Hero tried to remember if she’d watched as much television when she was younger; but then, they hadn’t had television, not like this. The De Vera house was one of the first in their neighborhood to own a Betamax, but it was a status possession, rarely used; in general, the De Veras were bewildered by the televisual. Rosalyn got most of her videos, both the cartoons and the action movies, from the Taiwanese shop on the other side of the strip mall, which operated mostly as a video rental, but also sold books, tapes, and Hello Kitty paraphernelia.
What’s that, Roni had asked once when she came upon Rosalyn reading one of the books she’d bought at the Taiwanese shop. Cat’s Eye, Rosalyn replied. Is it good? Roni asked. Uh, can you even read? Rosalyn had retorted, which was a challenge as good as any Roni had ever gotten.
So Rosalyn also started lending Roni the comic books, along with loose sheets of paper with what she said were translations on it. Ruby, the daughter of the Taiwanese rental place’s owner, usually did the translations for Rosalyn herself: sometimes paid, sometimes in exchange for makeovers. The store often got in the Chinese translations of Japanese comic books—the word was manga, Rosalyn insisted—before they were licensed for any other languages, so there was a whole informal network of fans who distributed translations.
Hero’s only knowledge of things resembling manga were Filipino komiks, things like Darna, but she’d only watched the films; the one with Vilma Santos, or the older one, with Rosa del Rosario. She mentioned something once about thinking komiks were just for kids, but Rosalyn flashed a searchlight-look of hurt and betrayal onto Hero so harrowing that she fumbled the words back immediately, like almost dropping something and catching it just in time.
The cue to leave every Thursday night was still karaoke. Roni’s demeanor changed, turned tetchy and anxious. Even Rosalyn started to notice, giving them a heads-up before the singing would begin, saying, Sorry, it’s about to get real ugly, Roni—as she carried in the machine with Jaime’s help.
Hero began to look forward to Thursdays, to the moments when Rosalyn’s shift ended, usually around four if she didn’t have to close up or have a makeup job, and she came in to see her grandmother, have a beer, make comments on the film she’d recommended to Roni. She was being gradually introduced to Rosalyn’s friends, who were getting used to seeing her and Roni in the restaurant. There was, of course, Jaime, Rosalyn’s best friend and neighbor since they were seven, who had intimate and encyclopedic knowledge about all the animated films Rosalyn was recommending, yet would only admit to that fact if Rosalyn said something he disagreed with, like when she said Fujiko Mine was the best character in Castle of Cagliostro, and he said she was so much better in the shows.
Rosalyn called him Lowme most of the time, once saying to Roni, half drunk: You get it, Roni, Jaime, High-me, Low-me, you get it?
Jaime looked over at Hero and deadpanned: She though that up in the eighth grade and hasn’t come up with anything new since.
There was Ruben, a shorter, heavyset moreno with a shaved head who DJ-ed—mostly in people’s garages—and Isagani, or Gani, a tall, wiry kid with glasses who DJ-ed along with Ruben, and was even darker than Ruben, what Concepcion would have called negrito. There were other men who sometimes came to the restaurant and hung out, and whose names Hero had trouble remembering, but these first two were Jaime’s boys, or so Rosalyn called them. Though to Hero, it was obvious that the person who was really Jaime’s boy was Rosalyn.
Then there were more girls than Hero could keep track of: Janelle, who was in her last year at San Jose State as a theater major—she hinted that Rosalyn had been a theater major herself; Lea, the morena with the hoop earrings, a nurse and apparently Ruben’s younger sister; Rochelle, also morena but with chinita eyes, also a nurse, and Isagani’s much shorter girlfriend; Maricris, a Visayan-born mestiza and singer of some kind, member of a girl group that Rosalyn described with hyperbolic praise. They were the ones Hero could remember, the ones who came to the restaurant most regularly, mostly because they all lived in Milpitas, or at least Berryessa or Fremont or, the farthest, Maricris, in San Jose. There were other friends they mentioned to each other, who were apparently to be found at the parties that Janelle and Rochelle started inviting Hero to. The parties took place in Rosalyn’s garage or in Ruben’s—although sometimes they went to attend Ruben and Isagani’s gigs in Union City, Daly City, or even all the way up in San Francisco.
