BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: PIÑA COLADA

PIÑA COLADA
by H.O. Santos

IT looked like a Christmas card but it was only November, the early part of November at that. But then, you can't tell anymore when the season begins. It used to begin after Thanksgiving, then after Halloween, and now who knows when the season starts. The envelope was fairly large and thick, had gold trim on the flap, and a return address I didn't recognize. I didn't think I knew anyone who would confess to being from Fresno, not that I thought it was a hick town or anything but it really was in the middle of nowhere and nobody I knew would want to live there.

The card turned out to be a wedding invitation. It was from William Hagen and Carolina Dimarocot. That's when I realized I knew people from Fresno after all--how could I have forgotten Carol? She had burst into my life not too long ago and turned my everyday routine upside down for a few months.

Enclosed with the invitation was a picture of the couple and a note from Carol which said,

    Dear Kuya Ben,

    Please come to our wedding. Bill and I would like for you to stay in our house as our guest. We have a large home with several bedrooms so it won't be a problem. As you know, I have no relatives here. I told them you were my cousin and that I wanted you to give me away as the bride during the wedding ceremony.

    Bill thinks you're a very good cousin and he's grateful to you for taking good care of me when I first arrived. I would also like to thank you again, in person, when you get here for all the things you've done for me. I think we can find time for that.

    I look forward to seeing you again so don't fail me.

    As always,        
    Carol                 


She had called me kuya, the Filipino term for an older brother or some other older relative one shows respect for. How can I refuse her now, after she bestowed that term of respect on me. And she would like to thank me again--I wondered what she meant. I liked it the first time she thanked me.

IT was on July 3rd when I went to the airport to pick up Carol. It was a three-day weekend and it took me forty-five minutes to get from my apartment in the mid-Wilshire area to the entrance to LAX. Twenty minutes would have been normal. It took me another twenty-five minutes from the entrance to the parking lot closest to the Tom Bradley International Terminal. I wasn't in a very good mood after that to go look for a woman I had never seen in person before. I was sorry I agreed to meet her but it was too late to back out now. I could just see the newspaper headlines: TOURIST RAPED AND KILLED AFTER FRIEND FAILS TO PICK HER UP AT AIRPORT.

I knew who to blame for this. My friend, Ernie, from Manila had set me up with her. He thought I was lonesome and could use some company for a while. "A few months at the most--she's a tourist," he said in his email. "She's a hot woman, if you know what I mean." No, I didn't exactly know what he meant but I hadn't asked for clarification. He even attached a JPEG file to his email. The woman looked terrific in the picture.

My love life wasn't precisely very healthy then or even now and that characterization should have been enough incentive for me but I tried to convince myself I was doing it for a kababayan, a Filipino countryman, who needed a place to stay for a while. After all, not too many Filipinos can afford the high hotel rates in L.A. when they visit.

I walked to the Tom Bradley terminal and waited. Luckily, the traffic delay didn't matter for the Philippine Airlines flight was behind schedule as usual. I got there at the right time, the plane had just arrived. Now all I had to do was wait until they get three hundred people out of the plane, get them through Customs and Immigration, and watch them come out through the long corridor up the ramp to street level.

I racked my brain trying to figure out how I could identify her--I didn't know how tall she was, how much she weighed, and what she would be wearing. If things ran true to form, she would look nowhere close to the picture I got of her.

The best place to watch the passengers come out is by the railing near the ramp but everybody was crowded around there. I settled for the roped-off area near the end of the ramp where passengers finally turned to get out of the terminal. I watched families join together again as those who went to the Philippines were met by those who didn't. You could tell who were local--they immediately went for the exit door. The newcomers would take more time to say hello and exchange greetings--some even wanted to hand out presents right there. Filipinos always give presents when they travel--once when they reach their destination and again when they return home.

I closely watched every unaccompanied woman who came out and tried to guess whether it was Carol. Mostly, I'd ask if she was pretty and alone. I wanted very much for Carol to be pretty. No luck so far. The crowd of people coming out of the tunnel soon started thinning out. It was already half an hour since I saw the first passenger come out. What if Carol didn't make it? But I couldn't leave until I was absolutely sure there were no more passengers left.

I hadn't seen a lone woman come out for a while until this one came out. She was pushing a cart with two large suitcases and two large carryons that were almost as large as the suitcases. She was wearing a short dress, a coat, a hat, and boots that may have been fashionable years ago. Her figure wasn't bad but her face was plain and homely. My heart sank. She had to be Carol and she was.

I honestly had no reason to get disappointed since my looks were not of movie star caliber, either. It dawned on me that maybe she was expecting something better, too. I decided to be kinder.

"Why did it take you so long to get out of there?" I asked.

"The immigration guy was giving me a hard time. He asked a lot of questions about what I was going to do here, where I was going to stay, and what places I was going to visit. I gave him your address and phone number and he finally let me go."

