by Noël Alumit
Logan got even closer to me, his body pressing against me. He kissed my scars. He put his lips to my face and kissed the discoloration, kissed the grooves in my skin. I closed my eyes, and I thought of summoning Monty. I really did. If I wanted to, he would have appeared and I would have been kissing him instead of Logan. But I didn’t.
I wanted to kiss Logan. I wanted to kiss another man besides Monty.
I felt dirty somehow, like I had been unfaithful. I ran out of his apartment as fast as I could.
•
Logan cornered me on the set the next day.
“Hey, what happened to you?” he said. “You shot out of my apartment, you never let me explain. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I just thought we connected—”
“I like you and all, but—”
“You’re not gay. Right? Sorry, I just assumed.”
“You assumed right, it’s just…well, I’m not ready for anything yet.”
“Ready for what? I’m not asking you to move in or anything. I just thought we could spend time together. Hang out or something. I think you’re kinda cute s’all.”
I couldn’t believe he thought I was cute. He actually thought that. Logan was real handsome, slender with a spiky haircut. I was flattered.
“Cool,” I said. “Let’s hang out.”
“We’re wrapping up early. Why don’t we go into West Hollywood.”
“That sounds good.”
We drove to a coffee shop on Robertson Boulevard. He had a latte; I had a cup of coffee. He slid his foot next to mine. I felt the rubber soles of his Vans rub against my ankle. My penis flinched.
We went for a walk down Santa Monica Boulevard. We held hands. We danced a little bit then he took me home. He walked me to the Arangans’ door, and before I entered the house, Logan kissed me. A long, deep kiss. I thought of Monty, summoning his presence. I opened my eyes, but he wasn’t there. I was befuddled. I mean Monty always came to me, always. I took it as a sign: Montgomery Clift wanted me to kiss Logan.
Under the maple trees, beneath the glow of a crescent moon, amidst the music of crickets, I kissed Logan. And what a kiss that was. I was blown away, I could have kissed him forever, if the porch light didn’t turn on, and Mrs. A didn’t open the door and ask, “Why don’t you boys come inside?”
“I’ll be in in a minute,” I said. I sent Mrs. A a psychic message, Go away, can’t you see I’m busy. She must have heard it, because she closed the door immediately.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Logan said. And he was off.
I remember thinking: Monty, I like him. I really do.
•
Mrs. Billaruz was in town. I read in one of the Filipino newspapers that she was making appearances around the country talking about politics in the Philippines. A group of attorneys, both American and Filipino, decided to sue the Marcos family for human rights violations. Mrs. Billaruz was touring trying to raise awareness about the case. I met her at the Filipino American Community Center.
“What happened to your face, Sweet Boy?” Mrs. Billaruz asked.
“I got into a motorcycle accident.”
“Thank God,” she said, laughing her tuba laugh. “You look like we did when we were taken away, beaten by guards.”
Mrs. Billaruz told me ten thousand victims were suing the Marcoses. It was the first case of its kind in the world.
She said I could be eligible to sign on as a victim, because my parents were one of the many who were affected by the Marcos regime. I told her No. Enough was enough. I needed to end it. I’d struggled with the fact that my parents were gone, dead or otherwise, they were gone. My life was different. I wanted to put the whole thing to rest.
She said she understood.
•
Logan and I celebrated the end of this Vietnam picture. We went to Disneyland and rode on the It’s a Small World ride. Logan pointed out the Hawaiian dolls surfing and dolls that were supposed to represent Japan, the country where his grandparents were born. There was one doll representing the Philippines.
We went into the Haunted Mansion, waiting in a room with portraits of dead people. Before our eyes, the room began to grow and the portraits of dead people elongated revealing these funny circumstances of how they died, like one prim and proper girl standing on a tightrope while an alligator snapped at her heels. Then we were put into cars on conveyor belts and taken through the mansion. Ghosts danced and flew through the air, making spooky noises. At the end of the ride, an image of a ghost was projected onto us, appearing like it was riding in the cars with us. I laughed.
I knew ghosts didn’t look like that in real life. Ghosts aren’t seen at all; you just feel them, hovering about, refusing to be forgotten. Ghosts don’t have to be dead people—they could be moments of time that come into your mind when you least expect it, haunting you. Recently, I’d been haunted with a memory: the last moment I saw my mother, putting me on a plane and waving farewell.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Points of the Triangle
Dear Monty, September 4, 1995
How do you say good-bye? You did it so well in your movies. When Frank Sinatra died in From Here to Eternity, you wept. When Elizabeth Taylor visited you the very last time in A Place in the Sun, you were stern, brave, yet sullen at the same time.
I watched The Heiress last night. Olivia de Haviland refused to let you into her life, locked her door, barred your entrance. You were enraged, bitter.
How do I say good-bye to Mama?
Amada had become a diligent actress, researching her characters, building their history.
—She worked on a play once, The Caucasian Chalk Circle by Bertolt Brecht. The play was based on an Asian story, “The Chinese Chalk Circle.” It is also the story of Solomon in the Bible. I suppose the story of a mother wanting the best for her offspring pervades all cultures.