Rosalyn invited Hero to those parties, but her invitations were intermittent and palpably lackluster. Which was why Hero never went, at least not in those first few weeks. Later she realized that Rosalyn’s lack of enthusiasm wasn’t because she didn’t want Hero to come to the parties, but because sometimes she herself didn’t want to go—despite being, to any half-observant eye, the magnetic center of her gang. Do I need to see another dude spinning Planet Rock with his dick? Rosalyn retorted. I got work.
It was—friendship, some part of Hero’s brain registered, distantly, dully, like hearing a song she hadn’t heard for years, trying to place it, trying to remember who it was by. It was friendship; she was making friends. Rosalyn had figured out that Hero was new, that she didn’t know many people—any people—in the Bay, and was doing the thing Rosalyn thought she did best: bringing people in, connecting them to each other, making of herself a rope that people could swing across, to get somewhere else.
And it worked. Even when Rosalyn wasn’t in the room, people would come into the restaurant and recognize Hero or Roni. Jaime would grab two beers out of the refrigerator after his floater shift, hand one to Hero without even saying hi. Rochelle would come by with a bottle of her perfume because the week before Hero had stopped in her tracks, sniffing at the air, said, Who, who’s wearing Avon’s Sweet Honesty? and Rochelle’s face had broken open, delighted. Hero said she hadn’t smelled it since leaving the Philippines, that every girl she knew back then had worn it, along with other Avon perfumes like Charisma Elusive, Occur. She didn’t mention that the one of the first girls she’d ever fucked had worn Sweet Honesty.
It was possibly Hero’s first time making friends with no shared cause, whose lives and deaths weren’t on Hero’s head or under her scalpel. Which meant that often she had the feeling of not knowing what the hell she was doing; where the boundaries and codes were in these friendships, in how people acted, what people said, or gave, or kept back. Before she met Teresa and Eddie, she’d had family members, and people she was fucking. Teresa and Eddie were neither of those things.
Hero didn’t know what friends were supposed to want from each other, what was normal to want from a friend. More specifically, she didn’t know what Rosalyn wanted from her, what was normal to want from Rosalyn. Most of the time, Rosalyn looked like all she wanted was to gather people in the restaurant and keep them there, talking, drinking, full of food, quick to clown on each other, while she drifted easily, aimlessly, from its center back out to its periphery, vigilant and smiling, a sentinel. But sometimes Hero would see a look of remoteness pass over Rosalyn’s face, so distinct it was frightening, and then it would feel as though Rosalyn was one step away from walking out of the restaurant and never coming back, like she’d brought all these people to one place with the sole purpose of distracting them, sleight of hand, while she slipped out the back door, into a waiting car. It was this look on Rosalyn’s face that Hero recognized the most—feeling it like the look was on her own face, just under the skin, at that tissue-thin border where the look settled, became soul. It was the look that made Hero feel like she was getting to know her.
One evening, Rosalyn asked if Hero would come with her, just outside the restaurant. Hero spared a glance over at Roni, who was watching Fist of the North Star, Jaime and Ruben’s joint selection of the evening.
Hero followed, thinking maybe Rosalyn wanted to smoke and wanted to do it with company, but once outside Rosalyn didn’t pull out a pack of cigarettes. Come to think of it, she’d never seen Rosalyn smok
e, at least not in the restaurant, like everyone else did. Jaime was a chain-smoker as bad as Adela, the two of them spotting each other cigarettes when one or the other’s pack would inevitably run out.
Rosalyn began: Can I ask you something, and sorry if it’s weird.
Something deep in Hero’s muscles tightened. What?
Rosalyn stared at her. Then she said: Roni’s parents. They treat you—do they treat you okay?
Hero stopped. The tightening in her body was stuck now, confused. Uh. Yes?
I’m serious, Rosalyn said. She wasn’t holding a beer bottle, no cigarette to keep her hands occupied. You can be honest.
