by Noël Alumit
I ate all of her food. Even if I didn’t like it. Auntie Yuna watched me eat until my plate was clean. Her eyes drilled me, opening holes I couldn’t see.
Yes, I ate it all.
CHAPTER THREE
Black Marks
dear mr montgomery clift february 20, 1977
we got a new neighbor downstairs. he has a 280zx car parked in the lot. i haven’t seen him yet but i can hear him sometimes at night. he is not speaking but he is making these sounds. real loud sounds. BABY OH BABY he says. like he is in pain. i hear a woman with him. GOD OH GOD she says. like she is also in pain. but later they are laughing.
i asked auntie yuna what is going on. IGNORE IT she says THE MAN DOWNSTAIRS IS EVIL. HE IS DOING EVIL THINGS THAT SHOULD BE DONE WHEN YOU ARE MARRIED.
after school i sat in the parking lot waiting for mr. evil to come home. i want to see what evil looks like. i waited for almost till dark. then his car came. i went to hide in the laundry room because it is close to the lot. he came out of his car carrying lots of papers. then he went to his apt.
mr. clift, evil is real good-looking.
Mr. Evil was a tall Filipino man with skin the color of autumn leaves. I waited for him in the laundry room almost every day after school. The days I wasn’t with Robert. I’d sit on the dryer and peer through the dusty window. I’d become real quiet, silent like a napping baby, when his car pulled into the parking lot. He always wore something pleasing like a starched white shirt, ironed paper flat.
One day, he wore a gray flannel sweater. His sleeves pulled up to the elbows. I saw veins running up and down his arm like roots bursting from soil.
I watched him walk past the laundry room. I heard his footsteps become real soft, tapering away like fleeting butterflies.
When I thought it was safe, I went back up to Auntie Yuna’s apartment. I ran up the stairs so no one could see me. Mr. Evil’s door was wide open. I looked in really fast. He wasn’t there.
I opened the door to Auntie Yuna’s apartment and there Evil stood, talking to her. She pulled me over to meet him. She acted strange, almost nice. She giggled and offered him food. I knew when she offered food, she offered loyalty. Mr. Evil smiled and said no.
“I need a favor,” he said. “Do you have a stamp? I have a deadline. I need to get this in the mail. Pronto.” He didn’t sound Filipino. His R’s didn’t tremble like a kitten purring. He didn’t mix up his P’s and F’s like identical twins. He sounded American like those people on TV who tell the news.
“Sure,” she said.
Mr. Evil said he was a writer and his name was J. “Is this your son?” J asked Auntie Yuna.
“No,” she said. “I am single. I have no children, just watching him till his mama comes.” She giggled some more.
Evil gave me his hand. I brought it to my forehead. Mama taught me to do that when an older person gave me his hand. It meant I was asking for his blessing. I wondered if asking for a blessing from Evil was a bad thing? His hand was smooth and warm. They were the hands of someone who didn’t know hard work. Mama’s hands, papa’s hands were rough and dry. J’s hand felt good against my head. I wanted to sleep on his knuckles. Bless me, I thought, bless me.
Auntie Yuna laughed and said, “Anak, this is the States. You don’t do that here.”
Evil took my hand and shook it.
“Good to meet you,” J said. “I really need that stamp, though.”
Auntie Yuna went into the bedroom to get some stamps. It was just me and Evil. He bent down and looked me in the eye. His hair was combed back like a slick asphalt road. He reminded me of a Filipino Lee Majors in the six-million-dollar man, some kind of superhero with special powers. If he flew away, I wouldn’t have been surprised.
He smelled real good. Like a department store.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked. I shook my head No.
“If you ever get lonely feel free to come to my apartment.”
Auntie Yuna got him his stamps and he left. His department store smell stayed. I went to sleep with it, surrounding me.
•
J came over once. Auntie Yuna straightened her housedress and brushed the hair from her face, wiping her cheeks and nose of oil. “Why J, another visit so soon?” She giggled, lowering her head. “Did you want to see me about something?”
“Actually, I came to see Bong Bong.”
“About what?” Auntie Yuna asked.
“I want to talk to him about his life.”
