by Liz Tolsma
The ache at the thought of having to leave didn’t lessen.
Irene stood in Mother Superior’s office late that afternoon with trembling legs. The small room contained a mahogany desk with a neat pile of papers on one corner, a bookshelf crammed with reading material, two chairs for guests, and the chair Mother Superior occupied.
The older woman sat as she often did when her leg ailment troubled her. She folded her hands in front of her, a gold cross hanging from her neck.
Irene stood beside the chair, not quite sure why she’d been called into the office. She’d never been so nervous in her entire life. What had she done to earn a reprimand? Unless Mother Superior was about to tell her to go back to Santo Tomas now and not wait the week.
“Sit down, child, and stop shaking.”
Irene sat but couldn’t control the tremors. “I am sorry to have caused you problems with my presence. A kind guard took pity on me and secured my pass. I will understand if you want me to leave now.”
“I didn’t call you in here to scold you.”
“You didn’t?” Then what could she want? Irene gripped the chair’s wooden armrest.
“This came for you today.” Mother Superior slid an envelope across the mirrorlike surface of her desk.
Irene took the envelope and lifted the unsealed flap. The handwriting on the sheet was familiar, that of the guard who had secured her pass to come here.
This slip of paper granted her privileges outside of the confines of Santiago Hospital. Her heart surged. “I’m free to do as I please?”
“Not as you please, no. You are allowed to go home and gather what you may need from there. I warn you: your home has probably been looted and not much left of any value.”
And just that fast, she deflated. “My home is in the jungle. Anita and I were staying with a Filipina friend when we were ordered to report.”
Mother Superior tented her fingers. “I recommend you do not use that pass. For Westerners, it is dangerous outside of these walls. The Japanese roam the streets, and they aren’t always kind. A woman alone would be too much of a target.”
“But I have a pass.”
“That won’t matter to them. I urge you to stay here.”
Irene stood and clutched the paper to her chest. “Thank you for this. I appreciate it.”
“You would do well to heed my advice.”
Irene smiled at the woman and left the room. Once in the hall, she dared to stare at the pass once more.
She didn’t even need to consider her decision.
It was already made.
Chapter Twelve
Wowie-kazowie, aren’t you the cat’s meow? You’re as pretty as any of the girls at the Monarch.”
Irene broke out of her reverie and discovered Rand wheeling his way down the hall toward her, a twinkle in his honey-colored eyes. He had slicked back the light-brown hair that framed his narrow face with a square jaw. With a few pounds added since his release from Fort Santiago, he appeared more robust. She smoothed her brown poplin skirt and jacket with dark-brown satin edging and smiled. “Thank you. Is that your nightclub?”
He rolled to a stop inches from her scuffed brown oxfords. “Yes. And you do look beautiful. A vision.”
“You’ve seen too many nuns lately.”
“No. You make Jean Harlow pale in comparison. You do know who she is, don’t you?”
“My father’s favorite actress. He said she looked like my mother. You see, I’m not quite as naive as you think I am.”
“I never said you were. In any of my clubs, you would be a knockout. You even broke out the lipstick today.” He flashed her a rakish smile that only accentuated the cleft in his chin. “What’s the occasion? Did I miss Thanksgiving?”
“No, you’re safe for a few days yet. I’m going out.”
“Not out to the garden dressed like that.”
“No. Out. To the world beyond our confinement.” She pointed to her red armband, proof that she had permission to move about the outside world.
“To do what?” A crease appeared across his forehead.
“To do what you can’t. Check on your houseboy. Armando—that’s the name you said.” She held up a rucksack. “I even have a few different medicines Mother Superior gave me for whatever might ail him.”
Thunder broke over his face. “No. I forbid it.”
She took a step back. “You can’t forbid me. You have no hold over me. I’m neither your wife nor your daughter.”
“You’re acting like an impetuous child. What are you? Nineteen? Do you know how dangerous it is out there? You don’t even know your way around, Jungle Girl.”
“For more than seven years I’ve been going deep into the jungle with my aunt each time we hear of an illness. We bring medicines, help, and the gospel. Don’t worry about me. If I can handle scorpions and centipedes, I can handle Manila.”
Rand shook his head, a lock of his wavy hair falling into his eyes. He needed a cut and a shave. “If you go to Armando, you could put him in danger.”
“Maybe he already is.” She didn’t voice her thought again that someone in his household might be behind the note. Someone like Armando’s son who didn’t show up as planned for the escape attempt and sent a more-than-cryptic-enough message.
“Why are you taking such an interest in this? As I said before, we’re practically strangers.” Red suffused his cheeks.
She shrugged. “It’s what Anita and I do. We help people who can’t help themselves.” Something about him drew her like a magnet. She wanted to assist him and to protect him.
“I’ll be the one to help Armando.”
“You’ll never get a pass outside, so you can’t do this for yourself. Let me do it. It’s true—we don’t know each other very well.” She grabbed the handles of his wheelchair and steered him toward the patio. “The rain has stopped for the time being. Let’s sit outside and get acquainted.”
He turned back and glared at her. “You’re kidnapping me.”
