Orchid House

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  Nathan shuffled his feet restlessly, and Julia realized she’d been staring out the window again. “Sorry I’m so distracted,” she murmured.

  “It’s okay. A lot has happened to you lately. Anyway, think about it—the job, I mean.” He picked up his coffee cups. “I’m moving fast with all this, I know. But, confession . . . I’ve been coming here for breakfast and lunch for the past week, ever since Lisa said you were back. It’s actually out of my way.”

  “You could have just called.”

  He nodded. “When you get back, I will call. We’ll have dinner. Or even before you leave?”

  She glanced at the two cups in his hand. “I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

  He chuckled. “Oh no. I buy two so I can work at home without drinking my own terrible brew. Jules, I’m not seeing anyone. Shelly and I broke up two months ago. I haven’t been seeing anyone in all that time.”

  She wanted to laugh. All that time. Nathan could never be alone for long.

  “Well, maybe I’m seeing someone.” She smiled at the way his eyes darted away and his composure failed.

  “I didn’t mean to presume.”

  She did laugh then. “It’s okay. I’m not.”

  “Well, good then. So, dinner?”

  “And we’d go as what . . . old friends?”

  He shrugged and smiled. “Old friends . . . new friends. Two people who were once engaged to spend their lives together and then . . .”

  “And then didn’t.”

  “But maybe needed some time apart to see if it was meant to be. What do you think?”

  The cold crept deep, and her stomach growled. “I think for the past four months I’ve been living with the end of a life, and now I’m traveling far to put what remains into the ground. Other than that, I haven’t thought of much. Except that I really need some coffee.”

  “Ah, why didn’t I think of that? I shouldn’t propose such things before you’ve had your coffee. Not wise at all. Let me buy you one.”

  “How about when I come back?”

  He nodded with disappointment in his smile. “And dinner, remember. Just make sure you don’t fall in love with a Filipino rice farmer while you’re there.”

  They both laughed at that.

  Seven years they’d been together. For two years they’d been apart. What had happened to them? And yet, to think of them together again, to look at them now . . . the whole thing felt disjointed and surreal.

  A death, a lost love, and a foreign land. Julia wondered what was coming next.

  Jungles of northern Luzon, Philippines

  IT WAS AN ETHEREAL LIGHT THAT CAME THROUGH THE TREES. Originating from the sun, now unseen at this time of night, the light reflected off the moon and onward toward an archipelago of seven thousand islands called the Philippines and then to one island and one mountain where it broke into a thousand pieces through cracks of leaves and branches where one man stood in the shadows.

  Manalo stared upward and enjoyed a moment alone. He could hear the voices of his men through the jungle thicket. He’d need to remind them to keep to muffled tones. They were getting soft at the edges, letting down their guard, growing restless for home. He felt it as well, perhaps more than they.

  He walked farther from their camp, his footsteps silent in woods where the sounds of the night creatures surrounded him. Crickets and frogs and large lizards called toko joined in a nocturnal song.

  A portion of moonlight came to him, and a portion went to her. He wondered if Malaya was even now looking upward and thinking of him. Did the moonlight caress her smooth complexion and strands of black silk hair as his hands would if he were with her now? Did she sleep at night with their son resting against her breast? Did their daughters play in open fields by day, singing and putting flowers in each other’s hair? How quickly the years had passed. His older sons now walked the hills of his own youth and fished the jungle streams. Did they think of him as often as he thought of them?

  He had called Malaya a month ago from a pay phone in a mountain village. It was planned that way, on a date that changed each month. He would not endanger her or the children. If someone discovered they were the wife and children of Manalo, head of the notorious Red Bolo Communist guerrillas, then they could get to him. And though his men might not believe it, and he would never let them know the truth, Manalo knew he might betray even his most trusted comrades for the lives of Malaya and their children.

  The call of home grew louder by both night and day. By kilo- meters, it wasn’t far. He could reach her in four days of walking, one day if he hitched a ride. And yet by duty and expectation, the calls were unknown months apart.

  He took a breath of crisp night air. Time to return to camp. To his calling. His men needed him, depended and lived by his guidance. It was a role he had never desired, but with the death of his brother, a destiny he could not deny.

  A final glance toward the sky before returning to the men where dinner might be ready . . . then something stirred in the thicket on the opposite end of the meadow. With ginger steps, a deer walked into the open field where moonlight stroked its hair and horns. The deer wasn’t large, but there was dignity in its careful walk.

  Manalo recalled the last deer he had seen—a gutted beast from two seasons past. The Philippine sambar was rare and near extinction, and Rigo had chastised Emil for shooting the animal. Rigo wouldn’t eat the first red meat they’d had in many days, out of conviction and sorrow for the fallen creature.

  The moonlight cast an eerie glow over the stag. It stopped, one foot held midstep. It had seen Manalo and sniffed the air to catch his scent. He didn’t move. Was it a sign of another destiny? Or further confirmation to go home?

  The deer’s attention shifted toward a thicket where his men resided. Then the creature turned and walked to the far end of the meadow and began grazing.

