Delicadeza - 1. Chapter 1

[1]Delicadeza

By: Ash_Apollinar

To mother, having the strength of a tornado, thank you for the stories and to my heritage

 

SANTA AUGUSTA—its lonely shores are beckoning me once again to finish a story I have left hanging without an ending years ago.

The frail almost skeletal jetties, that lined the wharf, looked more like an old woman's weakened arms. It has lost its vigor and enthusiasm of welcoming those who have left the comfort of her bosoms.

Standing at the edge of the barge, I watched the sea foams lurching up on the deck as if trying to pull me over, making my shoes wet.

After all these years, nothing has changed. Santa Augusta still had that backwardness, almost art-like visage. It is probably the reason why she grew tired of opening herself up to the thrusts of modernity. She did not have to. She was like a vestal virgin everyone wanted to ravage and rape but at the same time preserving her innocence.

Back in the city, paintings and pictures of fishing ports were only visions or dreams. Hardly will anyone see them in real life anymore.

Santa Augusta is a fishing outpost. It is an island, smack in the middle of another bigger island. The water that surrounded it empties into the open sea, which had made it ideal for fishing. It has also become cape havens for ships from storms and typhoons.

You would have to ride a barge or a “bangka[2]” to get to Santa Augusta. From the port, you then have to walk or hire a trishaw to bring you to town or do what I do when I was a kid: hitch on a “carabao[3]” driven cart to get home.

For years, fisher folks had inhabited the island, but the middle and upper classes had taken over—eventually. Still with the onset of modernity, some of those rich islanders wanted to remain grounded. Some of them even refuse to hook up telephone lines and internet connectivity.

“Whoops," one of the deckhands shouted as the barge grazed the jetty’s wooden planks. With a tug at the towline, he aligned the barge neatly against the platform.

Most of those with me in the barge were weekenders or semi-tourists who were only in for a day or two. They did not bring any luggage. I was here indefinitely. This might be an hour visit or a month long stay—I did not really know. But I only took a few essentials with me, knowing that I would probably be on the next barge and the last flight out to the city by late afternoon.

It was hot. It was always this humid here in Santa Augusta. The sea was to blame. If you try to look at the horizon, right across the waters, you would have thought you were looking at a sea of fire as the sun’s rays reflected on it. The heat was like an invisible wall, pushing gently against your skin. Fortunately, I was wearing my white flannel shirt. I had to roll up the sleeves up to my elbows to air my sweat-drenched forearms.

The people from the shore market always regarded the city folks as gold mines. They treated me with no exception. Some of them approached me with their catches in hand. I had to decline for I was no tourist. This was home after all.

I could understand why some of them did not recognize me at all. But I was glad they did not. It had been 10 years since I had left Santa Augusta. Probably the older islanders knew me but they might be too old now to have remembered.

I had to walk. There were no carts or trishaws in sight. My armpits were drenched and my sweat started dribbling down my side. Some of the commuters I have met along the road seemed not to sweat.

When I was a boy, I used to run along this dirt road without perspiring. Back then, the road seemed shorter but now I found myself trekking longer, slower. My friends and I went down this path more than three times a day and it never bothered me at all.

After much walking, I finally reached town and followed directions, given to me by bystander, towards an eatery.

“Aling [4]Miring,” I said at the entrance of the eatery. The woman squinted and looked at me intently. She wiped her hands to free them from food grease, and exited the shop to have a closer look.

“Christian?” she said, shrieking. Some of the patrons looked up to see what was going on. She then hugged me so tight and kissed me several times on the cheeks with her pursed lips. Now I would smell just like her—of spice and kitchen smoke.

Miriam was my former nanny and the household help. She was an excellent cook. Years after I left, she left soon after as well, and decided to put up her own business—an eatery.

“Hesusmaria—I almost did not recognize you? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Come in—please come in,” she said, tugging me by the arm. She introduced me to everyone in the shop, telling everyone who I was and what a handful I had been to her since then. Some of them smiled and some of them shook their heads as if to say they did not care. I only had to smile at the situation.

“I came because of Aunt Agnes,” I told her, over lunch. Her famous “kare-kare[5]” was set before me. I handed her one of the letters from Agnes, my father’s sister. The other one I furtively concealed.

The first letter contained her last wishes before she died of cancer four months ago. She was like my mother. When I left Santa Augusta, she took me in, provided me with a home, and paid for my education.

“Ay, poor Agnes. Bless her soul,” she said, folding the letter back in the envelope.

“Aling Miring, I want you to come with me—back to the house,” I said, expecting her to react violently. I was not disappointed.

“Hesus-maria-josef,” she said. Her voice was pitching. Some of the customers were startled and began mumbling. She only pouted. “Why would you want me to do that? Why, for heaven’s sakes, would you even want to go back there after what they did to you?”

“This is my family were talking about, Aling Miring,” I said, pointing out her disrespectfulness, although I could not blame her retort.

“You still call them that?”

“I have my reasons,” I answered. “Besides, that is what Aunt Agnes would want.”

“More and more, I see Agnes in you. Why could not she have been your mother instead? Like you, she left that house and knew what was good for her and she never looked back. And you should too. There are only painful memories there.”

“And these memories will remain painful until I face them. Until Aunt Agnes died, I never felt so lost. For once, I would like to know whether I have made the right choices. I cannot live knowing that there are things that I should have done or should not have,” I said.

Aling Miring sighed and turned her head towards the direction of the house. “He is up there now, all alone. But he has taken a girl. She is only 17 years old. Even in his age, his tenacity for women is incredible.”

We were silent but then I felt her grip my wrist. “All right, I’ll go with you. If only you would promise me once again, after you’ve done what you have come to do, you would never go back to that house.”

“I promise.”

When I stood up and fished out my wallet to pay her, Aling Miring caught sight of a picture I kept with me. I was embarrassed. I held the wallet open a little longer, pretending not to notice her stare. I was hoping it would explain itself. Aling Miring knew what I am but being open about it, we were not. It made me feel vulnerable.

She gently placed her hand over my fingers. “You do not have to do that. This one is on me,” she said.

I kissed her on the cheek to bid her goodbye and I smelled her familiar scent— that of spice and kitchen smoke.

“He’s a handsome man,” she said. She was pertaining to man in the picture.

My heart skipped a beat. But then, I was relieved.

I left the eatery and started heading for the house. Aling Miring told me to go ahead.

The house stood on a small sandy hill so that you would have to climb a bit to get to it.

I should say it is a lovely house. I saw it as the heart of the island. You could see the beaches from the porch.

The coconut trees lining the path were still there. But the palm fronds were thinning like a middle-aged man.

The midday cicadas buzzed as I made my way towards the rusty gate. Already, the feelings of dread came over me. I gripped hard on the strap of my backpack as if I was ready to turn and run.

I waited for Aling Miring. She had to close up shop.

When I finally saw her coming up the hill, the dread seemed to disappear.

Years ago, I stood on the same spot. My upper lip was torn and bleeding. Her voice was the only thing that gave me comfort.

“Go, run…get away from here. It’s time for you to be free,” she said then, grasping my shoulders. She was crying. We both were. She used her apron to wipe away the blood and tears. I was 16 then. “Go,” she said, looking back at the house, making sure my father was not coming after me.

The clanging of the gate hasps, as she slid it back, gave me visions of her young self, opening the gate. We went inside the house and sought for my father. Instead, I saw a young woman—no, a girl sitting on the sofa, skimming through a magazine while the television was on.

“Sophia,” Aling Miring said. She sounded mad—disgusted.

She had nothing on except her thin tank top and skimpy shorts. She quickly tossed the magazine aside and grabbed the remote, turning off the television.

With a neutral smile, I watched Sophia cower. Her eyes went wide. She pulled on her shorts, embarrassed by her seeming nakedness. Her nipples were clearly poking through her clothing. I can see why my father liked her so much. He must have enjoyed pinching those little threads of flesh with his mouth.

“No sane woman would dress like that,” Aling Miring said, picking up scattered magazines on the table.

Sophia looked at her disconcertingly.

“It’s all right nana,” I said, deliberately calling Aling Miring by her household name.

This made Sophia gasp. To calm her down, I smiled earnestly at her and offered a handshake.

She accepted it.

“I’m Christian—Don Julio’s son,” I said. Her grip loosened.

“I’m Sophia,” was all she could say.

“Where is Don Julio? And for goodness sake, put something on decent. Christian will be staying here for a while. Get his room ready,” Aling Miring ordered.

“It’s all right nana, I can find my way. I need to freshen up before I see father,” I said. “It’s nice to meet you Sophia,” I added.

My room was in the second floor. The main staircase reminded me of the Sunday mornings where my mother would ask me to stand halfway through it. She would ask me to straighten up so she could see me better in the coat and tie she bought me for church. Those clothes were always too stiff and had so many buttons.

“A very handsome young man you are,” she would whisper. “What a fine husband you’d make someday.”

“He will not be a husband, Lucia. He will not be allowed to marry for he would be a man of God,” father had said behind us.

I never understood him. He was not a religious man himself. I wanted to ask him, sometime later, why he wanted that for me but he never did gave me an answer.

My mother kissed me, leaving cold moisture on my cheek and went down the stairs without a saying a word. I looked up towards father, my jaw quivering.

“For goodness sakes Christian, be a man,” he had said, sensing my urge to cry.

That night, I did cry. I felt torn, not once, but twice. I felt the teeth of my impending doom sunk into my flesh. And I knew that someday, I had to face something that was bigger than I was.

The changes in my room surprised me. Only the pictures I had on my drawer remained. I picked up one particular picture where the three of us looked genuinely happy. Looking at it, anyone would have a hard time believing we were capable of experience feelings other than happiness. Then, there was a picture of Aunt Agnes standing in front of the house. Aunt Agnes promised mother she would stay with her even after her marriage. But something happened between them, causing their relationship to thin out and eventually snap. Aunt Agnes swore that she would never step in this house ever again.

Suddenly, I heard some rustling outside, down in the garden. I went to the balcony and sought the source of the sound. It was only Man’g [6]Ambo, the grounds man. I was pleasantly surprised to see that he was still working for my father.

Unconsciously, I found myself gently chewing the insides of my left cheek.

He was half-naked from the waste up. He used his shirt as a turban.

“I see you’re still tending the weeds,” I said.

He spun around and revealed to me his aging face. There were lines around his eyes all ready. But his body betrayed his age. His skin was as dark as before, glistening under the mid-afternoon sun. His arms told of his years working as a former porter down by the docks.

“Uy, I did not know you were all ready here?” he said excitedly.

“I just arrived. Aling Miring brought me in.”

“I see the old maid’s back as well,” she said.

“She’s not the only one old here,” I said.

He laughed.

“Well, better here than back by the docks carrying sacks of sand and rice over my head,” he said, rubbing his chest, relieving them of the bugs that were attracted to his body heat and sweat.

“Will you be staying long?” he asked, finally aiming the garden hose over his chest and spraying water unto him. The water dribbled down the cracks and mounds of flesh on his torso.

“I do not know. I have not decided yet.”

He frowned. Probably he knew I was not planning to stay long.

“Have you met your father all ready?”

