America Is Not the Heart

by Elaine Castillo

  Boy glanced over, saluted them, military-perfect.

  Salamat po, Hero said. Merry Christmas.

  See you next week, Adela said, and Hero warmed at the words, used to them, liking that she was used to them.

  Outside, Rosalyn and Roni were in the car, Roni in the front seat. When they saw Hero coming, they pointed and laughed. Early bird gets the worm, Rosalyn said, gesturing to Roni. Hero opened the back door and got into the seat behind her. The car was steamy-warm, a cocoon. Rosalyn put her hand on the headrest behind Roni, started reversing the car.

  Hero looked up at Rosalyn’s house as they backed away from it, saw the lit-up parol that someone had hung from the rooftop. Tiny blinking lights in different colors, lighting up different parts of the star, long paper and tinsel streamers flowing down over a window on the second floor, frail strips fluttering in the wind.

  Was that there when we arrived? Hero asked, pointing.

  Rosalyn stopped the car, looked up. Yeah? Maybe you couldn’t see it because it was still daylight out.

  Hero gazed up at it. Said, softer than she meant to:

  I didn’t think I would see a parol this year.

  Rosalyn paused, then continued backing down the drive, narrowly missing the other parked cars, face giving no clue of having seen how closely she’d come to scraping them. Go to Magat next year, she said. They always sell them.

  * * *

  The drive was short through the mostly carless streets, everyone in the town at home, neon lights illuminating the signs of strip mall stores that were all closed. The Talk Talk album was still playing, Rosalyn having left it in the stereo, but she’d turned the volume down, glancing over at Roni, whose head was lolling against the window, eyes shut.

  It was the latest Hero had been out, since coming to Milpitas. There was something different about seeing the streets she’d gotten to know so well during the day at night: vacant, yet not empty, life still warming the air here and there. It was in the spectral glow of the orange streetlamps, the coordinated performance of the stoplights, block after block, so the light was green for them all down the long, long street, even into the distance where Hero knew they wouldn’t turn, an unending string of green lights, beckoning them, letting them know there was still more street to be sure of. They barely talked, hollowed out by the luscious fatigue that only fun could arouse, the heavy silence kneading time down like a muscle, relaxing its tendons, loosening its tethers. When Rosalyn turned into the neighborhood streets the road darkened and narrowed again, but the houses were lit up, not only from without, but from within, parties like the one they’d just left, with garage doors open everywhere, and as they passed Hero could see, hear, people playing pusoy, mah-jongg, music, their Noche Buena still going strong.

  In the driveway of Paz and Pol’s house, the lights were off. Hero didn’t know if Paz was home yet. She got out first, remembering the foil-covered pancit, circling around the car to open the front passenger door. Roni was already asleep. Hero put the plate on the roof.

  Come on, Roni, she whispered, kneeling down to the girl’s level, unbuckling her seat belt for her. Let’s go.

  Roni moaned in protest, squirreling deeper into the seat, hair covering her face. Hero took her by the shoulder, shook her gently. Roni.

  You want me to carry her—Rosalyn offered, but Roni was blinking awake.

  Huh? We’re home?

  Hero rocked back onto her heels, knees cracking at the squat, then stood back up. Time to get up now.

  Roni wiped at her eyes, then clambered bonelessly out of the car, bumping into Hero’s body. Hero steadied her with one arm around her shoulders. Roni leaned into the touch.

  Hey. About New Year’s, Rosalyn whispered, not wanting to completely wake Roni up, which gave each word a sense of portent.

  So we’re just going up to the city to somebody’s house in the Excelsior, she continued.

  I thought it was in San Francisco.

  Excelsior’s in—Rosalyn stopped. Have you ever been up to the city?

  Just the airport.

  Rosalyn let that sink in. Okay. Well. Come with us, then. Jaime’s sister lives up there, too. I’ll pick you up.

  Roni was faceplanting into Hero’s stomach, drooling, starting to—chew?—on her sweater. Okay, Hero said. She picked the pancit up off the roof, the loud sound of the crackling foil making Roni’s brows knit together mid-dream.

