It’s Baybayin, right? Hero asked. Rosalyn nodded. I don’t understand Baybayin, Hero said.
Who does, Rosalyn mumbled, flopping back on the bed, hiding her eyes from sunlight that wasn’t in her eyes. It’s just some dumb thing we did in college. Like every other Pinoy couple in the Bay.
So what does it say, Hero prompted.
Rosalyn took her hand away. It’s my name, she said. She pointed at the poster Hero had remembered that night at the party, and had slept with someone to forget.
Hero was quiet, and Rosalyn went on like she didn’t notice, hasty: Well, not technically. It’s like, Dosalin. There’s no R in Baybayin, whatever.
She stopped, closed her eyes. I have one, too, she added. Ha-me. I wanted to get Lo-me but he stopped me. Then she laughed skittishly.
Hero stared at her; she’d seen Rosalyn completely and thoroughly naked, and had never seen a tattoo, not even a hint of one. Where?
Rosalyn lifted the hair from the back of her neck. Hero still didn’t see anything. This used to be shaved, Rosalyn said. I had like—look, when I was in college, I tried a bunch of different looks, okay? So I had, like, kind of a mohawk. Mine is under the hair there. If you part it you can see it.
Hero parted the hair, saw it; just the small curves and swirls of black ink.
Jaime wanted it on his arm, though. You remember, Song of Solomon? Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm?
For love is as strong as death. Hero remembered. Her parents had always disliked the Song of Solomon.
That was his whole thing. I mean, we were both kinda more Catholic then. Like everybody else. Anyway, my mom almost killed me, Rosalyn laughed, with that laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. Shaved head and a tattoo. And I was drinking a lot then, to top it off. The only reason she didn’t was ’cause she thought me and Jaime were gonna get married—She stopped talking, abruptly, and Hero knew they’d reached the end of the conversation.
Rosalyn, for her part, was learning small, stupid things, too; learning when was most effective to come close, when was most effective to give Hero a finger’s width or a town’s width of space. Learning that even though Hero liked to come easily and a lot, what she liked even more was to be edged: brought close to the precipice then gently pulled back from it, pushed a bit closer, then pulled further back, again and again and again, until Hero was practically hectic with want, dissolving, until Rosalyn saw fit to end her agony. Perhaps the most significant thing Rosalyn learned was that Hero wanted her, really wanted her; that it wasn’t humoring or pity or even a one-time thing. It definitely wasn’t a one-time thing.
They fought, sometimes. Hero had never thought of herself as an argumentative or even confrontational person before, and yet she occasionally threw sparks on tinder, like the time Rosalyn mentioned the first time they’d had sex and how bad she’d been at it at first, and Hero said something offhand and blunt about how yes, really, it was odd, Rosalyn should have been able to get a lot more practice in, and Rosalyn had asked what she meant by that, and Hero had shrugged and pushed, said something about Rosalyn not being a teenager anymore and it wasn’t their parents’ generation, people didn’t really have to stand around and wait for Prince Charming to come along, she could’ve gone to any club or party and found the one girl drinking alone, could’ve found some dyke bar in the city and worked her way through pussy from the top of the Bay all the way back down.
I would’ve, at least, Hero concluded, and Rosalyn blew up, spittle flying:
Not everyone’s fucking like you, okay!
Like what, Hero said, baiting, and finished the sentence before Rosalyn could stop or apologize: A puta, a kontrabida—and Rosalyn lost it.
That’s fuckin’ easy for someone to say who, who—do you live here? Do you have to deal with seeing people who knew you when you were fucking ten years old coming into your place of work on a daily basis? Into your home? The fuck you know about it? You’re new here, no one knows your business, if you get up to some bullshit no one thinks any different of you, but things are different for me, they’re different for my mom, you—you were rich or whatever, maybe you could hide the shit you got up to, but I have to be more careful. You think it’s fucking easy to do what you and Jaime do all the time, you think anyone but the two of you could fucking live that down? Fucking look at Lea. She fucked Dante for a month then left him for Arnel and no one’ll let her forget it, Ruben is still fucking giving her shit about it like his sister’s ass belongs to him, you think I could just—what—put myself on the buffet line and, and still live here? And don’t fucking tell me to just move.