I shook my head. “Probably I’d see him over supper. Sophia might have told him I was all ready here though.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Listen, will you join us for supper this evening? I would really appreciate it.”

“I do not think I should. Don Julio might not like it,” he said.

“Do not worry about my father. He would understand.”

“Sure,” he said, “Let me just finish here in the yard and I will probably help Miriam prepare the meal.”

“All right,” I said.

Man’g Ambo always fascinated me. He taught me things my father could not. He was like a surrogate patriarch. But because I knew he was not really my father by blood, sometimes that relationship went beyond borders.

Man’g Ambo went towards the corner of the garden where the faucet was located and began undressing. His buttocks shown white against the sun.

He knew I was watching him but he did not mind.

I remember the time when he first showed me his manhood. He was teaching me how to pleasure myself. He said every man should know how to do it. And boys will eventually find it out by themselves. They only need proper guidance.

My heart was racing as I watched him pull on it. I was just 9 years old then.

His purple head shined as his fingers grazed over it.

“Well, show it to me,” he said.

I looked down on my shorts to find I was donning an erection.

“Go ahead, take it out,” he said.

I swallowed hard, slowly unzipping my lower garment. My hands were trembling.

When my shorts and underwear were down, Man’g Ambo was now pulling longer and harder on his member.

“Soon, you will have to lose that skin,” he said, looking at my uncircumcised meat.

He squatted down and gently pinched the shaft of my little flesh with his thumb and index finger, stroking its length. He then stood up and drew the fingers that caressed into his nostrils. He breathed in deeply. I was surprised, for the smell did not seem to bother him. I knew very how it smelled—like fish.

“That’s it. How does it feel?” he asked, as I began rubbing in timed with his.

I gave him my bashful smile.

He closed his eyes and widened his chest as he went on stroking his member.

I wanted to touch it. I wanted to feel its warmth, its life—its manliness.

I slowly reached out, looking up at his face to see how he would react. He looked down on my approaching hand—nonchalant. But as soon as I felt his warm skin, he grabbed my hand and guided me over it. It felt strange at first, feeling the hardness of it. My fingers were depressing some of his throbbing veins. I heard him utter a moan and his nostrils flared while his jaw tightened. His grip over my hand was firm, guiding me along his length. He went faster and faster, pulling my arm. All of a sudden, he shuddered, and his thighs went rigid and sprayed white liquid all over his legs and feet.

He laughed softly and winked at me.

“Christian,” a voice rang behind the door. I spun so fast I almost knocked out one of the pictures on the desk.

“Yes,” I said.

“It’s Miriam. Supper is ready but I guess you would have to see your father first. He needs feeding. I figured you would want to do it tonight.”

“I’ll be right down, Aling Miring.”

I quickly rummaged through my backpack for a change of clothes. I put on my cotton trousers to combat the heat. I decided to wear a light under garment shirt.

I went down and went to kitchen where Aling Miring was preparing food on the tray. Sophia and Man’g Ambo were also there.

“We will all have supper together after you have fed your father,” Aling Miring said.

I looked down at the tray.

“I am sorry. I thought you knew,” Aling Miring said. I looked at Sophia but she avoided my stare.

“Your father has suffered a stroke and has lost some movement in his legs. He cannot speak well either,” Sophia said.

“I see,” I said, softly. “How long has it been?”

“About a year,” Sophia said. I nodded.

I went towards the tray and slowly lifted it without saying anything.

“Would you like me to help you?” Aling Miring said.

“It’s okay nana. I can handle it,” I said and left the kitchen.

I carefully took the tray up the stairs, and placing them on the hall table so I could knock on the door.

“Papa,” I said, knocking a couple of times.

There was no answer.

I took the tray inside. Almost immediately, the smell of peppermint salve and candles wafted through the door. A single yellow electric lamp only lighted the room.

He was not on his bed. But I found him sitting on his wheelchair, looking through the window that faced the sea. Outside, the sky was beginning to turn dark purple as twilight began to set in.

“Good evening, papa,” I said. But he never spoke.

“I guess you’ve known about my arrival,” I said, “I am sorry I could not tell you of my visit other than through the letter I have sent. I would have called but you have changed the phone number.

I placed the tray on the bureau and began adjusting the light to brighten the room more. I turned his wheelchair around and pushed him towards his bed.

“Can you stand?” I said, gently.

He sighed, looked at me with disgusted eyes and started to grip the chair’s handle to support his weight. I took him by the arm but he jerked it away. The hostility was understandable and I swallowed hard to ease the strain.

He inched his way, using his arms and a good leg, towards the bed. I stood close just in case he would fall.

“Sophia was supposed to feed you tonight,” I said, carrying the tray over to the bed. I did not notice I was shaking until the china wares were clanging in my grasp. “But I figure, since I am here, I might as well do it—just for tonight,” I added.

I set the tray on the mattress and took the bowl of steaming “lugaw[7]” from it.

Already, I could see father clenching his jaw as the muscles in his cheek bulged.

I blew on the spoonful of “lugaw” to cool it down before offering it to him.

“We could talk about things we have missed all those years,” I said, sending the spoon to his mouth. “I came for you, papa. I came home for you,” I added. Those words felt rehearsed. I did not know if I meant every one. After I spoke them, I wished I never had uttered a single syllable. I felt the repercussion soon after. Once the spoon touched papa’s lips, he blew hard on it, sending some of them flying into the air and into my face. They were still hot. I gasped and sprung out of my chair, sending the bowl crashing to the floor. With trembling hands, I tried to wipe some of them out of my face. The pain almost made me spill my bladder.

Seconds later, Aling Miring and Sophia burst through the door.

“Jesus-mary-and-joseph,” Aling Miring said, darting for me. “Are you alright?” she asked, helping me wipe off some of the lugaw from my face and chest.

“It’s my fault,” I said. “The soup was just too hot. I should have checked,” I added. Those words tasted bitter because I knew papa did it on purpose. “Isn’t that right papa?” I said to him. Both women looked at papa, waiting for an answer but he did not give any.

“Gosh, you are a mess,” Aling Miring said. She handed me her hand towel so I could clean my self further. “Sophia go and get something to clean this up,” she added.

“Don Julio, you know better than to eat like a spoiled child,” Aling Miring said, putting away some of the soiled pillows.

I backed out of the room slowly. Papa was eyeing me while Aling Miring was busy putting things back in order. I looked at him as well with eyes that said nothing but sympathy. I wiped my mouth that started to taste like “lugaw” with the towel and quickly turned away.

I dashed straight to my room. I watched my reflection on the mirror long and hard and saw my unpacked backpack on the bed. Suddenly I had the urge to grab it and run like the wind—away from here, away from it all.

“Then what?” I said, under my breath. “Then what?” I repeated.

I went downstairs soon after, dragging my feet made of lead.

I found Aling Miring and Man’g Ambo by the kitchen table.

“Oh hijo, you should go clean up,” Aling Miring said.

“No, I’m fine really. Let us eat supper first. I’ll clean up later. I’m sure we are all hungry,” I said, managing to slip in a smile.

“Well, at least have a change of clothes before you eat,” she said. “Did you bring extra clothes with you?”

“Not a lot, I’m afraid,” I answered.

“No worries, sweetheart. I’m sure Benito has some clothes he could spare,” Aling Miring said.

The name sprang like a thorn and pricked me on my side. I wanted to ask more about Benito but I was embarrassed.

Man’g Ambo led me to Benito’s quarters out by the garden shed. The shed used to be Man’g Ambo’s living quarters before he became the house’s handy man and utility grounds man. But I did not know Benito had come to work for father. He once told me he never wanted to set even 10 yards from him, that alone work for him.

Man’g Ambo took a shirt from Benito’s wardrobe chest and waited for me to put them on. He took my old one and clipped it under his armpit. Once I slid Benito’s shirt over my head, his smell intoxicated me. His smell sent shivers down my spine. I slid his shirt slowly over my chest, feeling every fiber brush my skin, copying the way his hands would caress every part of me.

I looked at myself longer in the mirror, transformed now into the former self I once was—a child. Man’g Ambo looked at my reflection as well. There was a twinkling in his eyes—a sort of recognition, a reminiscence. He came behind me and touched my lower back. His eyes never left mine.

“C’mon, let’s go. It’s time to eat,” he said. He said it in the tone he would always say it to me when I was a kid.

Sophia joined us for dinner after feeding father. This was how I usually enjoyed my supper, spending it with the nana and Man’g Ambo. I hardly ate anything with mother and father. I would pretend to have had my share when, in fact, I would save my appetite for later when I’m surrounded by the people whom I feel happy with.

Mother once caught me eating late one night together with Aling Miring and Man’g Ambo. She smiled and decided to join us with a cup of coffee. That was the first time I have ever connected with her. She exuded warmth and familiarity—it felt like a warm blanket. She never was distant. She was just lost and probably subdued.

After supper, I went to the water pump in the corner of the garden to fix my bath. I filled the concrete barrel with water so I could use it as a tub. It is actually a laundry well but I used to soak and bathe in it especially during warm nights like this.

I undressed, unabashed by my nakedness and went into the laundry well. The water was surprisingly cold. The coldness of it stroked the crack of my buttocks softly like a feather. I sat on the well and rested my head against the lip.

“Christian,” Man’g Ambo said, rousing me from my daze. “I thought you might want some warm water with your bath,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. He poured all of the contents of kettle unto the well, warming the water. He stuck his hand into it. I went rigid.

“That’s better,” he said, apparently just testing the water’s temperature. I began to relax.

“I’ll just do laundry over here,” he said, pertaining to my dirty shirt I gave him earlier.

He squatted a few feet from where I was and applied laundry detergent on the shirt. He carefully rolled up his pants up to his knees so they will not get wet.

“Man’g Ambo,” I said.

“Hmm?” he answered. He was now busy hand scrubbing the shirt.

“How long have Benito been working here?” I asked.

“Not long,” he answered. “Probably about two months ago. Don Julio wanted him as an errand boy. I told him I could do that kind of work but he wouldn’t have it. I was somewhat surprised. I mean, he hardly asks me to do errands. Why would he want to hire an errand boy?” he said, wringing water from the shirt.

“I see,” I replied.

Thinking of Benito made my member hard. I touched and adjusted it so it would not strain so much.

I once told Benito about my first masturbatory experience, Benito gloated saying he had been doing it for a long time. He said I should be ashamed I was only doing it recently.

“Well,” I said, “if you are going to be a smart-ass about it, why don’t you show me?”

I meant it as a joke but I found him pulling his pants down and began rubbing. He had a longer one.

“Don’t just stand there,” he said.
“Are you crazy?”

“What? Afraid somebody would catch us. Relax. We are in the middle of the cornfield. There’s nothing but crows and pigs about,” he said.

“I’m not going to do this with you.”
“Why not? We’re both boys, aren’t we? It’s only natural,” he said, “Or maybe you are—”

“Are what?”

“Are you bakla[8]?” he said.

“I’m not,” I said, raising my voice in defense. I looked around, thinking someone might have heard. “I’m not a faggot,” I said, in a whisper.

“Well then…prove it. ” he said.

“Unbelievable,” I said under my breath and then pulled my shorts down to my ankles. “How is this going to prove whether I’m a faggot or not? I mean, two boys naked—you can’t get any gayer than that,” I added.