“It’s for your own good. If you want me to be efficient and safe, this is the only way.”
“How much time do you have?”
“I don’t know. I’m supposed to be able to go home and get whatever I need from there.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then you don’t have free reign. You’ll be in a heap of trouble if you’re found somewhere other than your home.”
“And that’s the beauty. I don’t have a home.”
They arrived in the garden, and she parked his wheelchair, engaging the brake in case he decided to wheel away from her. She pulled a wrought iron chair to face him, wiped off the fallen leaves, and sat.
He crossed his arms. “Not the beauty. The problem. You shouldn’t go out at all.”
More than once, Anita had labeled her stubborn. She deserved the title. “What can you do to stop me? My mind is made up, so the better way to go about this is to cooperate with me. Ensure my safety in that way.”
He rubbed his temples. “You are infuriating.”
“Not a pushover like your little debutante friends?”
Rand grinned. “No, life is much more interesting with you around, Irene. Irene, Irene, you make me want to scream.”
She tapped her foot, her toes pinched inside the oxfords, hoping to tamp down the giggle rising in her chest. “Good. The train runs both ways. Now to get down to business.”
“You’re all about business, aren’t you? Don’t you like to have fun? Do you even know how?”
“Of course I do.” Of all the things to insinuate.
“But missionaries like you don’t smoke or drink or gamble.”
“There is much more to life than that, Mr. Sterling. You can have a swell time without participating in those vices.”
“You will have to show me, then, as soon as we are back at Santo Tomas.”
She hemmed and hawed, thinking that the owner of two of the most successful nightclubs in Manila wouldn’t want to have anything to do with her form of entertainmen
t. “We’ll see. Work before pleasure.”
He shifted positions in the chair and grimaced. “Fire away. If this private investigator job doesn’t work out, you could always be a reporter.”
“Where can I find Armando and Ramon?”
“I don’t know. They lived in servants’ quarters on our property, but not anymore.”
Irene got up and wandered around the edge of the patio, drinking in the scent of the tropical flowers. “My father taught me the names of many of the different plants here.” She ached for those times so distant, when he did care for her. “It was so long ago, I’ve forgotten most of them. He loved the variety and the showy colors. And the fact that there was color all year long. Nothing like January in windswept Nebraska.” She touched the delicate edge of a petal. “I bet your home has beautiful landscaping.”
“There is a swimming pool surrounded by a large lawn. It’s perfect for entertaining. We take dips in the water or lounge on chairs or play a game of badminton or croquet in the yard. The gardener keeps it in tip-top shape, and my cook is the best in the city. I miss those times.”
“On Dewey Boulevard, I bet. I get the sense that you enjoy the best of everything.”
“Of course. A gated entrance, walled garden, Spanish-style villa. Very Colonial looking. A great view of Manila Bay. But don’t go there. Don’t do this. I believe the Japanese have confiscated the house, and Armando and Ramon have had to move. I don’t know how to get to their new place.”
How could he forbid her now? She had the information she needed to start her search.
“Mama, Mama, that nice Japanese man is here.” Paulo came skipping into the small shanty where Mercedes was opening a tin of Spam to go with his rice for lunch.
Mercedes turned as Mr. Tanaka strode into the hut, regal in his olive uniform and shiny black boots. He set his rifle in the corner. A tremor ran through her body. “I’d rather not have that thing”—she nodded in the direction of the gun—“in the house where a little boy could get at it.”
“Ah, of course. I have no children, but I know my sister would not want my niece to play with it either. I apologize.” He picked up the weapon and held on to it.
Mercedes supposed that he couldn’t put it outside where an internee might pick it up and begin shooting soldiers. “I’m happy to see you.”
“I brought a gift for you and your son.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a chocolate bar. He laughed. “Your eyes got very wide when you saw this.”
Her mouth watered. “Chocolate is my very favorite.”
Paulo sidled up to Mr. Tanaka. “And mine too.”
The guard broke the bar in half. “Here you are. Go share it with your friends. You will make many that way.”
The boy began to skip away before Mercedes stopped him. “Paulo, where are your manners?”
“Thank you.” Paulo was out of the shanty in a flash.
“Please, sit down, Mr. Tanaka. Can I get you a drink of water?” Mercedes needed one. Her mouth had gone dry.
“No, but thank you for your kindness.”
They sat at the kitchen table across from each other, he in the chair Charles had always occupied. Her heart clenched a bit at seeing another man there. It didn’t feel right, but she bit back the emotion.
She wiped imaginary crumbs from the table. “Why did you join the military?”
“To fight for the honor of my country.”
Any soldier from any country would say that. “Is it something you always wanted to do?”
“Why all of the questions?”
“Each of us has a story. Where you came from and how you got to the place you are now. I’m wondering what your story is.”
“I was married and working as an engineer on a road-building crew when the war broke out. I joined the military to protect and serve my country. That is all.”
“What happened to your wife? Did she die?” Mercedes choked on the lump in her throat. Did he understand what it was like to lose a spouse?
“No. It is—was—a loveless marriage.” He scraped back the chair and rose. “That is enough. I must return to my duties.”
Mercedes was confused. Was he still married? Divorced?