The story was about two mothers who fight over a child. They bring their grievance to the king. The king decides to split the child in half so both mothers may have the kid.
He draws a circle with chalk, places the child in the middle, and instructs the mothers to tear the child apart. The two mothers take hold of the child and pull. They yank while the child in the middle screams in agony. One of the mothers cannot bear the child’s cries and lets go; she lost.
The king returns the child to the loser, believing the true mother, the real mother, could not tolerate her child’s obvious pain. The king awarded the child to the mother who let go.
I worked with Dr. Chapman on mourning my mother. We played all sorts of games.
“Pretend I’m your mother,” she said. “What would you say to me?”
I looked at her warm face; her long black hair resembled my mother’s. There was an uneasy silence. Dr. Chapman was solemn about this exercise.
“I…want…to say,” but before I could finish, I started to laugh, bust up. It seemed so ludicrous to me to pretend that way.
Dr. Chapman smiled and said, “Okay, maybe that wasn’t a good suggestion. How about writing a letter to her?”
I rolled my eyes and said, “I only write letters to Monty.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Some people keep diaries or journals—I write letters. It’s comforting to me.”
“Do you still see him?”
“Not as much.”
“Maybe because you’re happy?”
•
I went to Echo Park, the first place I’d seen Monty, and had a picnic. I didn’t have a picture of my mother. Or of my father. So I did without them. I bought some candles, incense sticks, and a bouquet of flowers, star lilies and chrysanthemums. I bought a bucket of fried chicken, some oranges, a bottle of 7-Up, and a pack of Oreos.
I placed three paper plates, three paper cups, and some eating utensils on the grass, creating three points of a triangle. I divided the chicken evenly and put some Oreos on the plates. I left the oranges on the grass. I poured the 7-Up into three cups and arranged the flowers
in the center. I lit the incense sticks and stood them in a mound of dirt.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. In my mind, I called out to them, my parents. I asked them to come and eat with me. I asked them to bless the food before me. I imagined their spirits occupying the spaces where the plates were set. I imagined them being the other points of the triangle.
I opened my eyes then ate the fried chicken, knowing they had left luck behind.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Watching the Morning Mist Burn Away
Dear Monty, March 15, 1996
Sorry I haven’t written in awhile.
I’ve been consumed with other things. Like Logan. I like the way he massages my shoulders when I’m tired. Or the way his hair sticks straight up when he wakes in the morning. I’m fascinated at how meticulously he folds his laundry and irons his underwear. I laugh when he uses a whole tube of Clearasil when a pimple emerges on the tip of his nose. I curse him for using MSG on the fried rice he makes. I revel in the fact that he has a small birthmark on his left butt cheek.
The last few weeks have been hectic. I’d been an extra for a few movies and they’d been shooting early in the morning. I usually meet Logan during the day and the sight of him energizes me.
I have to meet him in an hour. We’re going to see a movie, one that he worked on.
I’m writing you to let you know that I still love you, but I love someone else, too.
“Why do you do that?” Logan asked. “It’s weird.” I’d let Logan in on some of the things that no one else in the world knows. I mean, if we’re going to be living together, he should know some of my habits. Including my blotching. “Your letters to a dead guy I can sort of understand, I mean I was raised to respect the dead, too. But blotches? And always on page 168?”
“It’s just something I do,” I said.
“Well, it’s just plain weird.” He smiled his quirky little smile. I loved that smile. So did Amada and Mrs. A. We went out for dinner once. It was the first time I told Mr. and Mrs. A that I liked men. I didn’t really tell them. I just made it obvious by informing Mr. and Mrs. A that Logan and I would be moving in together.
“How much are two bedrooms running these days?” asked Mr. A.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Logan and I will be sharing a one-bedroom.”
“That is too small. But I suppose two beds would be cheaper,” he said.
“Actually there will be only one bed.”
Mr. and Mrs. A looked a little perplexed, then their eyes widened in recognition. Amada almost busted up. She tried really hard to contain herself.
Logan and I found a little apartment in Venice. It was only a few blocks from the ocean.
My favorite times with Logan were in the mornings, before we started our day. We’d take a leisurely walk down the beach, watching the morning mist burn away, revealing a sky bluer than a Billie Holiday ballad.
“Why don’t you want to talk about her?” Logan asked.
“I’ve dealt with my mother and my father. I don’t want to discuss them.” I try not to think about them. It gets easier if I really try.
“You don’t want to talk about them even with me?”
“If I talk about her, I’ll remember her. I’ll wonder why she never came, if she died, if she lived. Then I’ll be really sad. I don’t want to be sad about that. I’m willing to be sad about something else. But not about that. I spent a good part of my life wondering where she is. No more.”
•
I attached photos to our refrigerator, keeping them up with magnets. Photos from the past year. Logan and I at Disneyland. We bought hats with ears on them. Logan and I in San Francisco. We went up to visit his parents, spent Logan’s birthday with them. His parents, Mr. and Mrs. Kushida, wore a forced smile in the picture. They were still getting used to the fact that he’s gay. Regardless, our faces beamed. Logan at the Long Beach swap meet carrying a stuffed easy chair that now sits in our living room. My favorite was of Logan, me and Amada at the opening night of a play she did. She worked almost full-time with an Asian American theatre troupe. They do shows around Southern California. It was a family picture really—a semblance of a life.