“He’s just nine, he hasn’t had much of a life yet.”
He said he wanted to talk to me anyway. He wanted to know what life was like in the Philippines. The Marcoses were doing some mean things to people, he said. At the time, I didn’t understand how bad the Marcoses were.
“I want the view of a little boy,” J said. “I think it would make an interesting angle.”
I told him all I knew. I told him I wanted to help him. I told him my dad would ask people things all the time, find out things. Dad always got mad when people wouldn’t talk.
I told him, “We lived in Baguio City, where I was born. My dad wrote for a newspaper no one was supposed to know about. It told secrets. My dad said it was a paper that told what the Marcoses were doing. They were killing people and stealing from everyone. That’s what my dad would tell me.
“There were people in our house all the time. It was always at night when they came. I could tell many of them were from different parts of the Philippines because they spoke so many different languages, like Tagalog, Illocano, or Cebuano. There were languages I didn’t even have a name for. I couldn’t understand a lot of what they said. Sometimes the languages were so different, they had to speak English to understand each other. Some of the older people spoke Spanish. My English was not as good then as it is now. Now I can almost speak English without having to think of what the next word is supposed to be.
“Dad never allowed me to come to the meetings, but I heard what they were saying. Sometimes they yelled. They talked about gorillas in the mountains.
“Mama was not allowed to go to the meetings. She only entered to serve food. She was good at serving. She had a job as a maid for some rich Americans in Suello village. The Americans worked for the military. I don’t know what they did, but they were real important. Mama took me along to help her clean. It was the most beautiful place with large bedrooms and fancy furniture they brought from America.
“Their names were Mr. and Mrs. Baker. Mr. Baker was the biggest man I had ever seen. He always wore his uniform when I saw him. He tried to speak to me in Tagalog, but he was so bad at it, I just nodded and smiled. Mrs. Baker spoke Tagalog a lot better. She had big brown eyes and wore a lot of gold jewelry. Mama loved her gold. I think it broke her heart knowing she would never be able to own any.
“Mrs. Baker and Mama would go to the marketplaces near Quezon road. They’d buy fish and chicken. Then take a jeepney to La Trinidad and buy vegetables. They would sometimes stop at the Chinese temple on the way and get their fortunes told.
“Mama was a good servant and she walked behind Mrs. Baker.
“‘You’re not a slave,’ Mrs. Baker said. So Mama would walk next to her. I think Mama liked that, because people thought she was Mrs. Baker’s friend and treated her nicer.
“Whenever the sellers would raise the prices because they thought they were selling to a rich American, Mama would get mad at them and make them sell their things at the regular price. I don’t think Mrs. Baker knew what Mama was doing when she fought with them. They often spoke too fast for Mrs. Baker to understand.
“Mama helped Mrs. Baker dress for parties, too. Mama washed her hands real clean so she wouldn’t get any of Mrs. Baker’s clothes dirty. Mama was real good at making Mrs. Baker look good, laying her gowns on her bed. She fluffed up the one she chose. Mama knew which rings or necklaces would go well with each dress.
“Mrs. Baker said if my mama ever needed anything to ask her. Mama never did. She said she wasn’t wor
thy enough to ask Mrs. Baker of anything. I remember it was real hard for her to ask Mrs. Baker to get me to America.
“These men came in the middle of the night and beat up my dad. They said they would stop him from writing anything bad about the President. Mama begged them to go, but they beat her up, too.
“I love my father because he is my father. But I love my mother more. Sometimes I feel bad about this. When those men beat up my dad, I knew he would live. When they beat up my mom, I thought she would die.
“I watched from under the cot, I watched my parents’ faces. They begged me with their eyes not to say a single word. To cry quietly. When those Military Boots kicked Mama in the stomach and the back and the chest and the legs, it might as well have been me.
“They picked up my dad and threw him out the door. When they left, I crawled out from under the cot toward Mama.
“‘Go away,’ she said. Words that stung like needles on my back. A second later, I knew why she said it. The door flew open. The Boots were back.
“‘We knew the boy was hiding,’ One Boot said. ‘We’ll do worse to him if you make more trouble.’