  Okay. Get her to bed, Rosalyn said. Wait, hold on. Your tapes. I still have ’em. Just let me eject—

  It’s fine, Hero said. You can borrow them. If you want.

  Oh. Okay.

  Good night. Merry Christmas. And. Put a seat belt on, Hero added, wishing she’d said it, noticed it, earlier.

  Rosalyn looked down, at the seat belt that was still hanging off of her left arm like a suspender. She buckled it, then gave Hero a thumbs-up.

  Okay. Merry Christmas, she said. Good night. Actually—wait, actually, wait, wait, hold up—

  Rosalyn was holding a hand out, just as Hero was about to step backward and close the front passenger door.

  Rosalyn leaned over the seat, propping herself up on one hand, stretching the belt taut so it cut into her neck, looked painful.

  Okay, so what song’s good on this thing? The Talk Talk. Like your favorite, I mean. What should I listen to?

  Hero paused, one palm holding up the pancit, the other hand still on Roni’s sleep-heavy shoulders.

  I like Hate, she said.

  Rosalyn stared up at her, unblinking, like she’d heard a punchline she didn’t get the meaning of yet. Then her face split into a grin, eyes half closed, gleeful. Hate. Okay. Fuck. Merry Christmas.

  * * *

  Hero and Roni came in through the front door, which was rare for them; they were used to coming in through the garage door, using the electronic door opener that was permanently clipped to the Corona’s driver’s side visor. It was one of the first times Hero was using the house keys that Pol and Paz had given her the very first week.

  Roni was about to walk onto the living room carpet, shoes still on, her eyes half closed. Oi, oi, teka muna, Hero whispered, kneeling down to put the plate on the floor and untie the girl’s sneakers. Your shoes—

  Roni let Hero take the shoes off. Hero slipped off her own sneakers, picked up the plate again, then took Roni’s hand, and tiptoed toward the kitchen. The house looked bigger in the dark. There was a noise from the kitchen—Hero jumped. Someone was inside.

  When she looked closer, a dim shaft of light cast onto the border where the kitchen met the living room. She pushed Roni back toward the front door with more force than necessary and put the plate back on the floor.

  Hero waited in the living room, obscured by the wall. She’d go for the balls if he was taller than her, the eyes if they were the same height. She wished she had a bottle with her, the Red Horse bottles they had at the party would’ve been good, bigger than average, the glass thicker. It’d been a long time since she’d had to fight, and she’d never done it all that often in the first place, just field training against Eddie or Amihan. It was her job to patch people up, not bust them open. Her hands were sore, and if she had to fight they would be inoperable for days, maybe weeks, but the adrenaline would take care of it for now. Then Hero smelled perfume.

  Paz was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, sleeping, her arms folded under her head, still in her nurse’s uniform. Only the light above the stove was turned on; maybe she’d turned the kitchen lights on and thought they were too bright, or didn’t want to waste energy. Hero turned the kitchen light on herself, momentarily going blind at the shock of it. Paz didn’t wake. There was half of a white-frosted cake was on a plate in front of her, rry stmas in red and green letters still visible. Next to it, a large aluminum tray full of pancit. Just in front of her hands, a small package, its wrapping torn into, a red ribbon, still tie
d in a bow but slipped off in haste, tossed to the side. A perfume. Ysatis. An envelope upon which was written, in Pol’s surgeon’s scribble, Mahal.

  Paz stirred, finally, at the sensed presence of someone near her. Roni?

  Hero’s breath started to slow. Sorry—we’re late—

  Paz sat up, rubbing her eyes. She saw Roni, now solemnly waiting at the entry to the kitchen, holding the plate of pancit.

  Merry Christmas, anak.

  She didn’t wait for Roni’s reply, continuing, voice gaining strength: Gutom ka? I brought cake from work—

  Paz stood, like she was going to get a plate, then stumbled, her legs still asleep. Hero reached out to steady her, but she was too far away, so Paz ended up bracing herself against the table instead. There’s pancit—

  We already ate, Roni said. She lifted the plate as proof.

  Paz stopped. Hero looked at the badge hanging from a lanyard around her neck. PAZ DE VERA, RN. VETERANS HOSPITAL, MENLO PARK.