  Manalo realized there was an unnatural quiet coming from the direction of the camp. He knew his men, and silence meant nothing good. He headed back without hesitation, wondering if he had startled the sambar by his abrupt departure.

  He emerged from the darkness of the jungle into the circle of light by the two small fires. His men, about thirty in number, were huddled close together. He saw at once an extra man among them. He knew this man, or rather, boy. He was a courier.

  It had been three months since any courier had contacted them.The guerrilla groups disappeared even from each other at times.

  The courier and the men had waited his arrival, anxious for the news to be told.

  “Magandang gabi, comrade,” the boy said.

  Edo was his name, Manalo recalled. He’d worked hard to learn the names of the men in even the splinter groups.

  “What word do you have from outside?” Manalo stepped away from the fire and toward his tent with the boy walking beside him. They spoke in low tones.

  “There is important news. We wish for your direction.”

  Manalo sat on a chair outside his canvas tent. He felt unusually weary tonight. “Proceed.”

  “There is a hacienda that was very powerful before the Marcos regime, but it fell into foreign ownership. The owner is now deceased, and the land’s future is in question.”

  “Where is this hacienda?”

  “Batangas.”

  “Hacienda Esperanza?” It had been many years since he’d spoken the name.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy looked surprised.

  “I know the land. A very important place for a time. My grandfather grew up there. He fought the Japanese with Captain Morrison for a time.”

  “Captain Morrison . . . that was the news. The American. He is dead.”

  Manalo gazed up at the stars. “He joins my father and many others. May he rest in peace.”

  “Ka Manalo, this is the message. The American captain had legal ownership of the hacienda because of his marriage to Julianna Guerrero and the death of Don Miguel, Julianna’s brother. It is unknown what will happen now that the captain is dead. But
they will return him here for burial, and his family representatives will decide the fate of the land. I am to find out what you want to do.”

  Manalo’s mind gathered and sorted as he spoke. “First, we must make sure this information is correct. Reach our officials for legal documentation.”

  “Timeteo,” he called to his closest adviser. “Gather the men.”

  Even as he spoke with the courier about sources and possibilities, Manalo was thinking of Malaya and the children. What future would they have in their homeland?—that was the question that kept him in the jungle. While the world modernized and grew strong, his nation continued under the tyranny of one regime or another. Manalo had read about developing technology, that someday soon everyone would have a telephone in his car, that already many people in Manila and most in the States had their own computers. The entire world was changing.

  And here they lived in the jungle, hiding from the government, rallying troops for the people, seeking a way to be a strong nation. The Communist way would change everything. It would give the people power without the class distinctions that kept so many locked in poverty. Manalo wanted his heirs to know equality, unlike the life he had experienced.

  He sighed long to expel the dream of going home and to gather himself for what awaited. Sometimes, he admitted more and more, it felt a futile and worthless cause for all that he sacrificed.

  The men came together, holding their AK-47s. Some rested on one knee; all waited for his direction. The news of the American’s death had already spread. Many had heard of Captain Morrison from war stories the older men told. Rumors would undoubtedly exaggerate, and he always tried to squelch gossip that might divide or cause dissension.

  Manalo repeated the courier’s message. And then he spoke the words that would rouse them to action. “That land should not belong to foreigners. That is what we fight for. Our land and our country must be for the people. No more wealthy leaders stealing from the poor. No other nation conquering our land. No more puppet governments serving the interests of foreign corporations and administrations. That is what our fathers fought for. That is why we live in the jungle instead of with our wives—for some of you, your wives and mistresses.”

  A few chuckled at that. He allowed it, then waited for them to hear his final point. “That is why we fight.” He saw it in their eyes and the set of their jaws. His men would follow him down any path, even one that led to death.

  Hours later, when all but the watch slept, Manalo returned to the meadow. The stag had moved on, as had the moonlight that now fell low through the jungle thickets.

  Why would not Captain Morrison return the land to its people, Manalo thought with anger, but also with despair. He was weary of strategies.

  In truth, that men would give up their lives for his words, that governments might pillage his country, or that he swore to his brother of duty . . . all this mattered less and less to him.

  All that the revered leader of the Red Bolos wanted was home.

  Barangay Mahinahon

  Province of Batangas, Philippines

  FROM OUTSIDE, EMMAN LEANED ON THE OPEN WINDOW FRAME with the other boys. The small television screen on the far side of the room was visible for all unless someone else tried to squeeze in. His feet scuffed the dirt outside the window. When Mrs. Jiminez was alive she had kept a row of flowers here. Now the years and the practice of viewing from outside looking in had packed down the earth outside the small one-bedroom house.

  If the kids were quiet, Mr. Jiminez would let them to stay till the end of whatever show was on. And once in a while, if the old man fell asleep in his chair, they might get past the news where they’d hear about events in Manila or China or even the United States of America. When the signal blinked off in the lateness of the hour or Mr. Jiminez woke as if from some hypnotic dream and shooed them all away, a cloak of disappointment came over Emman. He’d walked the dirt pathway home and wondered if he’d ever truly leave the Philippines.

  Tonight one of his favorite shows was on, and the old man had fallen asleep. The boys silently smirked and pointed. They would see all of Magnum, P. I. tonight.

