup.
Roni still had this. I can wash it.
Don’t worry about that, Adela said, shaking her head, standing to take the cup and put it in the sink. Take some food with you.
No, it’s fine.
Come on, Adela said. She pointed at the table in the corner, at the other women who were filling paper plates with mounds of pancit. Just take some.
Boy stood and started putting pancit in plates himself, wrapping it with foil and handing it to Hero silently, brooking no argument. She accepted it, said, Thank you.
Then she turned to Adela, who was still rinsing the cup. Thank you, Lola Adela, ha? Hero said. For inviting us. Roni had a lot of fun.
And you? Adela squirted soap onto a sponge, back still to Hero. You had fun?
I had fun, Hero said, surprised again that she was telling the truth.
Adela turned around, studying her, then drew her into a one-armed hug. Her hands were still covered in foam. Okay. Good night. Drive safe. Merry Christmas, ha? Boy, she called to her husband. Aalis na sila.
America Is Not the Heart Page 20