Dedication
Mom—nowhere and everywhere
Epigraph
Dynamite is loyal to the one
who lights the fuse.
—Dean F. Wilson, Skyshaker
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Maxima in the dark. Half-lit by a Virgin Mary night-light and the glow of a screen saver, a slow-motion sweep of stars and planets—Jupiter, Saturn, Earth. Dressed in denim cutoffs and a Mickey Mouse tee, she doesn’t shiver, despite her wide-open bedroom window and the cold night beyond. She sits at the foot of her bed, cleaning her nails with the tip of a switchblade. “May bakas ka bang nakikita sa aking mukha?” she sings. “Masdan mo ang aking mata.” Like all her favorite Filipino love songs, this one is about heartbreak.
An alarm goes off. The digital clock glows red—10:10 p.m. She closes the switchblade.
She stands and stretches, takes quick jabs at the air—one-two, one-two, one-two—then flips on the desk lamp and sits, turns on the ball-shaped webcam atop her monitor. A tap to the space bar and the galaxy vanishes; now her face fills the screen. Using it as a mirror, she puts on maroon lipstick and dabs with a Kleenex, smiles wide to check her teeth. She undoes her ponytail and shakes out her hair, a long black wave, then turns her face side to side, searching for her best angle. She could easily pass for thirty but is somewhere in her fifties; her true age, she swears, is a mystery, even to herself. Her parents, long since dead, kept no birth certificate; the grandmother who took her in never bothered to learn her actual birthday.
Eyes closed and fingertips on the keyboard, she whispers to herself, so softly that a person standing next to her would have no hope of knowing what she says. She takes a deep and slow breath, opens her eyes, types and clicks until another browser window opens.
There is a man on the screen.
“My love,” he says.
“No,” she says. “In Tagalog.”
“Sorry. Hello, mahal.”
“That’s better.” She blows him a kiss.
“Oh, mahal, please don’t tease. It’s been a lousy few days.”
She leans into the screen. “Ano ba? What happened, Henry?”
“Where to start.” He removes his glasses, the stubbly flab of his cheeks moving up and down as he rubs his temples. He pours a shot of Jack Daniel’s into a coffee mug and recounts his terrible week—more layoffs at the plant and all the guys blame him, his ex-wife trashed the Miami time-share but won’t pay for repairs, his Benz is still in the shop and the best rental he could get is a three-year-old Camry, and just today an invitation to his high school reunion—“My freaking fortieth!” he says—arrived in the mail. “But the real downer”—he gulps the whiskey—“is the weather. End of spring and I’m still shoveling snow.”
“Snow, snow, snowy snowy snow,” she sings in a made-up tune. She puts her elbows on the desk, rests her chin on clasped hands. “My whole life, I never see snow.”
“Come to America. To North Dakota.”
“One day. If God is good.”
“God is always good.” He pours another shot, doesn’t drink. “Come closer. I want your face to fill my screen.”
She leans into the webcam, so close she could kiss it. He says she is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
These past three weeks of talking online, he says, are the best he’s had in years. A twice-divorced balding white guy on the edge of sixty doesn’t hope for much, but when he found her profile on Good Catholic Filipinas and saw that her favorite food was sweet-n-sour chicken, that her favorite singer was Shania Twain, and that her lifelong dream was “to live in joy with a good man in God’s country,” he convinced himself to send her a message. “It’s silly to reminisce,” he says, “but life before you seems so long ago. I didn’t realize how lonely I was.”
“I was lonely too,” she says.
“And I think that maybe, well, probably, that I might be”—he takes a deep breath, takes the shot—“falling in love with you.”
She pulls away from the screen.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Too much, too soon?”
She shakes her head. “Not too soon, mahal. I think, maybe, that I am falling in love, too.”
“With . . . me?”
She laughs. “Yes, with you. Tanga!”
“Tanga?”
“It means ‘stupid.’”
He lets out a breath, slaps his chest twice. “My heart. It’s racing.”
“‘Heart.’ In Tagalog, puso.”
“Puso.” He writes the word down. “That means ‘heart.’ Got it.”
“Soon, you’ll speak Tagalog. Then you can visit me in the Philippines, di ba?”
“Or you visit me first. Maybe you can be my date to the reunion?” He sets the scene: He enters his high school gym to the tune of his old prom song, “We’ve Only Just Begun” by the Carpenters, and though he hasn’t aged as well as his classmates, there’s no question that he has the sexiest, most gorgeous woman in the room on his arm. The other women are jealous of her, the men envious of him, and the bullies from his freshman year just stand to the side, giving him the thumbs-up. “And the whole night,” he says, “you and I just dance.”
He leans into his webcam. His whole head seems to inflate on Maxima’s screen. “When can we meet?”
“Philippines to America,” she sighs, “not so easy trip.” The lines in Manila for passports and visas take hours, she says, sometimes days (that’s just to apply), and never mind the near-zero chances of government approval. Their best hope for being together is to pray, to keep faith in God, and to wait. “And when I come to North Dakota,” she says, “will you show me the snow?”
“Count on it.”
“Okay. But one condition only: I don’t shovel.”
He laughs, which makes her laugh, harder and harder until she’s hunched over, laughter becoming gasps for air. “Mahal,” he says, “you okay?” She shakes her head, takes a breath and says it’s nothing, then keels over again.
“It’s definitely not nothing,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
She looks straight at the camera. “I’m hurt.”
“Hurt? Hurt where?”
She clears her throat, takes a breath. “Don’t worry, Henry. It’s nothing, okay?”
“Stop saying that. Just tell me.”
She looks at him for a moment, as though wondering if he can be trusted with something as private as pain. “If that’s what you want, mahal”—she stands up—“then okay.” She lifts her shirt slowly, adjusting the camera to make sure he sees, then turns in a slow circle to reveal a wound, a crusty gash that spans from the top of h
er hip to the middle of her abdomen. She explains: It happened in the typhoon two months before. A snap of bamboo, sharp as a spear, sliced across her body in the high-velocity winds. “I lost so much blood,” she says. “But I’m thinking, okay lang, it’s just a cut, bahala na. Pero now, I have an infection.” Her own grandmother, she tells him, died from an infected cut, but God’s good grace will keep her alive, she’s sure of it.
She lowers her shirt and sits. “But every day it hurts.”
“What can I do? How can I help?” He slumps in his chair. “I hate this. I hate being so far from you.” Before she can speak, he says that maybe the day to meet should come sooner than later; what if this is God and the universe telling them that he should be the one to fly to her and, depending on the current round-trip airfare from Grand Forks to Manila, now is the time to come together? But Maxima says no and promises him that there’s a better day ahead for them to meet, one when she is healthy and strong. For now, all she needs are his love, faith, and prayers. Nothing else.
“But there is one thing,” she says.
“Tell me.”
“Medicine. Ointments and creams with all the antibiotics. The best hospital in Manila has them. Pero”—she bites her lip, fighting tears—“walang pera.”
“Walang pera?”
“No money.” She shakes her head. “There’s never money.”
Henry puts his glasses back on. “Well, how much do you need?”
“Bahala na, mahal, it’s okay. Please don’t worry.”
“How much. Tell me.”
“I can’t accept.” She swivels her chair away from the screen. “I’m too ashamed.”
“Just tell me. Please.”
She takes a deep breath, nods. “Twenty-two thousand pesos.”
“Pesos? How much is that?”
“Four hundred dollars.” She turns back toward the camera. “USD.”
Henry says nothing, just listens.
“Half the money for the doctor, the other half for the medicine,” she says. “In the Philippines, if you have no insurance, medical care is very expensive, it’s almost impossible, talaga. It’s not like in the States.” She dabs her eyes with her pinky and, with her other hand safely out of camera view, reaches for the switchblade next to her computer. She flicks it open and twirls it between her fingers, a thing she does when anxious or uncertain, when the inevitable is on the edge of finally happening.
On-screen, Henry is motionless, his face a blank. “Mahal,” she says, “are you there?”
Finally, he moves. “I’m here,” he says, “sorry. The screen froze for a sec. Where were we? What were you saying?”
“Money. For the medicine.”
“And how much was it? Five hundred?”
“Five, yes,” she says, nodding. “Five hundred. USD.”
He looks toward the ceiling and blinks, like he’s adding up figures in his head. “Let’s make it six hundred, okay?”
“Six?” She shakes her head, says no, no, no, starts to weep. “It’s too much, mahal, too much—”
“Sshhh,” he says, a finger to his lips. “There’s no price on love, di ba?”
She laughs. “Di ba! Yes, that’s right.” She wipes her eyes with a Kleenex, says it’s almost one p.m. in the Philippines, time for her to go. She gives quick instructions when and how he can wire money to an online account, tells him she’ll let him know when the payment goes through. “This will help me so much, so much. Thank you, mahal, thank you,” she says. “And soon, one day, I promise, we will meet.”
Henry nods. “Yes, mahal. And when we do, we’ll sit in the countryside, put on some Shania, and then”—he leans into his camera, filling her screen again—“we’re gonna fuck like bunnies.” He winks and kisses the air, and the blade spins faster in Maxima’s hand.
They say good-bye and Henry signs off, disappears from the screen. But Maxima is still there, and for a moment she watches herself, tilts her head slightly, like her face is one she recognizes but doesn’t quite know.
She turns off the webcam.
She lifts her shirt, carefully peels away the wound, a trick of rubber and glue, then jots down quick notes in a small spiral notebook. She picks up the switchblade and opens her closet, where on the inside of the door she’s tacked up a human target, the kind found at a shooting range. She steps back, stands against the opposite wall.
She raises the blade, aims, and throws. She misses the heart, but not by much.
1
Excel is not a child. The man behind the ticket counter says he looks like one.
The man opens a binder, flips through laminated pages, then quotes Greyhound bus policy. “‘All unaccompanied minors between the ages of twelve and sixteen must have written consent from a legal guardian to ride the bus alone.’ So unless you’ve got some ID, a license, or a passport . . .”
“If I had a driver’s license,” Excel says, “why would I take a bus?”
The man spits bits of sunflower shell into a paper cup. “Beats me.”
Excel searches his wallet for some kind of ID but finds nothing, not even a library card. He kneels on the ground and unzips his backpack, digs through rolls of shirts, underwear, and balled-up socks, feels around for a thin piece of plastic, an old high school ID. He pulls it out, sets it on the counter. “This was four years ago” he says. “I was fifteen then, I’m nineteen now.”
The man takes the card, holds it up to the light. “You look the same to me. Could be a fake.”
“What would I do with a fake high school ID?”
“People have their reasons.”
“It’s real,” Excel says. “I swear.”
The man shrugs, spits out more shell.
Excel takes back his ID. The one-way ticket from El Centro to San Francisco costs $70; the $340 crammed into his wallet is everything he has. He decides to spare five more. “For the ticket”—he sets three twenties and a ten on the counter, then holds out a five—“and for your help.”
“You’re bribing me. With five bucks.”
“No, sir. It’s just a tip.” Excel tenses up, feels sweat slide down the back of his neck. “Should it be . . . more? Or a little less?”
“Kid, if you’re going to bribe someone, especially at five a.m., aim higher.” He types up Excel’s travel information, takes the seventy dollars. “I’m going on good faith that you are who you say you are”—he prints the ticket, hands it to Excel—“and that you’re just going where you need to go.”
Excel has never traveled like this before, and the black, all-capital letters of his name, last then first—MAXINO, EXCEL—surrounded by reference numbers and the dark lines of a bar code, make him feel official, as if the journey ahead is a mission, not just a long ride home.
“Thanks,” Excel says, “and please please don’t call me kid.”
He steps out of the station and onto the bus, a handful of passengers already aboard—a sleeping couple, young and white, pierced all over; a trio of men speaking Spanish in low voices; a ponytailed guy reading a National Geographic. Excel passes them all and takes a seat in the rear by the bathroom, the air a mix of Pine-Sol and urine; nobody, he thinks, will sit back here. But as soon as he’s settled, an old woman in a checkered flannel and overalls—she looks like a lumberjack—boards, sits across the aisle from him. She smiles at Excel, but he just nods, turns away, and shuts his eyes, hoping to sleep off as many hours as he can. The bus pulls out, and barely thirty minutes into the ride he feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns and sees the woman standing over him, holding out an egg. “Hard boiled,” she says. “Want one? I got plenty.”
Excel shakes his head, says he’s fine.
“Oh. You looked hungry. Never mind.”
Excel turns back toward the window. He closes his eyes, wakes an hour later at the next stop (he doesn’t know the name of it), and finds in the empty seat beside him a paper sack with a sticky note attached that reads “When you do get hungry.” Across the aisle, the seats are empty.
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br /> Inside is a sandwich, pretzels, a wax paper bag of carrot sticks, a hard-boiled egg. He’s never taken food from a stranger; what if it’s poisoned? First time ever on a Greyhound, he doesn’t know what kind of people ride buses across the state, departing from middle-of-nowhere stations. Whoever they are, he’s one of them (for now, anyway) and he’s packed no food of his own. He takes a small bite of the sandwich (ham and cheese) and chews slowly, making it last another two stops. Later, the pretzels get him from Los Angeles to Valencia, the carrots to a town called Solvang; the egg he saves for later, just in case. He finally sleeps, then wakes at the Greyhound station in downtown San Francisco, where he deboards and heads to Market Street, catches the final BART train to the Colma station. From there, he walks the two miles to the locked front gate of the La Villa Aurelia apartment complex then realizes: he has no keys.
He walks halfway down the block. Bags slung on his shoulders, he climbs the low wall of Old Hoy Sun Ning Yung cemetery. He zigzags around tombstones and graves until he reaches the far end, squeezes through a hole in the chain link fence into the complex. He goes to the back of the last building, climbs atop the Dumpster and onto the fire escape. His bedroom window is two floors up, but moving closer, he hears what sounds like weeping and sees the faint light in the open window next to his. He thinks: Of course.
He doesn’t move, waits for the conversation to end, then steps toward his window. It doesn’t budge, and when he peers into Maxima’s, he finds her standing with a hand held high, a switchblade aimed right at him.
“Stop,” he says, hands up like he’s surrendered. “It’s me.”
Maxima steps forward. Nine months have passed, their longest time apart, and though he didn’t think she’d look any different, he’s caught off guard by how much she resembles the way he often imagines her—weapon in hand, ready to strike.
She looks him up and down, like she can’t quite tell if he really is who he says he is, or someone else entirely. “You’re back,” she says.
“Yeah. Just arrived.” He lowers his hands. “Could you put that thing away?”
She closes the switchblade, tosses it onto her pillow. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
The Son of Good Fortune Page 1
