by Noël Alumit
“Bob,” he said, “sometimes a prisoner is released. And if a prisoner is brave enough he’ll help us find other prisoners.”
“What do you mean?”
“Since Corazon Aquino became president, people are speaking out. Some were people imprisoned by Marcos. Former prisoners are a good way of finding people who disappeared. They provide names of other people who were inside with them.”
“Yeah, so?”
“A woman arrived in Honolulu. She was jailed for a few years. She’s been free for a while now, but was afraid to talk while she lived in Manila. She finally got her visa to leave. It took her eight years to get that visa.”
“Why so long?”
“Well, the Philippines has the longest waiting list in the world to enter the U.S. Someone can wait for up to twenty years. She got off lucky waiting for eight. Now that she’s here, she’s talking big time. She encountered hundreds of people in political camp. But she was only able to provide names of a few dozen. She listed your father, Emil Luwad.”
“You’re fucking kidding me?”
“No, son, I’m not.”
“I have to talk to her. I have to.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Upon hearing the news, I went up to the Griffith Park Observatory and waited for Montgomery Clift to appear. I had begun to have regular meetings with Monty by then. I waited on a bench, the one closest to the bust of James Dean. Within moments he appeared and sat with me. We sat there and looked over the view of Los Angeles, watched the blue sky darken, until he slowly faded away.
•
Amada ran into my room. She was ecstatic. Before I could say hello, she said, “We slept together.”
BABY OH BABY.
“Yeah,” she said. “We made love. He wanted my first time to be special so he rented this hotel, and we drank champagne, and we did it.” She burst into giggles.
“How was it?”
“It was all right. We did it a few times.”
“When can I meet him?”
“We’re supposed to go out this week. You can meet him then.”
We waited for Lou at the Onyx, a cafe in Silverlake. Amada’s face sparkled, a child waiting to open her gifts on Christmas day. He was supposed to arrive at 7:30, and by 8:15 Amada was biting her lower lip, glancing at her watch every ten seconds. At 9:00, she got up and made a phone call, signaling me to stay put. She returned, shrugged her shoulders, and sat down. By 10:00, she took up reading the LA Weekly, looking up whenever a man passed by. By 11:15, we were told that the cafe was closing. We walked home silently, her arms crossed in front of her.
She stood in the backyard, looking up at the sky. The moon was full, but there were no stars. She stood out there until Mr. A told her to go to bed.
I couldn’t tell Amada what I’d suspected. If only she knew what guys talked about in the locker rooms or when they’re by themselves. I heard them talk as they dressed or when they’d kill time in the library. The kind of conversation that takes place when boys are around other boys. They talked about their sexual exploits, imagined or real. Or they talked about the kind of sex they’d like to have. They talked about girls and their bodies. Referring to them only as “tits” or “pussy” or “ass.”
Amada fell for one of those guys, some shithead named Lou. The kind of guy who would say anything, do anything to get a girl into bed. Then discard her as easily as old gym socks. I couldn’t tell her that.
If only she had met another kind of guy. The kind of guy who didn’t always talk about “getting some” or “having her.” Those boys in the library who looked away embarrassed at hearing our sex demean our female classmates. Or even better, corrected them in talking that way. Those guys who cared about their girlfriends. The kind of guy who walked her home or bought her dinner out of affection, not the underlying greed for sex, sex, sex.
How could Amada know which one to choose when we looked the same. And if a boy is particularly cunning, he can appear as gracious or well meaning as the good boys.
Amada had been gloomy for weeks, thinking of the jerk that stood her up. The same jerk that never returned her phone calls.
“Let’s go see How to Marry a Millionaire,” I said. “It’s playing at the Nuart. I can probably get the car and we can drive to see it. It stars Marilyn Monroe, Lauren Bacall, and Betty Grable.”
“The last thing I want to see is the story of three girls who try to marry some guy with loads of cash.”