“Nice,” Benito, looking at my piece.

I began to masturbate.

I was having problem getting it up first for I felt very conscious. I kept looking around making sure nobody was within a stone-throw to catch us doing it in the act. I kept yanking my penis towards the knees in the hopes of having the blood rush to its head but to no avail. Benito seemed not to have problems getting it on. The fullness of his member made its head glisten.

He suddenly reached for me, making me jump back a bit.

“Hey,” I said.

His hand was warm.

“It worked,” he said, sniggering and went back to rubbing himself once again.

I groaned out of frustration as my erection faded. I began rubbing vigorously.

“Easy there partner. You wouldn’t want it to fall off,” he said, smiling.

I closed my eyes and started thinking about things that would help me achieve climax. I kept thinking about Man’g Ambo’s hearty erection when I was pleasuring him. I would try to remember how it felt in my hands, its warmth and the springy cushion the fat veins gave me as I wrapped my fingers around his girth. I wondered how it would have tasted too. But my conscience and guilt of having done such intimate deed with Man’g Ambo, a person I consider family, kept me from just letting it go. This, in turn, had me starting to build the pressure all over again.

Then I looked at Benito, straight at his eyes. To my surprise, I felt my passion latching on. I kept looking at him and he did the same. I did not even have to look at his organ to maintain my erection. There was this intensity in his stare that made me grip intensely on myself even more. I saw desire in them.

He spat on his other hand and reached over to help me out. Squeezing at my crown where the feeling was severe, he made me ever closer to climaxing. I closed my eyes as the pressure coursed through my length. The thought of me coming on his hand sent me over the edge. Tightening my buttocks, I wrung myself to orgasm. I felt my nectar spray on my face and chest as it splattered unto Benito’s hand.

My chest was still heaving when Benito aimed himself at me and winced as he came. He was loud. His voice echoed through the expanse. Someone who would have been listening that night would hear us.

He gripped at his base, milking and shaking off the excess. A mixture of our semen matted my pubic hair.

Laughing, he wiped the top of his mouth with the back of his hand. Semen already smeared his palm. I laughed too.

“Christian,” Man’g Ambo roused me from my reverie. “Would you like to get off the tub now?”

“I think I’ll stay a bit longer,” I said, biting my lower lip.

“Okay, just call me when you’re ready to come out.”

I stayed in the tub exactly about two minutes, enough to let my erection subside.

After my bath, I went to the living room and decided to watch TV. But I opened the big windows and opted to observe the sea under the light of moon. The water would look more like crude oil. The waves would look heavy and thick as it drags itself back, away from the shore, after a heavy swell.

Aling Miring was sitting on a corner chair instead of the couch, which baffled me a bit. Then I remembered how she used to wait around for my parents during their late hour nightcap. She’d bring my mother hot ginger tea and some rum for my father. Usually she’d stay awake until both of them have gone to bed and still, sometimes she would spend a couple of hours saying her novena before actually going to sleep.

Aling Miring was reading her novena books that night. I could still see Man’g Ambo down by the garden, busy with last minute chores.

Right across the cornfield, just before the gathering of shanty houses, I saw something very peculiar. I thought they were just fireflies. But they were bigger. It was only when I looked closely did I realize what they actually were.

Old folks often tell tales about spirits that wander the earth endlessly. Wisps, that look more like fist-sized fireballs, told of their presence. The elders would warn children from going to the fields or the woods or else these will-o’-wisps would take and never return them.

“Santa Maria,” Aling Miring suddenly shrieked beside me. She began making the sign of the cross.

“It’s a sign,” she said, “An omen, that’s what they are. Something bad is going to happen. I just know it,” she said, her voice gone shivery cold.

Man’g Ambo stopped whatever he was doing and stared at the distance. He darted his eyes towards the sky. He must have noticed that he could not find the moon anywhere in the night sky. The absence of the moon made these wisps shine even brighter against the dark fields.

I am sure Sophia would have seen them from upstairs too if she would have chanced upon looking out through her window.

The atmosphere that night was magnetic, like the hair on my arms and the back of my neck were standing. I could almost hear a slight ringing tone in my ears as if I just had sudden attack of tinnitus.

“I have never seen wisps before,” I said, my eyes never leaving the dancing lights. Some of them would disappear in one spot only to spring at another.

“My grandmother told me they were ghosts, people who have been killed tragically,” Aling Miring said, standing right next to me. Her body was trembling.

“I’ve been to the cornfields once,” I said, pertaining to the time when Benito and I dared each other to trek the cornfields at night—of course, which led us to discover much more than what we have expected. “There was nothing but mosquitoes and rats in there,” I added.

“They spring from the blood of the slain,” Man’g Ambo suddenly said, resuming activity. “Blood from people who have been brutally killed either by accident or by murder,” he added.

“Back in college,” I said, “we talked about St. Elmo’s Fire. Aunt Agnes told me once that a child who died in a car accident turned up one night as a ball of fire. She said it was because nobody cleaned the blood off the road. That’s why he keeps coming back from the spot.”

“San Telmo’s a lot of things,” Man’g Ambo said, “I once had a close call back when I was returning home one night from the port. I took a short cut and got a bit lost because of the dark. But I could see a light in the between the trees, like someone carrying a torch or something. I followed it and it brought me back to the road. By morning I retraced my steps and found out I was about to fall on a pit filled with rugged stones. I would’ve fallen to my death if I haven’t followed San Telmo. Turns out there had been a woman who did die out of falling into the pit. I guess whoever it was just wanted to make sure that didn’t happen to me as well.”

“Shush Ambrosio!” Aling Miring told him, “You are giving me the creeps. Why don’t you come in now? You stay out there like you’re not a one bit scared of the fires.”

“I’m not, Miriam. You shouldn’t be too. Someday, a wisp might save your life.” Man’g Ambo said, smiling.

“Will you shut up already, Ambrosio?” Aling Miring said, scared and annoyed at the same time.

“All right, hold your horses, woman. I just have to turn off the water then I’ll come up,” Man’g Ambo said and disappeared around the back of the house.

The wisps were dancing still but were fading one by one. To me, they looked more like fire from children playing with candles, prancing about and getting hot wax all over their hands. It was as if none of them remembered to bring matches to relight their candles. Though there were no more lights dancing about, they were still there, slipping through the cornstalks and getting whiplashed by the sharp leaf blades. My arms were itching just by thinking about it.

Aling Miring went back to her spot and once again did her novena.

“Do you think mother is with them?” I said. The words just flowed out of my mouth. I did not even think about them. I had no control whatsoever. It seems the wisps were doing their charm.

Aling Miring gave a silent gasp.

“What makes you think that?” she asked, her nose still buried in the novena book.

I could not help but feel the evasive inflection in her words. Her hands trembled as they held the booklet’s pages apart.

The wisps are dying off now but the cornstalks were moving like there were people moving through them.

“I got her letter meant for Aunt Agnes,” I began to say. Aling Miring did not respond.

“Aunt Agnes was crying the night she died in the hospital. She said she needed to tell me something about mother’s death. She told me of mother’s letter and where to find it,” I said, turning around.

She was looking straight at the far end wall. Her eyes were moist.

“Your mother was a good person,” Aling Miring said, “She died a good person,” she added.

“Of course, I did not believe her at first. I mean, mother died in her sleep, didn’t she? She was feeling ill—she was coughing, she had the colds,” I said.

Aling Miring was shaking her head. I did not know whether she shook her head because she had enough or because she disagreed with me.

“Bronchitis, wasn’t it?” I said, calmly. “Or tuberculosis? At least, that’s what I have been told,” I continued.

Aling Miring stood up and came to me.

“Your mother died from a lot of things and not just…” she said, unable to continue.

“You knew about it?” I said.

She did not respond, not even nodding her head.

“I’m sorry Christian. But these are questions I cannot answer,” she said, sniffling.

“Why can’t you? I mean, part of the reason why I came here is to know. I have spent my life thinking I killed her. Every day, I keep thinking—what if I stayed and never left, would she still be alive?” I said, turning once again to face the window.

“Your mother was dead long before you left. Don’t blame yourself for she would not blame you—never,” Aling Miring said.

“How would you know?”

Aling Miring made me face her.

“I promised your mother not to tell anything to anyone, especially you. She did not want you to blame yourself for her death, like what you are doing now. I feel I might have half broken your mother’s wishes by having this conversation with you—God bless her soul,” she said, making the sign of the cross again.

“What then? Will I ever have answers to my questions?

“You already know half of the answer, my dear child,” she said, touching my face with her trembling hand. “You know I love your mother like she was my own sister. I will be disrespecting her if I were to break my promise. But I’ll tell you one thing—your mother loved you very much. She would never have anything in this world other than to have you. She would tell her yourself if she were here. She will find a way,” Aling Miring said, folding her hands around mine. She gently kissed me on the forehead and then left me all alone.

The cornfield was still again and the moon had returned. I closed my eyes and tried to listen to the voices. The elders say when the night is so still you can hear the laughter of the faeries. I tried it once and I thought I heard them. But I figured it was only in my mind. This time, I desperately wanted to hear them even if I was just only imagining it. And that night, I eventually did hear them despite the murmurs Sophia was making upstairs as she tended my father. For once, I was happy she was here. I could not care for my father the way she does. I closed the windows and headed for my room. It was getting late and I had things to do the following day.

I went to sleep thinking I would soon forget the events of that night. Back in the city, ghosts and spirits were nothing but myths. City children think ghostly apparitions only happen in the country or in the mountains where there were no tall buildings to hide from them. They think spirits and the “enkantos[9]” like to dwell on places where there many trees and brushes. As long as the television was on or they were in front of their computers, they were safe from them. After all, these spirits were afraid of everything that is technology—as if these things protected them like the old wooden cross that still hangs over my bed.

I could not seem to drift off into a deep sleep. A mere buzz from a mosquito hovering over my ear or even my nostrils woke me. Outside, a distant squawking of a night bird echoed through the dark vastness. It was dark. I forgot I was in Santa Augusta. When I opened my eyes, I thought I went blind. Not even a hint of street fluorescent lights attached to electric posts glared through the cracks of my window. It took me a great while for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. When the shapes and swirling lines dancing in front of me subsided, I reached out for my night light. Besides the darkness, there was this deafening silence. A motorcycle or a car would pass by from time to time and that was just about it. I could not hear any furtive laughter or illicit murmurs from the outside. Only the constant tsk tsk tsk of a house lizard broke the ringing in my ears.

But then I thought I heard something. Usually, I would hear Aling Miring shuffling her slippers against the grainy kitchen floor. This was a different for it sounded like tiny footsteps. At first, I thought it was Sophia but as I peered through the crack of father’s door, she was sleeping with him on the bed. She was not wearing any blouse. Her breasts bulged to one side as she leaned over my father’s chest. Her hands would sometimes softly touch my father’s arm, back and forth, as if lulling him to sleep.

I turned around as soon as I heard the sound again. It came from downstairs.

I treaded the stairs, carefully measuring my steps so I would not slip and fall. I made my way towards the back of the house, towards the kitchen, which was located in the basement. A faint yellow light flooded the small riser that led down to the kitchen. It was flickering as if somebody just went by. But as soon as I entered, all I saw was a single lit candle sitting on the table.

