by Lee Taylor
"She's been sending me cards from Australia." I reach for the pile of mail and find the latest one. "Obviously, someone's sending them on her behalf."
She grabs it from my outstretched hand and reads, "Your father did not kill me, Lillian Spencer," and drops it on the table as if it burns her hand. "Is this some sort of joke?"
"No, but if Papa's innocent, I have to find the real killer. I wonder if you or Tito Louie know why anyone would want to kill Lillian Spencer."
"Why would we know? Someone's playing a trick on you. Why are you all of a sudden so interested in Tito Louie?"
"For one thing, he's dying, has six months to live. If he knows anything, I better get it out of him soon."
"I'd stay away from him. He'll most likely lie and say whatever you want. I don't trust him."
"Whoa!" I wave my hand in front of my chest like I'm hot. "Why all the Tito Louie hate? He's always been nice to me."
She glances sideways and purses her lips. "Of course he'd be nice to you."
"What's that supposed to mean? He's my uncle." I blow a puff of frustration through my nose. Mama always talks about family and how important it is. But she resents Tito Louie, probably because he reminds her of my father and what she lost.
She pushes from the table. "I don't want to think about your father or Lillian Spencer. Why are you digging into this? It's not like you're marrying Zach Spencer."
Well, duh, of course I'm not marrying Zach, but if my father really killed his mother, he wouldn't want anything to do with me, no matter how well I cook or sing. My stomach twangs like a flat guitar string, and I stir the chocolate a little too fast. "I'm not ever getting married."
"Vera, you never answer my questions."
"You don't answer mine either." I wipe up the spilled chocolate. "Did Papa ever talk about Lillian Spencer or anyone else he worked with?"
"No." Mama tucks her mug in the dishwasher. "Forget about it. Your father's dead. What does it matter? Why are you picking at old wounds?"
"I believe Papa was innocent."
She covers her eyes with one hand and slowly shakes her head. "He jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, M'iha. Let him rest in peace."
Chapter 7
Uncle Louie lives in Happy Bear Forest, a retirement community. Visitor parking is scarce, so I park at the mall across the street and make my way down the tree-lined sidewalk while balancing the food I made: chicken adobo, pancit canton, and shrimp sinigang. I smile at an elderly woman exercising with her walker and cross the parking circle in front of the lobby.
The doors open automatically, and I stop at the receptionist's desk. It's Cliff again, a recently hired college student who makes it a point to ask me out every time I visit. He inhales exaggeratedly at the steaming food. "Here to see your uncle?"
"No other. How's he been?"
Cliff comes around the counter and stands a little too close. "Let me take the goodies you're carrying. You know that's way more food than he can eat."
If there were ever an audition for a bad-boy Romeo, Cliff would be a shoo-in. He favors no-sleeve muscle tees to show off his tats, and a silver ring with a black gem pierces his left eyebrow.
I hand him the stack of Tupperware containers. "It makes him happy. What can I say?"
"That you'll go out with me?" He makes a show of flexing his muscles as he grabs the food. "Then I wouldn't be stuck with leftovers after you leave."
I flash him a smile and shake my head. "I bet you're up there the minute I'm gone, buttering him up."
"I'd rather butter you up, sweetie." He wiggles his eyebrows and smirks, then struts up the stairwell, his too tight clothes an obvious advertisement of his bodybuilding prowess.
He's too young for me, but it's flattering, and he does have a body worth drooling over. I follow him through the carpeted corridor until we stop in front of my uncle's door.
I slide out a twenty, but as usual he waves it off and asks me out again. I'm sure an exciting evening with him comprises of admiring his muscles and playing with his Wii . . . gaming system, urgh . . . never mind.
Cliff announces us on the intercom, and the door opens in a few moments.
"Vera, my darling." My uncle stretches out his hand.
"Kumusta po?" How are you? I touch the back of his fingers to my forehead to receive his blessing, and he smacks a loud kiss on my cheek.
Cliff rolls his eyes and makes kissing motions as he sets the food on the kitchenette counter.
I make a show of holding the door open for him. "Thanks for bringing this up."