I knew something was terribly wrong. Amada never missed a chance to see Marilyn on the big screen. Never. She sat on her bed, rocking herself like the pendulum of a grandfather clock. She looked out the window, her face an open wound.
“Forget about him, Amada.”
“I can’t.”
“Try. You were too good for him.”
“I can’t forget about him, because I didn’t get my period, y’know.”
The next time I met Monty, it was for solace…for what was to come.
•
In the midst of Amada’s crisis, Mr. Boyd set up a telephone conversation with Mrs. Billaruz, the woman who knew Dad in prison, but was living in Honolulu.
“My father. You saw him?”
“You are Emil’s boy?”
“Yes, my dad…”
“Emil and I were picked up the same night. By assholes, those men were assholes. Sorry for my language. Tanga. Your dad was beat bad. Pretty bad. They pick us up in Baguio City, transport us to Manila.”
“My mother. What about my mother?”
“I don’t know about her.”
“Tell me about my dad.”
“They did things to him. I cannot talk about that. They did things to us. I cannot talk on the phone about that.”
“Where is he?”
“We were together for two years. I was let go. I want to meet you, Emil’s boy. I know it is expensive, but can you fly, come to Hawaii?”
“Can you tell me more about my dad?”
“It has been a while. I cannot talk on the phone about what happened. It wouldn’t be right. We can talk when you get here. Can you fly?”
“Please tell me, it’s been so long. The last time I saw him, he had bruises. Did they disappear?”
“Yes, but new ones came along. When you get here, we can talk more. Can you afford it?”
I thought about the money I’d saved: almost two thousand dollars. “Yeah, sure,” I said.
I was afraid. Mrs. Billaruz avoided the subject of my father. I didn’t want to ask if he was dead; I didn’t want to hear the answer.
•
Amada told me she went looking for Lou, went to his home. She wasn’t greeted with the kind of warmth she’d hoped for.
“He doesn’t want to see me,” she said. “I told him I was pregnant, and he told me he didn’t want to see me.” She said shithead Lou won’t help her.
“But he loved me. I loved him,” she said. “When we made love, he told me he loved me. I opened myself up to him because he said he loved me. Love is the most important element in life, right? We should do things out of love.”
She buried her head into a teddy bear, and took a deep breath. She looked at me, her sullen face transformed, her lips tightened, her eyes narrowed. “He used me. That prick used me! He used me, that fucking prick used me. I’ll make him pay. I’ll make that prick pay.”
She asked me to leave. “I need to think,” she said.
I closed the door behind me, but I could hear things being thrown around, records, dolls, pillows, glass being hurled into the air, denting, bruising the walls.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A Girl Like Me
Dear Monty, May 9, 1986
There is a bruise on my arm. I bumped into a door, now there is a bruise. It is purple with a green circle around it. It hurt for awhile, but not so much anymore.
I thought about my parents. The last time I saw them, they had bruises. When Mama was beaten, the bruises seemed to appear like flowers on a vine. When
my father’s bruises went away, new ones came along, said Mrs. Billaruz. I thought of Amada, her ego, pride, self-confidence, self-love—all bruised.
I wondered how hard it would be to create a bruise. I bumped into a door, bumping my other arm. Nothing happened. I closed my eyes and walked real hard into a wall. Still nothing. I took my arm and slammed it into a bureau. I looked at my arm, and my flesh was still bare. I closed my eyes, and swung my arm around me, my forearm smashing against the edge of a closet door.
I woke up, and my arm had a purple flower. Somewhere between day and night it bloomed on my arm. My mother had bruises all over her body like a garden of purple daffodils.
Dear Monty, May 12, 1986
It seems Amada and I are having to get through some really tough shit. I’m trying to be there for her, but I don’t know what to say to her when she walks around the house like a Zombie, her mind visiting the No-Name place.
She wanders the house in her bathrobe, sullen and depressed. Yesterday, I asked her, “Amada, do you want to go to the mall?”
“What?” she said, tugging on her bathrobe. “I mean…I mean…I just…No, I don’t want…” She entered her room, and I could hear crying.
