Charlie Chan Is Dead 2

by Jessica Hagedorn

  “I think you and Carlito have the same fate. We have no baby also.”

  “God dictates,” Alipio said, making an effort to stand. Monica, in a miraculous surge of power, rushed to him and helped him up. She seemed astonished and embarrassed at what she had done.

  “Thank you,” said Alipio. “I have crutches, but I don’t want no crutches. They tickle me.” He watched Monica go back to her seat.

  “It must be pretty hard alone,” Mrs. Zafra said.

  “God helps,” Alipio said, walking towards the kitchen as if expecting to find the Almighty there.

  Mrs. Zafra followed him. “What are you preparing?” she asked.

  “Let’s have lunch,” he said. “I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

  “We’ll help you,” Mrs. Zafra said, turning back to where Monica sat staring at her hands again and listening perhaps for the sound of the sea. She did not notice nor hear her sister when she called, “Monica!”

  The second time, she heard her. Monica stood up and went to the kitchen.

  “There’s nothing to prepare,” Alipio was saying, as he opened the refrigerator. “What you want to eat? Me. I don’t eat bread, so I got no bread. I eat rice. I was just opening a can of sardines when you come. I like sardines with lots of tomato sauce and hot rice.”

  “Don’t you cook the sardines?” Mrs. Zafra asked. “Monica will cook it for you if you want.”

  “No! If you cook sardines, it taste bad. Better uncooked. Besides, on top of the hot rice, it gets cooked. You chop onions. Raw not cooked. You like it?”

  “Monica loves raw onions, don’t you, Sis?”

  “Yes,” Monica said in a voice so low Alipio couldn’t have heard her.

  “Your sister, is she well?” Alipio asked, glancing towards Monica.

  Mrs. Zafra gave her sister an angry look.

  “I’m okay,” Monica said, a bit louder this time.

  “She’s not sick,” Mrs. Zafra said, “but she’s shy. Her own shadow frightens her. I tell you, this sister of mine, she got problems.”

  “Oh?” Alipio exclaimed. He had been listening quite attentively.

  “I eat onions,” Monica said. “Sardines, too, I like.”

  Her sister smiled. “What do you say, I run out for some groceries,” she said, going back to the living room to get her bag.

  “Thanks. But no need for you to do that. I got lots of food, canned food. Only thing I haven’t got is bread,” Alipio said.

  “I eat rice, too,” Monica said.

  Alipio had reached up to open the cabinet. It was stacked full of canned food: corned beef, pork and beans, vienna sausage, tuna, crab meat, shrimp, chow mein, imitation noodles, and, of course, sardines, in green and yellow labels.

  “The yellow ones with mustard sauce, not tomato,” he explained.

  “All I need is a cup of coffee,” Mrs. Zafra said, throwing her handbag back on the chair in the living room.

  Alipio opened two drawers near the refrigerator. “Look,” he said as Mrs. Zafra came running back to the kitchen. “I got more food to last me . . . a long time.”

  The sisters gaped at the bags of rice, macaroni, spaghetti sticks, sugar, dried shrimps wrapped in cellophane, bottles of soy sauce and fish sauce, vinegar, ketchup, instant coffee, and more cans of sardines.

  The sight of all that foodstuff seemed to have enlivened the old man. After all, it was his main sustenance, source of energy and health. “Now look here,” he said, turning briskly now to the refrigerator, which he opened. With a jerk he pulled open a large freezer, crammed full of meats. “Mostly lamb chops,” he said, adding, “I like lamb chops.”

  “Carlito, he hates lamb chops,” Mrs. Zafra said.

  “I like lamb chops,” Monica said, still wild-eyed, but now with a bit of color tinting her cheeks. “Why do you have so much?” she asked.

  Alipio looked at her before answering. He thought she looked younger than her married sister. “You see,” he said, “I read the papers for bargain sales. I can still drive the car when I feel all right. It’s only now my leg’s bothering me. So. I buy all I can. Save me many trips.”