"Anytime you want me to bring anything up, I'm your man." Cliff ogles me and heads out the door.
I shut it none too soon, because Tito Louie pinches my arm. "What a nice young man. I think he's sweet on you."
"Tito, you know he's too immature." I unpack the food and set the table. "How are you feeling?"
"Not good, not bad." He wheezes and pulls himself to the tiny dinette. Everything about the room is cramped. The kitchenette is in the entry across from the bathroom equipped with handrails. The furniture consists of a single bed, a row of dressers, and the dinette set. Medical equipment, trays and syringes, a blood pressure cuff, and a spare oxygen tank sit in the corner next to the hospital style bed.
Tito's eyes light up at the shrimp sinigang--bright orange jumbo prawns, complete with their heads and tails cooked in a tangy vegetable broth. I serve him a plate with steamed rice while he tucks a paper towel in his collar.
Filipinos don't talk while eating, not when the food is so succulent and tasty. Okay, let me amend that. Filipino men don't talk when eating. They're too busy biting the heads off the shrimp, sucking the meat and juices, and slurping the vegetables and soup. At least my uncle still has a healthy appetite. His lung cancer has metastasized, but he refuses treatment other than palliative care.
"You're a good niece. The best." He reaches for the red mung bean dessert, a dish derived from the Chinese side of our heritage. "And yet, you bring me a feast. You must want something."
I clasp my hands on the table and cluck my tongue. "I only want to spend time with you. How was your check-up?"
"Not bad." He inhales through his nasal prongs. "I can still walk around, eat, and sleep, so life's good. How about you? Your mother says you're quitting your job?"
My mouth drops, but I cover it with a sip of calamansi juice. My mother, who claims she doesn't speak to him, is apparently the first to supply him information about me. I should feel betrayed, but I smile. "I'm wondering how my mom and dad met back in the Philippines. Were you around?"
"I was." He pours sugared condensed milk over the red bean mix and stirs it. "They were inseparable."
"Were they in love?"
"In the deepest way." He smiles as he licks a spoonful of the dessert. "Your father was devoted to her, and of course, she was the prettiest girl in the high school."
"But she was so much younger."
"Nine years isn't that big a deal. Besides, your dad looked young for his age."
Something about the slippery way he says this curdles my stomach. My mother was seventeen when she got pregnant.
I scoop a second serving of red bean soup into his bowl. "Were her parents happy about them getting married?"
Tito Louie rubs his wrinkly chin and stares over my shoulder. Creepy. I almost turn around. Finally, he shrugs and puts his spoon down. "They gave consent. Of course it was a step down for her. She grew up in Forbes Park, Spanish blood, you know, and we're the 'brown ones,'--or, as you Americans say, from the other side of the tracks."
He doesn't look so brown to me, more like Chinese colored, with Chinese eyes. But my father was quite dark, and you could barely tell they were brothers.
I fiddle with the fringes of his waxed table cloth. "Mama doesn't talk much about her childhood."
Tito Louie's eyes crinkle into slits, and he laughs. "You wouldn't talk about it, either, if your parents had you destined for the nunnery."
"Seriously?"
"Oh yes. I was her private tutor, so I helped her sneak out of the estate. You know, it's all walled, and girls had to be escorted by a chaperone everywhere they went."
"You don't look so trustworthy yourself."
"I was dating a fine lady." His eyes twinkle. "An American woman. Blonde. She was a diplomat's wife and could open doors anywhere, even Makati."
I don't like the way this conversation is going--two older men consorting with my innocent on-the-way-to-the-convent mother.
"Sorry I asked. No wonder they had to leave the Philippines." I'm beginning to understand why my mother doesn't talk about love or romance. "How did my father find a job at a Napa Valley winery?"
Tito Louie's previously jovial face turns to sullen stone. He clears his throat and plays with the oxygen prongs. "I'm tired. Can you help me to my bed?"
I hold his arm while he struggles to his feet, his breathing more labored than before. Dragging the oxygen tank, I guide him to his bed and lift his legs over the edge. I remove his slippers and prop a pillow under his head. "Is that better? Are you too full?"
"Yes, I ate too much. Thank you, my favorite niece."
