by Noël Alumit
“Yes,” Mr. A added. “The last thing we want around here is some pregnant girl thinking she can move into this house. I saw girls like that all the time in the Philippines. Mothers without husbands. Shameful.”
“I wasn’t with a girl,” I said and departed to my bedroom. The only person I wanted to be with was Monty, hoping he would be there, waiting for me on my bed.
Amada peered through my door. “You missed the excitement the other day,” she said. “C’mon downstairs. I wanna show you something.”
She led me into the living room. She pointed to a black box hooked up to the television. “It’s a Video Cassette Recorder. My dad got it yesterday. Isn’t it cool?”
Back then, in the early eighties, a VCR was rare. I’d heard of a few kids at school having one, but only a few. Being able to record something on television, view it later, or as many times as you wanted, was cool.
“I already taped something,” she said. She turned the black box on. She fiddled with some buttons and turned on the TV. An old movie came on.
“It’s Freud, starring your one and only Monty. It was on yesterday,” she said. “I thought you might like it. Montgomery Clift plays the father of pyschotherapy. It’s, um, interesting.”
She let the VCR play. I sat there and watched.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monty’s Grave
Dear Monty, January 9, 1984
I’m writing this letter as I sit in front of a granite slab that bears your name. The headstone carries four rows of lettering. The first row reads Montgomery; the second reads Clift; the third marks your birth: 17 Oct 1920; the fourth marks your death: 23 Jul 1966.
The man who showed me your grave is standing about a hundred yards from me. It’s you. I know it is, standing among the leafless trees. In the Philippines, I lived in a place with trees. The tiny house my parents rented was nestled in forest. I feel at peace here, calm as you watch me.
I’ll put this letter along with the stack of letters I’ve written you over the years, but I’ll distinguish it, stain it with the grass of your grave.
I went to school and spent as much time as I could in my room, avoiding Mr. and Mrs. A. I did chores around the house, took the trash out more often, or washed the cars. The way I saw it, I was trading services for room and board.
When Mrs. A wanted to go on a shopping trip in New York, wanted to go after Christmas when everything went on sale, I refused.
“C’mon, let’s go to New York,” Amada said. “It’ll be fun. We can see shows and stuff.”
“Amada, I don’t want to spend time with your folks if I don’t have to.”
Then Amada pulled a dirty trick. She said, “Montgomery Clift loved New York. He died there. We can visit Montgomery Clift’s grave. It’s somewhere in Brooklyn.”
I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’ll go, but only to pay my respects to Mr. Clift.”
Before we left, I did the laundry, scrubbed the floors, raked the leaves from the yard, arranged for our neighbor to pick up our mail. I carried all the luggage and waved down all the taxis and opened the doors to whatever room we entered or exited.
“What a gentleman,” Mr. A said. I wasn’t doing it to be a gentleman; I did it as part of my service, a way of helping to pay for the trip.
When we landed at La Guardia, Mr. A rented a limo. On our way to the hotel, we passed a gorgeous art deco building.
“That’s the Crown Building,” Mr. A said. “Imelda Marcos owns it. It’s worth millions.”
“Isn’t it sad?” I said. “Countless people live in slums in the Philippines and the Marcos family has all that money. I wonder how they manage it all.”
Amada gave me a look that said, Don’t Start.
“People help them,” Mr. A said. “People are helping the Marcos regime launder money, buy property under assumed names, through dummy companies.”
“People like that shouldn’t be allowed to walk this earth,” I said. “They’re helping the Marcos family get away with murder.” I thought of my dad.
Amada put her arm around me, a gesture of support I thought, until she pinched me.
“I’m sure those people will have to live with that knowledge for the rest of their lives,” Mr. A said wanly. He put his arm around his wife. She looked out into the cold New York sky, a chilly gray morning.
We stayed at the Plaza Hotel, an ornate building shimmering with light.
Amada and I had been diligently searching the city, carrying backpacks with sweaters and warm pretzels bought from street vendors. My backpack had paper and pens, ready to write Monty at any given moment.
I walked the streets of New York knowing he was there. New York was a scary city. So much noise. So much distraction. The only thing colder than the weather was the dark buildings that seemed to sprout from every corner. Still, I walked the Upper East Side, knowing Monty had lived there, wondering which brownstone he had occupied.
The only information I could find about his gravesite was that he was buried in a small Quaker cemetery in Brooklyn. I thought it would be easy to find such a place, but it wasn’t. I went through phone books and maps to find it.
When we got there, the cemetery was virtually invisible, hidden behind trees. I found it by asking some joggers running by. They pointed off to the distance. Amada and I discovered a fenced-off area, and sure enough it was the cemetery. It was closed and didn’t look like it would open any time soon.
I wanted to cry at coming this far and not being able to see Monty’s grave. We walked along the fence, metal X’s separating the living and the dead. There were hundreds of headstones. I didn’t know how to find the one bearing Monty’s name.
“Let’s go,” Amada said, “it’s cold and I don’t think we’ll have a chance in hell of finding his grave.”
“Shhhhhhh,” I said.