I took a good look at her, she must have been in her late twenties or early thirties. I couldn't decide whether her hair was yellow, red, or orange. I finally decided it was faded henna. Her skin was sallow, she probably avoided the sun. She was well-built but not heavy, everything was firm and nicely toned. I figured she exercised regularly. She wore a heavy, sweetish perfume that she must have refreshed before she stepped off the plane.

Well, her face was plain but it wasn't ugly. Why should I complain? I wasn't getting stuck with a mail-order bride in the first place. She'll be back in Manila in a few months.

When we got to my apartment, I had to carry all her stuff upstairs. She didn't offer to help but I remembered that women didn't do those things in the Philippines. Men carried the heavy stuff. It took me three trips to take everything up to the spare room I had prepared for her. It had been my study and computer room until I moved my computer and desk to a little corner in the living room.

"Why don't you freshen up before we eat? You have all the time tomorrow to put your things away."

"Isn't it too early to eat?"

"No, it's already seven o'clock."

"But it's still bright outside."

"That's the way it is in the summer here. It's light until after nine. But in the winter, it gets dark before five."

"That's weird," she said as she went to her bedroom to get ready.

I had gone earlier to the Kentucky Fried Chicken place down the street to get some food. I made sure I discarded all clues as to where the food may have come from and put them all in nice, clean platters and bowls. Carol enjoyed the extra crunchy chicken, the cole slaw, the mashed potatoes and gravy, and the biscuits. I didn't feel too guilty as that KFC outlet was one of the better ones in town. Their chicken wasn't all that greasy like in most of their other branches.

We made small talk and tried to feel each other out. She made her living in Manila as a real estate agent. She said she had been top agent for several months in a row but now the market had gone soft. She decided it was time to visit America and enjoy the bit of money she had saved up over the years.

"How do you plan to spend your time here and when are you going back?"

"Oh, I don't know yet what I'll do in the next few months but I'm not going back."

"Doesn't your tourist visa expire in six months?"

"Yes, but I hope to fix my status before my visa expires."

I almost shouted, Putang ina! Here's another Filipino who's going TNT--tago nang tago or "someone who keeps hiding." Filipinos are great for acronyms and abbreviations that sometimes I think the Pentagon is staffed by Filipinos who spend most of their time thinking of acronyms for the military. Great! If she doesn't leave in six months the first place Immigration will check would be my apartment. I saw myself going to Federal prison for harboring an undocumented alien and obstructing justice. That's all I need, I'll never get another job. Worse, they'll take away my green card and send me back to the Philippines. All because I was trying to be nice. Or more correctly, all because I thought I was going to make an easy score.

I remembered the stories I'd heard. They were true after all. Somebody once told me of a Filipino tour group that consisted of forty people who were going to visit six cities. After each stop, the number of people in the group shrank. Only twelve went back to the Philippines.

I was speechless until Carol broke the silence by trying to explain what she perceived to be what I must have been worrying about. "I've been corresponding with four men, all of them Americans. They have all proposed to me. I'll let them know I'm here and I'll marry one of them."

It sounded so simple, why should I have worried? But the thought of jail time continued to scare me. I also worried about jail food and getting sodomized when I got there. My future suddenly looked bleak. It was bright just a few hours ago. That's what I get for thinking about making an easy score. Next time I know I'll have to score the hard way.

I showed Carol how to operate the remote for the cable TV box and where the things she would be needing were. "Just make yourself at home," I said. If I had known what that innocent expression would bring about, I wouldn't have said it.

I had gotten tired by midnight while Carol's biological clock was still fighting her new time zone. I bade her goodnight and went to bed while she watched a movie channel.

The day proved uneventful. She slept in the daytime and watched TV all night. We spoke little with each other but I noticed that her things were now spread all over our shared bathroom. She had strung up a line to hang her wash over the tub. Her wash greeted me each time I went into the bathroom.

I told her about the coin operated washer and dryer down the hall. I said it would be easier for her to wait until she had enough dirty clothes then use the machine. And if she really had a lot of clothes to wash, I could take her to a real laundromat where we could do our wash together.

The third day was Sunday. When I woke up to make coffee, I saw that she was already all dressed up. Her dress was of a shiny material, like she was going to a cocktail party. She had those horrible boots on again. She had lots of makeup just like when I first saw her at the airport. And she wore the same heavy perfume again.

"What time do you go to church?"

I hadn't been inside a church since I was a child but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to tell her that. "Oh, there's Mass all day long," I said, hoping what I said was true. Hadn't I seen people coming out of church all hours of the day on Sundays?

"The church you go to, who goes there? The rich? The poor, or mixed?"

"I don't know, I guess they're mixed." I didn't know that churches were for different levels of economic prosperity.

We went to St. Basil's on Wilshire Boulevard for the noon Mass. I was immediately lost as soon as I got in. I tried to copy exactly what Carol was doing. I knelt when she knelt, stood when she stood, and sat when she sat. The last time I heard Mass, the priest said it in Latin. Now, it was in English just like those Protestant services. And people were holding hands, raising them up in the air, and even greeting each other just like Protestants. It probably had something to do with Vatican II but I couldn't be sure. I thought if they'd only get rid of the kneeling part just like the Protestants had done, it would be perfect.

