He looked up at Roni and Hero, blinking, harried, unrecognizing and unrecognizable. He looked like someone who’d come in off the street to break into this house, like someone who didn’t know Hero or Roni, wasn’t connected to them or part of them in any way. Then his face relaxed, and one hand floated down to rest over the papers in front of him. Hi, anak, he greeted Roni. Did you have a good day at school?
Uh-huh, Roni said, backpack slipping down to hang from the crooks in her elbows, approaching Pol and glaring down at the papers covering the table. How come you’re awake?
I’m just finishing up some things I can’t do at work anymore, Pol said. Do your homework on the living room couch today.
Then can I watch TV while I’m finishing it?
No.
Glum, Roni made her way to the living room, the backpack now slumped nearly all the way to her ankles.
Pol smiled at Hero. Gloria brought some fresh lumpiang sariwa, you should eat some. Take it into the living room, give some to Roni.
As Hero was bringing everything over to Roni, she caught sight of some of the papers spread out on the desk, many of them salmon-colored. DEPARTMENT OF CONSUMER AFFAIRS.
Later, when Hero and Roni had finished their snack and Roni was deep in her subtractions, Hero heard Pol get up from the kitchen table and walk. She stood, collecting the used plate and cutlery, taking them to the kitchen and leaving them in the sink to soak. On her way back to Roni, Hero hovered at the edge of the table to take a closer look at what Pol was working on. BOARD OF MEDICAL QUALITY ASSURANCE. APPLICATION FOR A WRITTEN EXAMINATION OR FOR AN ORAL AND CLINICAL EXAMINATION. FOR GRADUATES OF FOREIGN MEDICAL SCHOOLS APPLYING UNDER SECTIONS 2101 AND 2102 OF THE CALIFORNIA BUSINESS AND PROFESSIONS CODE.
Next to the application were several copies of the same black-and- white picture of Pol, wearing the tan linen suit she had seen him wear that one day, just before Roni’s birthday party. In the black-and-white photo, the subtle colors of the outfit didn’t come out, so what had been a lushly woven cream oxford shirt was now the color of dishwater, the suit a muddier gray. The bronze tie looked gaudy, and its discreet pattern of tiny diamonds now looked like polka dots in the overexposed image.
Since arriving in California, Hero had been distantly aware that Pol was applying for American citizenship. Paz had hers, and she’d given all her workbooks and reference texts to Pol. Pol took the books with him to work, and Hero supposed that was where he did all of his studying, just to pass the time in the middle of the night when no one was around and all he had to do was check the computer screens, make sure nothing was happening to the computer chips, or whatever it was he did at his job.
If he was applying for citizenship, he might apply for an American medical license. She thought of Pol, tried to remember his age. Sixty-one, sixty-two. She thought of Vanessa’s parents, the lawyers who’d become technicians. Pol, an American doctor. Hero couldn’t fathom it.
In Milpitas, they rarely talked about Hero’s citizenship situation. But she knew that it was likely she would have to stand at the receiving end of Paz’s self-shattering charity, if she wanted one day to have papers in this country. They couldn’t afford to think about that yet, which was a relief to Hero, who wasn’t quite prepared to be more indebted than she already was.
Seeing Carmen had brought home to Hero a realization she’d been suppressing; she, too, might become a tago ng tago if someone reported her, if she got pulled over without a license, if—there were a million ifs, a million ways to go. But—it would be fine. She had to think it would be fine. She didn’t dwell on the stories Paz told, about friends she’d known and nurses she worked with who’d been deported, sometimes reported on by their own friends and coworkers.
When Hero first arrived in California, she hadn’t thought much of it. She’d known there was nothing she could do, and worrying wouldn’t help. Soly had said there was a place for her with Tito Pol. She hadn’t thought twice.
* * *
Rosalyn’s birthday was on the thirty-first of May, which fell on a Friday. She’d been telling people for weeks that she didn’t want to do anything big, that they’d just have the usual party at the house that night. She said she didn’t want any presents—If you have to get me something, she said with a grin, how about money?—which earned a resounding groan from everyone within earshot. I’ll draw you a picture of money, Gani promised.