“Aling Miring,” I called out but there was no answer. “Man’g Ambo,” I said, and still no answer.

Slowly, I went down the risers and as soon as I stepped on the floor, I froze instantly on the spot. The candle on the table was floating. It hovered several inches off the table.

My heart was racing and I felt like a lump was in my throat making it hard to swallow.

The candle then inched forward as if an invisible hand drove it towards me. I jumped back and fell on my buttocks landing on the risers. I crept back but the candle stayed and did not approach any longer. I focused my eyes and stooped down to see if it really was floating in mid-air. It was.

It was now hovering over the floor. It went down and went up several times followed by a child’s laughter. I gasped.

Suddenly, it drifted slowly towards the backdoor. The door itself swung gently open to let the candle pass through. I waited a few seconds before following suit. I peered through the door and saw the candle flying over the yard. It flitted towards an abandoned storage shed out in the back. Ever since the building of the garden shed, that particular one had stood empty for years—as long as I can remember.

The candle flame burned strong and true, not wavering, despite the breeze. As soon as the candle reached the shed, the flame blew out and everything went dark again. Frightened about the whole experience, I shut the door and locked it. Flashes of blue lights flooded the kitchen followed by rumbling thunder. Several ones came afterwards prompting me to head on upstairs quickly. I never heard lightning that sounded so close before.

That night, I slept with the night light on. I could still hear my pulse as it drummed in my neck. It took me a while before I finally went off to sleep. The sound of rain became my lullaby but my sleep was a dreamless one.

By morning, my neck felt sore because of the way I positioned myself on the bed. It was so bright outside that I could hardly believe there had ever been heavy rainfall last night.

On the floor, beside my bed, were droplets of candle wax that made a trail all the way downstairs. I pinched some of it off the floor and found the wax crumble in between in my fingers.

“The same color wax,” I told myself, which was white.

Downstairs, I could here Aling Miring’s voice talking to someone. I peered over the banister and I saw her and somebody else, I could only make out a hand as it reached for some pesetas from her. It was only when the person passed by underneath that I saw it was Benito. He did not see me. I backed off the banister before he could catch a glimpse. It was then when Sophia emerged from papa’s room carrying a basin of water and some towels.

“Good morning,” she said, and smiled.

Behind her, I could see papa sitting on his chair in his underwear.

She saw me looking at him.

“I’ve talked to him last night—about you,” she said, “I told him that he should take it easy on you. After all, it had been years since you’ve been home. He should be a little kinder, at least,” she said, brushing off strands of stray hair from her face. She was moist from the steam that she would have used for papa’s sponge bath. Her blouse clung to her breasts and I had to look away so as not to be rude. She might have noticed though for she smiled once again and came ever closer. She was so close that I could see the water droplets from her forehead and upper lips.

I would have backed away to show my consternation but I held my ground. She reached out a hand and touched my face. My skin tingled and my insides felt imploding.

“I’m glad you are here,” she said, and backed away. She left the door from papa’s room open as she headed downstairs. Then I saw papa looking at me with glassy eyes. He probably might have seen that little event with Sophia and the way I reacted to it. I did not care what he thought though. He knows me very well.

I went inside the room and found papa’s fresh clothes already laid out on the bed. I took them and helped him get dressed. He was willing for his arms did not rebel from my intentions. He allowed me to handle them as I guided each limb through his shirt’s sleeves.

“I’m going to see Fr. Manuel today,” I said, while buttoning his shirt. “I’m going to visit mother on the way. Perhaps, I could ask Man’g Ambo for some flowers from the garden—white jasmines—mama’s favorite. I’m hoping to see the new church that they’ve built. I hear it’s quite big. Bigger than the “kapilya[10]” that we had before.

“I’m sure Fr. Manuel has lots of things to say,” I added, while sliding papa’s sandals on his feet.

Without saying a word, papa pushed the wheels of his chair and made his way towards the balcony.

I sighed and began fixing the bed.

“Bye papa,” I said, while heading out the door, “I’ll see you later tonight,” I added.

I went downstairs to the kitchen and saw Aling Miring hovering over some bowls of steaming hot chicken soup.

“There you are. Have you had a good night’s sleep? It was raining so hard last night. I was lucky I set off for home before it poured,” she said, fixing some plates on the table.

“Did you come here last night at all?" I asked her.

“Yes of course, when I was fixing supper,” she answered.

“No—I mean, after that,” I added.

“Not that I recall. I went home straight after we talked in the living room. Why—what’s the matter?”

“It’s probably nothing. I might’ve been dreaming,” I said, taking a bite from a “pan de sal[11]”. But swallowing it took an effort for I saw some candle wax on the table.

Changing the subject, I told Aling Miring of my plans that day. She seemed glad but she began to wipe her eyes from the tears welling from them. I asked her if everything was all right but she said the steam got to her eyes. She called Man’g Ambo and Sophia for breakfast. We ate together and then I asked Man’g Ambo for the flowers for mama’s grave.

“She always liked jasmines,” Man’g Ambo said, “She wouldn’t have pink or any other color, just white. I told her that unless we could get some pure Spanish jasmines that could only bear white flowers, you would expect to have pinks, whites and sometimes combination of the two. But she insisted that I only plant white bearing ones but I couldn’t tell which ones bear whites and which one bear other colors. So I planted every seed that I could scrounge up and then would just weed out the ones that will bore flowers not white. I ended up tending jasmines that bore different colors from yellows to violets. I couldn’t bear killing these plants so I decided to snip off the buds just as they were starting to bloom. I kept those buds and kept them in the shed in basin of water. They would bloom eventually but when she saw them, I thought she would get mad. Instead, I saw her holding those flowers to her nose. She’d say they all smell so nice,” Man’g Ambo said, getting a sip from his coffee.

It was nice to hear these little stories about mama from Man’g Ambo. It reminded me that I once had a mother and not just someone whom I conjured up in some lost memory. His stories seemed to make mama more tangible. It seemed that I needed reminding for every memory of her slips away with the passing of time. Sometimes I would realize that all I could remember of her was that she was just a mother—a one-dimensional understanding of who she was and her role in my life. I could hardly remember the times we have spent underneath the mango tree in the yard or the stories she would tell me while we were there.

After we ate, I went outside to the water pump in the garden to wash up. The abandoned shed in the corner seemed to loom, inviting me to investigate.

Wiping my chin with the back of my hand, I went over to the shed. I stopped a few a feet from it. There were droplets of dried wax on the ground leading inside. I entered the shed smelling the molds, dust and mildew. I had to maneuver carefully around the cobwebs that hanged from the bamboo overhangs. All I found were broken terracotta pots and rusted garden tools piled in one corner. The wax seemed to stop in the very center of the shed.

When I began coughing and sneezing, I left the shed and decided to investigate more later on when I had proper protection. I asked Aling Miring and Man’g Ambo’s permission before leaving for the church.

The cemetery was located further inside the island beside the newly built church. Once, we only had a chapel and one priest, which was Fr. Manuel. The building of the chapel was to honor Sta. Agatha who led stranded sailors and fellow survivors away from the ravage shores during a storm. The island was full of pitfalls and wild animals. They say that when the sailors lost their ship and swam towards the shore, they found lighted candles illuminating the beach. All they had to do was follow the candle trails toward safety. The candles led them to the forest where they could get food from fruit-bearing trees and branches to build shelters. The following morning they awoke to paradise. So beautiful and lush it was that folks said the stranded ones never left the island at all. They lived their lives as farmers and anglers. Over time, Sta. Agatha became Sta. Augusta because people seemed to get her name mixed up. Others say it was because it was in August, during tropical monsoons, that people always would see her walking across the beach, her veil flowing behind her forming the white beach foams and planting candles along the shores.

I saw candle reliefs on mama’s tombstone with the words “May the light lead you into His kingdom” carved into it.

“Amelia Buencamino, 1949-1998”

She was 48 years old when she died, 7 years after I left home. She got married when she was 25 and had me shortly after.

I squatted down and started removing dead leaves from around the tombstone. Suddenly, I found myself crying. The tears were long overdue for not allowed was I to attend her burial. Father did not want to see me. But, of course, I was there from a distance—farther away so he could not see me. I had little time to cry and if I did have, it was very brief. This time, I was around definitely to express my grief, which flowed out like torrential rain in the wet seasons of October. My tears were as big as raindrops falling unto my mother’s grave.

“Mama,” I whispered as I stood up. Then a breeze went through me, gently lifting my clothes away from my body as if it were tugging my soul away. My tears went cold as it dried up on my cheek. And I couldn’t help but smile and I let out a big sigh of relief.

Just then, I saw a white figure near the church. Fr. Manuel, in his priestly garb, was carrying a potted Cyprus plant and looking around for a spot to place it down.

I waited for him to get back into the church before I followed. When I got into the church, all I saw were rays of colored lights passing through the arrays of the church tainted windows. I could not find Fr. Manuel anywhere and so I decided to sit down on one of the last pews.

Sparrows came in and out of the hollow, their chirping sounds echoing. I looked up to see them flying above me and then my eyes fell on a tainted window off to my left. It showed a kneeling woman, her head lifted up to the skies, and thrown to the heavens her hands were. She held a candle in her right hand.

I stood up and moved towards the window. Focused on the candle that she was carrying, my eyes began to hurt as the sun’s glare pierced through the glass flame.

“Sta. Augusta,” I said softly, remembering the trails of candle wax I found that morning.

“Sta. Agatha,” a voice rang behind me.

I spun around and saw Fr. Manuel, looking up at her as well. He came and stood beside me. I looked up to the tainted glass once again but my eyes were moistening from the strain.

“People need to start believing again. I’m hoping this image of her would remind us of what we truly need in this life,” he said, still watching her.

“Hope?” I said.

“Not just any hope, but hope that’s blind and unflinching,” he said.

“Its funny how hope quickly becomes desperation,” I said, sitting down.

“How are you doing my child?” Fr. Manuel said, sitting down beside me.

“I’m not sure how to answer that Father, not anymore,” I answered.

Fr. Manuel sighed. “Christian, you always bore the world on your shoulders, just like your mother.”

“Do I remind you of her that much?” I asked.

“In many ways,” he said. “I remember that day when Amelia came to church one morning and she was towing you along, a shy young child. When she told me that Don Julio would like you to become a priest, I was a bit surprised. I told her that we couldn’t make that decision for you. You were too young to understand what your parents wanted for you. I told her we should wait until you were a bit older or at least when you are finally able to comprehend what being a priest was all about. But she was persistent about it and said she and Don Julio have discussed it thoroughly. So I told her that we should at least start you off as an altar boy and perhaps it would orient you towards priesthood. You were a quite one, just like Amelia. And like you, she didn’t talk much about herself even when there were things that were tearing her apart.”

“I’m starting to feel like I should’ve stayed—in this church, in Sta. Augusta. Maybe then things would’ve been different,” I said.

“You did what you had to do,” Fr. Manuel said.

“I can’t help but feel like I’m being punished—I have lost two people close to me and soon I might lose my…” I said, unable to continue.

“Punished for what?” Fr. Manuel said.

“I'm being punished for who I am, for leaving Him,” I said.

