Have a cuppa ...

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.

“Eeew! 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?”

“It’s all part of it. 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 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. I 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 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. I can still feel the cool sting of the oil, its eucalyptus scent overpowering. That was my first perfume.

One Sunday afternoon Manding headed for the communal bathroom.

“Manding, wait!” I rushed upstairs to get a towel, panties, T-shirt and shorts.

Manding put her clean clothes on a shelf on the bathroom wall. She reached for mine and put them beside hers. Under the shelf hung a row of malongs, long, wide pieces of brightly-colored printed cloth the girls used to wrap around themselves when bathing.

The small bathroom had 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, floated 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, 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. I stripped to my panties and put my green T-shirt and denim shorts in the basin. She squatted, filled the tabo 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 and stuck a thin wooden stick to hold it in place.

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 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.

“Tsunami!” She squeezed her palm against the faucet, spraying me with a wall of water.

“Sige ka!” I grabbed the tabo and hurled water at her, slipping and sliding on the floor.

We laughed so hard I was hiccupping from water I had swallowed and Manding’s neat wet knot of hair had come undone.

“Let’s get down to business.”

She reached for a small pumice stone and vigorously scrubbed her legs and arms, 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 malong cling to the high curve of her breasts, the small waist, the wide hips. Now I knew what the boys at school meant by Coca-Cola body.

She tossed the last taboful at me. We washed our clothes, got dressed and came out smelling of Lifebuoy and coconut oil. Manding balanced the basin of clothes on her hip and sauntered out to the backyard. I handed her my T-shirt, shorts, her flowery dress, our panties and she hung them on the clothesline. I chatted about school and friends; I stopped and looked around. I grabbed her arm, pulled her head close to mine and whispered, “There’s this boy, Gil, in my class. Ka cute kaayo iyang dimples!”

“Uy! In love si Jingjing, da!”

“Sssh! Ayaw’g saba!”

Manding smiled, looked at me and put her index finger in front of her lips and crossed her heart.

The cook banged the aluminum plate and we rushed back for supper. Yum! The smell of fried mackerel made my mouth water. The salesgirls always ate together on plastic stools around the table. Their food was simple: fried fish, sauteed vegetables and rice.

My mother, father and I ate at a separate table and had an extra meat dish. My father, worried about the price of copra, frowned at his meal. My mother, thinking of the payroll, dispatched her food. And I, I ate with gusto and watched the salesgirls. They used thumb and forefinger to pick off some mackerel, added rice and vegetables, squashed it to a lump and put it into their mouths.

I ate quickly and slipped out of my chair and joined them. I squeezed in between two girls. 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 in bed reading the newspaper. Then I went downstairs to say good night to Mama, who was working on the books.

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 Monday. I heard Manding ask for 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…. But she always ended up letting them go.

Papa was away on business. 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. His hand, soft, warm, light.

I was in awe of my father. 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 fish sauce. Yet he would dance with me, teach me the tango, joke with me.

I was glad Papa was away. Mama would let me go to town on my own. I knew my way around.

It was Thursday. I told Mama I wanted to buy Nancy Drew’s latest mystery. She gave me money for the jeepney fare and the book. I went to the girls’ hut. Manding was packing I asked, “You going home? Taking a jeepney? Can I come?”

“Whoa, one question at a time. Yes to all three, but I’ll be busy.”

“I’m going to get my favorite Nancy Drew! We can go together.”

“I don’t know about that. I have to buy…”

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. I put my hand in hers. I looked up at her.

“Kagwapa nimo!” You’re so beautiful!

She smiled. 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 blended in with a family with four kids; I hid behind a man carrying a huge sack of rice; I stood 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. What luck! Just like a Nancy Drew story!

Manding looked straight ahead, crossed the lobby and walked towards the elevator. She went in, turned around and pressed a button. A tall man followed her. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him run his fingers down her cheek.

The doorman got back just then and said, “Hoy, hawa diha! Scram, kid.”