Hero was grateful to think about Rosalyn in a way that was—safe, fine, which was why she didn’t expect it when Rosalyn called her at the house, the Saturday before her birthday, and asked if she was doing anything the next day.
Tomorrow? Sunday?
That’s usually the day that follows Saturday, Rosalyn said. In the afternoon. Just after lunch. Are you free?
I guess. I’m just watching Roni, Hero said. Can I bring her?
She heard Rosalyn hesitate on the phone. You could bring her to the restaurant and my grandma could watch her, Rosalyn said finally.
Hero frowned. I have to ask Pol or Paz if that’s okay. You could’ve told me sooner, she could’ve gone to play at her friends’ house.
Rosalyn was silent for a long time. I didn’t wanna give you too much time to think about it and turn me down, she said. Hero didn’t say anything back.
Okay! Rosalyn punctuated, hard and cheerful. Well. Uh. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. At, like, two. If you can’t come out, then just, you know. Call or page me. But. Try to come. Okay?
Okay, Hero said, but Rosalyn had already put the phone down.
When Hero called Paz at work, Paz at first said it was fine for Roni to stay at the restaurant with Adela, but then she interrupted her own approval to say—Or! She could go play with Charmaine. Let me call Belen and ask what Charmaine’s doing on Sunday. They live in Milpitas, too, you know. By Hillview Drive.
Hero had never yet driven that way, but she agreed to wait while Paz gave Belen a call. That evening, when Pol was awake and readying for his night shift, Paz called the house from work and told Hero that she’d gotten a hold of Belen and Roni was more than welcome to come play with Charmaine, that they were holding a Couples for Christ/Kids for Christ meeting at the house and Roni would meet all sorts of other kids there that she could play with, it would be fun. Paz would give Hero a bag of things to drop off with Belen, just medicines and things like that for Belen’s mother’s diabetes, nothing too big.
Charmaine’s house was just on the other side of Jacklin Road, and yet it felt like a completely different town. The houses were only slightly larger than the ones in Roni’s neighborhood, that wasn’t the issue; it was that they were older, more imposing, the driveways were longer, the houses farther apart from each other. The hedges in front of each house looked carefully trimmed, the flora meticulously chosen to express something about the people inside. The cars were of a different make than the ones Hero saw driving home; than the one Hero was driving to get there.
Roni was quiet that morning, but Hero was pleased to see that her eczema had gotten significantly better in the months since they’d first met; the patches around her eyes and mouth were mostly gone, or slowly healing into the brownish-pink, marbly flesh of fresh scar tissue. The plaques on her neck and arms and legs were still fairly vicious, and now that it was spring again, Roni was running around in loose tank tops and shorts, all her wounds on display. Paz had said multiple times that the fact that Roni hadn’t been hospitalized once that winter, that fact alone, meant that all the time she was spending at the restaurant with Adela was worth it, and working.
Hero rang the doorbell and a tinny melody that might have been Mozart could be heard, dully, even through the door. She looked down at Roni, who had involuntarily stuck her tongue out at the sound; she was struck with the urge to reach out and touch her hair. She did, resting her hand on the top of the girl’s head lightly.
Roni looked up, eyebrows cut together; grumpy, but not at the to
uch, which she was leaning her cold nose into like a dog.
Are you gonna be okay? Hero asked. Roni frowned. I don’t know the other kids, she mumbled.
Hero wasn’t used to Roni being timid; she didn’t know what to do with it. Roni didn’t seem to know what to do with it, either. You’ll be fine, Hero said awkwardly.
Charmaine opened the door, followed by a skinny, wizened woman in a tweed jacket and black slacks, the spitting image of Belen but aged, who looked at Hero, and then at Roni, as if they’d brought in garbage from off the street.
Hi, Ron-Ron, Charmaine greeted. She was wearing a dress too fancy for playtime; she must have just come from church. Her grandmother reached over to fix a lopsided ribbon in her hair.