After Mass, I took her to lunch at a Thai restaurant. Her shiny cocktail dress made people stare. I ordered for both of us since Carol didn't know anything about Thai food. I noticed she hardly ate anything except the stuffed chicken wings. She barely touched her Thai ice tea.

As we were leaving, I asked if there was anything wrong. She said she found it hard to eat at a Thai restaurant. A friend in Manila had told her that the Thais ate cats and dogs. "I couldn't tell what kind of meat they used in their cooking except for the chicken wings. And I thought the tea tasted funny."

She was starting to be a pain in the ass but I still wasn't getting any, either. Not that I tried because it's hard to get motivated when you're annoyed. She had taken over the whole bathroom. She cooked and ate but didn't wash the cooking utensils or the dishes.

My simmering anger finally boiled over when I got my phone bill. The record showed she had called friends all over the U.S. and talked for hours at a time. She even managed to call the Philippines five times. The total amount was about what I normally would have paid for six months of telephone service. I showed it to her but she didn't offer to pay for any of her calls. I told her she was going to drive me to the poorhouse if she kept it up.

One day I returned home to find that five of my wine bottles had been opened. I was letting them get a few more years in the bottle before opening them for a special occasion. They were the most expensive wine I could afford on my pitiful salary. I asked her about the open bottles.

"I was looking for something like the good wine I tasted before in a restaurant in Manila. They called it 'lady's drink,'" she said. "Don't worry, I just tasted them and all the bottles are still almost full. They're too sour for me."

In my rage, I went to the nearest market and bought her a couple of bottles of Mogen David Concord Wine. She liked them. "That's what I was looking for," she said. "How did you know?" She thanked me for being so sweet.

On yet another day, I found her crying in the living room when I got home. It sounded like the world had fallen in on her. She was inconsolable. I grabbed her and shook her hard to make her snap out of whatever it was that was happening with her.

"I flooded the laundry room."

She had at last tried to use the washer at the end of the hallway. She put two large cups of detergent into the wash and it bubbled over filling the whole laundry room with beautiful bubbles.

I got a mop and a bucket and cleaned up. I then showed her how much detergent to put in. I stayed there until she put her clothes in the dryer. I made sure she did it right. I felt guilty that I had expected her to know these things. Wasn't it not too long ago when I was making the same stupid mistakes?

I blew up again when I got my cable TV bill. It seemed like she had ordered every pay-per-view program available. I had never even watched one yet. And she was watching two, sometimes three, a day. I showed the bill to her and told her it would take at least a whole week's salary for me to pay for it.

Carol broke down and cried. "I'm sorry I keep doing dumb things that make you mad. I don't know anything about life here. It's miserable--I'll never get used to it. It's a very lonely life, very different from what I expected."

She made me feel mean and selfish. I remembered how it was for me when I first arrived. It was scary, I didn't know which bus to take to get anywhere. I was afraid to use home appliances I hadn't seen before. Everything was unfamiliar and I was miserable. Now, she was going through the very same things and all I could think about was making it with her.

I thought about the friend who took me in. It took me more than two months to find work and move to my own place. He must have gone through the same frustration I was now going through. When I tried to pay him back after I got my first paycheck, he told me to save it. He said it was now my turn to help our next kababayan who had nobody to turn to. I promised I would do just that. And now I was complaining.

I embraced Carol and said it was okay. "I'm not mad--I just want you to think what you would do if this were your own home. I know you wouldn't waste money and you would want to keep the place neat and clean. That's all I want."

She put her face on my shoulder and finished crying. "Someday, I'll be in a position to thank you properly," she said.

Our relationship after that incident improved. It wasn't perfect but she was doing a lot more things around the apartment. Of course, she was also getting used by now to how things worked in America.

"BILL'S in town," she said. "He wants to take me out tonight."

"Who's Bill?"

"He's one of the guys I've been corresponding with. He flew in last night and is staying at the Sheraton. I know where that is--I've seen it, it's not far from here."

"Well, enjoy yourself."

"You're coming with me."

"I can't, I have lots of things to do."

"You have to. A Filipina has to be chaperoned on her first date. You know that--Bill does, too. I've explained the custom to him. I'll look cheap if you don't come with me. Please, just this first time."

I understood the danger of saying yes--there'll be other first dates with her other penpals and I'll be stuck with chaperone duty if I relented. But of course, she was right. Just because I'd been in America five years doesn't mean I should put asunder Filipino traditions such as what Carol was now invoking so I said okay.

We picked up Bill at the Sheraton. Carol introduced me to Bill as her cousin. Carol was in the front seat with me, Bill was in the back, typical Filipino style first date. Bill had already picked out a restaurant. It was one of the more expensive restaurants on La Cienega that I had never been to before.

When we sat down for cocktails, Carol asked me what she should get so I ordered piña colada for her. I ordered the same to assure her it was a good drink. Bill got a double Jack Daniels. Carol loved the piña colada just as I thought she would. She ordered another after finishing her first drink in record time.