  Okay. Matulog na tayo then. Let’s go to bed.

  Paz turned to Hero. Salamat, ha, Nimang? For bringing her to the party. Did you guys have fun?

  Hero nodded.

  Paz looked around the kitchen like she’d forgotten something, like she didn’t know what to do with herself now that she was awake again. Okay. Help yourself if you want to eat. Roni. Let’s go up.

  She picked up the opened gift, ribbon and all, then went to her daughter, pushed some hair away from her face; Roni let it happen, too sleepy to resist.

  Paz lifted her chin to Hero, who watched the two of them retreat from the kitchen. Listened to their socked and stocking steps, climbing the stairs out of sync. Hero put the foil-covered plate down next to the cake and the tray of pancit. She still wasn’t hungry. She went to the stove, turned the light off, then felt herself start to shiver uncontrollably, the joints in her groin tightening and convulsing. She reminded herself, matter-of-factly, that it was just the adrenaline passing out of her body. Finally she made her way up the stairs in the dark, feeling along the walls, relying on sense memory to take her back up to her room.

  * * *

  Rosalyn said she’d pick Hero up around six on New Year’s Eve. She’d take Hero over to her house, where everyone would be getting ready. And guess who’s doing everyone’s makeup for free, Rosalyn grumbled.

  You don’t have to do mine, Hero said.

  Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easy.

  Roni had become increasingly moody with the approach of New Year’s Eve, annoyed at the idea of Hero going out without her, and worst of all, with people she knew.

  How come I can’t come? What time is Ate Rosalyn picking you up? Where are you going?

  Pol and Paz had Hero’s pager number, but they gave her a roll of quarters, told her to find a pay phone and call them at any hour of the night if she needed to be picked up, for whatever reason. You know I don’t sleep at night anyway, Pol said. So don’t hesitate, ha, Nimang?

  Rosalyn was playing New Order’s Leave Me Alone in her car when Hero climbed in; it took Hero a minute for the surreality of that to sink in. This song, in Rosalyn’s car, in California.

  So this is some real heavy shit you left me with, Rosalyn said. I’m, like, a depressed person now.

  All the girls were already at Rosalyn’s house, even Rochelle, who had told them earlier that she would go up with Isagani, and meet them in the city. They were going to somebody’s house, a friend Ruben used to DJ with; Lea said the friend was kind of like Ruben’s mentor and hero. Rosalyn was coralling the girls into place in her bedroom like a sheepdog, telling them to stay on the bed while they waited. She got to work on Lea first.

  Hero hovered at the edges of the chat; they were talking about people she didn’t know, or had only met once or twice in the restaurant or at Christmas. It was the first time Hero had ever been in a girl’s private bedroom; in college she’d fucked girls in dorm rooms, and then in Isabela no one had a private space. On the nightstand beside the bed there was a stack of comic books, two videotapes, various picture frames: Rosalyn’s Holy Communion, Rosalyn’s confirmation, Rosalyn and Jaime, Rosalyn and the younger boy Hero was guessing was her brother, Rosalyn and every girl in the room except for Hero. On top of a chest of cabinets, there was a row of different types of lotion, large pump bottles of hospital-grade moisturizing hand cream, a bottle of Palmer’s Cocoa Butter and several packets of A&D ointment pilfered from a hospital.

  Facing the bed was a desk covered by a blue towel, over which an array of makeup brushes and tools had been neatly arranged, all of them newly clean, their handles polished. Even the toolboxes full of makeup on the floor in front of the desk and at Rosalyn’s feet were neat and organized. Nothing in the room was even a fraction as tidy as the makeup.

  Rosalyn made up all the girls, only explaining what she was doing when she was asked, which turned out to be the whole time. Throughout her ongoing stop-and-start lecture, Rosalyn made a big show of being put-upon and annoyed, saying she’d told everyone these tips about a billion and one times, before going on to explain it all again, for the billion and second time.