“It might seem that way,” he said.

“But I couldn’t…what would people say? What would happen if they had found out then? I said.

“God does not choose,” Fr. Manuel said.

“If I have remained in this island, I would’ve believed that. The world is a different place, Father. Maybe that’s the reason why you have remained here as well?”

“Perhaps it is,” Fr. Manuel said.

“Then tell me Father, from someone who had almost never been to the outside world, will I be forgiven?”

“Sins are not the ones forgiven,” he said, “But the people who committed them are,” he added.

I was silent. Somehow, that did not make me feel any better.

“When you truly know the meaning of these words, only then will you truly know the answer to your question,” he said.

Father Manuel then took me for a tour around the new church. He kept on talking about the new things added to the old chapel but my mind was somewhere else. The quarters were still there except it seemed so empty now. Father Manuel said there had not been any applications for altar boys for a while now. The stark whiteness of the wall said all that. Back in my days, the walls were everything but empty from pencil and pen marks to black smudges from dirty hands, even clippings from favorite comic strips. We could not paste anything else though. Father Manuel did not specify which things not to post on the walls, not that I had anything to post at all. The rest of the boys had pin-ups of women behind their lockers. I, on the other hand, pasted pictures of empty fields and blue skies.

The church was the only way we could get educated. Teachers from the mainland would come on a daily basis and return when the sun has set. I could not blame them though. Who would want to stay in this forsaken place? But for some reason I never found myself attracted to the outside world. I guess it was probably in my nature.

It was dusk when I left the church but still the sky was fiery red. Everything around me was tinted orange, which triggered my headache. Mang Ambo was already doing his final sweep of the garden and I could hear Aling Miring clattering the dishes and pots in the kitchen as she prepared for supper. On the balcony window, I could see Sophia’s head appearing and disappearing. I went in the house through the backdoor but almost backed out once I saw Benito hovering over the stove.

“Oh your back,” Aling Miring said, chopping vegetables on the table.

Benito turned and saw me. I imploded and felt like turning inwards into myself. But I saw Benito’s face ease up as if relieved and a small curve of a smile formed his lips.

“I’m just going to change upstairs,” I said to Aling Miring.

“Okay, supper will be ready by then,” she said. I floated towards the steps and the side of my body, the one that was nearer to Benito, felt like fingers were pressing into it. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. It had been such a long time since I saw him. It felt awkward and I did not know how to act. How could I explain to him that I did not have choice but to leave?

All of a sudden, I felt bashful. Was this how schoolgirls felt like when they meet their crushes? I turned my head to him as I reached the steps. I snapped my head back when he turned my way. I rolled my eyes, feeling even more embarrassed.

Having dressed and refreshed, I went downstairs feeling anxious and my hands felt clammy. I had to check myself in the mirror several times before finally having the courage to come downstairs for supper.

I did not enjoy eating at all, even though Aling Miring prepared her famous “adobo[12].” I kept my head down at all times except when talking to Aling Miring, Mang Ambo and Sophia. I just could not face Benito straight on even though I really wanted to have a good look at him. He was handsomer than I remember. He looked more mature. His “moreno” skin shone softly under the fluorescent lights. His jaw would tighten up when he smiled, making his face look so—strong. I, on the other hand, have pale skin. A trait I got from my father who was a Spaniard by blood. Benito, like my mother, had this marvelous brown skin. I remember my mother bringing me to one of those parties and showing me off to her friends. Most of the time, I hid behind her, clutching her skirt, with my thumb in my mouth. Those women were pinching my cheeks and making them redder than it already is.

“He looks like a girl,” a kid said to me, which made me want to cry but was afraid my father would see. And so, often, I would retreat from these congregations and sit by the steps until the party was over.

To solve this problem, I spent most of my childhood bathing in the sea until my skin darkened as the old coconut husks that wash up on the shore. But that was just temporary. I would be sunburned before I get the skin tone I wanted. My father, on the other hand, could never be as dark as I could get—just red as a cooked lobster. I was a “mestizo” after all and my mother was, in fact, an “indio[13].” I did not want to be called a “mestizo”, a half-cooked bread—a pedigree-less dog. I was a mutt.

After supper, I did my usual bath. Benito was watching me getting naked. I only found out later that he watching when he was the one who poured the hot water into the well instead of Man’g Ambo. I thought it was Man’g Ambo behind me preparing the kettle while I stepped out of my clothes.

“No reason to be alarmed,” Benito said, pouring the hot water. He probably saw my reaction. In my uneasiness, I kept looking around for a towel when I remembered I forgot to bring one.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “it’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” he added.

“Thanks,” I told him.

“How’s it been?” he said, sitting down near the well. Was he going to watch me take a bath? His eyes never left mine when he talked. I usually had to avert them but eventually, I had to face him. I did not want to be rude.

I told him how I was which was good. I had to lie even through my teeth. I just could not drop my baggage unto him. Besides, we just met and there were plenty of things to talk about. We talked about many things and I was just hoping it would go on like this so I would not have to face the inevitable question. But I knew he was just finding the right time to say it.

“Why’d you leave?” he finally said.

My ears rang as if I just heard a bomb go off.

“Benito…,” I started to say but was not able to finish.

He waited for my answer but when he got nothing, he laughed a mocking laugh. He stood up and turned his back.

“You think it was easy for me?” I said, annoyed. I was sensing hostility.

“Yes,” he said blankly, which took me off guard.

I sighed.

“You know what? You don’t have to answer that. You didn’t answer me then, why would you answer me now?”

“Because I couldn’t,” I said.

“Oh please,” he retaliated.

“It’s true,” I said, “You don’t have to believe it but it’s true,” I added.

“So the promise we made, about staying together no matter what, wasn’t?” he asked.

“Yes…I mean…no—I don’t know,” I answered. There was a necessary silence.

He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. It was the look of defeat.

“Do you even know the extent of our promise? I mean, do you even know what you’re asking me, asking us—asking yourself?”

“You have changed,” he said, trying to leave.

“Yes,” I said, “I have changed,” I added. I was expecting him to walk off all the way but he did not. He wanted to listen.

“But there was not a day I did not think about that promise. The more days I spent off this island and experiencing what it’s really like outside, the harder it was to keep it. I wanted to come back, believe me. Yet the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve heard—for me, it seemed very logical for you to remain,” I said.

“How could you be so selfish? Didn’t it occur to you that I might’ve wanted to leave here too? I mean, how easy was it to forget?”

“It was hard for me,” I said, “It was hard for me because I love you,” I added. Those last words seemed to echo throughout the expanse and every living creature in the island seemed to have heard it.

Over the fields, the spirits were waking up. Rising from the corns, floating over the blades, the wisps snaked into the air. Suddenly the cornfield was a sea of light. They seem to swell in timed with my emotions and that’s probably why I had not reacted to them. Caught up with my emotions was I that I had not noticed them.

“Not once did you ever tell me you loved me Benito. But that was fine because I knew you did,” I said, the wisps were raging now. “But after all those times I’d been away, I wasn’t so sure anymore. I couldn’t stay and our life, your life couldn’t work with me. It wouldn't work when the world is indifferent towards us. Don’t you see? I did it for you. I did it all for you,” I said, my voice rising and my pulse racing. The cornfield was now aflame with blue fire. Benito was terrified but I was not.

I stepped off the well and run towards the illuminated horizon. Benito tried to grab hold of my arm but the water made it slicker and so I slipped off his grasp.

“Dios mio!” I heard Aling Miring said back at the house.

“Don’t worry, Aling Miring. I’ll get him back,” Benito said, running after me while grabbing a towel that I dropped on the ground.

I ran like the wind, letting the twigs lash against my legs and my face. I have not felt anything like this before. The freedom of running naked, of running towards the unexpected without fear was intoxicating. I even felt moistness ooze from my being; it whipped all over my thighs as I ran.

It felt like electricity. The wisps went through me like smoke. They smelled like springtime and dew covered my body.

Behind me, Benito was pulling his shirt over his head while running. He must have felt it, the energy—the yearning. Soon he was stepping off his shorts and underwear. His manhood, heavy and dark, dangled in between his legs.

I ran into a tree, hugged it and feeling its coarse bark scrape against my skin. I turned my head back, watching Benito run towards me, his member full and erect. I waited with anticipation and as soon as he finally reached me, I opened up to him. The impact was marvelous. I did not hold back, I had myself wide and accepting. When we collided, our breaths blew out in one breath. Panting wheezing and grunting, we made mad love under the mango tree. It was vigorous and painful. Benito ramming his entire self inside me, making me jump off a few inches off the ground.

I pushed off the tree and ran again, leaving Benito dripping. I stopped a few meters away and dropped on all fours. I waited for Benito and his mad love. He reached me and drove wildly forward, making me sprawl all over the ground. Our energies were so high; we did not care if we would pull a muscle or covered with bruises all over. We managed to get into a kneeling position and still our pace did not stop. I reached over behind me, felt Benito’s hard and sweaty mounds that relaxed, and contracted.

Then I stood up and ran again, only to find another spot to continue. We were like dogs, knocking about, having sex everywhere and anywhere.

We finally concluded our lovemaking on a small empty patch in the middle of the field. I was on my back and Benito was on top of me. I had my legs wrapped around him while he pushed himself forward. The climax was explosive for it felt like releasing every drop of ourselves everywhere and our bodies just collapsed out of exhaustion.

We headed back to the house without talking to each other. There was no need to say anything at all for our actions did all the talking. Benito wrapped the towel around my shoulders to keep me from getting cold. I was already shivering from my sweat that had gotten cold from the balmy air, when we finally reached the house.

That night, I had a high fever and I had to sleep with cold towels to keep my temperature at bay. When the fever broke, I was drenched in sweat and a deep thirst stricken me. I went downstairs, still wrapping my blanket around me, to have a glass of water.

When I got to the kitchen, everything was as it was except it seemed the room was glowing—like everything was tinted blue. I held my right hand out in front of me for contrast and I saw the back of my palm looking whitish and pale. I walked towards the center of the room. Sweat was dribbling down my side, making my underarms slick, which made my hair stand on end. I tried the light switch but it the fluorescent tube would only flicker. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw bright light pass by the window. It looked like a jellyfish—an orb with a tail. At the passing of the light, everything went pitch dark. I went over to one of the drawers, feeling my way around inside it, until I found a flashlight. The batteries were weak so I flicked its switch a couple of times to keep it going.

I went outside, pointing the flashlight in front of me. Fortunately, the ground was dry so I did not have to worry about soiling my feet in ankle deep mud. I could not find the orb around but I did notice the abandon shack glowing like it did in the kitchen a while ago.

I went to the shack expecting the see the orb but instead I found it empty. There was this pulsing sound deep inside my ear. Then, I found out the blue light in the shack was pulsing as well. At one point, the light around the shack would be pure white one second and then would dim down to a neon blue glow the next.

Suddenly, a sound made me jump and back off a bit. It was the sound of someone breathing or maybe sighing. I kept looking around to see if someone was in the shack with me but there was no one.