I don’t bother her about the news of Mrs. Billaruz, she doesn’t need to hear it right now. Thank God, I have you. No matter what, you’re always willing to listen.
Mrs. A had to sell some of her jewelry to pay bills. She didn’t shop as much. She sat in front of the TV and gazed at soap operas.
I was an extra for a soap opera, her favorite one. Most soap operas are filmed in New York, but a few are filmed in Los Angeles, like The Young and the Restless. I played a guy in a homeless shelter.
“There you are!” Mrs. A shrieked. We watched the TV together waiting for my appearance. The camera swept over the entire set and I was sitting in a corner, trying to look homeless.
“You were really good,” Mrs. A said. That was the first time I had seen her happy in a long time. I used to adore Mrs. A, then I hated her. I eventually grew indifferent. I didn’t feel anything except the tingle of bruises on my arm, hidden by my long-sleeved shirts.
At the time, I didn’t know how extensive my bruising would go. I just knew it was the right thing to do. Hurting myself seemed appropriate. There was comfort in pain, incredible comfort.
•
The sun fell when Amada came into my bedroom. She was calm, too calm. The day’s shadow was creeping over, bringing with it small stars that barely twinkled. Amada told me she had decided to have an abortion.
“You can’t tell my parents,” she said, “they’ll freak.”
She sat on my bed, acting jittery. Her whole demeanor unnerved me. I looked down and noticed a stain on my Adidas shoes.
“Amada,” I said, “if you want to keep the baby, that’s all right, too.”
“Yeah right, my parents would kill me,” she said, rolling over in my bed.
“Amada, I’ll marry you. We can get married right now if you want.” I didn’t want her to have the abortion. I would rather have taken on the responsibility of being a parent than have her do this. I was only eighteen, what did I know about being a parent.
“I’ll marry you,” I said again.
She sat up, looking sideways, then up and down. “Um, thanks for the offer, but no. I can’t. The appointment is set. I have to go a couple of times. For counseling and stuff. Can you come with me?”
I remained quiet.
“I’ll do this on my own then,” she said, getting up and going to a shelf of books, skimming the titles with her forefinger, pulling one out then putting it back. “I’m going to get my life back,” she said. “I believed a boy who said he loved me. You’re supposed to do things for people you love.” She bowed her head, her black hair falling over her face.
“I visited his parents, y’know…” She took a deep breath, looked up, her eyes red and moist. “I visited Lou’s mom and dad. I told them about him, us. I thought they would help, them being Catholic and everything, talk to Lou to do the right thing, maybe make him marry me.
“Do you know what they told me? They told me I got myself into this mess, a girl like me got myself into this mess. A girl like me. They said Lou had a bright future ahead of him. He was going to be a doctor. I’d ruin his life, they said. A girl like me would ruin his life. They said they loved Lou and wouldn’t let anything stop him from having a good life.
“Isn’t that funny? They wouldn’t let anything stop him. I’m an Anything. I’m not going to let anything stop me either. Boys can go on like nothing happened. Girls have to stop. Well, I’m not going to stop. I’ll do it myself. I’ll get them, Bob. Somehow, I’ll make them pay.
“If you don’t want to come with me, you don’t have to,” she said. Then, just before she left, she said, “I would have done anything for you, Bobster. Anything.”
•
I drove her to the clinic on Sunset Boulevard. It was her second visit.
“They ask me questions, y’know,” she said. “They ask me if I’m sure this is what I want to do.”
“What did you say?”
“Yes, it is.”
People stood outside the clinic and yelled at us. Anti-abortion people. I gave them The Finger.
“Don’t give up your baby,” some strange woman said. She lifted up her own kid and said, “See, isn’t this child beautiful? You could have one, too.”
Amada shook a little.
“Don’t you want a baby? Someone of your own to love?” Strange Woman said as we entered the clinic.
“It is because I loved someone of my very own that got me into this mess,” Amada yelled back.