I saw a man working in the graveyard, planting ferns. “Excuse me, but do you know where Monty Clift is buried?” I yelled to him. He pointed to another end of the cemetery.
“Who are you yelling at?” Amada asked.
“C’mon, that man is telling us where it is.”
“Where? What man?”
I followed the fence until I could guess where he pointed. The man walked over to a headstone and pointed to it then walked away.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Bob, you’re scaring me. I don’t see anyone.”
“That’s where it is. Monty is buried over there.” I saw the headstone, but couldn’t see the name. I told Amada to wait for me while I climbed the fence.
“Bob, where are you going?”
“I want to be alone, Amada. Please. Go away. Just for a moment.”
She disappeared into the trees and I placed my arms around the headstone, kissing it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Happy Birthday, Monty
Dear Monty, January 18, 1984
School is a drag. I’m writing this letter during third period, listening to my history teacher talk about World War II. I keep looking out the window, hoping to see you walk down the street. I wait for the class to end, wishing to see you in the hallway, leaning against the wall. In your hand: an unfiltered cigarette. On your face: a smile aimed at me. Only at me.
Dear Monty, July 23, 1984
It is night. In my room, I have your photo on my bureau. I’m looking at it while I write this letter. I put a candle and some incense by your image. The only thing illuminating my room is that candle, giving a golden glow to the white walls. The incense taints the air with the smell of roses.
On this day, a nurse found you dead in your brownstone. Your heart failed. Some say you ruined your health by alcohol and drugs. It doesn’t matter. On this day, you left your earthly form. All is quiet. This is the day you died. You were forty-five years old.
Dear Monty, October 17, 1984
Happy Birthday. I left a piece of cake, angel food with pink frosting, by your picture. I’ll eat it in the morning and swallow the luck you leave behind.
Dear Monty, December 23, 1984
I bought you a present, a blue cardigan—to match your eyes. I keep it under my bed, wrapped in silver. I’ll put it under the Christmas tree at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. For you, for you.
Merry Christmas.
There were times in 1984 when I simply felt sad. I would walk home from school and miss her, miss Mama. I’d remember things I hadn’t thought of in years, like when I was seven and had a miserable cold.
I was sleeping, barely conscious, and smelled the medicinal odor of Vicks Ointment. I felt Mama lift up my T-shirt and rub the ointment onto my chest. I didn’t have to open my eyes to see it was her, I just knew. Her hand spread across my chest, rubbing Vicks into the center of my sternum. She pulled down my shirt then kissed my forehead.
There were times in 1984 when Amada tried to encourage me to be more active in school. “Join a club,” she’d say. “Wanna join the Filipino club? I’ll join with you.” I shook my head no.
I wanted to start my own club, a fan club. The I-Love Montgomery-Clift-Because-He-Understands-Me-Like-No-Other club. Membership: one. Club Member Requirements: An intense yearning to worship a dead matinee star because he provides comfort, because he provides hope. Club Dues: Be willing to give part of your soul. Club Activities: Watch Monty movies no matter what hour his movies come on. If it means staying up till three in the morning to catch him on the late, late-night movie, that’s what it means.
There were times in 1984 when I envied Amada. She may have hated her mother, but at least she had one. She may have had the most awful opinions of Mrs. A, but I also knew Amada loved her.
I saw Mrs. A fall asleep in front of the television and Amada whispered in her ear, “Mom? Mom, wake up. You have a bed for a reason.”
Mrs. A groggily raised her head and let Amada lift her up and guide her to slumber.
CHAPTER TWENTY
One Filipino People
Dear Monty, March 2, 1985
I have to rant. Mr. A is a prick. A fucking prick. I hate him. Who the hell does he think he is? He is a fool and a dimwit. I hope he knows misery beyond his wildest dreams. I wish he’d eat shit and die.
In reviewing some of my letters, it amazes me sometimes what I thought and felt about people. I began to experience anger toward Mr. A. I had attacks of rebellion, disagreeing about how he saw the world.
He had to let some of his accounting staff go, pissing him off, forcing himself to realize his business was crumbling. His facial tics could’ve told time. He kept hoping the whole Aquino assassination would finally blow over, and Marcos would reign supreme again. He did his part by extolling the virtues of the President.
“Marcos was a good guy,” Mr. A said once during dinner. I couldn’t look at him. “I voted for him,” he continued. “People don’t know what it was like. Do you know how Marcos won his election? He made us proud to be Filipino. He was handsome. His wife was beautiful. He stressed the importance of one Filipino people. Before we were all separated. You were of the Tagalog people or the Cebuano people. But never Filipino. He helped us realize we were one people. No more clannishness. No more ‘You are from the Luzon, I am from Visaya.’ We were one.
“His wife Imelda made it her passion to beautify the country. Make sure it was clean. Make sure there was art and culture. Show the world that we were as capable as any other Asian country of producing masterful pieces. We were not just brown people on some islands. We were civilized.
“They made us proud. I would vote for him again.
“Now they have those damned communists everywhere. Communists everywhere. Ruining everything. That’s why Marcos has to be so tough to deal with those people. Make sure communists don’t take over the country, making it worse…”
He continued in that vein. He continued speaking like that when he had to close down one of his offices later that year, when he had to sell one of the cars to make the mortgage, and when his hair began to fall out due to stress. He got an ulcer and walked the house at night unable to sleep.
