I Will Be the One

by Larry Farmer

  “That doesn’t matter to a stranded sailor, though,” I explained. “I think he was some kind of operative, too, but just saying. A sailor or soldier or whoever, hey, they’re going to make a move of some sort. Even if it’s to get to you as a social outlet.”

  “I suppose,” she conceded. “Anyway. Meanwhile, he's acting like he’s this tipsy buddy-buddy, barcada guy who just wants to hang around with San Miguels and shoot the breeze. After dinner he went to one of our few open carindarias. It’s after dark now, and only men go out at night to drink. He came back around ten p.m. I was still with this neighbor woman at her place, and she let him in. Then she retired for the evening. I hung around because he acted not just drunk but a step beyond tipsy. He told me about talking with men there and getting a sense of things going on here. Then all of a sudden he was silent, and stared at me like assessing me. Then his voice and demeanor changed completely. Suddenly there’s no display of tipsiness, but in a very abrupt, calculated manner he briefly told me I was okay. Like I passed some muster, I presumed. That he’d obtained what he was looking for. He said it in a way like he was committing this recital to memory, as if it was impossible for him to literally write down notes, so they wouldn’t be confiscated, or dropped and lost somewhere, thus revealing something. Actually, I don’t know that. I just pretty much made up my mind he was doing that.”

  “Don’t you ever use the word paranoid on me again,” I repeated to her firmly. “We really don’t know, and you can misjudge, but this is no paranoia. This sounds like you were targeted by whoever. Yeah, CIA or military Intel comes to mind. It’s beyond an educated guess. Maybe we’re wrong, but—naw. This is so in your face.”

  “He was gone early the next morning,” she continued. “Since he came by way of Cotabato City, we talked about the museum Lola took you and me to. It was fresh on my mind, since I just came from there. I asked him if he stopped in the museum there. He said yes. When I arrived today, before coming to Lola’s house, I went by that museum to check his story out. I remembered we had signed in when we entered. His name, the one he gave me, wasn’t there. So either he lied to sound like a tourist, or he wrote a different name. That same morning before he left to get to Midsayap to go to Davao, he met one of the more influential ladies of our village on the street. She runs a little store here, you know these little roofed stands that sell canned goods and things. The sari-sari stores. She told me later that all the locals who came across him were suspicious of him. I know to take that with a grain of salt, but it sure didn’t reassure me about him being just a guy seeking American companionship. She looked me straight in the eye, which is unusual for a Filipina, and asked me bluntly what I thought of him. Did I think my friend—those words, my friend, she called him—this guy I brought to the village the night before, might he be a spy, or not? I had about thirty seconds to make a choice. Should I tell her I didn’t think he was a spy, when I did, or should I lie and look like I’m covering up? This so compromised me. She kept staring into my eyes, and I knew I couldn’t deceive her, so I told her, yes, I thought he was a spy. And I told her that when he asked me for information I didn’t tell him the truth. She seemed satisfied with that answer, and I saw how she also thought he was a spy. I hoped I was going to survive this.”

  The way Lois said she hoped she would survive this made me think there was an epilogue to this story. A bad one. The way she stared at the ground at her feet intensely as she said it made me all the more sure she had something bad to say.

  “A couple of days later, after this SOB came to my village,” she said coldly, “our village was attacked by some gunmen, and our small marketplace was burned down. That’s never happened before, that I’m aware of. I was relieved I wasn’t hamleted. More relieved my neighbors weren’t. Was this because of me bringing this man into the village? I can’t get it out of my head how it must be that. I don’t know what to think. Coincidence, maybe? I’m still trying to remind myself of that possibility, but I have to force that concept down my throat.”

  “You’ve got to get out of there, Lois,” I said firmly. “Get the hell out of there.”

  “They’re my people.” She looked up at me in appeal. Her eyes turned red, her lips trembled. We were in public, but I held her to me while she cried on my shoulder. The summer harvests had come just in time, I decided. Like a manifestation from God. She was here and safe for the next few weeks. But how was I going to get her out of that death trap permanently?

  Chapter 15

  As I worked with our bookkeeper on a spreadsheet, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned—and stared. What was Lois doing here on Monday afternoon? After spending time with me, she had gone back to begin the new school session. She had returned to her village on Sunday, the day before, to get reoriented with her life there and prepare for a new school year. Which is where she should be right now. In school teaching, instead of here.

  “The good part is,” she explained as we walked together outside the bank, “I spent these past few weeks with you and had most of my belongings with me, including my passport. The bad news is, I don’t have a village anymore. Nowhere to go. Someone blew up my house with a hand grenade.”

  Lois was impressively calm, considering the news she’d just laid on me. The night in her village to contemplate her fate, and the long ride to Cotabato City, had given her time to adjust. As much as one can.

  “Where are your things?” I asked her.

  “At our Lola’s house. In our room. Everything I own is in my backpack. The same possessions I packed yesterday morning when I headed home.”

  I stared off into the distance, then turned back to look at her as I stuck out my elbow for her to embrace as we walked home. Our home now; we were together somehow.

  “My neighbors explained to me that my Nipa Hut was blown up the very day I left to come spend the school break with you,” she said. “Did whoever did it know I was gone and this was a warning, or am I supposed to be dead? People in the village did not report the incident to anyone because they didn’t want to cause a problem. They are sure it was NPA retaliation for me being a spy. Meaning that SOB guy, even if he wasn’t an operative himself, was so blatantly perceived as one, including by me and you, that it convinced others that I was too. I am so furious I’m beside myself. I want to go to the U.S. Embassy right this minute and give them a piece of my mind. But the reality—the official legality—of it all is that he didn’t exist. That’s what you hear in the movies and on the news, anyway. So, thus, nothing happened. There was no American at my village, or if so, just a tourist. Or that I’m out of my mind. Whatever. You know that’s what we’re going to hear from them. Probably only a few of his cohorts even know about him to begin with. But whatever. I have no place to live anymore. They’re probably going to send me home now. For getting involved. Or for having the audacity to have my place get blown up. And if they find out, and they will, that I spent the last few weeks with you—well, there you go. I should have stayed and planted a garden or something, but I’m sure I accomplished more here with you, including learning the computer you have, and working with the girls doing their ledgers.”

  “You don’t have to convince me,” I said sympathetically. “But you ain’t going home. Or to a new site. And you can’t go back to your old site even if they let you and even if you wanted to. You’re marked there. You’d be hamleted. And perhaps your friends there, too, for being involved with you. They survived your hand grenade by not getting one of their own. We don’t want to push our luck at their expense.”

  She nodded her head as if in agreement with what I’d just said.

  “You’re right. At least I’m the only one they’re after. Whoever ‘they’ happen to be. They’ve had plenty of time to hamlet others by now. My God, can you imagine if the NPA had hamleted my neighbors because of this piece of crap?”

  “Let’s get married,” I said. “You’ve lived with me for weeks now anyway, working with me on my projects. You know everybody here. Everyone loves
you.”

  “You’d marry me?” she asked.

  I glared my look of anguish at her to portray what I thought was the most ridiculous question I ever heard.

  “I’m so sorry this happened to you, Lois, but the crying part’s over now, and the future makes me happy. We’ve already proposed to each other and vowed to vow. So if you need reassurance about my attitude, then, well, my God, here it is. I love you, Lois. I want to spend the rest of my life with the deepest, gutsiest, most caring person I ever met. Marry me. Don’t even take anything that happened as some sign from God. Just marry me because I don’t want to live anymore of my life without you in it. Get it?”

  I turned and walked back toward the bank, opened the door, and stuck my head into the entranceway.

  “Lois and I are getting married,” I shouted.

  There was loud applause and cheering throughout.

  “I want to marry you, Mississippi,” Lois whispered after the celebration died down and we left again to walk home, “but let me get my bearings on this. Now that it’s really upon us.”

  I rolled my eyes. I knew she was right, and I’d wait. But I knew full well we were going to get married, and soon.

  I called Peace Corps Manila that afternoon and told them about Lois and what had happened. Before they had a chance to decide the next step concerning her duties, I informed them that we were getting married. Then I gave the phone to Lois for the details to be ironed out. In an emergency situation like this one, the Peace Corps would pay for a PCVs flight to Manila. Because we were getting married, the Peace Corps agreed to reimburse me for my flight, as well, once—and if—our marriage and site plans were approved.

  “It would even save the Peace Corps money,” our administration director told us in our meeting after we arrived in Manila, “if you two do get married and Lois is reassigned to work with you at your bank in Cotabato City. I understand your situation, Lois, and I appreciate your attachment to Mindanao. But please don’t get married over this. Take time to realize what you’re doing. You both have the better part of a year left on your assignment in the Philippines. Don’t rush things.”

  “You can ask anyone who knows us,” I said, “how we’ve been emotionally attached since San Diego. We spend all our weekends together, and our R&R trips, too. We have deep feelings for one another. The only reason we aren’t married already is because she loves her village. But y’all won’t let her go back, and the next best thing is to be with me. We want to get married. The sooner the better.”

  “I believe you, Mississippi,” the director said, “but I need to hear Lois verify it.”

  “Yes, it’s true,” she said. “That’s what we want. That’s what I want. I am very attached to Cotabato City already, and his environment. And we do love one another very deeply in every sense of the word.”

  He picked up his cup of coffee to take a sip, then stared off into the distance.

  “I’ve helped PCVs marry Filipinos before going back home,” he said. “I know the right people at the embassy for this. As standard procedure, we try to talk PCVs ready to get married out of doing so, and we notify parents. But once we’re sure they’re going to do it, we try to help. We need to talk to your parents. Both of you do. I know you’re adults, but please bear with us. Protocol demands we take procedures.”

  “Can we do that in the next day or two?” Lois asked.

  “I’ll call them tonight,” the director said. “There’s a fourteen-hour difference in time zones. We want to be courteous. I’ll explain the situation. You are adults. Their permission isn’t required, and they can’t make you come home. But we need to include them in this.”

  “We understand,” Lois and I concurred.

  The hand grenade incident was the center of our conversations with both our parents. Both sets of parents were scared for our safety. Once we got past that, getting married was simpler. Though not easy. But they knew we cared for each other, and we managed without much difficulty to convince them of our feelings and devotion.

  “I’m glad you didn’t slip and mention the operative that caused all this,” I told Lois back at our hotel room in Malate. “We couldn’t prove he was an operative, and it would be denied anyway. The fact that the NPA is belligerent in your area and there’s a peace treaty with the MNLF in mine is good enough for now. Let American officials be relieved you’re changing your site, and let our getting married make them feel more secure about you. That’s a start.”

  “We need to tell Margaret, Jennifer, and Rhonda,” Lois said. “Once the paperwork is done, we’ll get them to come to Manila for the wedding.”

  “Are we going to have a big to-do?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Lois replied. “But we want to honor our friends. They made us promise to include them. Our parents are coming. To meet us and each other. It would be nice to have some Peace Corps buddies, too. But the girls are enough.”

  It took two weeks for everything to be arranged. But it gave our PCV friends and our parents the time to manage their arrivals.

  And it gave us time to talk about our future. The one about our life together.

  “How are we going to raise our children?” I asked her pointedly. I wasn’t as interested in an answer as just talking about the subject I now loved most.

  She smiled. I assumed from the thought.

  “I had plans on going to California,” she began.

  “It’s open,” I replied. “But I have a distaste for California.”

  “And Mississippi is tasteful for me or something?”

  “Okay. Let’s see what kind of a lawyer you’re going to be. Let’s discuss the pros and cons of our soon-to-be environment and the elements in it. Namely you and me.”

  “So you’ve already conceded in previous talks that I won’t be a housewife. At least seven days a week, full time.”

  “So.” I grinned. “I’ve already given that away. No negotiation on that matter and no trade-offs. I’m not doing so well. So, I repeat. How are we going to raise our children?”

  “To become adults.”

  “How?” I pushed.

  “You’re up to something,” she said while scoping me out studiously. “What is it? Are you hoping they will be rednecks from the South? Or be Jewish?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Which one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there going to be compromise?” she mocked.

  “We’ll see.”

  “I bet we do.”

  I stared at her and waited.

  “Which is the most important to you?” she asked.

  “You can keep the redneck. I’m not a redneck myself.”

  “So that’s not on the table to compromise either,” she said, grinning in victory.

  “Should have kept my mouth shut on that one, huh. Touché, Ms. Lawyer. You got me on two counts already. Me raising our kids to be rednecks is now a non-starter. So. Are we going to live in California or the South? Or Ohio?”

  “What happened to Hawaii?” she chirped. “That’s where you were headed this whole time. Now suddenly you haven’t even brought it up.”

  “Hawaii now seems trite to me. Some pipe dream. You’re on a roll, my to-be-lawyer, to-be-wife. I’ve already conceded three points. Struck out already. Am I going to be a househusband before you’re finished with me?”

  “You tell me. We’ll negotiate, but you make your spiel.”

  “First of all, the South and Mississippi are changing. They’re on the way up, and more and more Yankees already think so. I love the Old South, but being Jewish lets me understand I don’t love every inch of everything about Dixie. We’ve got our problems. But it’s warmer there in climate and in human interchange. And we’ve beautiful beaches that can be accessed year round. I love our culture and spirit. Overall. As for problems? Yes, there are certain radical elements among our demography. Let’s go home to Mississippi and see if we can enhance some of the betterments in racial harmony and the economy that are occurring ther
e. I don’t mean right every wrong. Plus, Mississippi is home to one of us, whereas California isn’t for either of us. There aren’t enough Jews in Mississippi anyway.”

  “Aha. Here we go. Slick little maneuver there, Mississippi. First he tugs at my heart strings to love the warmth of the place, meaning weather, culture, history, geography, and people, and then he tugs some more by reminding me that Mississippi is famous for certain social attitudes to which we, hopefully, can contribute a betterment. Then he throws in that there aren’t enough Jews. So you’re not converting to Christianity, it sounds like, or intending to walk in harmony with the great mystic feminine forces of the universe, either. Am I right? Simple yes or no, even though you’re not under oath.”

  “I like a lot about Christianity,” I said. “But you’re not attached to Christianity, you already said. And I’m not all that religious. But being a Jew anymore is more like a nationality. I’m not talking about Israel, either, but a Jew’s religion is Judaism, and it’s a good religion. I love our heritage and all we’ve grown into through the millennia. I do want to stay Jewish. I’m even attached to our religion. It’s ancient but has evolved brilliantly through the ages. It fits modern settings even as it relies on its cultural and religious DNA.”