  Later they sat around the enormous table in the dining room. Monica shared half a plate of the boiled rice topped with a sardine with Alipio. He showed her how to place the sardine on top, pressing it a little and pouring spoonfuls of the tomato sauce over it.

  Mrs. Zafra had coffee and settled for a small can of vienna sausage and a little rice. She sipped her coffee meditatively.

  “This is good coffee,” she said. “I remember how we used to hoard Hills Bros. coffee at . . . at the college. The sisters were quite selfish about it.”

  “Antonieta was a nun, a sister of mercy,” Monica said.

  “What?” Alipio exclaimed, pointing a finger at her for no apparent reason, an involuntary gesture of surprise.

  “Yes, I was,” Mrs. Zafra admitted. “When I married, I had been out of the order for more than a year, yes, in California, at St. Mary’s.”

  “You didn’t . . .” Alipio began.

  “Of course not,” she interrupted him. “If you mean did I leave the order to marry Carlito. Oh, no. He was already an old man.”

  “I see. We used to joke him because he didn’t like the girls too much. He prefer the cocks.” The memory delighted him so much, he reared his head up as he laughed, covering his mouth hastily, but too late. Some of the tomato-soaked grains of rice had already spilled out on his plate and the table in front of him.

  Monica looked pleased as she gathered carefully some of the grains on the table.

  “He hasn’t changed,” Mrs. Zafra said vaguely. “It was me who wanted to marry him.”

  “You? After being a nun, you wanted to marry . . . Carlito? But why Carlito?” Alipio seemed to have forgotten for the moment that he was still eating. The steam from the rice passed across his face, touching it. He was staring at Mrs. Zafra as he breathed in the aroma without savoring it.

  “It’s a long story,” Mrs. Zafra said. She stabbed a chunky sausage and brought it to her mouth. She looked pensive as she chewed on it.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Five, six years ago. Six years ago, almost.”

  “That long?”

  “She had to marry him,” Monica said blandly.

  “What?” Alipio said, visibly disturbed. There was the sound of dentures grating in his mouth. He passed a hand over his face. “Carlito done that to you?”

  The coffee spilled a little as Mrs. Zafra put the cup down. “Why, no,” she said. “What are you thinking of?”

  Before he could answer, Monica spoke in the same tone of voice, low, unexcited, saying, “He thinks Carlito got you pregnant, that’s what.”

  “Carlito?” She turned to Monica in disbelief. “Why, Alipio knows Carlito,” she said.

  Monica shrugged her shoulders. “Why don’t you tell him why,” she said.

  “It’s a long story, but I’ll make it short,” she began. She took a sip from her cup and continued, “After leaving the order, I couldn’t find a job. I was interested in social work, but I didn’t know anybody who could help me.”

  As she paused, Alipio said, “What the heck does Carlito know about social work?”

  “Let me continue,” Mrs. Zafra said.

  She still had a little money, from home, and she was not too worried about being jobless. But there was the question of her status as an alien. Once out of the order, she was no longer entitled to stay in the country, let alone get employment. The immigration office began to hound her, as it did other Filipinos in the same predicament. They were a pitiful lot. Some hid in the apartments of friends like criminals running away from the law. Of course, they were law breakers. Those who had transportation money returned home, which they hated to do. At home they would be forced to invent lies as to why they had come back so soon. They were defeated souls, insecure, and no longer fit for anything. They had to learn how to live with the stigma of failure in a foreign land all their lives
. Some lost their minds and had to be committed to insane asylums. Others became neurotic, antisocial, depressed in mind and spirit. Or parasites. Some must have turned to crime. Or just folded up, in a manner of speaking. It was a nightmare. She didn’t want to go back to the Philippines. Just when she seemed to have reached the breaking point, she recalled incidents in which women in her situation married American citizens and, automatically, became entitled to permanent residency with an option to become U.S. citizens after five years. At first, she thought the idea was hideous, unspeakable. Other foreign women in a similar situation could do it perhaps, but not Philippine girls. But what was so special about Philippine girls? Nothing really, but their upbringing was such that to place themselves in a situation where they had to tell a man that they wanted to marry him for convenience was degrading, an unbearable shame. A form of self-destruction. Mortal sin! Better repatriation. A thousand times.