He held her hand and helped her to her feet, then drew her close. “I like coming to see you. Next time I want to hear your story. You said we all have one.” He kissed her cheek and then her neck.
She shivered and stepped back. “Please. You are Japanese, and I am Filipina. I lost my husband only a year ago.”
He bowed. “My apologies. It is …” Then he turned and left the hut without another word.
Mercedes stood on the front step hugging herself. Her emotions were churning like the sea during a storm. What had just happened?
Paulo returned home, half of the chocolate bar still clutched in his little hand. “No one wanted any Japanese candy.”
Mercedes hugged herself all the tighter.
Not too long after lunch, Irene stood on the outside of the gates of Hospicio de Santiago. Freedom. After all of these months, it was strange, like putting on a pair of bakyas after wearing boots that pinched your toes.
She hustled down the street, not wanting to waste a moment of her liberty. Even though her resources were stretched thin and she needed to save every last peso for the foreseeable future in Santo Tomas, she hired a carromatas to take her to Dewey Boulevard.
Outside the walls of confinement, life went on. Shops lined the streets. Bundles of electric lines hung over the road. People bought, sold, and traded.
And the children. They were dressed in rags, running up and down the streets. She watched as one of them swiped an orange from a vendor. Manila had changed during the occupation.
Her heart bled for the little ones. “Stop, driver.”
The man reined in his horse and she hopped out. “Wait here.”
She dug deep into her pocketbook and pulled out a few coins. Not much, really. Not much at all. They had come into camp with precious little, and that had dwindled to almost nothing.
But she couldn’t let these children live like this. One little girl, her dark eyes wide in her thin face, came to her. Irene stroked her long, dark hair, matted as it was. “Here, this is for you. Buy some bread for your family.”
The child’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “But I don’t have a family.”
Why did she have to be holed up in Santo Tomas? She should be out here, helping the helpless. “Then buy yourself some bread. And when the war is over, try to find me. My name is Irene Reynolds.” For now she could do no more. But when the fighting ended, she would. She would take care of the motherless and fatherless, like her aunt had taken care of her.
Saying nothing to the driver of her depleted finances, she returned to the carromatas, and he continued toward their destination.
She stopped at the nearby market to find out if anyone knew the Sterling residence. It took a bit of doing, but at last a woman said she had been a maid there for a short time and gave Irene the directions. Rand said Armando and Ramon didn’t live at his home anymore, but it was a place to start.
And then, in contrast to the poverty, came Dewey Boulevard, a wide street lined with palms, following the curve of Manila Bay. She’d heard about the grand palaces that hugged this street, but she had to remind herself to keep her mouth closed when she saw them in person.
These homes were spectacular. Rand was more than rich. He was fabulously wealthy. Each home got better than the last. Large Italianate villas. Spanish-style residences. Greek revivals. As a child, she had poured over Anita’s coffee-table book on architecture—the one non-necessity she owned—fascinated that people lived in places like those in the pictures.
Anita taught the village women that the Lord was preparing a mansion in heaven for them far superior to any castle on earth. At this moment, Irene couldn’t imagine anything bigger or grander than these homes.
Rand’s residence stood back from the street, hidden by a thick wall. Overgrown
hot-pink bougainvillea spilled down the stucco wall. A wrought iron gate barred the entrance. When she had a house of her own, she would never have a gate. She would welcome all.
She stepped from the carromatas and asked the driver to wait for her. Once she had smoothed her skirt with trembling hands, she made her way to the fence. As she was about to press the bell, she noticed the latch wasn’t shut all the way. Looking around and behind her, she slipped inside and hurried down the long driveway. The graceful arches of the Spanish-style home welcomed her, and she climbed the steps to the dark wood front door where she rang the bell.
The Westminster chimes played, then fell silent. She heard no scurrying inside or the footfalls of anyone coming to answer. No Armando or Ramon. She must have stood there for five minutes or more, grateful for the portico and its red-tiled roof that shielded her from the hot sun.
After waiting what she considered to be an appropriate amount of time, she turned the knob and was only a little surprised when the door opened. The bright-white marble entrance with soaring ceilings and double staircase took her breath away. She tiptoed down the hallway to the left and peeked in one door.
Books littered the floor and papers were strewn all over the place. The only furniture remaining was the built-in bookshelf. Rand’s study, she assumed. The dark mahogany wainscoting gave it a distinctive masculine flair. But where had his desk and chairs gone? Even the pictures were missing, dark splotches on the stucco wall where they should have hung.
She strolled farther down the hall to a bright room that stood empty and forlorn. Not even a rug covered the marble floors.
Going on, she came into a spacious kitchen with windows overlooking the yard. The cabinet doors hung open, the shelves bare. She peeked outside. Leaves clogged the pool and weeds had overtaken the garden.
What had happened here?
“Armando? Ramon? Hello?” Only the echo of her voice answered her.
Her heart pounded in her ears and perspiration broke out on her upper lip.
Beside the pool, she spied a smaller house. That must be where Armando and Ramon stayed. The Japanese weren’t using the place. Perhaps the houseboy and his son had returned.