  The P. I. stood for “private investigator.” Emman thought that would be the best job in the world, especially on the island of Oahu in Hawaii. He shifted the wooden gun that leaned on the outside of the house beside him and watched as Thomas Magnum hopped into his bright red Ferrari to chase a criminal who was trying to escape.

  Hawaii looked a lot like the Philippines at times. Their President Marcos had died in Hawaii only a few years earlier. Emman wondered if President Marcos ever met the actor named Tom Selleck.

  America.

  Red Ferraris. Helicopters. Beautiful women in bikinis. Private investigators.

  Everything was better in America.

  His friends teased him about his obsession. Emman saved his small earnings for the movie house in San Juan. One of his most prized possessions was a poster of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

  As Magnum followed the clues of his latest case, Emman recalled how Emman, P. I., had been on his own case today.

  He already knew that the great Captain Morrison was dead in America. But something more was happening at Hacienda Esperanza. There were meetings with Mr. Raul and Amang Tenio. The lawyer, Markus Santos, had spent several days with Mr. Raul in his office. Everyone Emman talked to was abuzz with guesses, but no one knew for sure what it meant for them that the old war hero had died in the States.

  Emman was most interested in the lawyer from Manila. He knew Markus Santos had ties with the hacienda, that is, with the family who lived there before Emman was born. So how had the man, who appeared to be in his thirties, gone from there to a life in the city?

  Though their capital city wasn’t America, it had culture like the megamalls and wealthy Filipinos. Emman had never been to Manila, but he’d once seen a rich kinsman from there. Surely Manila had private investigators as well. These were just some of the things he wished to ask this Markus Santos.

  Emman felt a nudge at his back. It was young Bok, who followed Emman like a stray puppy. He motioned for Emman to come away from the open window.

  “I’m watching Magnum.” Emman saw Magnum and T. C. chasing a Hawaiian man through burning sugarcane fields.

  Bok squeezed in next to him, bringing a round of complaints from the other boys. He whispered out the side of his mouth, “I just heard important news.”

  “What is it?”

  Bok wouldn’t respond. A commercial came on for Mr. Clean laundry detergent, so Emman left his coveted spot at the window and watched the other boys merge into it. Bok knew well enough not to interrupt Magnum with trivial happenings. He was like Magnum’s friends Rick or T. C.—willing to join in the investigation. This surely must be important.

  “The meetings at the hacienda—I know what they’re about. Raul said for no one to tell yet.”

  “So how did you find out?” Emman was annoyed that he had not tracked down whatever it was Bok was about to reveal. But even Magnum needed his sidekicks.

  “You know that Captain Morrison is dead,” whispered Bok.

  “Everyone knows that.”

  Bok leaned in closer. “Well, he asked to be buried at the hacienda, and the government gave permission. They are bringing his body back, and his American family is coming as well.”

  Emman felt a shudder pass through him. “I gotta go. Come on,” he said and was already running.

  As his bare feet pounded the dirt path, Emman felt a surge of joy. Even though it was in death, the American, Captain Morrison, was finally returning home.

  TWO

  As the plane flew through the darkness over the Pacific Ocean, Julia realized that her grandfather had chosen this role for her. He’d been motivated by more than a desire to be buried in the earth of the country he loved. He’d not only wanted the grand-daughter he loved to see the land that he loved, but Grandpa Morrison had known that she needed to change the languished path of the previous ye
ars. This was a plot.

  She smiled at the logbook on her lap. I know what you’re up to, she wanted to say.

  As the drink cart came along the aisle, Julia returned to perusing her grandfather’s book. The pages were packed with his writings, notes and reminders, sketches, and clips from newspapers and magazines. One article explained a new irrigation system; another described how a couple remodeled a castle in Scotland.

  She pictured him cutting out the articles with his thick fingers and placing them in this book with expectations and dreams. He’d have his glasses perched on his big nose, and when they slipped down he’d squint and then smile at her as she entered the room. Julia ached with longing, wishing she’d spent more time with her grandfather before his illness.

  Along the bottom of one page she had found a note: As King David didn’t finish all that he wished, there are times it is our children or our grandchildren who complete what we begin.

  Julia wished she could tell him, I’m on my way, Grandpa Morrison. I’ll do everything I can for your beloved hacienda, and then I’ll come home and somehow make you proud.

  “Would you like something to drink?” asked the flight attendant.

  On impulse she said, “Could I have a Shirley Temple?”

  The woman chuckled. “Why, yes, you can.”

  Julia’s first sip was like tasting childhood. When her parents had dinner parties, she’d proudly carry her Shirley Temple with a cherry bobbing in the glass while the grownups drank their wine and mixed drinks. At slumber parties, holidays, or just at home on a special night when her father rented a VCR and movies, they would make the lemon-lime and grenadine brew, sometimes with a skewer full of maraschino cherries.

  There was a girl she had been once, long ago. That girl’s favorite color was purple; her favorite shows were Scooby-Doo and The Wizard of Oz. Every fall Julia and her mother planted tulips along the driveway and watched expectantly every spring for their waxy petals to open for the day and close for the night.