  When an immigration officer finally caught up with her, he proved to be very understanding and quite a gentleman. He was young, maybe of Italian descent, and looked like a star salesman for a well-known company in the islands that dealt in farm equipment. Yet he was firm.

  “I’m giving you one week,” he said. “You have already overstayed by several months. If, in one week’s time, you haven’t yet left, I shall have to send you to jail, prior to deportation proceedings.”

  She cried, oh, how she cried. She wished she had not left the order, no, not really. She had no regrets about leaving up to this point. Life in the convent had turned sour on her. She despised the sisters and the system, which she found tyrannical, inhuman. In her own way, she had a long series of talks with God and God had approved of the step she had taken. She was not going back to the order. Even if she did, she would not be taken back. To jail then?

  But why not marry an American citizen? In one week’s time? How? Accost the first likely man and say, “You look like an American citizen. If you are, will you marry me? I want to remain in this country.”

  All week she talked to God. It was the same God she had worshipped and feared all her life. Now they were palsy walsy, on the best of terms. As she brooded over her misfortune, He brooded with her, sympathized with her, and finally advised her to go look for an elderly Filipino, who was an American citizen, and tell him the truth of the matter. Tell him that if he wished, it could be a marriage in name only. If he wished . . . Otherwise . . . Meanwhile He would look the other way.

  How she found Carlito Zafra was another story, a much longer story, more confused. It was like a miracle. Her friend God could not have sent her to a better instrument to satisfy her need. That was not expressed well, but amounted to that, a need. Carlito was an instrument necessary for her good. And, as it turned out, a not too unwilling instrument.

  “We were married the day before the week was over,” Mrs. Zafra said. “And I’ve been in this country ever since. And no regrets.”

  They lived well and simply, a country life. True, they were childless, but both of them were helping relatives in the Philippines, sending them money, goods.

  “Lately, however, some of the goods we’ve been sending do not arrive intact. Do you know, some of the good quality material we send never reach my relatives. It’s frustrating.”

  “We got lots of thieves between here and there,” Alipio said, but his mind seemed to be on something else.

  “And I was able to send for Monica. From the snapshots she sent us, she seemed to be getting thinner and thinner, teaching in the barrio, and she wanted so much to come here.”

  “Seniang was like you also. I thank God for her,” Alipio told Mrs. Zafra in such a low voice he could hardly be heard.

  The sisters pretended they didn’t know, but they knew. They knew practically everything about him. Alipio seemed pensive and eager to talk so they listened attentively.

  “She went to where I was staying and said, without any hesitation, marry me and I’ll take care of you. She was thin then and I thought what she said was funny, the others had been matching us, you know, but I was not really interested. I believe marriage means children. And if you cannot produce children, why get married? Besides, I had ugly experiences, bad moments. When I first arrived in the States, here in Frisco, I was young and there were lots of blondies hanging around on Kearny Street. It was easy. But I wanted a family and they didn’t. None of ’em. So what the heck, I said.”

  Alipio realized that Seniang was not joking. She had to get married to an American citizen otherwise she would be deported. At that time, Alipio was beginning to feel the disadvantages of living alone. There was too much time on his hands. How he hated himself for some of the things he did. He believed that if he were married, he would be more sensible with his time and his money. He would be happier and live longer. So when Seniang showed that she was serious, he agreed to marry her. But it was not to be in name only. He wanted a woman. He liked her so much he would have proposed himself had he suspected he had a chance. She was hard working, decent, and, in those days, rather slim.

  “Like Monica,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m thin,” Monica protested, blushing deeply. “I’m all bones.”

  “Monica is my only sister. We have no brother,” Mrs. Zafra said, adding more items in her sister’s vita.

  “Look!” Monica said, “I finished everything on my plate. I haven’t tasted sardines for a long time now. They taste so good, the way you eat them. I’m afraid I’ve eaten up your lunch. This is my first full meal. And I thought I’ve lost my appetite already.”