"Your only niece." I perch on the side of the bed and drop my bombshell. "I have a problem."
"Ah . . ." He squints at me as if I were a creature under a microscope. "I knew it! What do you want Tito to do for you?"
Ever since I was a child, Tito Louie would do favors for me, including forging my mother's signature on bad report cards. I reach for the medical supply tray. "Let me take your blood pressure and pulse first."
He waggles a finger in my face. "No treating me like an invalid."
"I'm not, but what I'm about to show you might you know, upset your bucket."
He puts his hands behind his head and whistles. "Are you pregnant? Is it that crippled guy?"
My heart does a somersault and my stomach tightens. "First of all, he's not a cripple. He's disabled. And no, I'm not pregnant."
"When are you going to settle down? You're already thirty! No wonder your mother's worried."
"Why would Mama share with you?" I fetch my purse from the table and take out the prepaid cell phone.
"That's for me to know and you to guess." He gets all enigmatic on me, his old man face wrinkling at the smile lines. He takes his reading glasses off the nightstand and dons them. "What are you going to show me?"
I touch the message window and it expands. "Here, take a look."
I'm watching him carefully, but he wears a poker face at first. Then, as he scrolls through the messages, his jaw slackens and he blinks rapidly. His breathing starts to wheeze and huff again, and he puts a hand over his forehead. "This might be him. Think he's still alive?"
A sense of unreality spins me around. Someone actually believes my father's alive. "Has he contacted you, too?"
Louie pats his chest, and I dab his forehead with a tissue. After his breathing calms down, he lowers his reading glasses and says, "Get my laptop and bring up your YouTube channel."
His laptop is idle on the dresser, so I wake it and hand it to him. He sits up in the bed and gestures for me to sit next to him as he browses to my YouTube. I haven't been on it in ages since I gave up on going viral. I have a few fans, people in the Philippines who love the childhood songs I sing, "Bahay Kubo" and other traditional tunes I learned from Papa. There are also a few stalker types who ask me on dates, but I ignore them.
"You ever read what Tatay writes to you?" Louie asks.
"Tatay? That's his handle? How unoriginal." Tatay is equivalent to Daddy, or Papa in Tagalog. I try not to roll my eyes. "Every elderly man calls himself my father. I don't pay it any attention."
Tito Louie's eyes gleam and he licks his lips. "But look at this. He's asking you for that song about Bing-Bing the Bear."
Bing-Bing! I lost him the night . . . the night . . . Papa jumped.
I bolt upright. "Let me see."
Tito Louie sets the laptop on the nightstand. "Maybe it's nothing. I sent him an email, but he never replied and stopped posting."
"Of course. If the authorities knew he was around, they'd arrest him." I push the cell phone at my uncle. "Look, the number has a local area code, 510."
"You mean he's here?" Tito Louie's hand flutters. "I want to see my brother before I die."
My pulse vibrates behind my ears and I gasp.
I don't know what's worse, wondering if my father is alive, or noticing Tito Louie using his left hand on the touchpad.
Chapter 8
Tito Louie settles down for his afternoon nap. I adjust the oxygen for him and count out his pain pills. "Let's not think about this Tatay character, okay? He's probably a stalker, some guy I met in the past."
"My wishful thinking." My uncle stares at the ceiling and sighs deeply. "You do have a lot of stalkers. Maybe you should delete your account."
"Probably. I'll have my lawyer investigate the messages."
Louie cradles his head on the pillow. "Say 'hi' to your mother for me and give your uncle a hug."
I dutifully hug him, and we trade kisses.
Calming my uncle from the excitement leaves me drained and disoriented. The messages are too detailed, and I'm not at all convinced it's a random stalker, but at the same time, why give my uncle false hope? I wave goodbye and let myself out the door.
"Hey, hey!" It's Cliff escorting another resident to her door. "How's he doing?"
"Taking a nap. See you." I continue down the corridor and take out my cell to call Owen.
Footsteps follow me. "Vera, you dropped something."
Cliff waves a wrapped panty-liner in front of his chest.
Great. My face heats, and I grab at it, but he moves his arm up and holds it above his head. "I'll let you have it for a kiss."