Rosalyn was nearly hyperventilating by the end of it, her eyes red but dry. Are you finished, Hero asked.
No, Rosalyn snapped, then, low: yeah.
This, Hero said, the corner of her mouth lifting, gesturing between the two of them, is you being careful?
Rosalyn flopped under the covers, grumpy but within forgiving range. Then she resurfaced, face somber.
I was being serious, she said. It’s not like I didn’t want to—do things. It’s just.
I get it, Hero said, reaching for her. I’m sorry.
Rosalyn was learning things that Hero didn’t even tell her, like the time Hero fell asleep again in Rosalyn’s car, then when she woke up, still cum-dumb and groggy, Rosalyn was staring at her, face expressionless.
Who’s Teresa?
Hero shot up in the seat. What?
You were talking in your sleep.
It’s late, Hero said, sobered. Take me home.
Rosalyn tightened her jaw. Considered and discarded one or two responses. Then put the car in drive.
The ride was tense and silent all the way to the house, but in the driveway, when Hero kissed Rosalyn good night, she felt Rosalyn’s mouth, stiff and unyielding at first, eventually melt, sucking in Hero’s bottom lip with a soft groan. Afterward, she silently handed Hero the container of homemade peanut butter that Adela had labeled FOR RONI, when Roni had mentioned the week before that the kare-kare at the restaurant was better than her Auntie Gloria’s, a rare compliment. Adela had said the secret was making the peanut butter from scratch, and gave Roni part of the next day’s batch. Rosalyn paused for a moment, and Hero waited patiently, letting Rosalyn gather whatever thoughts she wanted to gather, until she realized that Rosalyn wasn’t trying to think of something to say; she was giving Hero the chance to say something.
See you tomorrow, Hero said.
Rosalyn froze, then shuddered, then took that for the bone it was. See you tomorrow, she said back.
No—whatever sorrows lived in Hero’s heart were too burrowed-in and settled to be eased out by something as mundane as Rosalyn’s face—Rosalyn’s face when she asked who Teresa was; or her face when Hero wouldn’t tell her; or her face again, when she gave up on the thing she needed and settled for the thing she wanted. At the kitchen table alone, Hero thought about telling Rosalyn about Teresa: saying her name, coming up with language to describe her, what she’d been to Hero, what she’d done for Hero, the world she’d given her, which Hero thought would last forever, only to discover that in that world she’d only had a short-stay visa; she hadn’t been a citizen, not even a permanent resident.
Hero didn’t know how long she sat there, unmoving, her face and hands numb. At some point her eyes, blurry and hot, finally focused again, saw the container of peanut butter in front of her. Adela had put a wood-handled spoon inside, saying that if they used too thin a spoon to stir the peanut butter, the metal might bend with the thickness of the paste.
Hero lifted the spoon out of the oil that had congealed on the top of the peanut butter, trying not to get the grease all over her fingers so at least she could get a good grip on the handle. She tried to stir the oil back into the dry, hardened nut paste, the effort coming out of her as if from another person, another hand, stirring and stirring and stirri
ng again, long after the oil had been evenly distributed and her hurt hand was covered in grease, and the grief finally settled, like a stone in the sea, and her swollen eyes opened, and the peanut butter looked like peanut butter again. She put the spoon in her mouth. It tasted okay.
* * *
At the end of August, after Pol accepted birthday cards from Paz, Roni, and Hero, he smiled at Hero and said, And what do you want for your birthday, Nimang?
It was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening, and they’d all been sitting at the dinner table, three-quarters of a mocha roll cake in front of them. Paz had gotten back from work in time to see Pol cutting the cake with Roni, and was now on the phone with Rufina. Rufina sounded almost amused by Paz’s panic. She confirmed that the streets were still full of sludge but easy enough to drive the tricycle through; people were already getting on with their lives, as always. Paz seemed confused and unsatisfied by these facts.