Bill must have been in his late fifties. He was fit and trim--had been married once and had a good business in farm equipment repair. His children had all moved away and he lived alone. I figured he was at least twenty-five years older than Carol but that was okay. I'd seen many happy couples with the same age difference before.

When it was time for dinner, I shamelessly ordered chateaubriand. I wasn't paying and I knew if I didn't do it then, I would never have another chance to try it in that restaurant. Carol had salmon and Bill, a large T-bone steak. We ate slowly and had more drinks. By the time we had dessert, a band had set up and was playing. The restaurant had a small dance floor.

When Bill excused himself to go to the rest room, Carol asked me in confidence what I thought of Bill.

"I think he's all right. He seems to be well off and knows how to live."

"I like him, too. But do you think he can still perform? I mean, I don't want to be stuck with somebody who can only do it once a week or less."

"Oh, I think he can do better than that. He looks strong." I had faith that Bill would have access to Viagra in case he needed it. I wondered if it was the alcohol that made her ask for my opinion on a very private and sensitive matter.

Carol wanted to dance with me but I told her I had two left feet. She got confused by the expression and didn't press on. She got Bill to dance with her. They were both good dancers and I enjoyed watching them cut it on the dance floor. They'd stop dancing every now and then and get back to our table to drink some more. They kept it up for a while until I noticed that Carol was already finding it hard to keep her balance. I pulled Bill aside and told him that maybe I should take Carol home before she got worse. It was very late anyway and time to go home.

Bill and I placed Carol in the back seat of my car where she dozed off and I took him back to his hotel.

"I hope she's okay," he said as he got off.

"Oh, she'll be fine--she just got carried away by finally meeting you after all these years."

By the time we got to the underground garage in my apartment, Carol was half awake and singing, "I love the night life…" She had a fine voice but it was late and I didn't want her to create a scene and wake people up. I picked her up and put a finger to her lips in an attempt to make her quiet.

"Kiss me," she said.

I softly touched her lips with mine. "There."

"No, a real one. I want a real one."

"Not here, wait till we get in the elevator."

I kissed her for real when we got in. She stuck her tongue in my mouth and sucked hard. I did the same to her. She was holding on to me as she still found it hard to stand on her own. I moved my hand to her breast--I had always wanted to check if she wore pushups. She didn't. Her bra was of thin material and I could feel her nipples. She giggled and reached down my pants--she made me hard and said, "I want this."

The elevator door opened on our floor. By then she had unbuttoned her blouse and was unbuckling her bra to show me her breasts. "They're real, they're not rubber," she drunkenly bragged. It was late but I was afraid someone might come so I quickly got her inside my apartment.

She reached down my crotch again and said, "I want it now."

She was completely undressed by the time we got to her bed, her clothes trailing on the floor all the way from the door. She was still woozy and wanted to be kissed and touched everywhere and wasn't satisfied until I finally got inside her.

SHE was already awake and had coffee ready when I got up the next morning. She was having toast and jam with her coffee. I sat down next to her and poured myself a cup.

"Good morning," I said.

"Do you know what happened to me last night?" she asked directly.

I didn't answer, I didn't know what to say.

"Look, it's okay. I just want to know whether it was a dream or Bill or you. I had a good time last night--it's been a long while since I had a more enjoyable evening."

I still didn't answer, so she continued, "I felt very relaxed when I woke up. It seemed so real--it's hard to believe it could have been a dream." She started laughing and joked, "I just want to know who to thank, and maybe do it with him again."

It was good to know she wasn't mad at me but she had never talked like that before.

"I was pretty drunk last night when we got here. I went straight to bed. I don't remember how long Bill stayed but the two of you were still in the living room when I went to sleep," I lied. In the two months she had been with me, I had learned to lie brazenly. The ease with which I was doing it now bothered me a bit.

She turned to me with a questioning look, poured herself another cup of coffee, and dropped the subject. Later that morning, she told me she was having early dinner with Bill before his flight back home. I didn't have to go with them this time.

It was on a Saturday a week later that Carol told me she was going to Fresno to accept a job offer from Bill. I was on my way out to get my car washed and gassed up. She asked me to make sure I came back for lunch because she was preparing something special.

When I got back, she had lunch ready. She had sinigang na bangus, bistek sa sibuyas, and leche flan. She surprised me--she knew how to cook after all. Best of all the pots, pans, utensils, and plates she used had all been washed and put away. I felt like hugging her but didn't because I didn't want her to change her mind about that Fresno job.

Free at last, or almost, I thought. Not only from Carol but from my promise to return the favor somebody did for me when I first arrived in America. My slate was about to be wiped clean. We ate quietly and it really felt like a special occasion for the first time since Carol arrived. She had some good qualities after all. She had even learned how to make piña coladas.

After lunch, we took our drinks to the living room to watch football on television. She knew what channel to turn it to. She turned to me and said, "I'm sorry to have to leave you. I hope you won't feel lonely."

Who, me? Are you kidding? I thought to myself.