I backed away, bumping into an old lady. I ran to the jeepney stop, elbows shoving at anything and anybody, seeing only 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 calculator, surprised, “Hey, back so soon? Where’s your Nancy Drew?”

“I hate Nancy Drew!”

It was 2:30 in the afternoon and most of the customers had left. The bus boys started clearing the tables. Ernesto, a tall gawking teen-ager, glanced at Lily. She watched his reflection in one of the many mirrors that lined the Manila Han Palace. She brought her eyes back to herself. She loved her uniform, a long gold cheong-sam trimmed in black, with a high Mandarin collar, the frogs drawing a loving line from long neck to round breast to slim waist. It fell in a sheath of gold, the slit in the skirt revealing a glimpse of pearly thigh.  She tossed her head back and her shoulder-length hair swished back in place, framing big brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips.

She leaned nonchalantly against the counter, her small breasts outlined in gold, the slit parting to show more skin.

Ernesto was furiously rubbing the table with a cloth, his hair falling over his eyes, just a few feet from shimmering skin. He tried not to look at her but she could see his cheeks growing warm, hear his breath coming short. He gave a last swipe and hurriedly picked up his basin of water and his cloth. She moved forward just as he turned. Her shoulder brushed against his arm and the basin slipped from his fingers, the water spilling down the front of his pants. Everyone laughed.

"Hoy, ano ba? Watch out!" she said, backing away, checking her cheong-sam immediately for stains.

"Sorry, ho. Pasensiya na kayo," he stuttered.

The bus boys did not miss their cue.

"Hey, Ernesto, nice move!"

"Yeah, way to get your pants wet!"

Hoots of laughter. Ernesto flushed red.

Lily sashayed to the girls’ back room. Laughing and pushing, the other waitresses followed Lily. It was a small airless room, no windows, the thin plywood walls covered with pictures of movie stars, their smiles half-torn or pasted over with pictures of other up-and-coming starlets. Fourteen girls laid down side by side on seven bunk beds pushed together. They were in different stages of undress; fanning themselves with cardboard, newspaper, worn-out fans. They put their feet up; chatted, and rested until the restaurant would fill up again at 4:00.

"Hey, Lily, poor Ernesto," commented Baby, one of the waitresses.

"He was asking for it. Can’t keep his eyes to himself."

"Probinsiyano kasi. He’s from the sticks. He doesn’t know a thing. But that’s the way you like them, right, Lily?"

"Who, me? I like them rich. Ernesto’s just for practice."

A knock on the door. Time to get back to work.

Lily saw him immediately, a young man, gold flashing on his wrist, designer clothes, spit-shined shoes, not his spit, of course. He picked up the menu and Lily studied his hands, soft, white, smooth, no calluses.

She straightened up, took a quick, approving glance at herself in one of the mirrors and waited until she saw him looking around, then she glided towards him. She paused in front of him. He looked up; a slow smile spread.

"What will it be today, sir?"

He glanced at the menu and said, "I’ll have a Coke and," a mischievous smile, "how’s the pork siopao? Is the bun soft …smooth …tender?"

"It always is around here, sir," she replied, glancing out of the corner of her eyes.

He straightened up, gave her a long, calculating look and nodded.

She smiled, turned around, black hair swinging, gold hips swaying. His eyes were glued to her like sap on the stem of a freshly picked mango.

He came everyday for two weeks; always the same table, the same coke and siopao, and always Lily waiting on him.

In the backroom, the girls crowded around Lily.

"Well, come on. Tell!" Baby said, grabbing Lily’s arm.

"His name is Manolo. He runs his father’s construction business. You know that building that’s going up about two blocks from here? Well, that’s theirs."

"Wow! Di mayaman nga, So he is loaded!"

Lily nodded and took a crisp 500-peso bill from the tiny slit pocket of her cheong-sam.

"Wow, that was your tip?" Baby’s eyes popped.

"Every time?" another waitress asked.

Lily smiled and slipped the bill back into the slit.

It was Friday.