“The boots banged against the floor when they left, getting into a jeep then driving away.
“Mama got up, her nightdress wrinkled and torn, and told me to pack my things. I put all I had into a brown paper bag and Mama took me into the night to where the Bakers lived.
“She knocked on the door.
“‘Who is it?’ a real mad voice said from the dark house.
“‘It’s me, ma’am. Cessy Luwad.’
“‘Cessy?’ Mrs. Baker said unlocking the door, ‘I hope I didn’t sound rude, but my husband’s in Manila…’ the door opened, and Mrs. Baker’s eyes opened up real big. ‘Oh, dear lord,’ she said, leading us into the living room.
“‘Ma’am,’ Mama said, ‘please forgive me for what I’m going to ask.’ It was hard for her to speak, because her lips were busted open, spit and tears and blood bubbled from her face. Mama asked if Mrs. Baker could send us to the States. Mrs. Baker gave Mama a hug and said she would do that. She could arrange passports and citizenship papers, too. All Mama had to do was say when.
“‘As soon as possible,’ Mama said, ‘but just send my boy. Send Bong.’
“‘What about you, honey?’ Mrs. Baker asked.
“‘Not yet. I have to find my husband. I have to. I can’t just leave. I can’t do that.’
“The next day, Mama took me to the airport. Black marks appeared on her body where the boots kicked her. I touched one of the marks, a bruise Mama called it, but she brushed my hand away.
“Before I left, Mama held me for the longest time and said, ‘Bong, you know I love you. When I find your father, we’ll come.’
“‘When?’ I said.
“‘Soon. Real soon. Be good in the States.’
“I promised her I would.”
Even though I didn’t like Auntie Yuna, even though I didn’t like saying CAT with an AAAAA sound, I was good, because that’s what I promised. I was good when Auntie Yuna drank. I was good when I went through foster care.
“‘We’ll be together real soon,’ she said. I did not want to leave, but Mama said I had to. She waved at me. I waved back. I walked away. The last time I saw her, her hand was on her mouth and tears were falling from her eyes, tripping over her long fingers, wetting her blouse.
“‘Go,’ she said. ‘You’ll see us real soon. Go.’
“So I did. Then she was gone. I got on the plane. I saw water and clouds. In my window, I saw the sun meet the moon. All the lights were gone. Darkness only. I slept. I woke up in the States. I got out of the plane and my Auntie Yuna called me. She took me to her place in Los Angeles.
“I waited every day for Mama to knock on the door and show up. But nothing. Years went by without a knock. Even today, I think I’ll open a door and there she’ll be.
“Real Soon, Mama said. I learned Real Soon means different things sometimes.”
When I finished my story, J’s mouth was open and all he could say was, “Wow.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Color of Rust
Dear Montgomery Clift May 17, 1977
Mr. Lopez and Mrs. de Paul took us on a field trip. We walked to Echo Park. There is a big lake there with people in little boats. Echo Park reminds me of Burnham Park in Baguio City. Mama and dad took me there when we had money. When mama found a house to clean.
Dad would rent a little boat and rowed us into the middle of the lake. I sat by mama and her arms were around my body and her long fingers rubbed my belly. I liked it best when her palm caressed my face. She smelled clean like detergent.
Dad took out sandwiches from a brown bag, sandwiches dad and me made. Mama never cooked on days like these. Dad knew how much mama worked.
What dad wrote was too dangerous. So dad started his own newspaper. It did not make any money. But he felt it was an important newspaper to have. Mama believed that, too. She worked while dad wrote.
At Echo Park, Robert let me have some of his sandwich. We played Tag and Robert was It. He chased all the kids until he tagged someone. Then that person chased someone. Over and over. I never got caught. I ran and ran until no one could get me. I ran so fast that air became wind blowing through me. I ran so fast I sweat. I looked behind me and my classmates were far behind. I couldn’t be reached.
Then I saw you.
I said, “Hi.”
I blinked and you was gone.
It was you, wasn’t it?
It was that quick. My first vision. I was behind a tree when I saw someone. The sun was in my face. All I could see was the outline of a tall man, slender. He stood straight with shoulders arched back like he was at attention. A military cap was on his head tilted to the side. It was Monty dressed in his soldier’s uniform from The Search.
As soon as my lashes fluttered, he was gone. I looked this way and that, whispering, “Mr. Clift?”
“Bong?” Mrs. de Paul said several yards away. “It’s time to go.”
I joined my classmates, knowing that, somehow, my life would never be the same.
•
BABY OH BABY, J said in the morning, in the afternoon, at night.
Robert told me what BABY OH BABY meant.
“No Way!” I said.
“Yeah. He’s doing it,” Robert said.
For some reason I didn’t think of Filipinos having sex. I could imagine other people having sex, but not Filipinos.
“Duh,” Robert laughed. “How d’you think you got here?”
Never had I seen my parents kiss or hold hands or even stand close together. I guess they had to sometime.
BABY OH BABY, J said. Over and over again.
The BABY was a top-heavy Filipina who bounced everywhere she went. She bounced up the stairs to J’s apartment. She bounced to her car. Her chest bounced. I think all the boys in the neighborhood came out when she arrived. To watch her bounce and bounce and bounce. A little bit of her nipples could be seen in the T-shirts she wore. Her long black hair, feathered back, bounced.
“Do you want to go to the movies?” J asked her.
“You bet,” Baby Bounce said, nodding, her mane quivering.
“Do you want to do laundry?”
“Not today,” Baby Bounce said, strands of hair flying as she flung her head no.
BABY OH BABY the boys in the neighborhood must have thought to themselves when Baby Bounce came by.
I didn’t know what Auntie Yuna thought when Baby Bounce walked up those stairs, rang J’s doorbell, and went inside. Auntie Yuna hissed and muttered something that must have been some kind of bad luck she wished on Baby Bounce.
Auntie Yuna shook her head imitating Baby Bounce, but her hair was too dry and brittle. It stayed in one place like the head of a broom. She tried to walk like Baby Bounce too, but Auntie Yuna couldn’t bounce no matter how hard she tried. Auntie Yuna was a sturdy woman, wide shoulders and hips. Auntie Yuna was not like Baby Bounce and nothing
like her sister, my mama.
Mama’s hair was thick and straight and blacker than nighttime. She tried to make it bounce once. She went to sleep with pink curlers in her hair. In the morning she had holes as big as Coke cans floating around her head. By the afternoon, her hair fell down again, just below her shoulders, covering her ears and neck and cheeks, showing only a thin portion of her face. Her hair hung around her face like curtains revealing a small portion of an incredible view, straining your neck here and there to see what else the view may hold.
Mama and I have the same hair, I think. Dad’s hair curled up and down, with a little bit of gray.
I have Mama’s eyes. Which are Auntie Yuna’s eyes, too. Round like a quarter but brown like mud. Mama’s eyes were real warm. Blanket on a cold night warm. Auntie Yuna’s eyes were empty and cold. Cave empty. Cave cold.
I got my skin from Dad, though. The color of rust on tin cans. Mama’s skin was lighter. I’d never seen that color before except on sand at a beach.
I have Dad’s nose and lips. Nose like a button with not so red lips. Faded roses Mama called them.
I never thought about what my parents looked like. Or what I looked like. But the longer they were there and I was here, I forgot sometimes.
Some days I imagined J and Baby Bounce as my new parents, but I knew I’d never look like the six-million-dollar man or have hair that always bounced. Especially now with the scars on my face.
There were moments when I thought real hard about my parents’ faces, wondering if I looked like them. I would run to the mirror and try, try to remember.
•
There were times when Auntie Yuna wasn’t in the apartment and I’d call Robert, telling him Baby Bounce was visiting. He’d be over immediately. We’d sit in the apartment and wait, listening…listening.
Then it would begin.
BABY OH BABY, J would say. Robert and I would freeze, our shoulders to our ears, our eyes ready to bust out of our sockets. Robert and I reveled in the sound of it: the moaning and the release. We heard furniture creaking and rocking. We heard heavy breathing and gasps of air. We heard, “Yes, YES!” and “Please, PLEASE!” The afternoon filled with sounds of agreement.