It was now raining outside--it figured, I had just washed my car. We sat down to watch the game. I explained to Carol how football was played but I couldn't tell if she cared or not. She pulled her feet up and snuggled close to me.

"I don't know how I can thank you enough for putting up with me."

The piña colada had made us mellow. I gave in to the urge to hug her. She hugged me back and I kissed her without being asked like the first time. She didn't protest and we shed off any remaining antagonism we had towards each other.

After a while, Carol got up and turned the TV off. She smiled faintly at me and silently walked to her room. I followed her in.

ANOTHER Saturday, this time two months later in Fresno. The air is crisp but the warm sun takes the chill out from my bones. I wait at the church door for Carol as I was the designated closest relative who would give her away.

She arrives in a limo and looks radiant as the sun hits her veil to form a halo around her face. She's wearing virginal white and is beautiful as brides should be. She comes to me--and gives me a knowing smile.

BEST PHILIPPINE SHORT STORIES: THE OLD WOMAN OF THE CANDLES

THE OLD WOMAN OF THE CANDLES
by Kevin Piamonte

HOLY Thursday.

The house loomed over the street. Massive. Windows gaped open like mouths. So this would be summer for me. There were other houses nearby, but not as big and old as this one. As I stood outside the rusty iron gate, Doray came running out of the heavy wooden door. It was almost sundown.

"You're finally here. I've been waiting since morning." She kissed me on the cheek.

"The bus broke down," I sighed and gave her a hug.

She brought me inside the house. The basement was dark. A familiar scent filtered through my nose. I sneezed.

"It's old wood, remember?"

SHE had brought me to Ibajay, Aklan, a year ago for her Lola Conching's 90th birthday. We stayed for a couple of days.

Doray and I usually spend summer at beaches. She suggested that we spend this particular one in her Lola Conching's house. I declined at first, but couldn't bear the thought of going to the beach without her. So we made a deal. An hour's ride from Ibajay was a white sand beach.

"I promise." She held up her hand. "We'll go to Boracay after. You just have to see how they spend Holy Week in my Lola Conching's town."

"But I'm not even a practicing Catholic," I protested.

"Don't deny it Burt Macaraig," Doray pointed her accusing finger at me." Once I saw you lighting all the candles in church so that Rona would live."

Ask and you shall be given. I thought that was the doctrine of the Church. Rona died of abuse three years. ago. She was one of those deaf children we took care of in the Center. The twelve-year old girl was suddenly missing one day. When we finally found her in a cemetery, her body had been battered. She lingered in the hospital for two days. The pain was deeply etched on her face. Even her pleas for comfort had ceased to be human.

"All right, all right." I gave up. "We'll go to your Lola Conching's house first, purify our souls during Holy Week and burn them after in Boracay."

Doray and I have been the best of friends since college. We were drinking buddies. Everybody on campus thought we were a couple. In a way we were, since we were always together. After college we went on to do volunteer work for the deaf. We thought we would be serving the best of humanity. But the truth was we were both reluctant to get an eight-to-five job. We called that a straitjacket.

For some reason I wasn't able to make it on the day Doray and I were supposed to leave for Ibajay.

"You'd better follow, mister," she warned, her hand balled to a fist.

SAN Jose Street, Ibajay. Doray told me that on Holy Week the townspeople follow a certain tradition. Her Lola Conching owned a Santo Entierro, the dead Christ. It had been with the family for years. Every year, during Holy Week, they would bring out the statue and everybody would participate in the preparation. Some people would be in charge of dressing up the statue while others would take care of decorating the carriage that would carry it through the streets.

"What's so exciting about that?"

"It's a feast, Burt, a celebration."

I thought it was ridiculous celebrating death. There was something eerie about the whole idea.

"Lola Conching, do you remember Burt?" Doray asked as we got to the landing.

The old woman sat on a chair carefully lighting candles on the altar in front of her. Her lips reverently moved in silence and her gaze was strange as if she wasn't looking at any of the images in particular. It was this same sight that greeted me a year ago.

"The old woman of the candles," I whispered to Doray on our first visit.

"He's here to help in the activities for the Holy Week."

"It's good to see you again, Lola Conching."

"Did you have a good trip? Perhaps you need to rest."

The old woman stared at me. Her face looked tired. It sagged with wrinkles. But I could see there had been beauty there ages ago. The fine line of her brow softly curved to gray almond eyes. Her nose suggested not Spanish descent. Beside her was a wooden cane bedecked with shells intricately embedded, forming a floral design.

"Come." Doray led me through the living room. Carved lattice frames on walls complemented the chandelier made of brass and cut-glass.

"Where is the rest of the family?"

"They'll be here in the morning," Doray said as she opened the door to the bedroom.

I stepped inside.

"You'll sleep here." She indicated. "That's the washroom."

"And the other door to the right leads to your room," I recalled.

Lola Conching was blind. She suffered greatly at the hands of the Japanese. This I came to know last year. Lola Conching was a comfort woman. She had to give in so her parents could be saved. At first she resisted. Then the Japanese hit her on the head with a plank of wood. She became blind. Then she got pregnant.