Hi, Roni said, but before she could finish, Charmaine grabbed her by the arm and dragged her into the entranceway. Come on, come on—
Unsure of what to do, Hero stepped into the house, too. It was less a house than a mausoleum decorated in what looked like Louis XIV style. In the living room, there were three baroque chaises, none of which looked like a human body had ever sat upon them, a tapestry depicting a scene of frolicking white angels playing guitar to a nymph, and upon a nearby side table, porcelain figurines of besotted noblemen chasing after milkmaids. Next to the chaises was a towering grandfather clock, and next to it a series of gleaming veneered mahogany cabinets inlaid with what looked like abalone or tortoiseshell, adorned with candlestands and unlit candles, their wicks still white. On the mantelpiece there was a picture of the family posing with someone Hero recognized as a former secretary of finance for the Philippines.
The entire living room was cordoned off, and the carpet looked pristine. Everything was arranged in a kind of ongoing still life; even in that short moment Hero sensed that the scene in front of her, despite the impression of eternal and divine wealth it was meant to convey, was frail, frozen so long that a warm sigh would shatter it. It was too late to reach out for Roni and snatch her back, put her in the car, speed back home. Hero saw her at the end of a corridor, being surrounded by a group of children her age, looks of appraisal on their faces, all of them still dressed for church.
Belen approached Hero, smiling, greeting her in a mix of English and Tagalog, saying it was so nice to see her again. When Hero handed the bag of medicine over, she casually rifled through it like she didn’t want to be too blatant about checking that everything she’d asked for was there. She lifted her head, apparently satisfied, and smiled brightly. Her eyeliner looked as though it might have been a tattoo.
Salamat, ha? She said that Hero could pick Roni up at six. Hero agreed, and was about to leave, but couldn’t help it; she stopped, called out, Roni!
Roni turned. Hero didn’t have anything to say, but raised her hand, throat tight. I’m leaving now. Roni’s face was expressionless, but she nodded, and waved, and then was taken by some new friend out of view.
Hero was still staring after her when Belen opened the door, ushering her out but talking cheerily to smooth over the process. And! Please give my regards to Doctor De Vera, she ended, smiling encouragingly. She didn’t say anything about Paz.
* * *
Rosalyn was waiting in the driveway of the house when Hero got back. She pulled up next to her, parking the car. When she got out, Rosalyn had already opened her car door, one leg out, her hand up in greeting.
You’re early, Hero said.
Early bird gets the worm, Rosalyn said, shoving her other hand in her pocket. Where’s Roni?
I just dropped her off at a friend’s house, Hero said.
Oh, cool. Rosalyn went quiet, then jerked her head up. So do you—wanna go?
I thought you said it started at two. It’s only one.
No, it’s. It’s an ongoing thing. It’s whatever. We could go now. Unless you’re hungry. But they’ll have food there—
I’m not hungry, Hero said. Let’s go.
In the car, Rosalyn was quiet for a few minutes and they sat in silence; she wasn’t even playing music on her stereo, which was a first. Finally Rosalyn said, You don’t eat enough. Probably.
I eat plenty. I’m always eating at your place.
Nah, you’re a fake eater, Rosalyn said, signaling to turn left. I know a fake eater, I used to be one. I mean. Just for a couple of years, in college. It was a dumb phase.
Hero tried to hide her surprise; she couldn’t imagine Rosalyn not eating. But you’re fine now, Hero said, half a question.
I’m fine now, Rosalyn confirmed. It wasn’t like I ever got real thin anyway, that wasn’t gonna happen. And it wasn’t the point, but whatever. Anyway. I can tell when other people are doing that kinda thing.
I’m not, Hero said. I’m eating fine. I’ve never had a big appetite.
They went quiet. Rosalyn was driving them down a street Hero had never seen before. Sorry if I’m bugging you, she said suddenly.
You’re not.
Rosalyn shook her head. Nah, I am.
It never stopped you before, Hero said, but with her face turned fully toward Rosalyn so the small smile on it would be unmissable. Rosalyn bit the inside of her cheek, so Hero saw a pinch of skin fold inward at the pressure.