  There was something infinitely comforting about being in the room of someone in her element, confident in her skills but ready to improvise. It reminded Hero of shadowing surgeons in the teaching theater at UST. Then she thought of a scene in The Castle of Cagliostro, Lupin cooing at Fujiko that she looked her loveliest when she was absorbed in work.

  Someone was nudging Hero from behind. It was Janelle, with a photo album. Her eyes had been shadowed in a satiny maroon color, the center of the lids dotted with gloss, giving her a vengeful Virgin Mary look, which had apparently been her goal. Hero had watched Rosalyn use multiple lipsticks and eyeshadows, crushed into a plastic palette case, to capture the right gradation of red.

  Check this out, she whispered, so Rosalyn wouldn’t hear.

  It was full of pictures of girls, most of them Filipinas, most of them taken at school dances, some of them by professional photographers, some of them amateur photos. In nearly all of the photos, the color of the girls’ faces was completely different from the color of their bodies, the faces ghostly and pinked, like someone had put calamine lotion all over their cheeks, foreheads, chins, while the skin on their neck, arms, decolletage was usually some shade of warm, sheeny brown. The faces looked like they’d been pasted onto the bodies, like the heads belonged to other people entirely.

  This is before Rosalyn started doing people’s makeup, Janelle confided.

  She took out another album, flipped it open. And this is after. In these newer photos the heads looked like they belonged to the bodies they were on. She’s hella good, right, Janelle whispered. Hero stared down at the pictures. Yeah, she said. She’s good.

  * * *

  Finally it was Hero’s turn. You don’t need to put any makeup on me, Hero said again. Rosalyn rolled her eyes. Yeah, yeah, you’re a natural beauty. It’s some lip liner. Just chill.

  Then she caught herself, put her brush down. I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, of course, just. Hero slid into the chair, mostly to erase the strained, unnatural look of deference on Rosalyn’s face.

  Rosalyn’s hands were warm, bony, the pads of her fingers soft. She was putting something all over Hero’s face, focusing on her cheeks and the area around her nose and mouth. Hero closed her eyes; it was soothing, like being massaged. She understood why so many girls gave their faces up so easily to Rosalyn’s knowing touch.

  Rosalyn left Hero’s forehead and chin bare. You don’t put it all over? Hero asked, eyes still closed.

  She could feel Rosalyn’s breath on her face when she answered: I don’t like it like that, it ends up looking like a mask. Which is fine, that’s what some people are into, I can do that sometimes, too. But usually I like it like this, thinned out. That’s why I mix it with face cream. And then you just put heavi
er coverage if you want it. For zits and scars and moles and stuff. If you want to cover that stuff, I mean. You don’t have to. For Maricris, when she’s performing, I won’t use as much face cream and I’ll powder her down so everything’ll last even when she’s moving around and sweating. But for just a night out, I think this feels more comfortable. It doesn’t look that bad when it’s faded, sometimes it even looks better, when your sweat and oils make it, like, real.

  Rosalyn went quiet again, concentrating on putting something that felt like pencil, then a soft paintbrush, on Hero’s eyes. In the distance, she heard Maricris ask, So Hero, do you have a boyfriend?

  Hero went still. No.

  Did you have one back in the Philippines?

  Hero thought about what she should say. Kind of, she answered.

  Open your eyes for me, Rosalyn said quietly, and when Hero complied, started blending shadow into the crease, comparing both eyes as she went.

  But what, you broke up ’cause you left?

  Y-es.

  But do you guys still keep in touch, or?

  Stop making her talk, it’s messing me up, Rosalyn hissed, breath puffing out over Hero’s cheeks. It smelled minty; she’d probably chewed some gum before she started working, knowing she was going to be in people’s faces.

  Hero heard the bounce of a mattress, someone flopping backward. I want kids.

  That was Rochelle speaking. Maricris muttered, This again. Rochelle continued: Gani still says he’s not ready yet, though. But my mom had me by the time she was twenty-three. That’s three years younger than me.

  Rosalyn had finished working on Hero’s eyes, was now applying something that felt dry but pliant along the outline of her lips, then filling in the flesh of the lip itself. Hero shivered; it tickled.

  Just be grateful you got a good dude. I’d rather have no kids with someone like Gani than have five kids with—