Was it her story or was it for want of a grandmother that somehow had drawn me to her?

"I think I'll rest for a while," I said quietly.

"Yes, do," she replied as she opened the door to her room. "We'll have dinner later."

The room was replete with old wooden heads of saints. Some had no eyes, but they looked real. I shivered--a familiar feeling. In front of my bed was a cabinet with glass casing. It was empty. The whiff of camphor from the wooden heads made me dizzy and I fell asleep. Soundly.

I WOKE up to the sound of voices. A soft stream of morning light seeped through the gauze of the mosquito net. I hurriedly washed and dressed. Then I opened the door and stepped out of the room. There were people moving around, talking.

"Burt Macaraig?" An elderly woman looked at me knowingly.

"Yes. Burt, you've met Tiya Basyon," Doray began. "And Tiya Patring, Tiyo Lindo, my cousins Ted, Joey, Ina, Elena, Nicky and Damian."

"Well, I'm back." I didn't know what else to say.

"Let's have breakfast." She tugged at my arm. "Everybody has eaten."

The combination of dried fish, scrambled eggs and fried rice sprinkled with chopped onion leaves made me very hungry.

"Nobody here eats meat on Good Friday," Doray explained as we sat down. "It's the belief."

I was too hungry to mind whatever Doray was trying to say.

"I didn't bother to wake you up last night," she said between bites. "You were snoring and I took care not to wake you when I put up your mosquito net."

"I fell asleep as soon as I hit the pillow."

"Did Burt have a good sleep last night, Doray?" Lola Conching asked as she walked into the dining room.

She sat on the chair at the head of the table. It was uncanny how she could move with just a cane. She seemed to know every inch of space in her house.

"Good morning," I greeted her.

"Ah, there you are." Her head followed the sound of my voice. "Did you sleep well last night?" "Yes, I did."

"You should. You will be doing many things today."

After breakfast, we went downstairs. The light from the bulb coated the basement in amber. I sneezed. In a corner was the carriage. Black. It was lined with leaves of silver. On the carriage was a casing whose sides were made of glass. Angels with dark faces adorned each of the upper four corners. The carriage looked ominous, like a hearse. Tiyo Lindo and Tiya Patring came in.

"Boys, let's do this together." Tiyo Lindo went to the carriage and started pulling it out from the corner. All of us did our share. The wheels creaked.

"It needs oiling," Tiyo Lindo said.

We positioned the carriage under the bulb.

"Why don't we just open the door?" I suggested. "Then we can have light."

"No, don't," Tiya Patring said. "It's a tradition. Nobody should see the Santo Entierro until everything is done."

I helped polish the carriage, shining the leaves of silver lining. With agility Ted climbed the carriage and dusted the wooden top of the casing. Tiyo Lindo wiped the inside of the glass. No way would I go in there, I thought. It would be like going inside a coffin.

"We're ready with the Santo Entierro," one of the girls called out. They had been cleaning the body.

The dead Christ was laid out on a mat. My stomach tumbled over. I felt like I was looking at a corpse in a morgue.

"Are you all right?" Doray approached me. She had been arranging the flowers and leaves of palm.

"Look," I said quietly. "I don't know what this is all about, but I'm not at all comfortable."

"What is it?"

"The dead Christ. I just don't like it." I sneezed. "And this scent of old wood, it's driving my nose nuts."

She laughed.

"What is so funny?" I looked at her squarely.

"That's what you get for being a heretic." She brushed my face with the bouquet she held in her hands.

"Oh, stop that." I wiped my face. "I think I'd better go upstairs for a while and rest."

"Don't be so lazy. Lola Conching won't like that kind of attitude."

"Well, she's not my grandmother in the first place." I made my way up.

Lola Conching was sitting by the altar when I got to the top of the stairs. The subtlety of light coming from the candles caressed the features of her tired face.

"Are you done?"

I was startled.

"No, Lola Conching."

"Who are you?" Her voice was stern. "Ah, you're Burt."

"Yes, Lola Conching." I was relieved that she recognized me.

"What are you doing up here?" she curtly asked.

My throat went dry.

"I want to rest for a while. I'm feeling quite sick because of the smell of old wood."

"I light candles for the Santo Entierro because it is most precious to us. It is our indu1gencia," declared Lola Conching. "It protected us during the war. Doray's father was a baby then."

I sat down in front of the old woman.

"You mean the Santo Entierro has some kind of power?" My curiosity started to grow.

"Yes, it does." Lola Conching confirmed. "It protects us from the evil of Good Fridays. Aswang."

I almost snickered. But in her voice was the weight of her belief. Aswangs, witches were myths to my knowledge. They would fly at night using their huge bat-like wings. Their hands had claws for fingers, and their teeth were razor sharp. They would look ghoulish, eyes gleaming bright red. But at daytime they were beautiful.

My gaze was transfixed on the old woman's face. I searched for the delicate features that used to be there.

"They come out on the eve of the death of Christ." Her voice slightly quivered. Was it fright I heard? Or a threat?