Finally, I saw it. The entity might have led me here to find it. In the corner of the shack, amongst the broken pots was a small notebook. It looked dusty and tattered for moisture and heat could have aged it. I picked it up and as soon as I did, this incredible lightness came over me as it did in the cemetery. Then the sound of flapping wings reverberated above the shack, followed by the sound of a childish sob. The flapping sound and the sob seemed to fade away. I went out of the shack and looked up—there was nothing there except the vastness of the starlit sky. I could still make out the sound as the entity moved away, over the house, across the field and into the mountains. Then there was this eerie silence as if I was the only one in the world—I felt this incredible loneliness, this pain rooting deep inside me. It was so profound that I found myself crying. Tears, as thick as candle wax, went rolling down my cheeks. I touched the tears and as I looked at my fingers, dried wax enveloped them.

I did not remember how I got back into the house or in my room. It seemed like a dream, except when I woke up on my bed, I found the notebook beside me.

I hurriedly took breakfast and went to see father. I have not seen him quite often since I have been here. I figured if I would just go through all the motions then perhaps father would change his mind or maybe my mind.

When I entered the room, everything was flooded with steam coming from a basin filled with warm water. It seems Sophia had been doing her job. I did not stay long. Just as soon as Sophia had finished drying up some of the moisture on the floor, I left and went back to my room.

I sat on my bed and stared at the notebook for a long time. On the cover was the letters A. B. printed on it in blue ink. Of course, I knew it meant for Amelia Buencamino. I knew it was hers all along even before I picked it up in the shack. That is probably the reason why I am so afraid of it. But I read it anyway and all my fears seem to flood out of the pages.

Mother had written quite a lot in the notebook. She had started writing after her marriage. I could see why she would for she was unhappy. It turns out I was not the only child. There had been two children before me but all of them had died.

My hand was trembling as I turned the pages upon reading mother’s words. She said she did not want to have children—not with my father. She had mentioned about drinking herbs as bitter as ash just so she would induce menstruation to keep from getting pregnant. She would drink all sorts of things to loosen the baby’s hold in the uterus until eventually it would bleed out. The first child died only 2 months in the womb. The other one died only a few months from conception. She said the doctor said it would have been a boy.

She kept writing letters to a former a lover—the one she had planned to be with until her parents gave her hand to Don Julio, my father. I guess she really was unhappy for she had mentioned that there were times she wanted to end her life.

Eventually, she got pregnant with me. I guess the herbs and the medicines did not help. She said father’s demeanor changed after I was born. She said he seemed happy and less agitated. She too hardly seemed to write during these times. All I got were events like birthdays or picnics at the beach and even a grocery list.

Then the pages would crowd again with words and my heart started racing for I knew something was going to happen.

Years after sending and receiving letters, it finally stopped coming one day. Her lover seemed to have disappeared in the face of the earth. Distraught, mother wrote heavily on the pages so that her pen pressed right through several pages beneath, creating dents and holes. I brushed my fingers against the pages and felt the bulges her words created.

She cursed through her writings, scratching out words heavily, making an inky mess.

The very thing that made feel sick was when she mentioned she had laced my milk with rat poison.

I stood up, rushed out of my room and vomited in the toilet. It was as if mother’s poison was finding its way to me even after all these years. I threw up everything I ate that morning.

The thing that I have read and remembered about ingesting rat poison is that it took time before it has any effect especially in humans. I do recall certain summers ago, just before I was to start school in the church, that I fell ill. I vomited a lot and I had stomach pains. For three weeks, I was in bed and the doctor had to give me iron supplements for he said I was going pale. But it took time before I returned to my normal self. It took months before my appetite returned. I had vomited occasionally and excreted bloody stools.

Mother then wrote that she spent so much time in church repenting for the things that she had done to me. Apparently, seeing how I suffered much made her stop feeding me poison. She wrote in upper cases the words NOT HIS FAULT.

But were her motives purely evil? Can we truly say that revenge is the work of the devil? My mother was not evil. But for her, the price that she must pay for her redemption is her son.

At first, I could not place her anger towards my father. Not until I read, a few turns later, the source of her seething. Though she had not provided enough details about her hatred towards her husband, she did mention him being a hypocrite and a conspirator.

Maybe as a sort of retribution, she found the very thing that meant so much to him—to them. After all, when Medea struck her children, she did not think of them at all. She taught only of her husband—and the pain.

Aling Miring came upstairs and knocked on my door to summon me for lunch. I was silent at the table. I hardly blinked and sometimes Mang Ambo would touch me on the arm to bring me back. Clearly, I was distracted and everyone knew that. Even Benito did not talk me.

I hurriedly finished eating my lunch. I was not sure though if I ever touched any food for my mind was on that notebook. I headed straight back to my room and once again flipped through mother’s journal.

I came to a page where mother spoke of me. She said I was different. “Different how,” I wondered. She wrote how delicate I was—a trait she said was both a gift and a curse. It was a gift for her but a curse for my father perhaps. She did mention about the times my father would lay his heavy hand on me, causing me to bleed, to bruise and even knock me out unconscious.

Her words were sparse during the time I was away for school in church. The statements she wrote were incomprehensible at times. She said she had hurt her writing hand. But as for reason how she had hurt it, she never mentioned any.

Then I came to a page so familiar to me, the night I ran away. I remember sitting down at the table during supper. Father occupied himself with the meal unaware that everyone around him was a ticking time bomb. I could clearly hear mother’s trembling arm as her fork rattled against her plate.

“Father Manuel talked to me this morning,” father said, in between feeding.

I swallowed hard but I couldn’t seem to bring my saliva down.

“He was concerned,” father continued. There was long pause.

“He is under the impression that you no longer held interest on becoming a priest,” he added, his voice tightening. “Tell me,” he said, swallowing his food, “Was he right in assuming this?”

“Answer, damn it. Don’t you have any tongue?” he blurted, slamming his palm against the table. A fruit in the basket leapt out and rolled away off the table.

“Julio, please…” mother pleaded.

“Stop protecting him Amelia. He has become a sissy more than enough, thanks to you,” he said. Mother retracted, her lips quivering. That wrung my heart.

I was angry but was afraid as well.

“I feel like I do not belong there,” I finally said, my words freezing in the air.

Father was quiet. He was still chewing his food but I knew he chewed them fairly well already.

“What is it this time?” he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I have fed you. I have clothed you. I have provided you with everything. The least you could do is to honor what has been set before you. Is that too much to ask?”

I did not say anything.

“Enough of this. Tomorrow, you’ll go back to the church and finish what you have started. In a few years, you’d be off to the seminary. God knows we need a priest in this family,” he said, looking at my mother.

“Father, I’m afraid I can’t do that?” I said, looking down at my plate.

“You would do as I say or so God help me,” he said.

“I’m a homosexual father,” I said, my words echoing in my head.

I could not describe his expression. This was the first time that I could not read his thoughts and his emotions and that made me feel even more afraid of him.

I thought he would explode in anger but he did not. Instead, he took his wine, drank from it and leaned on his chair. Mother was now sobbing. I guess she knew what was coming.

“I cannot pursue this thing you want of me father for I feel that my life is against the very thing that we—I believe in,” I said, my voice sounded so constricted.

“No one shall here of this. You will go back to the church despite of it all,” he said, breathing heavily. “I don’t have a gay son. You have not said a word to me,” he added.

“Father,” I said, standing up, “You have always denied me and I never questioned you. But I ask you now to please hear me and understand the things I am saying,” I added.

Suddenly, father rose from his seat. His plate flipped over sending the silver wares and food flying all over the table. His fist came so swiftly, my muscles, my bones did not have time to prepare for the impact.

I was bleeding from my nose and from my mouth. I was crying—no, I was sobbing—no, I was bawling like child. It took time for me to get up. It all happened so quickly, I did not realize I was already on the floor.

“Get up,” he said, “Get up,” he added, emphasizing every word.

I brought my fingers unto my face and I saw them bloodied. I did not know where I was bleeding—for all I know, I had my face bashed in.

I got up slowly like crumpled paper opening up.

My pride—or what was left of it—I swallowed. I tried so hard not to cry but my face hurt so much. My face would scrunch up for a cry but I made sure I did not succumb to it. I failed many times at this.

Finally, when I was up, I looked around and saw Aling Miring and Mang Ambo in the far corner. Aling Miring was crying as well.

I turned around and ran. I was not aware that Aling Miring and Mang Ambo were right behind me.

I stayed with Aling Miring for a couple of days until we decided that I should stay with my aunt for the time being. I did not know what I was waiting for. Is it when my father learns to accept me as I am and take me back as his son again? Was I waiting for my mother to defend me? Of all the people I was hoping would understand my situation, it was her.

It was dreary when I left the island. I had my nylon-woven coat on and the backpack I was carrying felt heavier than usual. I realize the burden of leaving everything behind was weighing me down. Boarding the barge, I never once looked back. I knew no one from the family would come and get me. The farther Sta. Augusta got, the heavier my burden became so that I felt dizzy and unable to breathe. The only thing that got me going was the thought of living away from my father’s shadow. In truth, the whole island was my father. I felt a whole part of me is suffocating—the part that felt bigger than I am.

Life away from Sta. Augusta was no fairytale. But I got used to it. Aunt Agnes was a good parent. Aunt Agnes was an accountant and she worked hard. She had no children of her own and I soon discovered why. Doctors said she was well on her way towards cervical cancer. We had good times and she told me everything there is to know about life.

The next time I heard from home was when my mother got sick. She died several months later, which prompted me to make a secret visit for home. I did not really stay very long. I did not even witness the funeral march that, people say, trailed so far as to snake around the island twice. What do you expect from a father who owns half Sta. Augusta?

Mourners filled the cemetery and provided the much cover I needed. Aling Miring and Man’g Ambo would glance my way from time to time as if their consolations would reach me.

I saw my father wearing his dark sunglasses. Knowing him, he would never shed tears for his wife, hence him wearing it.

I could not remember how long I have cried that day—or that if I had cried at all. The constant hiding and moving made everything a blur. I just wanted to get out of the island as fast I could without drawing much attention to myself. I got used to living in the city wherein everybody is dead from the neck up.

I said goodbye to mother in my thoughts.

Life away from Sta. Augusta was lonely. I was surrounded by people but still, I felt this unearthly hole inside my chest—the price I had to pay for freedom. I just had to get used to it and fast. Therefore, I kept my mind on schoolwork. I never got into any serious relationship. The ones I got into felt so shallow—so temporary. It was just like changing a pair of socks.

“You’re taking this thing too seriously,” Aunt Agnes said to me at a fast-food restaurant.

“How should I treat it then?” I asked her in return. But she never did answer me.

It was only during my junior year in college when I finally got into something serious. At first, I thought he was just any ordinary person but as we began hanging out on a regular basis, he sluggishly opened himself up to me. He was inconclusive at first and here I thought city people were straightforward in their advances. His words were slow but the underlying intentions of sex were very fast. It seemed sex was the first thing on our minds that day and we took to each other like kunejos[14]. At the expense of our excitement, we ended up bleeding and sore.

In school, were not exempt from gossip. But like most headlines, ours story got old sooner. Admittedly, I thought we were going to remain at the top of the list and we were surprised to see how we missed the thrill.

It was during the start of the second school year semester of my senior year in college, and just 3 months after Aunt Agnes death, when I received news of father being ill.

