The breeze stirred restless fingers in my hair and molded the loose cotton
dress to my scrawny eleven-year-old frame. I stood very still and pressed my
ear to the wall.
“It’s white blood, silly!” Manding said.
“Yuk! It smells awful!” Lisa said.
“That’s how it is a few days before you get the real thing.”
“And why do my breasts hurt so? Lito complains because I won’t let him touch
them.”
“It’s all part of it. Don’t you know anything? Listen, there’s a trick
to…. What was that?”
I had leaned against an empty gasoline can that was against the wall,
sending it crashing to the floor. I ran behind a coconut tree and hid.
Manding opened the door and peered out. Seeing no one, she shrugged and went
back in.
It wasn’t the first time I had eavesdropped on their conversation. Manding
and Lisa worked in our hardware store. My parents and I lived on top and the
salesgirls lived in a nipa hut at the back. A thatched roof and woven fronds
for walls, a hut made for easy eavesdropping. I had not meant to go on doing
it. It had started out as a game, something naughty that I could get away with,
but as new worlds unfolded through the pictures they painted, each night I
stole out to listen. It became my bedtime story.
Every night I waited for the next episode. They went on about their
families, the money they had to send home every month to help out, the latest
movie; tricks for having healthy hair. Boring! I hopefully glued my ear to the
wall, frantically but quietly shooing away the mosquitoes that left little red
bumps on my skin.
Mama never knew anything of these escapades. She always wondered about the
mosquito bites on my arms and legs every morning. She would take out “White
Flower oil” and dab it on all the bites, telling me each time not to scratch. I
can still feel the cool sting of the oil, its eucalyptus scent overpowering.
That was my first perfume.
On a Sunday afternoon, with the store closed and my homework done, I hung
around the kitchen and saw Manding headed for the communal bathroom.
“Manding, wait! Me, too!” I rushed upstairs to get a towel and clean T-shirt
and shorts.
When I got to the bathroom, Manding was putting her clean clothes on a shelf
on the wall. She reached for mine and put them beside her pile. Under the
shelf, on nails, hung a row of malongs, long, wide pieces of cloth in bright
reds, blues, greens and yellows the girls used to wrap around themselves when
bathing.
The bathroom was small with cement walls and floors, gutters running around
the four walls to serve as a drain, a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The
faucet dripped into a plastic pail in one corner, a tabo, a plastic dipper,
floating on top of the water.
I liked Manding best. She had thick, black, shoulder-length hair, not like
my chopped bowl-cut; big brown eyes, not chinky like mine; lashes to die for,
none of my short stubs and lips like the rose on the calendar in Mama’s
office.
She unzipped her dress, turned her back to me, slid the sleeves down and
using her chin to hold the dress against her body, she unhooked her bra.
Reaching for her red malong, she wrapped it around her, tying a knot in front.
The dress and bra fell to the floor. She picked them up and put them in a basin
of soapy water to soak. I stripped to my panties and put my T-shirt and shorts
in, too. She squatted, got the tabo, filled it with water from the pail and
poured it on her hair. She shampooed and rinsed then massaged coconut milk into
her scalp with brisk, circular motions, carefully working it through each
strand of hair. Wringing out the excess milk, she twirled the thick wet strand
into a knot on her head.
Laughing, taking my hands out of my hair, she said, “Jingjing, not just the
hair, silly; the scalp, go down deep and rub. Here, let me.”
“But I was following every step!”
“Yeah, sure.”
Her fingers moved lightly, firmly, expertly. I closed my eyes in delight,
feeling every pull, my scalp warm, tingling.
“Now, let the coconut milk do its work.” She scooped water from the pail and
splashed my body and hers. She stood up, and under the malong, the shruup
shruup of the soap under her arms and between her legs. Wet pink panties came
out from under the cloth and landed on the dress and bra in the basin. She
rinsed the soap and gave it to me. My nylon panties were wet and I soaped all
over and around the panties, took them off and put them in the basin together
with our other clothes.
“Watch out! Tidal wave!” as she squeezed her palm against the faucet,
spraying me with a wall of water.
“Manding! Sige ka!” I grabbed the tabo and hurled water at her, slipping and
sliding on the cement floor.
Shrieks and laughter until she yelled, “Time out!” We were laughing so hard;
I was hiccupping from the water I had swallowed; she had wet straggly strands
over her eyes.
“Hey, let’s get down to business now, Jingjing.”
She reached for a small pumice stone and vigorously scrubbed her legs and
arms with it, taking longer at the elbows and knees. I wrinkled my nose at her.
She gave me a knowing smile as I skipped the stone and started rinsing. I
tossed the tabo to her and as she rinsed I watched the water molding the malong
to the high curve of her breasts, the small waist, the hips flaring out. Now I
knew what the boys at school meant by Coca-Cola body.
“Hey! Time to wash the clothes!” She tossed the last tabo full at me. When
the clothes were wrung out, she put them in the basin. We got dressed and came
out smelling of coconut oil and Lifebuoy. Manding balanced the basin of clean
clothes on her hip and sauntered out to the backyard to hang up our clothes. I
trailed along, skipping and chatting.
The cook banged the aluminum plate and we rushed back for supper. The
salesgirls always ate together. Sitting across from each other on two wooden
benches around a wooden rectangular table, they gossiped, teased and laughed
all throughout the meal. Their food was simple: fried fish, sautéed vegetables
and rice; sardines with noodles; mongo bean stew with rice. Spoon and fork
often gave way to fingers. Using thumb and forefinger to scoop some fish,
adding it to the rice on their plates, they nimbly squashed the mixture to a
lump and put it into their mouths.