I was getting edgy on my seat. Faith, belief, knowledge boiled up, blurring my mind.

"You'll see on Good Friday. When the moon rises, all windows are shut in houses except ours," she proudly declared. "Windows in this house are left wide open."

It dawned on me. The Santo Entierro was not the family's iindulgencia. It was hers--for all the fears she kept inside.

"I thought you went to sleep." Doray had come upstairs.

"No, I was talking to your Lola Conching," I stammered. Cold sweat dripped down my forehead.

"I told him stories about the Santo Entierro," the old woman said with an air of accomplishment.

"Let's go." I grabbed Doray's arm.

For the first time I felt afraid. Yet I could not understand why. I raced downstairs. Doray came after me.

"Wait," she called.

Everybody stared at me blankly when I got to the basement. I turned around and faced Doray. We almost bumped into each other.

"Can we go for a walk?" I panted.

We went to the plaza in front of the church. We were both quiet. I pondered why she brought me to this strange place. I felt she had done it on purpose. I never questioned events, phenomena. I always took them as though they were a natural order of the cosmos, like birth and death. True, I did light candles for Rona, but the girl died nonetheless. I felt humiliated. That menial task was my turning point. Never again did candles burn.

"This is where the procession ends," she said as we sat on a concrete bench. We were facing the church. "The procession goes around, through several streets and it ends here at about seven in the evening."

"Do you believe in your Lola Conching's stories about the Santo Entierro?"

Doray looked lost in thought. She groped for words.

"I don't have any answers, Burt. But this is what I can tell you." Her eyes brightened up. "What I saw was the crowd surging toward the Santo Entierro as it got to the door of the church. It was a mad scramble. Everybody wanted a piece of the Santo. They say its hair or any part of its clothing can be used as an amulet, a protection against evil spirits."

Another mythical explanation.

"I'm hungry." I stood up and we went back to the house.

Lunch was quick. Everybody was rushing to finish the morning's activity for the procession in the afternoon.

I went to sleep. In the first place, vacations were meant for naps. Besides I felt I had done my share already with the carriage.

"Burt." I heard Doray's voice through my slumber. "It's time to get ready."

"Hmmm," I protested. I was too tired to do anything.

"Wake up, sleepyhead." She sat on the bed. "You've been sleeping for hours. Come on." She gave me a gentle slap on my face.

"All right." I rubbed my eyes and got out of bed.

"Call me when you're ready." She stood up and went inside her room.

When Doray and I went downstairs, I gasped at the sight that greeted me. There was the Santo Entierro inside the glass casing of the carriage. Asleep. Its long golden brown hair was spread out like a fan. Its body covered with the richness of white and red velvet was adorned with beads of gold. The carriage was bedecked with sprays of palms and flowers, the ones used for funerals. Trinkets of lights illuminated the whole presentation. Death never had this brilliance.

"Well, we're ready," Tiya Patring said.

The boys--Ted, Joey, Nicky and Damian--opened the door and pulled the carriage out. A small crowd stood outside. They applauded as we made our way into the street behind the image. They made the sign of the cross and followed us. As we neared the church, I could see other carriages lined up, each one carrying a different image representing Lent. We were made to position somewhere at the end of the line. And the procession began. The band with scant composition of trumpets and drums lazily accompanied our strides. I snickered.

"Shhh," Doray warned.

When the sun came down, some people started handing out candles.

"Want to light one?" Doray slyly offered.

The procession went on for about two hours. People lined the streets. There were old people sitting on wheelchairs. Soon they would drown in the shadow of the evening. I thought of Lola Conching left alone in the house seeing the whole procession in her mind as she prayed for her soul. In her house candles burned like tired spirits.

When we neared the end of the procession, the carriages were brought inside the church.

"Let's go." Doray pulled me.

"Where?" I thought this would be the most awaited event of the day.

But her clutch slipped off my arm.

Then I saw a throng of people rushing towards us. Joey, Nicky and Damian struggled to pull the carriage to the entrance of the church. On top of the carriage were Tiyo Lindo and Ted brandishing wooden canes like warriors. Everyone was trying to get near the Santo Entierro. I was trapped. I couldn't get out from the sea of bodies. The wave threatened to crush me. I couldn't breathe. I was drowning. Some people had tears streaming down their faces, sobbing. Others screamed as Tiyo Lindo and Ted hit their hands with their wooden canes.

"The hair," someone shouted. "A strand of hair."

"No, don't!" I could no longer hear myself as I went down, pressed by the rush of wave.

Suddenly Tiyo Lindo and Ted were pulling me up. I slumped on the wooden top of the carriage, catching my breath. Below, the maddened faces of people receded as we entered the portals of the church.

We jumped off the carriage. Sweat pasted my shirt on to my skin. I felt we had gone through a siege. But the carriage was intact. The glass remained unbroken. The leaves of silver lining still glistened. Everything was in place. The rest of the boys, Joey, Nicky and Damian, volunteered to stay behind while we went home for dinner.

"You were lucky you didn't get crushed," said Ted.

I did not bother to say anything. I had not seen raw madness before.