Logan optioned his first screenplay to a small production company in Hollywood. He was thrilled. I was thrilled for him. Still, money was tight. He got a job teaching cinema classes at City College. I continued to do extra work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Her Hand Fluttered Like a Butterfly
Dear Monty, May 29, 1997
Mrs. Billaruz called. I had Logan take a message. He did.
“What did she want?” I yelled from the kitchen.
“She wants to send you news footage from Filipino TV.”
“Why?”
“She said it was about vigils remembering those who disappeared. She wants you to call her.”
I didn’t call her. I don’t have plans to do so. I bought a new address book recently and transferred names, telephone numbers, and addresses from my old book. I didn’t include Mrs. Billaruz or Mr. Boyd. The only remnant of Amnesty International I have is a bumper sticker and that is buried in a drawer somewhere.
Dear Monty, June 27, 1997
Mrs. Billaruz’s package arrived. It’s sitting on the coffee table. I had a real long day working as an extra for a new television show. I’ll see the video when I get the chance.
The phone rang. I picked it up. It was Mrs. Billaruz.
“My boy,” she said, “why haven’t you called me?”
—“I’m sorry. I’ve been really busy. I—”
“You haven’t seen the tape, have you?”
“Mrs. Billaruz, things have been really hectic,” I lied.
“Do you have a VCR?”
“Yes…”
“Play the videotape. I’ll stay on the line.”
“I’m on my way out,” I lied again.
“Play it!”
I took a deep breath, and with the phone secured between my cheek and my shoulder, I played the tape. In the video, a news anchor said there was a vigil in Manila to remember those who had disappeared during the Marcos regime. It was an overcast day. Throngs of people gathered in a park to pay homage to the political prisoners who died or disappeared. Some of them carried pictures of missing loved ones. The camera took close-ups of these people carrying pictures of their deceased.
The camera rested for a moment on a woman who wore a sweater and a plain blue dress. She carried a photo across her chest. It was a photo of my dad. The woman holding the photo was old, her hair a little gray.
But it was my mother.
“Oh God,” I said. Mrs. Billaruz apparently said something, but I didn’t hear her. I rewound the tape and saw it again, pressing the pause button on the frame that carried my mother’s image.
“Did you hear me?” said Mrs. Billaruz.
“What?”
“Did you see what I’m talking about? That is your father’s picture she’s carrying, isn’t it? I don’t know if that’s her, your mother. Maybe it is an aunt or friend or something, but I wanted you to see.”
I didn’t answer her. I was transfixed by my mother’s image.
Thank God Monty came. I hadn’t seen him in such a long time. It was good seeing him again, in front of me, beside the television with a slight smile on his face. I loved his brown suit and black penny loafers. His hair looked great, neatly combed with a sheen that sparkled in the afternoon light.
“Is that your mother?” Mrs. Billaruz said a little louder. I had forgotten she was on the phone.
“Yes. It’s her.”
“At first, I didn’t know. I’d been taping news footage of anything to do with the Marcoses. I saw this. I almost didn’t send the videotape to you. I didn’t want to upset you if that wasn’t your mother.”
“It’s her,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.” In the video, the woman did one thing that gave her away, that let me know she was my mother. She
placed her hand over her mouth to stifle herself, to stop herself from crying. She didn’t cup her mouth, her fingers hugging her jaw. Instead, she kept it flat, her thumb and her pinky spread out from the rest of her fingers. Her hand fluttered like a butterfly. I remembered that. When I boarded the plane to come to the U.S., she cried. And she used her hand that very same way.
“Are you there?” Mrs. Billaruz asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Isn’t this wonderful?”
“Yes. Yes it is. I have to call you back, Mrs. Billaruz. Someone arrived. I hadn’t seen him in a while. I’ll have to get back to you.” I hung up.
How long did I stand there with Monty? An hour? Two? I wanted to touch him. I wanted to touch him so badly. With my mother’s image frozen on the television, I wanted him to hold me. I reached for him but my arms went through him.
The sun fell. I was thrilled when Logan came home.
“Hi, today was a bitch,” he said. I didn’t care. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about his day or him. I wanted Monty. Mr. Clift had been there for me from the beginning of this ordeal. Before Logan. Before Amada. Two people I loved most. He was the first. I wanted Monty to make love to me. I needed him to make love to me.
I approached Logan, and stared at him.
“Something wrong—” he said, but I cut him off. I shut my eyes tight and kissed him. It was a strong kiss, and he sort of giggled. I summoned Monty, beckoned him to make Logan disappear. I opened my eyes and Logan was gone. Mr. Clift appeared. It was just us. I relaxed into Monty’s arms. He in mine. I took off his clothes and kissed him all over. We laid together. He rested in my mouth. I rested in his.
I loved having my arms around him, holding him tightly. I didn’t want to let him go. Then he orgasmed. So did I. He fell away to rest.
I couldn’t sleep. I itched. My arms itched. I scratched myself, feeling my nails scrape against my skin. I stopped just before I bled.