“It’s a curse,” I said to Lawrence, “Everyone’s dying on me. First, it was mother then my Aunt and now…” I added, unable to continue.

He just told me I was crazy. Then I remember all the stories Aling Miring and mother told me as a child about how the island of Sta. Augusta disdains those who turns their back on her. Death would make sure that whoever left her shores would return on the brink of illness or in a coffin. I shuddered at the thought.

“But you’re not sick. And what about your Aunt?” Lawrence said.

“What about her?”

“She died here and not in the island,” he told me.

That was true. But then I showed him the letter Aunt Agnes gave me. At the first page, she wrote about her last wishes before she succumbed to her illness. The other one contained the truth about Aunt Agnes’ relationship with my mother.

Lawrence looked at me when he finished reading them. His eyes appeared appalled but his lips drew an innocent smile.

“Were you surprised?” he asked me.

Honestly, it never surprised me at all; evident in the way I never made a big deal of mother’s relationship with Aunt Agnes. Aunt Agnes was always good to mother. I remember faintly the times I heard mother and Aunt Agnes laughing in the kitchen while preparing lunch. I spent most of my time playing in the backyard and I could hear them boisterously laughing amidst the cackling of the chickens and squealing of the pigs. Then, I never made anything out of the way their eyes met and the way they held each other’s hands while they enjoyed each other’s company. I never saw mother and Aunt Agnes’ express their love sexually. There might have been times when they would have had a chance to do so but I never saw or never made a big deal out of it. Soon when I began questioning my own sexuality, I never was one bit confused at all about the fondness I had with other boys. It was clear as day—I was just like my mother.

“I know this might sound crazy to you right now,” I told Lawrence, “but I cannot just turn my back. It might have been easier back then—I was young.”

“You know I never did understand you. No matter how I wish I could—even if you wanted me too—I just couldn’t seem to go about it,” he answered.

I sensed agitation in his voice. So I waited until he calmed down and kept silent. After a while, he sighed and took my hand. He just nodded and I understood right away. I was to leave immediately bound for Santa Augusta to finish what I have left unfinished.

That night Lawrence and I made love like we never made love before. Our skin, even though moist from sweat, heated up from fiction. His movements were long and steady as his body rubbed up against mine. I sensed he was a bit anxious for his breathing trembled. The way he closed his eyes told me he was a keeping out certain thoughts. I could not take away those feelings for I understood them very well. We were both two lonely souls brought together by fate. I might never come back from Sta. Augusta. I might choose to stay and accept my responsibility as a dutiful son.

Realizing such, I opened myself even more to him, raising my knees higher up to his sides and bringing his face to my neck. My hand ran through his hair, feeling the sweat in his scalp while my other hand held his back as if helping him get even deeper.

His finish was very powerful. He forced the breath out of me as he heaved for the very last time. Then I heard him utter a sound as the side of his face went slack against mine. He was sobbing silently as if from exhaustion—or perhaps it was from sadness. So I held him ‘til he fell asleep.

That night, I kept my eyes on the ceiling. Thoughts keep wandering through mind. All the while, I thought I was the one in need. I never thought a person could need me so much. In my life, I never expected to be of that much importance to anyone. I have never felt needed by anyone else before. I thought I had nothing.

I turned to Lawrence who was sleeping soundly now. I smiled at the sight of him. I breathed in his scent—our scent as I closed my eyes to sleep. Once in deep slumber, I dreamed I was back in Sta. Augusta. I was standing in front of my old house. Instead of the house looming before me, there stood three gravestones. One from my mother, the other from my father and the third was blank.

I closed mother’s journal and slipped into my backpack. There was so much information in it—information that may not be to my liking. I had a terrible time sleeping then. Outside, the sky was turning purple telling me it was already dawn and yet the house was so quiet. Even the animals made no din. Something was coming—usually things that come like this are not good. Before finally closing my eyes to sleep, I decided I would face this event head-on before it even gets to me. That way, it would not hurt so much when it finally comes.

The next day, I decided I would help Sophia give father a bath. Usually, she would bathe him using a large basin where she would place him on it. This time, we decided to use the well in the yard. I had to carry father downstairs. Father was nonchalant about everything. I told Sophia to wash his clothes and prepare new ones while I bathe him.

At first, I was quiet while I was bathing him. Once or twice, I opened my mouth to speak but I would close it undecided how to start.

Finally, I began to speak.

“I know what mother did,” I said, slowly under my breath. I know he heard me for he held his breath for a while.

“And I know, you know too,” I added.

“What she did to me was unforgivable. I wish she were here so I could personally hear it from her own mouth. You have no idea how this make me feel. All these years, I thought she loved me and I still feel she does—I just don’t understand why she do it,” I said, running water down his back.

“Do you even know the name of the rat poison she used on me?” I said, calmly. “It really doesn’t matter father, does it? She had done what she had done. And she killed herself from the guilt of it.”

Suddenly, I heard father whine softly. He was crying.

“I wish I could feel better about the reasons for her actions. But the truth is I cannot blame her. And the worst part is, I blamed you after all these years—I still do. It is just that it is easier to be angry with someone who is physically here—whom I can vent all my frustrations. You are still here and I cannot help myself. I know you have your reasons father but what you did is also unforgivable,” I said, holding back the anger in my voice.

“Tell me then, father,” I said, my voice trembling, “If I cannot blame you anymore—if I cannot continue being angry with you anymore, whom should I be angry at then? Please tell me this, for once—tell me I should be angry with you. Tell me it is your fault. Don’t tell me that I should blame myself or that I should be angry with own self, father, for I have been angry with myself ever since and I am tired of being so,” I said, tears rolling down my face. I wiped them quickly with the back of my hand fearing Sophia might come back.

Sophia came moments later and I was a bit startled. She too was startled. She might have sensed my distress. The smile on her face disappeared right away.

After toweling father dry, I carried him upstairs where we both dressed him. Sophia combed his hair while I clipped his fingernails. I never made eye contact with him during that time. I exited soon after and glanced back. Father gave me a look so different from the first one he gave me before. In his eyes, I saw this sorrow so deep it tore me apart.

I decided to take a bath myself for I was sweaty and the weather outside was very humid. It would also give me a chance to cry undiscovered if ever I would. I did not use the well this time but used the bathroom downstairs.

The cold water was very comforting. They were like tiny fingers running down my back. For a moment, I thought they were real fingers and then I realized they were, in fact, real fingers. I turned around, expecting a man but instead, I found a woman. It was Sophia.

For some strange reason, I relented. I let her do whatever she wanted to do. Her fingers ran down my chest, down my abdomen and down to my manhood. She was good at it for she had me standing at attention. I wanted to push her away—let her stop. But a voice inside me said to let her go on.

Sta. Augusta had me. She is dragging me into her bosom once again, like a child hungry for her mother’s full breast. She was making me forget. Lawrence feared she might do this and I was falling for it. But oh, Sophia lips were tender as they caressed my whole, as she slid me into her mouth slowly and steady. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back on the bathroom wall. I kept my eyes shut by pressing my fingers into them. I felt the guilt, I felt the disgust but I also felt the pleasure. I needed to know how it feels like to be with a woman—to be what people expect of me, of what my father wanted of me.

Sophia stood up, the wet hair of her mounds matted to her groins. I could make out the outline of her lips as water traveled down from her navel down to her crease. She took my stiff organ by the base and raised her leg so she was open. She came forward, guiding me into her. I sighed as my length went in deep. She was tight and warm. She pressed into me, her breast mashing into my chest. Her mouth came to my lower lip and nibbled at it. She moved forwards and backwards, keeping her thighs up. Soon I gushed inside of her, I held her by the waist as I came.

Once out of the bath, we got dressed with our backs to each other. Neither of us spoke. We avoided each other for the rest of the day.

I sat on the porch that whole afternoon, wearing my sunglasses. I had to cover my eyes because I felt like everyone could read them. Aling Miring did not say anything at all when we met at the kitchen. Probably, because she saw something in my eyes that told her something went on that morning—something she might not want to know. The afternoon sun was already casting orange lights across the waters and soon the magic of Sta. Augusta came. The beach was on fire. The sunset was so bright that it hurts to look at it. Old people once said that holy fire protected Sta. Augusta. Pirates coming from neighboring islands could not land on Sta. Augusta for fear of catching aflame. People from the island could not leave land for fear of the same. They say when people leave they never come back. They concluded that perhaps the fire, leaving no bones and even no memories, had consumed them. Old people would believe anything. I think its more than believing—it is probably more on giving explanations to the things they could not explain. People leave Sta. Augusta and that is it. They never come back. But sometimes they did.

I saw Sophia coming up from the hill. She probably came from the market for some supplies. She was wearing a smile on her face and she seemed lost in anticipation. Her steps were more like prances as she made her way to the back of the house.

The heat was waning now but still enough to send me sweating. My sweat soaked the collar of my t-shirt and my throat was parched. I got up and headed towards the kitchen for a cold drink. I could hear Sophia humming sweetly as she dallied at the side of the house towards the back.

As I took a long drink at the kitchen sink, I thought I saw Sophia enter Benito’s quarters. I only saw the trail of her blouse disappearing at the corner so I could not be sure.

Then I heard that childish laughter again and I felt falling over as if my head was getting lighter. The laughter came from outside and so I followed it. Something was drawing me to it. I could feel it—it was so close.

I made it to Benito’s quarters and the laughter came but this time it sounded more thicker—more mature. The grass behind Benito’s quarters was dying and there was a patch of balding soil near the wall. It is as if that particular spot had been stepped on several times, making it impossible for grass to grow to maturity. Above the spot, there was a hole at eye-level. How long had it been there? I have never noticed it before.

The laughter came again and it sounded to come from inside. I looked through the hole and my heart stopped at what I saw.

Benito was naked and I could see his buttocks. He had his head thrown back as if from intense pleasure. He was thrusting his body forwards ever so slightly. His buttocks contracted from the effort.

Then the laughter came. Then I realized who was making that noise. It wasn’t the fairies or spirits. Soon a woman’s arms snaked around Benito, grasping as those mounds. The fingers raking at the small of his back and parting Benito’s bottom, kneading them gently.

My jaws locked and I bit my lip until I could taste blood. I turned to bite my right hand knuckle to keep me from further injuring my mouth. I decided I could not take no more and sunk to my knees. I could not cry, I could not speak, and I could not breathe. Should I storm in and stop them? But why would I? What was the meaning of all this pain that I was feeling? Benito and I were both adults and we were not tied to each other. Why was I so angry?

I sat myself on the ground and leaned against the wall. Behind it, the sounds of love making, subtle and quick, resounded. To hear Benito’s guttural moans sent me over the edge. It sounded genuine and pure. His moans mingled with Sophia’s soft cry—as if she was repressing a confused expression of pain and pleasure.

I waited. I rested my elbows on my knees and bowed my head, looking down between my thighs through the black soil. Suddenly, my thoughts were on father. Does he know? My anger for him turned to pity.

Soon, I heard whispers. They were talking now. I looked up towards the hole and tried to listen. They have finished.

I stood up, looked through the hole, and saw both of them naked on Benito’s bed. And I listened.

“…shouldn’t be doing this all the time,” Benito said, looking at the ceiling. Sophia had her head pressed on his chest.