She drove them to the large parking lot of what looked like another strip mall, not all dissimilar from the one where the restaurant was located. The largest sign there was for a Filipino restaurant, by the looks of the palm trees that bookended the name of the place, Pearl of the Orient. The rest of the stores were dry cleaners and Vietnamese sandwich shops, an LBC Express.
The parking lot was filled with cars, and people sitting on top of their hoods, ready to watch what Hero saw was gradually shaping up to be a procession—she saw the banners, the children in costumes, the wreaths of flowers, the candles, and then she remembered what time of the month it was.
It’s the Santacruzan, she said, soft.
Rosalyn was putting the car in park, turning the engine off, opening her door and getting out before Hero could meet her eye. My birthday falls at the end of the Flores de Mayo, she said. So sometimes I watch the pageant.
Hero followed her out of the car. Rosalyn tested the hood with her hand, said it was still too hot to sit on, so they leaned against the front bumper. Hero felt the heat from Rosalyn’s arm as she pointed out people, children milling around dressed up in costumes to play characters that Hero hadn’t seen since she was a child, when a mix of children and Vigan’s most eligible beauties did the Santacruzan procession down Calle Crisologo. Here in Milpitas, they only had the parking lot.
The hood had cooled down, so Rosalyn slid backward onto it, held out a hand to Hero to help her up, then let it go before Hero could think about the touch.
I hate them, Rosalyn grumbled. When Hero gave her a questioning look, Rosalyn pointed at the restaurant sign. Pearl of the Orient. They’re dicks. And they’re so competitive with us, which is dumb because they know their place is, like, banquet-level stuff, it’s not even the same customers we’re catering to.
She made another face. I mean, Pearl of the Orient? Ugh.
The procession was starting. Rosalyn went on pointing out people. The Reyna Mora, the Reyna ng Saba, girls about Roni’s age dressed like the Queen of Sheba, carrying jewelry boxes, faces painted. Matusalem, a boy with a paper beard strung on his face, secured behind the ears, faking a hump. Rosalyn shook her head, said, Look, they still put blackface on the kids who’re playing the Aetas. Some fucked-up shit.
They watched for a while in silence, laughing and aww-ing when one of the younger queens started crying in the middle of the procession, self-conscious and frightened in front of all the people. The small rondalla, only two guitarists and a ukulele player, not the full bands Hero remembered seeing in the Philippines, followed the procession, singing Dios Te Salve. Next to her, Rosalyn was humming, half singing, Y bandito es el fruto, Y bandito es el fruto.
Who did you play?
Hero asked, bringing her knees up so she could rest her chin on them.
Rosalyn shrugged, toying with her shoelace. Nah, I was never part of it. I was too young when we were in Manila, and shit was still too crazy when we were in San Francisco, and then when we got to Milpitas, I remembered it, and wanted to do it, but, you know, it’s organized by like, some rich Filipinos. People like the Couples for Christ gang, so. It was all those kids who were part of the big Santacruzan. It wasn’t like in Manila, where every barrio did their thing, whatever. I mean, you can see, this is just the one for this neighborhood, like. And they only started doing it a few years ago. The really big one, the main one, they hold it at Milpitas Town Center. Kids and adults are in it, they do a big pabitin, they have a beauty pagent and everything. The mayor shows up. That one’s fancier.
Who did you want to be? Hero asked. When you wanted to be in the procession.
Oh. Well, it was—you know, in Manila, or well, in my barrio, we did it at night, so like. The atmosphere that I remember was really different. Like people would have candles and stuff, it was. I just thought it was magic. So I wanted to be Reyna Candelária, you know the one who carries the long candle. But really—uh!
But then she scrunched up her face, embarrassed, and didn’t go on.
But really, Hero prompted.
Rosalyn’s eyes were still closed, and for good measure, she covered them with her hands. I—okay, the one I really wanted to be? But. Don’t make fun of me.
Hero waited. Rosalyn was laughing somewhat hysterically to herself.
Okay. I wanted to be Reyna Elena.
Hero started smiling. Reyna Elena. The last one. The—
Yeah, yeah, yeah, the most beautiful girl in the whole pageant, okay, you said you wouldn’t make fun of me!
America Is Not the Heart Page 29