They treat me okay, Hero said, still confused. They treat me well. Really.
Rosalyn didn’t look satisfied with that, so Hero had to keep talking: They’re good to me. They’re—Tito Pol’s always taken care of me. Better than my own parents, she said, surprising herself by telling the truth.
Rosalyn studied her. She started to relax in slow, suspicious fractions, then deflated like a balloon. She rubbed a hand over her face. Okay.
What, Hero started, then shook her head. Her body felt bruised all over from the tension, still unsure if she could let it out. What’s this about?
Ugh, Rosalyn closed her eyes. I’m a dumbass. Okay. Sorry.
What is this about.
Rosalyn made a frustrated sound then started talking in a long, rushed stream: Look, it’s just—my mom has a cousin, she came over from the Philippines a couple years ago, she didn’t have papers either, and she started working as like a maid for some family down in Glendale and—they—they don’t let her go out anywhere, they don’t even let her go out of the house, she’s only ever called us twice, and, it’s not like she can do anything or they’ll get her deported and—look. I just, you—you—you never come out except for with Roni and only then to see my grandma, you never come to the parties, you never go out on the weekends, it’s like you’re on house arrest or something—I don’t know, I thought maybe something like that was going on.
Hero blinked.
Rosalyn didn’t meet her eyes. Is. anything like that going on?
No.
But you don’t have papers, right.
No, Hero said after a moment, drawing herself up rigidly.
But they’re good to you?
Hero felt herself softening at the hard, faithless look on Rosalyn’s face. They’re good to me.
You—Rosalyn took a breath. Listen. If you want a job, or. Something. I could hook you up. At the salon or at the restaurant. It’s getting hard for Grandpa to be up all day, serving people, plus cooking the food the night before. It’s not like we would pay you a lot. I’m just saying, if you. If you wanted to get out of the house or something. Or, you could help with the catering. We need people to help out with that. For events and stuff. It’s a pain.
Hero had to say it. I can’t hold a knife, she said finally.
The look on Rosalyn’s face told Hero that Rosalyn had already noticed her thumbs. Hero didn’t know how she felt about that, then decided she hated it completely. She didn’t want to imagine the moment Rosalyn must have noticed, what she might have thought, how long she’d been carrying that knowledge around with her, what she’d made of it since. And now every moment of passing humor, affection, comfort that had furrowed between them since Hero and Roni walked through the doors of the salon that first day was—That’s fine, Rosalyn said, too fast, like she was ready for it.
I can’t wash dishes if it’s for too long, Hero said, looking away. But I can load a dishwasher. Work the register.
Rosalyn nodded, encouraging: Yeah, sure. It’s mostly just, yeah. Like you said. Working the register. It’s mostly just so someone’s there at the counter during the day when Grandma and Grandpa are in the back.
Hero crossed her arms, so her hands were hidden underneath her armpits. I’ll ask Tito Pol and Tita Paz. Then, at the renewed look of suspicion on Rosalyn’s face, revised her words: I’ll think about it.
Rosalyn cast a look back into the windows of the restaurant, into the blue, red, and yellow words written by hand across the glass, the Gothic script of the letters so traditional and familiar Hero could have been looking at any restaurant in Vigan, BBQ—ADOBO—LECHON KAWALI—HALO HALO, then through the letters, at the people inside watching the television and eating.
Okay, Rosalyn said without meeting Hero’s eyes. Think about it.
She rubbed her hands up and down her own arms. Let’s go back inside, I’m freezing.
Hero obeyed and turned around. She was closest to the door, and was about to open it, but then she turned back to Rosalyn. Your aunt. In Glendale.
Yeah.
The family, Hero said. What are they?
Rosalyn looked at her, waiting. Hero clarified. Are they American? Puti?
There was a look in Rosalyn’s eyes that Hero recognized, not because she knew it on her own face, but for much simpler reasons—it had been turned on her enough times in her life for her to be familiar with the feel of it, the gripping weight in her stomach, throat dry, when she received it. A Lulay-worthy look of irritation and disappointment. It was a relief to witness; Hero knew where she was in the world again when someone was disappointed with her. They’re Filipino, Rosalyn said, already sounding tired of the whole conversation. Then she walked through the door that Hero hadn’t realized she was holding open.