Roni turned to Hero with eyes as big as dinner plates.
What? It’s your birthday? When? How old are you turning? What do you want to do? What do you want as a present?
Thirty-five, Hero said, and watched Roni’s eyes glaze over at the enormity of the number.
She went on: And I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want a present. It’s not that big a deal.
Roni slumped, looked lost. But I didn’t even make you a card—
Hero wasn’t planning to say anything about it to anyone at the restaurant, but of course Roni remained upset about it for days, and when Rosalyn asked her on Thursday what was wrong, Roni told her. Which was how Hero managed to have two people furious with her that week.
Who the hell doesn’t tell people when their birthday is? Rosalyn demanded. What, you have some dumb complex about your age?
It’s just not that big a deal.
Did you even eat pancit?
Hero didn’t dignify that with an answer, went over to see if Roni was hungry or if just the halo-halo was enough for now. Roni lipped morosely at a cube of bright green nata de coco and said nothing.
Rosalyn called Jaime while he was still at work, which meant when he arrived at the restaurant after his shift, he had a plastic bag in hand, containing three stick candles and one candle in the shape of a five. They were out of threes, he explained. The stick candles were covered in flaking sparkles, and Minnie Mouse hid daintily behind the number 5. Roni and Rosalyn tried to balance the candles in a single puto, then, seeing that it was too crowded and would likely fall over from the weight and burn the entire place down—We don’t have that kinda insurance, Rosalyn warned—they tried four separate puto, a candle in each one, which looked. Hideous. Boy and Adela got the rest of the restaurant to join in on the singing, which compounded the horror. Make a wish! Roni said, holding her puto closest to Hero’s face, so that Hero had to lean back to avoid being singed. And not, like, for everybody responsible for this to get food poisoning, Rosalyn said.
Hero didn’t want to make a wish, but a wish had formed in her chest; it calcified and stuck to her ribs before she could stop it. Too late. She leaned forward, blew the candles out one by one, and made herself smile.
Later it was Jaime, not Rosalyn, who crouched and leaned his arms over the driver’s side window as Hero was about to take Roni back home. She’d tentatively agreed to being picked up by Rosalyn later, something Rosalyn had muttered out of the corner of her mouth while Hero was helping look for any leftover pancit that she could eat, just for tradition’s sake.
Jaime turned his head away so he wouldn’t blow smoke into the window, then said, You guys were saving up for a car, right?
Hero nodded. Jaime continued, My friend up in the city said he’s selling his Accord. You remember him, the bartender over off Minna? The one with the earring? Hero remembered.
It’s old, but still runs okay. I could have Roy at the garage around the corner check it out. You interested?
Hero was sure that what she had saved wasn’t enough, even for a used car, even with whatever deal Jaime could work out. She’d have to ask Paz and Pol, who’d made no secret of having been saving to get Hero a car anyway, despite the fact that Hero had already told both of them that she would pay for the car herself. Pol and Paz hadn’t allowed Hero to contribute financially to the house expenses at all, insisting that her services as Roni’s babysitter and chaperone were repayment enough. Hero knew now that Paz liked people being indebted to her: she liked loaning people money, liked being the financial benefactor of her various relatives, regardless of whether or not she actually had enough money to spare. She liked people turning to her in supplication, liked being on the other side of that transaction; at last not the needy, but the needed.
Think about it, okay? Jaime told Hero. Hero nodded.
Rosalyn showed up earlier than Hero was expecting, saying they could catch the last showing of Terminator 2 over at Serra Theater. Roni was still awake and wanted to go, but Pol overheard the conversation and said she had to go to sleep, she had school the next day, and besides, they’d already seen the film. But I want to see it again and it’s Ate Hero’s birthday, Roni reasoned, to no avail.
Pol greeted Rosalyn warmly when she lingered anxiously at the edge of the garage door, and said he still remembered how wonderful the food was at Roni’s party, and how kind Rosalyn and her grandparents had been to come through so well, how much everyone had loved everything, and that the barbecue had been especially delicious. Rosalyn went flustered at the compliments, which Hero teased her about all the way down Jacklin Road as it turned into Abel Street, all the way into the parking lot, and straight through to the movie theater, where Rosalyn stuffed popcorn into her mouth and grumbled.