What elementary school did he play hooky from? Bet they held him back until he outgrew the student desks. I toss my hair over my shoulder and turn away. "Keep it."
He drags his sorry self to my side. "Can you autograph it?"
Ewww! Is he some pervert or what? I snatch it and keep walking. It's strangely silent behind me. Not hearing his usual footsteps or voice trying to chat me up, I glance back and see him knocking on Tito Louie's door. What's his problem?
I scurry back, my hands in fists, pumping at my side. "Stop disturbing him. He's sleeping."
Cliff slides a greasy smile my direction and wipes his hair from his forehead.
"It's my break. Besides, he texted me as soon as you left." He covers his mouth as if he said something wrong. "I mean, he's always telling me to hotfoot it to his place. He hates leftovers, you know."
I'm not giving an inch, so I block the door. "Let my uncle have his nap. I'm sure he'll throw a doggy bag out for you."
The door opens from behind me and I almost fall in. Tito Louie staggers, and Cliff reaches across me to steady him. I stare from my uncle to Cliff and back, my indignation rising. He tells me he needs to rest when he's really spending the afternoon with loser boy?
"Oh, Vera," my uncle says. "I thought you had to see your lawyer or something."
"Lawyer?" Cliff smirks and winks at me. "Call me next time you need someone to bail you out."
Tito Louie sucks in a noisy laugh and looks at Cliff indulgently. "Come on in. I left you some shrimp, and there's quite a bit of chicken and pancit."
He waves at me and shuts the door. My jaw must have dropped to my chest. I look around to see if anyone spied my moment of abject humiliation, but the hallway is quiet. What would my uncle have in common with a shaggy-haired, muscle-bound college dropout? Okay, I don't know he's a dropout, but I'm not about to credit him with any intelligence.
***
I'm about to ring Owen when Zach calls, his smiling face lighting up my display. I can't get over his electrifying eyes, blue like aquamarine sea glass. More rugged than a pretty boy, Zach reminds me of a Survivor reality show winner.
"Hey, how's your afternoon?" he says, all cheerful.
"Not bad. I visited my unc
le."
"Bet you brought food. Is he well?"
"As well as he can be, and yes, he ate well, too." I cross through the courtyard and hurry toward my car. Zach seems to call me more often these days rather than text.
"Care to have dinner with me tonight?" There's a slight hitch to his otherwise casual voice. "I know you might not be hungry, since you just ate with your uncle."
Is this a real invitation? My heart tangles, and I wonder if he's out of leftovers from the meals I've been supplying him.
"I'll be over a little later," I reply, checking the time.
"Where would you like to go? I'll make reservations and we can go dancing afterwards."
I'm not in the mood for going out, not with worrying about Tatay's messages and figuring out where they came from. "Maybe we can order pizza and stream a movie?"
"Nah, that's boring. There's a club that meets in a cellar. Ever heard of Salon Electro? Respectable French restaurant on top and dancing underground."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea." Dancing might be dangerous for him.
There's silence, and then he clears his throat. "Why? Because of my leg, or are you ashamed to be seen with me?"
"No, not at all. Your leg is just a part of you." I unlock my car and scoot inside.
"Right, and I'm missing one. It's fine. I won't guilt you into a date. Bye."
"Zach, I--" Call ended. Did I say something wrong? I take a moment to calm the fluttering in my chest. He seems to be so sensitive lately. I'll run by his place and check up on him after I call Owen.
Browsing my YouTube page I note the messages left by Tatay. He started following me a year and half ago, around the time my brother Rodrigo died. A pang catches in my heart, and I lean my forehead on the steering wheel. Rodrigo first, and then Rey a few months after. If Tatay is truly my father, how sad he must feel. Most of the messages were short. "Good job." "Love this song."
My finger stops scrolling. On November 10th, the anniversary of Rey's death, he wrote:
My heart aches when you sing Nandito Ako. I wish I could be there for you. R&R. Never forget.
Had Tito Louie seen the meaning in this? R&R, Rey and Rodrigo. I move to another song, a Christmas playlist. Tatay left another message, this time a happy one:
