America Is Not the Heart

by Elaine Castillo

  I’m not that cold, Roni said.

  That’s ’cause you’re a kid, Rosalyn explained. Kids have higher body temperatures.

  There was a pointy bulge around Rosalyn’s upper chest, where Hero assumed she was hugging herself. She turned to Hero. Look at your Ate Hero. She’s cold.

  That’s different. She’s new here. She’s not used to winter.

  Rosalyn turned to Hero. When’d you come over?

  Few months ago.

  Rosalyn let out a whistle, a larger cloud of steamy breath blooming in front of her. Wow, I thought you were just from, like, Hawaii or the East Coast or something. Your accent isn’t that strong.

  It’s super strong! Roni interjected.

  Your accent’s super strong, Rosalyn said, turning fast to one side so a fabric arm slapped weakly at Roni’s shoulder. You’re more of a fob than your ate.

  Roni pushed it away, sulking. Is not. Am not.

  You’ll lose it the longer you’re in school. I was like you when I first came over.

  I was born HERE, Roni groused.

  Okay, okay—

  You weren’t born here? Hero asked.

  Nah, Rosalyn said. Came over when I was four. Here we are, she said, pushing the door to the restaurant open, and hurrying into its warmth.

  Boy was back behind the counter, but Adela was still in the kitchen. Rosalyn pushed her arms back out into her sleeves, lifted a hand in greeting; Boy saluted back. Then Rosalyn made her way over to the TV, started hooking up cables to plugs.

  Hero wanted to ask her more questions, about when she’d come over, where she’d been from, what she’d thought of it, if she ever went back. If she still spoke Tagalog. Her grandmother was Ilocana—probably, Adela had said—but did Rosalyn speak Ilocano herself, how did she become a makeup artist, why was she working in a hair salon. Hero didn’t know why she wanted to know all those things, or how to stop herself from wanting to know them, how to stop newer questions from forming in her head.

  Tape, Rosalyn said, holding her hand out while still facing the VCR. Hero had a vivid memory of herself, watching a surgeon in one of the teaching theaters at UST, holding his hand out for an instrument, a white-stockinged nurse placing it in his hands. Roni put the videotape on Rosalyn’s palm. Hero watched Rosalyn’s fingers close around it. She inserted the tape into the VCR, and all three of them watched the scratchy blue screen shudder to life.

  There you go, Rosalyn said. Call me if you need anything else.

  We’re staying for karaoke, Roni said, still a trace of reluctance in her voice.

  Rosalyn stopped. Looked at Roni, then up at Hero. Yeah?

  ’Cause we have to wait for Lola Adela to finish the sotanghon, Roni explained.

  Rosalyn’s eyes darted to Hero, then away again. You’re sticking around?

  Yes, Hero said, finding she wanted to be the one to say it.

  Okay. I’ll see you guys later then. Hero watched Rosalyn exit the restaurant. She shivered to herself, tucked her arms back into her sweatshirt, and started jogging back to the salon. Hero made herself turn away before she could watch Rosalyn disappear from view.

  * * *

  They’d reached the scene where Lupin started scaling the castle toward the imprisoned princess Clarisse, at first rangy and determined, then panicky and shrieking as one slip from a sloping rooftop forced him into a running leap toward safety, grasshopper legs straining, green blazer flapping—when Rosalyn walked back into the restaurant, which had been steadily filling up with people. As Hero and Roni watched the movie, the restaurant had slowly filled to capacity around them, families and groups of friends at every table, everyone ordering plates of barbecue, lumpia, kaldereta, jeprox, drinking bottle after bottle of beer, they’d run out of the Filipino beers early, the San Miguels and the Red Horses.Most people were now drinking Budweiser, or switched to Pepsi or Coke spiked with bottles of rum or bourbon pulled out of backpacks and duffel bags, neither Adela nor Boy blinking an eye.

  Rosalyn spotted Hero and Roni, raised a hand to them, then went over to her grandma. To whatever Rosalyn said, Adela shook her head, waved her away, toward a table full of men and women, all of whom looked about Rosalyn’s age. Rosalyn didn’t sit down with them, but hovered, making conversation, one of her hands resting on the back of someone’s chair; a young, possibly teenage morena wearing large hoop earrings, who looked up at her adoringly. One of the men at the table popped the cap off a Budweiser bottle and handed it to Rosalyn. Hero watched her mouth something, Thanks, then take a long, long pull from it, throat straining.

  When she’d finished swallowing, she turned her chin slightly, so that it looked like she was listening to someone at the table, but the angle brought Hero into her line of sight, and their eyes met. Rosalyn didn’t wave this time, but lifted her beer in greeting, then pointed to the beer itself. Mouthing, You want one?

  Before Hero could decide whether or not she did, Rosalyn had turned to the man who’d given her the beer, appearing to ask for another one. He didn’t have one to give her, so Rosalyn turned back to Hero, put up a finger to say, One sec, then made her way back to the counter, ducking below it, to open the door of a small refrigerator solely for drinks.

  Rosalyn surfaced with a Red Horse, came over to Hero and Roni, standing aside to make sure she didn’t block Roni’s view of the television. Last one, she said to Hero. Usually it’s my grandpa’s. Don’t let ’em see you drinking it, it’s hard to get Red Horse around here.

  Hero didn’t know who ’em were; she could have meant the room at large, not just Boy, who was already drinking a Budweiser and distributing playing cards to a table of men.

  Thanks, she said, accepting it, the bottle cold and wet on her fingers. There was a print of Rosalyn’s fingers on the condensation on the glass surface. Hero’s hand smeared the trace. She began, Do you have a bottle op—but Rosalyn took back the bottle, held it to the edge of the table, and wrenched the cap off in one quick movement. She handed it back to Hero, then lifted the butt of her Budweiser. Cheers.

  Cheers, Hero said, slightly abashed.

  Rosalyn looked over at Roni. Hi, Roni, like the movie?

  Roni hadn’t looked at either of them, transfixed by what she was watching, giggling to herself at Lupin hamming it up for the princess, asking her to believe in him. She nodded without looking at Rosalyn. Hi—yeah—

  Rosalyn took another long pull from her beer. You guys wanna come sit with us over there? Pointing to the group she’d just left, who were engrossed in conversation with each other, or what looked like merciless teasing, the girl with hoop earrings shoving at the shoulders of two laughing men.

  Hero studied Roni’s face. I don’t think she’s moving anywhere.

  Rosalyn laughed, then shifted her weight from foot to foot. Right. Yeah, okay. I, uh. She took a step backward, like she was going to go back to her friends, then stopped, pointed at the empty seat next to Hero.

  Can I, and Hero nodded, gesturing, awkwardly standing half up to make room, even though Rosalyn had plenty of space to move. Sure.

  There was a plate of puto and kutsinta on the table in front of the chair Rosalyn had just slid into. Half an hour earlier, Adela had come by with it, On the house, she’d said, for them to snack on while watching the movie. Roni had absently gnawed her way through four kutsinta and one puto, never taking her eyes off the screen. Rosalyn was looking at the plate now, but didn’t make a move for them.

  Have some, Hero said. We already ate.

  Yeah? Rosalyn brightened, took a puto and shoved it whole in her mouth. Cool, I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

  Working hard, Hero said, sounding idiotic even to herself.

  It’s starting to be that time of the year, Rosalyn said, her words muffled by the sticky rice. Homecoming. Thanksgiving. Early Christmas dances. Early Christmas parties. Work parties. Whatever. Everyone wants their
makeup done.

  And you’re the best in the South Bay, Hero added.

  Rosalyn stared at her for a too-long moment, long enough that Hero thought she might have to apologize. Then instead, to Hero’s alarm, Rosalyn slammed her own face down onto the table, cheek to the surface, the impact rattling the plate. Even Roni looked over briefly, before deciding the commotion wasn’t more important than the movie.

  Rosalyn was groaning, her eyes shut. She talks a lot of shit, Janelle, jeeez—

  A deep breath, then: Anyway. Sorry you guys had to stick around, for.

  It’s fine, Hero interrupted, sensing Rosalyn would go on in this manner if she didn’t. It was cool. Like Roni said. Really.

  Rosalyn didn’t lift her head from the table, but opened her eyes, peering up at Hero from there, her face smushed into the red-plastic-topped surface. The position made Hero feel nervous, like she was an intern being asked to hold a seizing patient down, keep them still so the first incision could be made safely.