* * *
Hero mentioned it to Pol one afternoon, that Rosalyn had offered her a job. He said it was fine with him, as long as she could still pick Roni up from school—he’d talk to Paz about it.
Then he said, You know, Nimang, if you want to go out sometimes—late at night, I mean, when Paz is home and I’m at work. You could.
If you had someone pick you up, he added, apologetic. We’re saving up to get you a used car, but—
You don’t have to do that, Hero interrupted. But. If I worked for Adela. I could save up myself. And help out.
You help out enough, Pol said. He smiled. Roni likes going to the restaurant. She’s always talking about Lola Adela this, Lola Adela that. Ate Rosalyn, Kuya Jaime.
It hadn’t occurred to Hero that Roni might be talking to Pol about their Thursday nights. She opened her mouth but Pol beat her to it, said: I’m glad you’re making friends. It’s good for you.
So, he continued. You should feel free. You’re not a child.
Hero didn’t know how to explain it to Pol; she hadn’t known how to explain it to Rosalyn. It hadn’t ever crossed her mind that she wasn’t going out as much as a woman her age should, or would want to; it hadn’t crossed her mind that someone would think she was being treated badly, held captive. She knew what it was like to be treated badly, held captive. She didn’t know what her life looked like to other people.
She didn’t know what to do with the look on Pol’s face, his relief at the prospect of Hero making friends. She didn’t know how to tell Pol, or even Rosalyn, that she liked going out only once a week, that it gave her something to look forward to and something to miss when it was over; limitations were a comfort. She’d never had the sense that anything she’d been asked to do since arriving in Milpitas was a chore. Rather than feeling as though she were Roni’s chaperone or babysitter, she was convinced that it was the other way around; that Roni’s presence was protecting her, shepherding her. The responsibility of being Roni’s caretaker was a pivot joint, a saddle joint, something that allowed the bones of Hero to rotate and flex, knowing its axis was fixed, though fragile. Her anatomy professor, second year, pontificating to the class in fake British-sounding English, famous for his long digressions: Every traumatic injury is different, because every body is different: every fracture, every strained muscle. One patient will be able to walk on a leg that another patient will die with. These instances are not miracles, but the order of the day. The diagnosis is not a life sentenc
e but an aphorme: a starting position, a jumping-off point. Once we accept that, the rest is elementary, dear Watsons—the rest is just our job. She’d nearly failed that class.
Hero had always thrived on being useful. For the first time since dropping out of UST and getting into the car with Teresa and Eddie, saying, I have some medical knowledge, for the first time in nearly ten years, Hero knew what she wanted from the things she had. That was enough. That was more than enough.
* * *
Hero told Rosalyn she could work during the day a few times a week, between the time she dropped Roni off at school and before she picked her up. She didn’t want to work every weekday; still wanted to be able to clean the house, which felt like one of the central labors that earned her place at home. She wasn’t ready to give that up yet, even if it tired her hands out more and more lately, especially with the cold. Rosalyn told Hero to just bring Roni straight to the restaurant after school.
She does her homework here fine on Thursdays, Rosalyn reasoned. What’s the difference? You guys could be alone at home like nerds or hanging out here. Hero said she’d bring it up to Roni. Roni, unsurprisingly, chose the restaurant.
Hero also told Rosalyn about what Pol had said, about going out, about needing someone to pick her up. Yeah, we got you, Rosalyn said, waving her hand, like Hero had told her this ages ago and she’d long ago agreed to it. Me or Jaime’ll pick you up whenever. Just beep me when Paz gets home, we’ll come and get you. I’ll get you my number.
Beep, Hero repeated, which was how Rosalyn found out that Hero didn’t have a pager. Which was in turn how it became Jaime’s job to scrounge up a pager for her. They didn’t let Hero pay for it.
America Is Not the Heart Page 18