  Her words came out in a rush. It seemed she didn’t want to stop and paused only because she didn’t know what else to say. But she moved about, gaily and at ease, perfectly at home. Alipio watched her with a bemused look in his face as she gathered the dishes and brought them to the kitchen sink. When Alipio heard the water running, he stood up, without much effort this time, and walked to her, saying, “Don’t bother. I got all the time to do that. You got to leave me something to do. Come, perhaps your sister wants another cup of coffee.”

  Mrs. Zafra had not moved from her seat. She was watching the two argue about the dishes. When she heard Alipio mention coffee, she said, “No, no more, thanks. I’ve drunk enough to keep me awake all week.”

  The two returned to the table after a while.

  “Well, I’m going to wash them myself, later,” Monica said as she took her seat.

  “You’re an excellent host, Alipio,” Mrs. Zafra commended him, her tone sounding like a reading from a citation on a certificate of merit or something. “And to two complete strangers at that. You’re a good man,” she continued, the citation-sounding tone still in her voice.

  “But you’re not strangers. Carlito is my friend. We were young together in the States. And that’s something, you know. There are lots like us here. Old timers, o.t.’s, they call us. Permanent residents. U.S. citizens. We all gonna be buried here.” He appeared to be thinking deeply as he added, “But what’s wrong about that?”

  The sisters ignored the question. The old man was talking to himself.

  “What is wrong is to be dishonest. Earn a living with both hands, not afraid any kind of work. No other way. Everything for convenience, why not? That’s frankly honest. No pretend. Love comes in the afterwards. When it comes. If it comes.”

  Mrs. Zafra chuckled, saying, “Ah, you’re a romantic, Alipio. I must ask Carlito about you. You seem to know so much about him. I bet you were quite a . . .” she paused because what she wanted to say was “rooster,” but she did not want to give the impression of overfamiliarity.

  But Alipio interrupted her, saying, “Ask him, he will say, yes, I’m a romantic.” His voice had a vibrance that was a surprise and a revelation to the visitors. He gestured as he talked, puckering his mouth every now and then, obviously to keep his dentures from slipping out. “What do you think? We were young, why not? We wowed ’em with our gallantry, with our cooking. Boy, those dames never seen anything like us. Also, we were fools, most of us,
anyway. Fools on fire!”

  Mrs. Zafra clapped her hands. Monica was smiling.

  “Ah, but that fire is gone. Only the fool’s left now,” Alipio said, weakly. His voice was low and he looked tired as he passed both hands across his face. Then he lifted his head. The listening look came back to his face. Now his voice shook as he spoke again.

  “Many times I wonder where are the others. Where are you? Speak to me. And I think they’re wondering the same, asking the same, so I say, I’m here, your friend Alipio Palma, my leg is broken, the wife she’s dead, but I’m okay. Are you okay also? The dead they can hear even they don’t answer. The alive don’t answer. But I know. I feel. Some okay, some not. They old now, all of us, who were very young. All over the United States. All over the world . . .”

  Abruptly, he turned to Mrs. Zafra, saying, “So. You and Carlito. But Carlito he never had fire.”

  “You can say that again,” Mrs. Zafra laughed. “It would have burned him. Can’t stand it. Not Carlito. But he’s a good man, I can tell you that.”

  “No question. Da best,” Alipio conceded.

  Monica had been silent, but her eyes followed every move Alipio made, straying no farther than the reach of his arms as he gestured to help make clear the intensity of his feeling.

  “I’m sure you still got some of that fire,” Mrs. Zafra said.

  Monica gasped, but recovered quickly. Again a rush of words came from her lips as if they had been there all the time and now her sister had said something that touched off the torrent of words. Her eyes shone as in a fever as she talked.

  “I don’t know Carlito very well. I’ve not been with them long, but from what you say, from the way you talk, from what I see, the two of you are different . . .”

  “Oh, maybe not,” Alipio said, trying to protest, but Monica went on.

  “You have strength, Mr. Palma. Strength of character. Strength in your belief in God. I admire that in a man, in a human being. Look at you. Alone. This huge table. Don’t you find it too big sometimes?” Monica paused, her eyes fixed on Alipio.