Manolo was wiping his mouth, the last of the siopao thoroughly relished.

Lily sauntered over. "Everything to your liking?"

He looked up at her, then down, then up again. "Yes, very much so," he smiled, "but I’m going to miss my siopao over the week-end. Any chance of taking it home?"

"Sure, how many?"

 "Just one," his eyes on her lips, "the most succulent one."

"Coming right up." She turned, thigh flashing through the slit in the cheong-sam.

She brought the bill with a brown bag. "Your siopao," softly.

Getting his wallet out, he asked casually, "What time do you get off work?"

"At 11:30."

"Like to dance?"

Her eyes lit up.

"Ok, be ready." He winked and stood up.

Lily kept watching the clock that night. As soon as the restaurant emptied, she rushed into the girls’ back room, quickly stripped, wet a face towel and washed her face, neck and underarms. A swipe of deodorant before putting on a white shirt and jeans. She left the first two buttons of her shirt undone, checked the way the jeans hugged her, put on her black pumps. She gave her hair a quick brush, traced half a crescent of “Dark Blue Night” on her eyelids, pushed the mascara wand in and out of the tube and carefully applied it, not missing a single eyelash. She looked at her face in the mirror, smiled and applied light pink blush on each cheek. Now for the final touch. She traced the curve of her lips with "Hot Pink," filling in the outline with "Luscious Pink." One last look at the mirror. Yes, perfect. She ran to the deserted parking lot and slowed to her trademark walk as a black car with dark-tinted windows slowed to a stop. The passenger door was pushed open from the inside. Manolo was at the wheel, smiling. She slid in the car. He roared out of the parking lot.

The disco was packed. The music was deafening. Manolo got a table with the flash of a 500-peso bill and he ordered a beer for himself and a rum coke for Lily. She was watching the DJ shouting into the microphone, at the waiters weaving in and out of the tables with their trays, at the couples gyrating, flashing red, green, and yellow as the overhead lights hit them.

Lily tapped her foot, her head nodding to the beat of the music. While Manolo paid, she took a sip.

“How do you like it?” He whispered in her ear.

“It’s good. I’ve never had it before.”

“I know.” A soft kiss on her cheek as he leaned back, taking a long drink, his eyes never leaving her.

He smiled, took her hand and cocked his head towards the dance floor.

Manolo watched her every move. She tossed her head back, eyes closed, hands moving above her head, hips swaying, legs moving in, out to the rhythm of the beat. She was music in motion.

The music went on and on and he could see the third button on her shirt straining to let go, tiny beads of sweat just above it. He narrowed his eyes and smiled. The music changed to a soft, slow beat. Lily moved towards Manolo, eyes still closed, arms raised. His were ready. He folded her to him, feeling her breasts against his chest, rubbing his cheek against her hair. She breathed him in, leaning against him. They hardly moved. Then she felt him stir and she looked up. He looked straight into her eyes, took her hand and led her out into the parking lot. He opened the car door for her and she got in. He drove very fast. Their breathing was loud in the silent car. The sleepy security guard waved them through the gates of the exclusive residential village. Manolo parked in front of a dark bungalow. He turned the key in the lock and let them in. The street lamp shone through the screen windows, Lily’s body silhouetted in its light. He hooked a finger in her shirt; the third button popped.

Months passed. Manolo no longer came for siopao but the black car kept coming every night. Lily was blooming.

Then one night, the car did not come. And another. And another.

The next day, a few minutes before the break, Lily rushed to the girl’s room and took off her cheong-sam. She was alone. She looked at her body in the mirror, turned right to see her silhouette and slowly caressed her abdomen. She hummed a tune and chose a short blue summer dress, the thin spaghetti straps showing off smooth silky skin. She brushed her hair, checked her make-up, turned around and saw the swirl of blue just above long slim legs. She smiled and gave a mock salute to the mirror.

Baby was the first to enter, followed by all the others. "Uy, saan ka pupunta, ha?".