Eventually, he could not deny what was to be the downfall of the Marcos regime. Mr. A could not deny that the life he had tried so hard to maintain was slipping away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Rock Hudson Disease
Dear Monty, July 30, 1985
Someone you know is in the news. Someone you know is sick. He is another 1950’s icon, another beautiful man: Rock Hudson. You know him. He was there for you in your time of need. He was there when your whole world went black. He pulled you from the wreckage. He helped you. Can you please help him?
Dear Monty, October 4, 1985
Rock Hudson died this week. I’m sad. I’m not dreadfully sad like someone close died. I’m sad because a friend of yours is dead, a friend of mine once removed. I’m sad because Rock Hudson enjoyed the company of other men and so did you. And so do I. I’m afraid. I have to find my mother before I die. Protect me, Monty, protect me.
I believed I would disappear, vanish like Rock Hudson, like so many men in that period. I thought of boys in my school and how I wanted to know them better. I was seventeen and yearning. I thought about boys mostly in the mornings when I touched myself, rubbed myself. I stopped before I spilled. If I didn’t spill, there was no way I could get the Rock Hudson disease.
There were times when I felt like I was going to burst. I wouldn’t touch myself, rub myself for months. I’d wake up hard and throbbing, but I didn’t release myself. If I didn’t think about sex, I thought I wouldn’t get AIDS.
I ached for some of the guys at school, guys in magazines, guys on TV. I knew I couldn’t do anything, say anything. From a distance, I admired boys at my school, indulged thoughts of loving them. I wanted to hold them the way they held their girlfriends at the entrance of the school, close and endearing. I wanted to whisper romantic words into their ears like, I’ll never leave you, honey. I took comfort in the life of Montgomery Clift. I knew he hid his sexuality, too. I think that is one of the reasons why I liked seeing Monty in his movies: he was hiding. He was visible to millions of people, but he hid. He made a part of himself disappear. I understood the importance of hiding.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Dark of the Moon
Dear Monty, February 26, 1986
Amada and I were extras in a music video. We sat in a crowd, cheering like we were in a rock concert, my voice growing hoarse, my hands flailing.
“Cheer louder,” said the director, and we did. “Dance around like you’re enjoying yourself.” I did that, too. I stood on my seat shaking and jumping, my limbs loose, my hips gyrating.
“CUUUUUUT! We’re done for the day.”
But I didn’t stop dancing. I was too caught up with the good news. Corazon Aquino kicked some Marcos ass! The Marcoses fled the Philippines, Aquino is now president.
I kept dancing, Monty. Life never felt so good.
Dear Monty, May 2, 1986
Can tragedy and joy exist in the same place? You would know. I know about your life, Monty. When we sit together at the observatory, I know you. I wish you could speak to me, but you don’t. You just sit there in black and white, glowing like a screen in a dark movie theater. That’s enough for me, knowing you’re there. We may sit silently, but I know you. I’ve read about your tragedy and joy. You had a brilliant career. At the same time, you suffered, taking booze and drugs. Tragedy and joy. Two words that line up like a solar eclipse. I don’t know which word is the sun and which is the dark of the moon.
Amada had gone gaga over some guy she met at the video store. She looked at herself in the mirror, asking me if she was pretty enough for her date, a date with some boy named Lou. In her Mirror World was a girl with hair spray in her hair, a long clear neck ready for purple hickeys.
When we got a call to be extras on a movie, I thought Amada would jump at the chance. It was only for a day, and on a Saturday, so we wouldn’t miss school.
“I can’t. I’m spending the day with my boyfriend,” she said. S
he said “boyfriend” like she just discovered the word, grand and romantic.
I did the extra gig by myself.
Amada wouldn’t tell me much about the guy she met in the video store, except that he was perfect.
“I think you’d like him, he’s the sweetest guy,” she said. “I think my parents will like him, too. He’s a nice Catholic boy, graduated from Loyola High School for boys. Now he’s going to Loyola Marymount University. He wants to become a doctor someday.
“He thinks becoming an actress is the best thing in the world. He asked me to act for him, so I did a little scene from The Glass Menagerie. He loved it. He loves me.
“He gives me flowers and candy, tells me that I’m pretty, tells me that I’m smart and talented.”
Although I continued to do extra work, saving money to fly to the Philippines, Amada didn’t want to be an extra anymore. “The next time I’m on screen, I’m going to be a lead!” she said.
“It’s easy money,” I said. Money had been a little tight. Mr. A didn’t hand out bills as easily as before.
“I don’t care,” Amada said. “Besides, I want to spend time with Lou.”
Every once in a while, I’d call Mr. Boyd at Amnesty International, hoping for news about my folks. I think he was annoyed with me. We’d have a conversation that usually went like this:
“Bob, if we haven’t heard about your parents by now—”
“They’re NOT dead.”
“I’m not saying they are, but it doesn’t look good.”
I called on April 5, 1986—I will never forget that date—and good news came.