We ate at a separate table, my mother, father and I. My father, worried
about the price of copra, frowned at his meal. My mother, thinking of the
payroll, dispatched her food. And I, little Miss Perfect, savored every
mouthful.
The salesgirls chattered happily. I slipped out of my chair and joined them.
I squeezed in between two girls and a hand was always ready to scoop some fish
and rice into my mouth. I enjoyed watching their faces; mouths smiling,
eyebrows arching, eyes crinkling with laughter.
Clanging their aluminum plates, they got up, gathered the dishes and did the
washing up. I went up to my room, washed and put on my pajamas and said good
night to Papa, who was usually in bed reading the newspaper. Then I went
downstairs to say good night to Mama, who was usually working on accounts.
Now I was free. No one to bother me. I stole out through the door and crept
to my usual hiding place.
“So he told me to meet him next Thursday in town,” Manding said.
“How’ll you get off work?” Lisa asked.
“I’ll just say I have to go back to the province, that my mother’s
sick.”
“They’ll never believe you. Besides, it takes too long to get to your place.
How can you be back the next day?”
“I’ll ask for two days.”
What? That’s two days off your paycheck. Is this guy really worth it?”
“You bet.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Oh, the usual, you know.”
“No, I don’t. So tell.”
“I promised I wouldn’t. So, good night.”
Lisa pestered Manding, asking for more details, asking for every detail, was
he tall or short, dark or fair, fat or thin. Manding baited Lisa, leading her
on, only to leave her no better off than when she started. After a few more
tries, Lisa gave up, very disappointed. So was I.
It was Thursday. I heard Manding ask for two days’ leave. Mama was
skeptical. She’d heard it all before: the mother was sick, then later in the
year the father, then the sister, then the brother…. One salesgirl went
through every single member of her family until my mother said sarcastically,
“Who is it this time? The water buffalo?” But she always ended up letting them
go.
Papa was away on business, as usual. He came and went as he pleased. Mama
packed for him. If I was awake before he left, he would run his fingers down my
cheek.
I was in awe of my father. His word was law. I envied him. I was afraid of
him. Everybody was afraid of him. He reduced a salesgirl to tears for selling a
spare part at the old price. He yelled at Mama for selling copra at the wrong
time. He bawled me out for spilling soy sauce. Yet he would dance with me,
teach me the tango, tell me jokes when the mood took him. I loved him.
I was glad Papa was away. Mama would let me go to town on my own. I knew my
way around.
I told Mama I wanted to buy Nancy Drew’s latest mystery. She gave me money
for the jeepney fare and a book or two. I went to the girls’ hut; Manding was
packing. I asked, “Are you going into town? Taking a jeepney? Can I come?”
Smiling, she said, “Whoa, one question at a time. Yes to all three, but I’ll
be busy. I have to buy pasalubong.”
I understood. Nobody ever went home empty-handed.
I said, “I’m going to buy a book, maybe two if I have enough money. We can
go together.”
She said, “I don’t know about that. I might take a while choosing my
pasalubong and I really…”
I cut her off, “Oh, I won’t shop with you. I just want to go into town with
someone.”
She sighed, ruffled my hair and said, “OK.”
She finished packing and we left. I put my hand in hers. I looked up at her
and told her how pretty she was. Her short-sleeved dress had tiny pink flowers
all over it, a scooped neckline that showed off her long, smooth neck, the hem
ending a couple of inches above the knee. The folds played hide and seek with
her body. She smelt of crushed roses.
We hailed a jeepney and got in. We were squeezed tight against the other
passengers. The music was blaring. I noticed some of the men glancing at
Manding when she wasn’t looking. After a while, she yelled “Para!” and we got
off. It was the center of town, where the banks, stores and hotels were. She
took me straight to the bookstore, dropped my hand and hurriedly said, “Here
you are. Gotta go now.”
I watched her from behind a revolving bookrack. I gave her a head start. I
crossed the street. I blended in with a family with four kids; I hid behind a
man carrying a huge sack of rice; I hid behind a post. But I needn’t have
worried. Manding’s feet were flying, her long black hair swinging, her whole
body straining. She was tinglingly alive. She stopped at the Las Islas
Filipinas Hotel. My heart beat faster. “Wow! They saved up for this.”
She took a quick look at her reflection in one of the glass windows. She
flicked her hair back, turned around to check her dress and straightened up.
She took a deep breath and pushed open one of the swinging glass doors. I
sprinted across the street, raced to the door, pressed my nose to the glass.
The doorman had just been called away. How lucky, just like a Nancy Drew
story.
Manding was crossing the lobby. A tall, good-looking man was walking towards
her, smiling. He took her hand briefly, turned around and started walking to
the elevator. She followed. Before the elevator doors closed, I saw him run his
fingers down her cheek.
The doorman got back just then and said, “Hoy, alis diyan. Scram, kid”
I backed away, bumping into an old lady. I ran to the jeepney stop, elbows
shoving at anything and anybody, seeing the fingers down the cheek, down the
cheek, down…
I was off the jeepney before it came to a stop. Mama looked up from the
abacus, surprised, “Hey, back so soon? Where’s your Nancy Drew?”
“I hate Nancy Drew!”