Hero had never seen the first Terminator, so she asked Rosalyn what it was about. But Rosalyn was still in her mood, and told Hero to just watch the fuckin’ movie and find out.
What Hero could tell before she could tell anything else was that the movie took place in California, even if supposedly it took place in the future; she recognized California, the quality of sunlight on the people’s faces, the way its particular weight flattened and loosened people’s expressions. Knew it, most of all, because Arnold Schwarzenegger was conspicuously not Californian, not even American, and the fact that he was playing a robot was entirely incidental to his foreignness, which wasn’t a question of being or not being human, but being or not being from around there. Naked in a biker bar, knowing nobody, asking for clothes, money, a motorcycle.
Hero hadn’t appreciated how absorbed she was in the film until she realized Rosalyn’s hand was high up on her thigh and had probably been there, waiting, for half an hour. Instead of guiding the hand to its intended destination, Hero picked it up and laced their fingers together, eyes still glued to the screen.
John was teaching the Terminator the ways of the world: how to speak, how not to kill people, how to tell people to chill out, how to insult people; how to tell someone good-bye, how to tell someone you’d see them again, how to say you’d be back. How to know the difference. How to give a thumbs-up right before sinking into a vat of molten steel; how to be an optimist in America, right before you died.
When the credits were rolling, Rosalyn made to stand up, but Hero didn’t move, was still holding Rosalyn’s hand, so hard the base of her fingers was sore. Rosalyn peered into Hero’s face. Said, Are you.
Hero made a noise and covered her wet face with the hand that wasn’t holding Rosalyn’s.
Jesus, Rosalyn said, bringing her knuckles up to Hero’s face, wiping at the tears there. And you make fun of me for the movies and shit I like?!
Hero didn’t say anything. Rosalyn hesitated, then when the theater was empty and the lights came on, said: It’s bad luck to cry on your birthday.
That’s New Year’s, Hero said in something that resembled a blubber, choky and peeled-open. And it’s not even my birthday.
Rosalyn brushed again
at Hero’s cheeks, half laughing, and half—not. Oh, okay, never mind then, she said.
* * *
By the time Halloween came and went, Hero was driving a decade-old forest-green Accord sedan whose headrests were stuck in place but which had a sound system more tricked out than she could make sense of, and which she left alone until Jaime, seeing her drive up to the restaurant silently more times than he could apparently bear, said, Okay, I’m gonna show you how it works.
In the end, Paz and Pol had helped her to cover what her savings couldn’t stretch far enough to pay, and refused when she said she’d pay them back. Roni loved the car because it was new, or new to her at least; she tried out every seat, wanting to see what the view was like, the feel was like, before giving up and hopping back into the front where she knew she belonged, chewing on a licorice whip and only settling when Hero said, No shoes on the seats.
Everyone had mostly stopped talking about Pinatubo although Hero still saw Filipino newspapers—or, newspapers about Philippine news but published in California by California-based Filipinos—folded over and crumpled on the passenger seat of Paz’s car: pictures of churches and houses with their roofs caved in under the weight of the lahar, people piled into the back of a truck, still covered in ash, leaving for places unclear.
Hero hadn’t fucked anyone but Rosalyn since Pinatubo. For some time, she’d started to have the sense that Paz and Pol knew about what she was doing outside of the home—once, she’d driven Roni to school completely sober, and yet Roni turned to her just before getting out and said, You stink. After that, Hero started taking a shower when she got home, no matter the hour.
Once Paz met her in the kitchen, Paz on her way home from work and Hero on her way out to either Rosalyn’s house or a bar with Jaime. Abruptly, Paz said, Teka muna. Nimang. I have something for you.
And then she reached into the drawer in the kitchen, where she kept the extra medical supplies and drugs, ruffled through them to find something she’d apparently stuffed at the bottom, hidden by packets of A&D ointment—two boxes of condoms.
America Is Not the Heart Page 33