"Uh uh. Not telling," and Lily was out the door.

She walked quickly to the construction site a block away. The wolf whistles made her slow down. A man in a hard hat came and opened the gate. He looked her up and down and smiled.

"What can I do for you?"

"Si Manolo, nandito?"

"No, umuwi na siya."

"He went home? At 3:00 in the afternoon?"

"No, I mean he went back to Cebu. Nanganak iyong asawa niya kahapon."

"His wife gave birth yesterday? But… but…"

"Yes, a boy, Junior daw."

Lily stood rigid, fingernails digging deep into her palms. Then she laughed and laughed and laughed, holding her own abdomen.

The man shook her shoulders, "Hoy, Ale, tama na. Hey stop it, lady!"

He took her by the elbow, still laughing, tears streaming down her face, and led her out into the street. The gate banged shut.

It was the last time. He chose a yellow straw, put it in the glass of soy milk. Slowly, leisurely, almost reverently, he took a sip. Another. Yet another. The cool sweet drink caressed his throat. Then there was none.

He got up from the table, took the glass, threw the straw, washed the glass with water and dish-washing liquid, her words echoing in his ear, “Don’t just rinse it. You don’t get rid of germs just with hot water.” How many times had he nodded his head, smiled and just rinsed anyway. Unless she was watching.

She was not. It had been a long time since she was. It had been seven months and three days.

He had come home to an individual-sized tetra pak of soy milk. Under it, a piece of paper torn from a spiral notebook. “I’m sorry.” That was all. He had wrapped the soy milk carton in the note, folding its corners just so, putting one-inch scotch tape in the middle and on both ends, like a carefully wrapped present. He had put it on the top shelf of the fridge. It had been the first thing his eyes saw every time he opened the door. No longer.

He looked at the paper in his hand, the words still black, the folds clear and sharp where they had embraced the box.

Published in Offshoots12 (June 2013)

I was eight when the monkey came. I rushed home from school, dying to get out of my blue, itchy, starched uniform. Home was above the store. Taking the steps two at a time, I heard the violent clanging of chains, a loud screech; and the monkey lunged at me, bared teeth inches from my face. Whoosh! His hand tried to grab me. I cringed and scraped the wall with my nails.

"Mama!" I screamed. The cashier came running, grabbed hold of the chain, yanked the monkey back onto its perch and said over the loud screeching, "Go, Sabing, go. He can’t reach you. He’s your mother’s new pet."

I choked. Mama hadn’t told me I would be coming home to a monkey on the stairs.

I was afraid. I refused to go up or down unless someone went with me and when the store was teeming with customers I had to wait. The monkey was just a hand’s breath short of reaching me. Clutching a salesgirl’s hand, I hugged the far wall as my feet raced against each other on the stairs. I could feel Mama’s eyes on me every time.

Mama had had pets before: guard dogs she talked to early in the morning before starting work, goats that gave fresh milk, a chicken that ended up in the family pot. But never a monkey.

I liked going down to the store after supper, sitting across from Mama at the huge desk strewn with papers. Mountains that dwindled into hills until they ended up in out-trays, in-trays and to-be-done trays. I played quietly, watching Mama often.

She was bent over the desk, the lamp throwing a bright white light on pink slips, yellow invoices and blue inventory sheets. Her glasses perched on the edge of her nose, the right index finger thrusting the glasses back up as they slipped, wisps of greying hair falling over her forehead, fingers flying on the black abacus.

One night I went downstairs to be with Mama as usual. I grasped the maid’s hand, steeling myself for the screech, the jangling, the whoosh but … silence. I looked up. No monkey! Running into the store, I stopped and saw the monkey on a new perch, my mother’s right shoulder. It raised its head slowly and fixed me with its gaze, gleaming brown eyes, shiny like marbles. The lips opened wide, yellow teeth, a quiet menacing grin. Its hands rifled through Mama’s hair, picking, choosing, eating. I wondered what. She kept on working, the monkey silently resting one hand on her head as he shifted from one shoulder to the other. Finally, he sat still, a hand on her shoulder, the other on the nape of her neck. I backed away. Mama looked up. A puzzled and irritated "What’s wrong with you?"