"Is he all right?" Lola Conching asked me as we got to the top of the stairs.

"Burt," Doray came towards me. We need not say anything to each other. Tears were about to fall from my eyes.

"It's all right," I held her hands tight. "I'll be fine."

Later that evening we stayed in my room and drank whiskey.

"I'm sorry, Burt, I tried to get through." She recalled what happened earlier that evening.

We were silent for a while.

"It was so weird. They were scrambling. Those people were fanatics."

"The first time I saw it I thought I would go down on my knees." She smiled in disbelief.

Doray left at midnight to sleep in her room. I tossed in bed. I kept thinking about the mad rush of the crowd towards the Santo Entierro. What awesome power for one made of wood to draw the tide toward himself. My mind reeled. It was Black Saturday. The day of the dead Christ.

In the haze of alcohol, I got out of the room and cautiously made my way down the stairs and out of the house. I went out into the street and walked to the church. The moon had risen, big and bright. Its color oozed beyond its shape and bled the sky. The street was silent. As I neared the church, I heard its door open. It moaned. In the dimness of the surroundings I saw four men coming out of the church. They were carrying something wrapped in white sheets, like a dead man. It was the Santo Entierro! Oblivious of my presence, they struggled with its weight. Slowly I took several steps back. I turned around and cautiously walked back to the house. Then I saw that the windows of the other houses were shut. Tight. I remembered what Lola Conching said about the witches. I ran towards the house, racing against the pounding in my chest. Then I swiftly ascended the stairs. When I got to my room, I threw myself on the bed. At a surprising rate, I tucked the mosquito net in and closed my eyes. The Santo Entierro was stolen, the Santo Entierro was stolen! This I kept repeating to myself. I wanted to get up and tell Doray. But I was feeling too heady. I felt I was going to throw up. I closed my eyes and cascaded down into a labyrinth of darkness. Then I heard a flapping on wings. Wak, wak, wak. It flapped in the breeze blowing through my window. Wak, wak, wak. There it was again. I bolted up, charged with a current of electricity running through my veins. The mosquito net plunged down. I struggled against the mesh of its gauze. Then I saw the Santo Entierro! It stood inside the glass cabinet in front of my bed. I screamed. The shrillness shot through the stillness of San Jose Street.

"Burt," Doray rushed in. I screamed again. She peeled the mosquito net away. Then I felt her hands, her arms holding me close. I was drenched with sweat.

Someone knocked on the door.

I looked at the glass cabinet in front of my bed. It was empty.

"The Santo Entierro was stolen." I breathlessly whispered to Doray.

"The what?" She barely heard me.

"The Santo Entierro." I punctuated each word.

Doray stood up and opened the door. Lola Conching entered the room.

The Santo Entierro was stolen!" I cried. "It was stolen."

Lola Conching covered her face, fingers digging into her skin. Her breathing came in spasms. The rest of her kin stood behind her. I got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Doray asked.

"To the church."

I grabbed Lola Conching and carried her in my arms as if she were a child. She weakly struggled against my strength.

"Leave her alone!" Doray cried. The rest of the family encircled us like the crowd that earlier surged towards the Santo Entierro.

"No!" I stared at them.

And we all marched down into the darkness of the street, all the way to the church. Lola Conching buried her face my chest. Her resistance was drowned in her sobbing.

The door of the church was open when we got there. Some people had left it open. We made our way through the carriages inside the shadow of the church's belly. Images loomed. Near the altar stood the black carriage with leaves of silver lining. I Set Lola Conching down on the floor She grappled with my feet, whimpering.

"Here." Tiya Patring offered me a candle. I took it.

"Light all the candles, Burt," Doray's voice quivered.

I numbly walked around the church and lit all the candles I could find. My hands shook. Lola Conching wailed Then I saw it. It was there. The Santo Entierro glistened inside the glass casing of its carriage.

"It's here, Lola Conching." My lips trembled. "The Santo Entierro is back!"

We all looked at Lola Conching, still slumped on the floor. She had stopped crying.

"Put out the candles," Lola Conching commanded.

Nobody moved. For a while everybody had stoned expressions on their faces.

"Put out the candles." This time her voice came undaunted.

One at a time her kin blew out the flames. Their somber faces were ghosts extinguished with the past. The Santo Entierro faded into darkness.

I sank to my knees with the last candle in my hands. Lola Conching rose. Layers of tormented skin peeled off her face that came to the light. I saw her real beauty. Immaculate, a flower whose petals would wither with a careless brush of fingers. I saw a girl of eighteen whose face was as fine and gentle as the hair of the wind. Then the features slowly changed with the diminishing flame. And between light and darkness was Rona's face completely devoid of pain.

The light of the candle in my hands flickered and died as Lola Conching's blind eyes gave way to tears that had welled through the years. In the darkness of the church I bowed my head as I convulsed with my own truths. Lola Conching held on to my arms as I held on to the candle. I could smell the pregnant whips of smoke rising from the faint orange glow of its wick.

Black Saturday. And now, Easter Sunday.