I sat in the lobby waiting for Amada. I studied the faces of the anti-abortion people through the window, determined and fierce, all of them gearing their anger at girls like Amada. They didn’t know how Amada had suffered through this decision. Seeing her alone in her room, not going out, not being the vital girl she was, was what made me change my mind. Amada had to come first, the girl has to come first.
I know boys get off easy. I saw men out there protesting against abortion, too. Which is the stupidest thing I’d seen. I wondered how many of those anti-abortion men have stuck their dicks in places they shouldn’t have. Not a single word of hatred for boys like Lou. Those anti-abortion people should have looked to their sons and brothers before they started blaming girls. I’m sure Lou’s parents, being Catholic and all, were against abortion.
We went in for the actual abortion a few days later.
In the meantime, I booked a plane for Hawaii. I paid for two seats. For me and Amada. I thought Amada needed to get away for a while. Graduation was the following month. We’d go then.
School was winding down. The teachers knew that we wouldn’t be around so the seniors got to do what they wanted. I’d been doing more extra work for spending cash in Hawaii.
Amada fiddled with her hands as I drove her to the clinic on Sunset Boulevard. There was traffic. I worried if we’d make it in time for her appointment. In the distance, I saw black smoke rising. A building was burning.
A policeman directed cars to alternate routes. I tried to find streets that would take us to the clinic, but all the roads were blocked off. The smoke created a black cloud above us.
“Just park,” Amada mumbled. “Park anywhere and we’ll walk or something.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Amada’s hair was tangled and knotted. She tried to manage her hair by putting it into a ponytail. Her eyes were bloodshot from being unable to sleep.
“Everything will be okay.” She didn’t hear me. She looked at her hands, then out the window. Then at her hands again.
I found a parking space about five blocks from the clinic. We started walking, watching the sky darken with smoke, hearing sirens scream.
“I hope no one got hurt,” I said.
We walked closer to the clinic. Crowds of people began to appear. We squeezed through strangers, jostling to make it to
Amada’s appointment.
“What happened?” I asked a bystander.
“The clinic. It was bombed,” he said. “A few people had to go to the hospital.”
Hospital? So much for pro-life. I guess the anti-abortionists really wanted to shut that place down. The fucks.
“Take me home. Take me home right now,” Amada whispered into my ear.
•
This whole thing with Amada had gotten me tense. I called Mrs. Billaruz, wanting to hear her voice, a sweet escape from the last few days. I wanted her to talk to me, talk to me about my dad.
“How old are you now?” she asked.
“I’m eighteen.”
“I’m sure you are very handsome, pogi, diba? Your father was handsome. Emil used to tell me about you.”
Hearing my father’s name, hearing him talked about like a real person made me high. I wanted more, I wanted her to tell me more…
“There was a girl in camp with us. Her name was Senya. She was a student who was arrested. She had never been away from home before. She used to think of different ways of breaking out. She was a little crazy. She thought of tying a note to a frog, letting the outside know what kind of terrible place camp was. Senya hoped she would be freed.
“Senya had a hard time sleeping. One night we found her searching for frogs. They tried to drag her back in so she can sleep, but I told them not to. We have to have hope. It’s what keeps us going. So the entire barracks searched the grounds for a frog for her to tie a note to.”
Mrs. Billaruz laughed, a hearty noise much like a low blowing tuba. It was a thrilling sound.
“I’m from Cebu,” she said, “I can speak Tagalog, but I would rather speak Cebuano, you know. I remember when they were voting, deciding on a national language for the Philippines. It was down to three. Tagalog, Illocano, and Cebuano. Of course they chose Tagalog because there are more Tagalog people in the Philippines.
“I hate having to speak Tagalog, you know. Tanga. But still it is better than Spanish. Thank God those bastards were thrown out of the country. I have Spanish blood in my family, but not much. I know a lot of Filipinos place a lot of status on how much blood you have from Spain. Those people are—how you say? Lame brain.