  She pushed past it. You’re really—good. You, you do both hair and makeup?

  No, Rosalyn said, sitting back up, calming down, reaching for her beer again. Not hair, not really. I just wash hair and sweep up at the end of the day. I don’t know how to cut hair, not like Mai and them do; there’s a whole way of cutting Asian hair ’cause it’s thick, I don’t know, something to do with the hair shaft. Like you gotta layer it? There’s all kinds of techniques, I don’t know. I just do the makeup.

  Hero nodded by instinct, then found she didn’t actually understand. So why. A hair salon.

  Rosalyn started peeling the label off her bottle with a short thumbnail. I just started working over there ’cause my mom and Mai were friends, you know, we’re neighbors, the restaurant’s nearby, Mai’s been cutting my mom’s hair for years, doing my grandma’s perms and stuff. And then she found out I did makeup sometimes, at girls’ homes and stuff. For parties, you know. Cotillions and prom and dances and things. I made okay money off it. Mai used to have a girl over there who did makeup, but not that well, it was more, like, eyebrow waxing and stuff. So they weren’t making that much. Now she’s got me, and because they’re a salon they can afford better stuff. Like theatrical makeup. Professional grade. Wholesale. So I can use that stuff and drugstore stuff and. Mix.

  Rosalyn tore off the upper corner of the label with more force than was necessary, balled it up and flicked it away. Anyway. This is probably hella boring to you, sorry.

  It’s not, Hero said.

  Rosalyn let the bottle go and started rubbing at the tops of her thighs. And you? What do you do? You’ve been here for a couple months, you said—

  Hero opened her mouth and was about to say, I’m a doctor.

  She closed her mouth again, took a breath; gathered. I mostly help out Tita Paz and Tito Pol. Roni’s dad. Around the house, I mean. Cleaning and—taking Roni to school, picking her up. Things like that.

  Rosalyn looked at her, then slightly past her, worrying at a thought like one might pick at a scab, obviously wanting to say something but holding it back. Hero liked that; how obvious it was. Okay, Rosalyn decided on saying. And you like it?

  What.

  Shrugging, I don’t know. Living here. Started picking at the rest of the beer label. California, I guess.

  This was—small talk, Hero thought to herself. Though why people called it small, she didn’t know. The effort it scraped out of her felt immense, exhausting, like she should have studied for days beforehand just to be ready for it, like she’d need to sleep a dreamless sleep all night just to recover from it. Before she could answer, she felt the presence of someone standing beside her.

  Rosalyn looked up at the presence, rolled her eyes. How late are you?

  Hero followed the line of Rosalyn’s sight. It was the sleepy-looking tisoy she and Roni had met the first day. He had a plastic cup of what looked like Coke in his hands.

  The dude that was supposed to relieve me showed up two hours late, what was I gonna do. I didn’t even get overtime for it.

  Then the young man lifted his chin at Hero. What’s up.

  What’s up, Hero returned woodenly.

  Rosalyn gestured with her beer. Jaime, Ate Hero. Ate Hero, Jaime.

  You guys were here last week, Jaime said. He jerked his head at the TV. Who’s watching Cagliostro?

  She is, Rosalyn said, pointing at Roni. You made a fan.

  Jaime waved a hand in front of Roni’s face, saying Hello-oo, but she barely reacted, moving instinctively so she could see the television, making a vague shooing motion at him, like she was swatting a fly.

  Are we staying here or are Ruben and them gonna set up at your house?

  Rosalyn shrugged. Ask my grandma, she’s in the kitchen. I could stay.

  Lemme get some kare-kare first.

  Oh, what, you don’t have diarrhea anymore? Rosalyn asked, smiling. Hero coughed.

  Jaime’s eyes closed to slits. Why are you like this.

  It’s brave to eat kare-kare, I don’t think I’d wanna eat peanut sauce after being on the toilet for two days.

  It’s ’cause you’re new, Jaime said to Hero, unfazed. He leaned in to the table to pick a kutsinta off the plate. Around a full mouth, he went on: She bullies people when she’s nervous.

  Rosalyn said, Good choice. Kutsinta. Something sticky—

  Jaime pushed at the side of her head, but made it so the movement was more his hand ricocheting off her skull, no real pressure. I’m gonna get something to eat.

  Remember, sticky things, plug up—

  Rosalyn was starting to seem more like the woman Hero had met that first day, jocular, winking. She was still grinning, but she visibly became more awkward again, the farther away Jaime got from the table. Rosalyn didn’t have to sit down with Hero and Roni in the first place; she’d done her job as the granddaughter of the establishment, she’d shown two newcomers ritual-perfect hospitality, she could rejoin her friends. Hero was usually good at letting things like that go, knowing when to call time on something.

  Instead she said: You don’t have to call me Ate Hero.

  Rosalyn blinked over at her. Oh—yeah, no, it’s just. A habit—

  I’m—technically it would be manang, for me, anyway. Hero gestured imprecisely at herself. Ilocana.

  Right, Rosalyn said, nodding. Okay. Man—

  But just Hero’s fine, Hero cut in. Or. Whatever. Geronima.

  Or Nimang, she added out of habit, but something in her chest—night-blind and near-atrophied, dying out for sure but not dead yet—clenched down hard. She didn’t want Rosalyn to call her Nimang. Like Pol with his reluctance to speak Ilocano, she didn’t want anyone in the world to call her Nimang, not if they hadn’t spent years calling her Nimang, not if they hadn’t met her as Nimang, a world or two ago. A name had a lifespan, like anything else.

  It was funny to discover this about herself only now: it was possible to have such deep, immovable desires without ever even knowing it; apparently there were desires that could live at the core of a person for years and years. It was funny, how little she could know of herself, how much there was still to witness, to be stumped by. It was funny, in that way of things being funny right before they dug deep, wrenched, and tore. Hero had once been the kind of person who started laughing when she was in pain—that was her body’s natural reaction to shock, which they all discovered when she took a wrong step coming down a mountain slope and badly twisted her ankle, had to be carried back to their nipa hut slung like a sack of rice over Jon-Jon’s shoulders, a fireman’s carry, hands free to reach for his gun, and Teresa behind them making a big fuss the whole time just to keep her distracted, declaring, We need a doctor to treat our doctor! Amihan muttering from the front: Of course the first time Nimang would get hurt it’d be falling down a mountain.

  Hero, Rosalyn was saying, and Hero forced herself up, o
ut, back into the restaurant. Forced herself to tune in and hear it: her name, being called.

  That’s—Rosalyn’s still unfamiliar face, smiling faintly, shoulders relaxing—kinda cool, I guess.

  * * *

  They didn’t stay for karaoke. Adela gave them a stainless steel pot of sotanghon, with an extra bag of dried mung bean noodles even though Hero said they had plenty at home. A woman Adela’s age had begun badly singing Endless Love to the room at large, which as far as Roni was concerned, was their cue to leave. See you next Thursday, Adela said, and Rosalyn echoed it, saying if Roni liked The Castle of Cagliostro, she’d lend her some other movies she’d like even better.

  They went to the restaurant every Thursday after school, met Adela, who had a chat with Roni, sometimes about her eczema, sometimes about other things entirely, like school or food or other kids at school. They even spent most of Thanksgiving’s Thursday there at the restaurant, since both Paz and Pol were working, taking advantage of the holiday overtime as usual.

  Sometimes Adela didn’t give them anything, sometimes she gave them leftovers from whatever hadn’t sold that day at the restaurant, and sometimes, rarely, she gave them things that Hero finally recognized as ingredients for herbal medicine: pinya and ampalaya leaves crushed to powder, dried herbs that Adela said they grew themselves in their own backyard, Filipino medicinal plants that Hero hadn’t seen since living in the mountains.

  Roni started finding excuses to stay in the restaurant—she wanted to watch a video, she wanted to finish her homework, could Adela make sotanghon with more ginger in it, she could wait—until Hero got the hint and they made it a ritual, Roni doing her homework silently beside Hero, or watching the TV that was now set up for Roni’s benefit, some new videotape that Rosalyn had recommended propped up, waiting. There was Laputa: Castle in the Sky, and Nausicaa in the Valley of the Wind, and Rosalyn said there were other cartoons, not movies but actual shows, that she could lend Roni, too, all of which Roni accepted gleefully, greedily.