I remembered the dog barking bravely when we came in earlier and frowned at his sudden change of heart. But I got up to answer the knock, cracking the door open. The bulb on the front porch was weak, but I could see a face peering back at me.
“Hello,” the old man said. His face was bronzed and shiny with sweat, sagging around the edges. He was very thin—his collarbones were little more than knobs poking through his skin.
“Hello,” I replied.
The man looked at me, as if he was trying to look through me, and then licked his lips. His teeth were very yellow. “Is Sabelle home?”
“She’s asleep,” I said. “Who’s asking?”
“Tell her Manoy Ciskong came by. I was going to ask about—” He squinted. “You must be Pablo, Julio’s son?”
I nodded slowly.
“How nice! You’ve grown up so much. You were so small when I last saw you. You’ve got your father’s look. The blood runs strong, indeed.” He licked his lips again. “You have a…friend?”
I narrowed my eyes. “She’s inside,” I said. “How did you know?”
“Oh, handsome lad like you…” He gestured. “But it’s getting late and I shouldn’t bother you. Good night and sweet dreams to you all.” And then he stepped out into the dark. I listened for the sound of the hinges creaking before I shut the door behind me and locked it. It took a long time before the dog stopped howling or shivering, and it was only then that I remembered that old Ciskong didn’t even tell me what he came by for.
My dreams that night were filled with howling black dogs.
Chapter Three
* * *
* * *
It took a while for me to get a chance to talk to my aunt alone again. First we had to go shopping, because a certain somebody had squished her toothpaste tube in the bus and the one-peso sachets from the sari-sari store weren’t good enough for her (“What if they’re not really made of toothpaste, Pablo? Could you live with yourself, making me brush my teeth with something that’s not really toothpaste?”). And of course, she’d forgotten her shampoo bottle and had looked at me with such absolute disgust when I suggested she use the laundry soap to wash her hair instead. Then we had to eat. We spent over two hours trekking through the city trying to find a fast-food joint that wouldn’t make her throw up. We settled for this pizza joint in this adorable little plaza mall—her words, not mine—and then we saw a movie. I should’ve warned her, but I didn’t; we had to go through this god-awful classic action movie before we saw the feature presentation.
“What the hell was that?” she asked me as soon as we got out, the heat prickly on our skin after the cold air-conditioning.
“It’s called a double feature,” I said. “They don’t have them in Manila because they’re cheapskates over there.”
“But they’re not even the same kind of movie!”
“I beg to disagree. Shooting down mafia who don’t die the first time totally puts me in the mood for a romantic fairy-tale. And anyway, you should’ve seen the look on your face.”
“Do you just sit around thinking up ways to see all sorts of looks on my face?”
“Not really. You just have the one.”
She tried to knee me. I skillfully dodged.
Anyway, we got back home before it got dark and then Rachel Ann realized that we were going to make her drink tap water and had me go to the drug store and buy her several bottles of mineral water. I pondered on the wisdom of pouring it all down the ditch and refilling them from the local creek, and then realized that the bits of dead cat might give me away. When I got home, Aunt Sabelle had gone to some function or another and I had to go out again and buy Rachel Ann food. That night, it was skewers of barbequed pork, white rice, vinegar, and pickled papaya. I placed everything into little bowls and set the table all proper-like. I had bought new spoons and forks as well (just two sets, I wasn’t sharing with Auntie), and placed them beside each plate over napkins.
I caught her looking at me. “What?” I said.
“Nothing,” she replied.
“It doesn’t look like nothing.” I filled two glasses with ice and cola and placed them on the table. “We can eat now.”
She shuffled over to one of the chairs and picked up a fork. “We’ve never done this before,” she suddenly said. She looked flushed. Was it the heat? I glanced to the side, to make sure the breeze from the fan was reaching us.
“Oh, this,” I said, looking back at her. “Well, usually my mom or your mom or some poor waiter does this for us. I didn’t want you to complain.”
She smirked. If there was anything else on her mind, she didn’t say it, and I was glad. We sat back and joked about other things, and ate dinner alone together for the first time in seven years. I didn’t want that night to end.
It was well in the early morning of the next day, while Rachel Ann still slept merrily away, that I managed to corner my aunt while she was frying dried fish in the kitchen. I sat around fingering the laces on the tablecloth, trying to decide what to say, and then she gave me a look that said I ought to get on with it or get out, so I just took the direct approach. “Where’s your father born?” I asked.
She looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”
“I’m…” I scratched the side of my face. “Curious.”
She fell silent and she returned to stirring more than one ought to stir frying fish. I felt so uncomfortable all of a sudden that I got up and started making myself instant coffee. I had time to boil water and mix it with sugar and powdered milk before she spoke again. “I don’t know,” she said. “I never saw much of him. We never talked.”
I instantly regretted asking her. My aunt’s genuine sentiment was a new and strange thing, like Rachel Ann learning what “Quiet!” really means. I stirred my coffee, trying to look like I was thinking things over when all I really wanted to do was get out of there and escape. The last thing I needed was my aunt deciding I required a heart-to-heart talk. Jesus, I just wanted to open a stupid email account.
Rachel Ann saved the day. She strode out of the room yawning, my aunt’s face turned to boiled vinegar, she left us alone to (probably) gossip with the neighbours, and all was right with the world. “It still feels so weird waking up here,” she said. “There was a rooster outside the window and I kept thinking, that can’t be right. And they say living out in the province is peaceful!”
“They don’t just crow in the morning, you know,” I said.
“No kidding?”
“Sometimes when it’s rainy or cloudy…they’re stupid like that.”
She looked at the cup in my hands. “There’s coffee?”
“Help yourself.” I pointed at the kettle.
“Let me just have a sip.”
“Seriously, how hard would it be to make your own—” I then decided that there was no point in arguing and handed her the cup. She wrapped her hands around it and while she drank I noticed she was wearing one of my old gym shirts. It was cotton, dyed red around the collar and sleeves, and so loose from being washed improperly so many times that it hung close to her knees. Her hair was unbound and covered half of the old school logo.
She must have noticed my stare, because she glanced down and grinned. “Don’t get any ideas. I was browsing through your closet here and saw—well, I miss my old one. I’ve forgotten how much I liked this logo.”
“Remember how they made us vote for the new one, and it turned out the principal was just going to use her own design anyway?”
“School politics have always been ridiculous.” She gave me back my empty cup. “You think my parents are looking for me right now?”
“They’d have asked my mother and are probably on their way,” I said, as truthfully as I could.
She frowned at that. “Wouldn’t they call first?”
“In case you haven’t noticed, this house lacks a telephone.”
“Wouldn’t your mom call your cell? Text you?”
I grinned. “Turned it off.”
“How convenient.”
“Anything for you, my dear. What about yours?”
“I hid it under my bed back home.”
We stared at each other for the space of a second, and then burst out laughing. After that I noticed that she was brushing a tear from her eye. “Oh, Pablo,” she said. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I? I’m starting to wonder if this was even a good idea at all.”
“You’ve got to stop thinking like that. They’re not here yet, so make the most of what you’ve got. I’ve got a killer day planned.”
She glanced at the clock. “Somehow, I doubt that.”
I shook my head. She really should have believed me more often. In fact, as soon as she gave me that look again my cousins arrived, as noisy as when I last saw them a year ago. Introductions were thrown left and right. Someone suggested a trip to watch someone’s friend’s band play on stage and that was it. Rachel Ann’s parents were forgotten, quick as that.
The three cousins who showed up that afternoon were as different as night, day, and indoor fluorescent-lighted rooms. Daryl, who was about a year older than me, had long, butterfly locks dyed an iridescent shade of yellow like someone who never got over the 90’s, and had a constant scowl on his face that he thought looked cool. Joshua had closely-cropped hair and aspired to join the military or police force, but at fifteen had never quite gotten his father to agree. Mike smoked, spat, and swore like a sailor and could out-drink anything with a liver—he’d been my idol since before I could walk. They all liked to argue over basketball and girls, but they had one thing in common—loud, noisy, eardrum-splitting music. I realized my mistake all too late.
Rachel Ann, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy herself. She bumped people left and right while screaming at the top of her lungs, and it was all I could do not to lose her in the crowd. As I was contemplating whether it was worth having to listen to yet another song that was mostly bass and static, Mike clapped his hands around my shoulder and drew me into a relatively quiet corner.
“Having fun?” he roared.
“What?”
“I said: are you having fun?” He had to yell pretty loud. I stuck a finger in my ear. He motioned, urging me to cross the street with him. I started to look around for Rachel Ann, realized it probably wasn’t worth the effort, and followed Mike down the road. The stage grew smaller and smaller behind us, but surprisingly enough, not the crowd.
It was quieter, though. Mike jerked a finger back. “So who’s the chick?” he asked.
“She’s not a chick. I told you her name.”
“You know I don’t mean that,” he said. He crossed his arms. “I was wondering if you and she were—you know.”
“Oh, dear God, no,” I said, pretending to puke.
He narrowed his eyes. “Right. And why not?”
“Because I love myself too much.” I looked him up and down. “Why ask?”
“Are you kidding me? She’s hot. You never bring a girl out here, so I thought—well, if you two aren’t—you wouldn’t mind if I tried?” He smiled.
“Suit yourself,” I said. “I don’t care.” But I gave him one last look as I said it—him and his slick, gel-covered hair and that moustache I kept telling him to shave—and I knew it bothered me, even just a little. I tried not to let it show, though. I even crossed my arms, just to prove that point.
Sometime before it got too dark, the songs ended, and Rachel Ann found me, a huge grin plastered on her face. “This is so much fun, Pablo!” she exclaimed, wrapping her arms around one of mine.
“Isn’t it?” Daryl exclaimed. “You should come here more often. Next week, my band and I are playing.”
“If you’d call it a band,” Joshua muttered.
Daryl shot him a look. Rachel Ann laughed. “I’d love to watch! Wouldn’t we, Pablo?”
I squinted at her. “How did I become we?” But I wasn’t even finished talking when she hooked her arm around Daryl and they were chatting about this great place we were going to eat and how Mike was going to pay. I was left scratching the sweat off my dusty cheek. I wanted to stay there longer and let them figure out I wasn’t following them after all, but by then the sun had all but fallen and mosquitoes were feasting on my arms, so I had to run after them anyway.
We didn’t make it past the university gates. I saw my aunt and I knew, somehow. That gut-wrenching feeling started like a shot of acid in the pit of my stomach. I reached them in time to see my aunt grab Rachel Ann by the wrist. I opened my mouth to protest, and she gave me a look. “You’re both in trouble,” she said flatly.
That was how she dragged us back home. Rachel Ann’s parents were sitting on the patio when we got back. By then the sweat around my neck had grown so cold that I didn’t even want to wipe it off. They nodded at me before turning their attention to their suddenly-meek daughter. My aunt dropped her and strode inside the house, her pace too quick and business-like for someone who just wanted to get away from things.
“What’s the meaning of this, hah, hah?” Rachel Ann’s mother started. “I thought he wasn’t your boyfriend, hah? Have you been lying to us? What about—”
“You know very well you’re not supposed to—” her dad joined in the fray. I shut my eyes, coward that I was, and hoped the attention wouldn’t turn to me. I wasn’t entirely sure if I ought to be grateful or frightened when I heard my aunt calling me from the living room.
I went. The door was shut behind me. Auntie Sabelle came round and shoved her cell phone into my face. “Your father,” she said.
I hesitated for a moment, then took the phone and pressed it against my ear.
“Dad.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Thousands of miles and wireless connections had done little to dampen the effect my father’s foul tone has on me. I rolled my eyes to the window as he began. Behind me, my aunt stood with a finger on my elbow, making sure I heard every word.
I remember seeing a beehive on the ground back when we had a back yard. It was whole and perfectly shaped, and I had expected to find hundreds of bees inside, which was why it took me a long time to find the perfect implement to use to smack it open. I found a yardstick, thick enough for clubbing. When the sides finally cracked, nothing came out, and when I went closer to take a look I saw that all there was were empty shells and rotting larvae.
I feel like that beehive every time my father yells at me—empty and decaying inside, like if I make a mistake and move too much the balance will break and everything will crumble. And I guess it probably says a lot that my earliest memory is of him yelling at me. I was three. I had turned over a bag of toys on the floor and then forgot about it in favour of a ball I found in the yard. He came home and threw a fit because I didn’t clean up. I was too young to say anything—just stood there with tears streaming from my eyes—but I still think sometimes about what I could’ve said then, that a three-year-old couldn’t possibly remember such a thing, or know, or even understand.
It’s not even that I didn’t have the opportunity again afterwards, because I did—plenty of them. My whole childhood was based around trying to hide things from him so I didn’t have to watch his face contort into that hideous beast I used to pretend wasn’t my father. I’ve hidden—ran—choked food down—lied through my teeth. But if I did slip, or he went and screamed at me anyway, there was no way I could get a word in edgewise. He never listened. I think I’d grown up believing him incapable of it.
As I sat there on the sofa with his voice up against my ear half a world away, I caught myself wanting to hold that framed picture, the one of my dad and me. I hadn’t realized how much of a habit it was to do that every time I caught the bad end of their rage. I suddenly wondered if this would be easier if I didn’t have memories of their kindness and their love; I could actually not care, instead of pretending I didn’t. He used to buy me a book every Sunday and hold my soda so I could finish my burger. When did he stop caring what I had to say? They’re only words, Pablo, I told myself, trying to stay
afloat in the torrent. Words can’t hurt you. But they can. And they did. I wanted to tear myself open to make it all stop.
From the corners of my eyes, I saw Rachel Ann’s father through the window with his hands in the air. Her mother was threatening to send her out of the country, across the sea. They called her a disgrace, an ingrate, a slut. This family that loved her.
Let me tell you a secret, okay? I cried that evening, even though I pretended I wasn’t. I couldn’t help myself. All I wanted was to disappear in some dark corner somewhere, but the tears came, anyway. I figured the pain had to go somewhere. When my aunt walked away, I dropped the cell phone in my palm and turned it off. My father was probably going to call back. It made me happy to think he’d fail.
I’m not sure how the rest of that night played out. I know I went to bed, somehow, because I woke up with my eyes burning and my head threatening to split open. I thought about Rachel Ann and wondered if she was on her way to Manila by now. Her parents had gotten here so fast they probably took a plane, and likely they’d booked a third flight for her. I watched the fan on the wall for a few moments, sweat pooling under my neck. Eventually, I got bored and stumbled out of the room.
She was sleeping on the couch with her legs tucked under her, her head resting on the crook of her elbow. I glanced at the clock and noticed it was only 4 a.m. I resisted the temptation to wake her, and instead grabbed a blanket and draped it across her bare legs.
“Thank you, Pablo,” she mumbled.
I sat at the end of the sofa. “They didn’t take you home,” I pointed out. “What gives?”
“They said if I didn’t want to, I could just not come back at all.” She sat up and gazed at the ceiling. I patted her knee. She pulled the thin blanket up to her chest and pushed herself closer to me. “Maybe they want me to go back begging for their forgiveness. Well then, I won’t.”
Birthplace Page 4