I pointed to the monkey.

"Stop it, Sabing. How many times do I have to tell you he’s harmless. He’s just a baby."

She gave a quick pat on the hand-foot on her shoulder and then back to her papers. I turned and silently went up the stairs, putting my foot squarely on the middle of each step.

The next night I stayed in my room after supper, and the next night and the next…

A few days later, I was clinging to the cashier’s hand, heart thudding.

"Inday, go back to the cash register. From now on, Sabing will go up and down the stairs by herself."

I stared at Mama and felt cold. I looked up and saw the monkey crouched, ready to spring.

"Ma, please. I…"

"No, " steel in the voice, "Go…up… the stairs… NOW."

I looked up at Inday; she stared at the cash register.

I took a step, then felt the warm trickle between my legs. My skirt was wet, my socks, my shoes. I heard Mama’s chair scrape backwards, hit the wall, the swoosh swoosh of the chair turning. She grabbed my arm and dragged me to the first step, beneath the eyes gleaming, shiny like marbles.

The hissed "Go" and she shoved me up the stairs. I stumbled and hit my shin against the first step, my face pressed against the skirt, the stench of urine overpowering. I gagged, pushed myself up and ran up to the bathroom.

The next day, Inday saw me standing at the top of the stairs and quietly, she came, held my hand and led me downstairs. The monkey was asleep.

Coming home from school, I memorized the cracks on the cement floor as each step brought me closer to the stairs. I took a deep breath. Then I saw. The marks where the nails had been for the perch. Then I heard. Silence.

I rushed back towards Mama, hair flying, arms reaching, wet eyes unseeing. My face on her neck, at last. I looked up. Her eyes were gleaming, shiny like marbles.

I squint and lean hard against the steering wheel. I draw back and sigh. Snow, snow, snow. Thick and fast.

I love snow cloaking every fir and pine around the chalet, sparkling diamonds in the sun especially when I’m nestled inside with a fire roaring and a good book half-lying, half-sitting in the mamasan, a huge white, round cushion cradled in wicker. I push, stretch and snuggle and the cushion makes a niche for me.

I fell on the chalet in the summer, walking lost in the mountains of St Cergue. A path, trees and there it was. All wood, all geraniums, all Swiss. At the épicerie, five kilometers away, I got the number and booked the chalet for the winter.

The only thing I dragged from Geneva was the mamasan.

I locked up the house, left plants and keys with my spinster neighbor. It felt strange at first, this picking up and going, no longer sitting, watching, waiting.

Tick tock tick tock, my heart had counted each second, each minute, each hour, each day. Staring out the window in the rocking chair, dawn seeing pink, then orange, then fire on the white mountain peaks. Then dusk kissing them red and purple. The same colors on the mountain in the picture on the wall above the bed, above the white head on the pillow. His hair had not been as white as the starched white pillowcase. He had always liked to sleep on starched white things. I could never be bothered. Until then.

He had slept. He had often slept. Up, down, up, down the sheet covering him went and my heart fluttered to its silent beat. One day the sheet above his chest moved no more.

I sat in my rocking chair and stared out into my mountain-of-many-colors. A long time. A very long time.

The day came, the day for turning the house from holding two to one and as closets and drawers emptied, as tears no longer came, one last thing remained. The attic. And there it was. The mamasan where two twentysomethings had spooned themselves into one, its round emptiness waiting to enfold me.

It has been in front of the fireplace of the chalet ever since. Now only three kilometers away, waiting. I squint in the snow, change gears, drive up the steep mountain road. The tires skid on ice, I brake; the car dances and flies.

I struggle to open my eyes. It is dark. It is quiet. I am in my mamasan at last, a mamasan of snow.

Published in Foreign and Far Away, Writer’s Abroad Anthology 2013 (Oct. 2013)