“I wouldn’t worry about. What would Julio do anyway? That old man’s a vegetable. He could not even talk,” Sophia said. Her voice changed as if she had regained confidence somehow.

“What about Christian? He might...” Benito asked, cut short.

“Don’t worry about him. He wouldn’t say anything,” Sophia answered, smiling.

What does she mean by that? Then I remembered what we did that morning. She would blackmail me if I did anything rash.

“What are you saying, Sophia?” Benito turned to look at her, his face confused.

“Let’s just say, I did what I had to do?” Sophia answered.

Benito sighed at the answer she gave. I could see he was disturbed. But I did not care anymore. Whatever feelings he still had for me, turned to dust that afternoon.

“I just don’t trust that old man,” I heard Benito say. By that remark, my ears perked and my eyes squinted.

“Whatever he has in mind, I hope he knows what he’s doing,” he added.

I wanted to bust in and wring his neck to get the answers.

“I know. I think he’s deliberately turning this house into a house of vile. He does know what goes on in this room, doesn’t he? I mean, he knows we’re engaged to marry and yet he treats me like I’m his whore,” Sophia said.

“I don’t care…we need that money for our wedding. Whatever he wants us to do we have better do good about it. Once this job is over, we’ll never see this family again,” Benito said, closing his eyes as he drifted to sleep. He kissed Sophia on the forehead and she too closed her eyes.

I was fuming. I could not believe my ears. This house was a house of vile and dirty secrets. I wanted to shout out and curse the people in that room. I wanted to scream at the person lying on the second floor of the house. That evil person, playing games with my life.

I stood up, not caring whether I made noise or not. I probably had disturbed Benito and Sophia for I heard them stir. I quickly went away and made my way towards the house.

I went in the backdoor, pushed it violently open, which made Aling Miring jump up from the kitchen table. Her eyes went wide and she clasped the small crucifix she wore around her neck.

“Christian…” she said, her voice quivering. She must have seen the devil in me.

My breathing was deep and heavy. Behind me, I could make out Benito putting on his shirt as he came towards the house. Sophia could not be far behind. I hurriedly went upstairs, pummeling the steps with my feet as if I had hooves.

“Christian…” Aling Miring said, holding my arm but I was too quick for her to grab tightly.

I took the key to father’s room inside so no one would be able to get in once I locked it. Father was on the bed, his mouth tightly lipped. He looked unafraid as if he knew this was going to happen.

I looked around the room and saw the belt—the old belt father used to beat me up as a child. I hid the belt many times but many times, they still ended up against my back, my stomach and even my face.

I grabbed hold of the belt, feeling its cracked hide against the palm of my hand. Fire spewed from my eyes as I approached the bed, my hand squeezing the weapon in my hand so that I felt my knuckles grow cold from lack of blood.

Father did not flinch as I raised my hand to strike him. I bared my teeth as readied for the attack. All those years of frustration, all those years of pain…finally given retribution.

Outside the room, they were banging on the room begging. Aling Miring was crying. Benito was screaming. I guess Man’g Ambo was with them but he was a gentle soul. I never heard him shout or get angry before. For some reason, I did not make out Sophia’s voice.

All my energy focused on the arm that held the belt. But something was holding me back. I could not strike him. I was looking at his eyes—his unrelenting eyes. Then I realized the tears glistening at the sides of them were stopping me. My father was a hard man, difficult to understand. His heart was no different. Seeing him express a hint of emotion caught me off guard. There must be a reason, after all these years, that he would only show this now.

I slowly lowered my hand and let go of the belt. I looked towards the door before breaking down in tears myself. I sat on the edge of the bed with my face on my hands. I was devastated. Devastated by my weakness and my inability to resolve anything.

I realized I still loved him, despite what he does do to me. But I needed to know.

“I miss your mother,” I heard him say, which sounded more muffled because of the paralysis. The sound of his voice startled me. It had been too long since I heard it.

I turned to look at him, my tears blurring my vision. I wiped them with the sleeve of my upper arms.

“I’m sorry,” he said, gently this time. But that was all I needed. Then I cried so hard. I knelt on the floor and cried as if I have never cried before. The door finally opened and the family came flooding in but stopped short. Apparently, Man’g Ambo had another set of keys to every room in the house. Sophia hurried towards father to see if he was okay. But he told her to go away. This was what I was waiting for all my life. Those two words. Then outside, fireflies emerged from the field, hovering an inch over the corn like a blanket. It stayed there for a moment like a glowing fog and then shattered like glass as the fireflies scattered and fled to the skies. My curse was over—the pain is over.

That morning, I went down to the kitchen all dressed up for my departure. I had already packed my things—the things I have used for the last few days.

Aling Miring had made me a cup of coffee for me and prepared “pan de sal[15]” for breakfast. I could not find Sophia or Benito.

That night, I had a revelation about Sophia and Benito. I could hardly get a wink of sleep, that is, until I could unweave the story behind them. It might have been a dream or I might have lain so still on the bed that I could have mistaken myself dreaming. It is so easy for one to forget that time sometimes changes everything. Perhaps Benito’s action said all that. I figured he might have said the things he said a few nights ago—about how he felt about me—because father told him to. As for Sophia, she could very well be a gold-digger but she is too smart for that. After all, being on an island, fortune does not float on water as compared to necessities as food and shelter. Maybe that was what all it took for her to do the things she did—a promise of security and living. Both of them were just tools from a masterful artisan such as my father.

And as time’s power took hold of the events, father might have seen the change in me—in us, something he had not seen before. Probably, that is the reason why he reacted the way he last night—the only way he knew what to do to keep things from getting a worse. Perhaps he finally saw the son in me and the anger that ate me all of these years. I could have struck him—and I would have done it repeatedly—but I did not. I could not do it.

I too was sorry and I miss my mother as well.

That morning, Aling Miring and I had a talk about what happened—from the journal I found in the shed to the events that happened last night. I found out that father once found mother’s journal and ordered Aling Miring to burn it. When father found out about my mother’s affair with Aunt Agnes, he got violent and made mother crazy.

Considered as a severe secret and with an island as small as Sta. Augusta, a scandal was inevitable. To prevent further repercussions, mother had to become pregnant. Father broke ties with his sister Aunt Agnes and ordered her out of the house and even out of the island. He did not just ask mother to get pregnant, he forced her—raped her every night until she got pregnant.

Aling Miring recalls her nursing mother’s wounds every morning. The wounds did not worry her though. It was the psychological scars. Mother was deteriorating everyday.

When she learned she was pregnant, father was glad of course. But she was not. She hated it—she hated me. Aling Miring caught her once sticking a clothes hanger in her womb to terminate the pregnancy. She tried many times and every time she did, she failed.

When I was born, the doctor said she had a psychosis. She would not breast-feed me or want to have anything to do with me when I cried. She was treated and over time, she got better.

The doctors decided she would be a good mother and everyone was relieved. She must have loved me because I could remember her eyes when she looked at me. Hers were of those gentle, easing glances that lulled me to sleep every night. But in the end, she still had her way. And she decided to kill me by rat poison. I do not know what her reason was or what triggered her again. But I guess, there was no real cure.

Naturally, father did what he had to do and began severing my mother from my life, putting me through theology school, wanting me to be a priest. For him, I would have been the family’s redeeming feature, the one who would save them from the fires of sin. If only he had known, this was my mother’s hell.

He drove her away from me slowly, until she killed herself. When I left, she would have decided to end her existence. She would have believed the fires of Sta. Augusta had consumed me and I was waiting for her in heaven, as what others would have readily believed. But when she died, I was not waiting for her and so she remained, forever roaming the earth. When I came back, she called upon the help of the spirits of the island. She led me to her journal, she led me to Benito’s quarters and she gave me the strength to face my father. It seemed so hard to comprehend her true intentions but I guess, people have their own agendas.

I bade Aling Miring goodbye and she said she might follow me one day out of the island. She said there was nothing left for her here. Father might die one day and for sure, I would never want to have anything to do with the house. There are just too many painful memories here. I could sell it and settle in the mainland. I would see her again in three years in the city though.

I hugged Man’g Ambo for the last time. The last I heard, he moved to another province, married and died in a road accident. Poor Man’g Ambo, I miss him so dearly.

I never heard of Sophia or Benito again. Some say the marriage did not last and others say they settled in the mountains somewhere.

At last, the car was here. Aling Miring called one of her friends who had a car to take me to the port. I was glad she did for I did not want to walk or ride in one of those caravans anymore.

As the car veered off, I saw my father emerging from the gate, wheeling himself in his chair. I told the driver not to stop. But he was looking at the rearview mirror and saw my father, chasing us. He must have seen the staggering effort my father gave as he pushed on the wheel of his chair. It must have taken so much on my father for I saw the pained look on his face with each push of the wheel. The driver slowed, not knowing what to do. My father kept going. The driver looking back at me with a nervous expression. Should he stop?

I wiped the tears off my face. Father had his mouth open to utter a cry. He must have called out my name or something. More tears came from my eyes but I told the driver to go on and not to stop.

The driver did not stop.

And the barge held me like a stone in a pond. There were still a few pages in mother’s journal that I have not read yet. In the pages, she wrote about the night she found us in bed together—Benito and I. She must have used the same hole I used that night I caught Benito and Sophia together.

Who knows who else might have seen Benito and me together? Perhaps father did—and I would not be surprised. She wrote that she was glad about that night. It would give a reason for my father to kick me out of the house and out of the prison. She said she was spying on me night after night after night and it was like being with Agnes again. But she said she was so far away.

With that, I closed the journal and threw it into the water. Off in the distance, I could make out mother’s resting place, up high on the cemetery hill. There is a time and place—and a person to remember everything. It is always good to remember where you came from so you could finally look forward. I am just sorry that person could not be me—not anymore.

And so I whispered to wind as the journal sunk to the bottom of the sea, “Goodbye Mother, I love you.”

 

THE END

 

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[1] Delicadeza: Spanish word meaning delicateness; Filipino word meaning refinement in actions or in principles

[2] Bangka: also banca; a small boat made by hollowing out a tree trunk

[3] Carabao: water buffalo esp. used for farming work and as a beast of burden

[4] Aling: Madam

[5] Kare-kare: Philippine stew, a mixture of peanut sauce, vegetables, oxtail, beef (variants incl. goat or chicken), sometimes offal and tripe might be present

[6] Man’g or Manong: from Spanish word “hermano”; a word to title an older male person to show respect or affection; could also be to used to title an older brother, relative or an extended family member

[7] Lugaw or lugao: rice porridge, boiled to a soft consistency in a matrix of broth, which can be either beef, fish, or chicken.

[8] Bakla: Filipino word describing a male person attracted to another male person; a male person having female traits; sissy

[9] Enkantos or encantos; enchanted beings or spirits

[10] Kapilya: chapel

[11] Pan de sal: Spanish for salt bread; bread usually eaten by Filipinos

[12] Adobo: Spanish for sauce; a Filipino dish wherein chicken or pork is stewed in soy sauce and vinegar

[13] Indio: A Spanish racial term for the native Austronesian people of the Philippines

[14] Kunejos or kunehos: rabbits

[15] Pan de sal: Spanish for salt bread; bread usually eaten by Filipinos