Mango Seasons

by Michelle Cruz Skinner

  Once my brother, Gil, walked with us to the gate. Afterward he told me “Don’t be so friendly with him.” My face grew hot. I couldn’t look at Gil. He was twenty then, and loud.

  I stand up and walk away from the fountain, toward the house. My face is hot from sitting in the sun.

  The next day Pedring brings two other men with him. They are dark and look like brothers. They begin by walking around the fountain, measuring it. Later, I hear them chipping away at the plaster and concrete, then banging on the pipes as they work, and I can’t help but feel ridiculous, as if repairing the fountain will make everything all right.

  When I go outside to call them in for lunch I see that the two repairmen have dug a neat trench in the lawn in order to unearth and repair the pipe leading to the fountain. Around them lie piles of grass clippings and the branches of sampaguita and gumamela bushes.

  All three come in and wash their dusty hands in the kitchen sink. Their shirts stick to their bodies and their necks are also covered in dirt. They look at me anxiously to see if I am going to have lunch with them. When I leave the kitchen I hear them talking, joking lightly with the maid.

  The week passes with the noises from the fountain marking the hours and days. First they repair what plumbing they can repair. They tell me they will have to replace some of the pipes and that they will have to call in someone else to do the plaster work. I pay them and give them mangoes to take home. I want to be sure they will return on Monday.

  The children and I greet their father when he arrives late Friday night. He is driving the car this time and yes, he has the curtains, and yes, he did remember to bring some of the children’s toys and also candies for them. Gemma climbs onto his lap and falls asleep. It is very late for her and for the other children so we put them all to bed.

  I get in bed and lie with my hands clasped on my stomach. My nightgown sticks to the sweat on my legs, so I pull it up to my stomach and lay my palms on the fabric. My hands are warm. The smell of insect repellant hangs in the room but my husband doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Gil and your tatay want to rent this house out,” he begins.

  I’ve heard it all before. They know I’m against the plan, but they’ll probably do it anyway. My husband notices I’m not listening and becomes quiet.

  The fan spins steadily overhead. He reaches up and pulls the silver cord once to bring the fan down one speed. His arms, I notice, are still long. So are his legs. He has not yet grown stooped or heavy and he is tall for a Filipino. Years ago, shortly after we first met at the university, he told me he wanted to play basketball professionally. He was on the courts every afternoon after classes and he played for hours, not even noticing when I arrived and sat in the bleachers. He played with a smile on his face, even during competitions, as if everything was funny.

  Lying in bed, I watch him walk to the door and flick the light switch. My palms are sweaty, my legs itch with sweat. A few moments later, in the darkness from his side of the bed, he says “good night.” I want to kick the sheets off, my body is so warm.

  The next morning my husband walks around the yard to see what the yard man has done. I stand at the door and call him in for breakfast. He is by the fountain and doesn’t hear me at first, then he looks up as if I have startled him or caught him off-guard.

  Over breakfast he tells us news from Manila. “Your sister is pregnant,” he says.

  “She’s pregnant?” I’m surprised and I look in his eyes for the first time in weeks. We both look away.

  “Yes,” he says quietly, “eight weeks.” He sips from his cup of coffee and regains his composure. Rumors of martial law are running through Manila. He and my brother have talked about it and think a presidential decree would be a good idea. Something needs to be done about all the shootings. He glances at Emil who is drinking his Ovaltine.

  “I thought you didn’t like that.” He points to Emil’s glass.

  Emil pauses with chocolate on his lips. “I like it,” he says and continues drinking.

  My husband is silent. His hand is on his chin as if he is thinking about the Ovaltine. He sticks his fork into his ham and resumes eating.

  “You’re fixing the fountain,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  The children save us from the silence by asking him a question. They want to take a walk down the river to the rice paddies. They have never been this close to them before. “It’s hot and wet out there,” he says. “And there are a lot of mosquitoes to bite your plump bodies.” I also say no, for my own reasons. I do not want them retracing the steps of my memories. Marisa looks unhappy. She is not plump, she says and pouts.

  We have dinner with Tita Lucy again, except for Marisa who stays home with the maid. This time the other aunt, Herminia, is also present, but she’s so old she doesn’t understand what’s going on around her. She doesn’t recognize us, doesn’t know where she is, and refuses to eat dinner although Tita Lucy tries to coax her. She sits at the table frowning at us all as we eat. Her eyes confront me. I become angry and drop food from my spoon. I calm myself, stare at my plate, and begin deliberately eating.

  “Will I see you in church this Sunday?” Tita Lucy asks, accusingly.

  I want to tell her last week we went on Saturday, in Manila. Don Bosco church. But instead I say “yes.”

  At home, while we are dressing for bed, my husband asks if I am liking it here. “Yes,” I say. It is cooler, less dusty. I breathe easier. Then he says he’s not sure if he can come next week. I pause for a moment, not sure of what I should say.

  “You see,” he continues as if I have raised objections, “they are giving me a lot of work. I brought some of it with me but haven’t had a chance to do it. I just can’t work here. Too many distractions.”

  “It’s all right.” I watch in the mirror as my hair moves with the brush, then settles around my face.

  “How are the children?” he asks. “They seem to like it here. They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

  “They’re having fun.”

  “Do they have any friends here?”

  “Yes,” I lie and set down the brush.

  “That’s good.”

  I look at my face in the mirror and don’t feel like myself. “We’ll be back in a month and a half anyway,” I say. “We’ll see you then.”

  His hand remains suspended on the silver cord of the fan. Then he yanks it. “That’s right.” He nods. “That’s right.” He flicks off the light.

  “And it is a long drive.”

  He lifts the sheet and slides into bed. “Very long,” he agrees. I lie on the other side of the bed. He reaches across the space and lays a hand on my breast. “I’m sorry,” he says and kisses me with some guilt, or sadness. He moves closer and kisses me again. I am annoyed with him, with his hand on me. He must sense this because he hesitates then moves away.

  He leaves after lunch the next day, after telling the children he will see them in a month and a half. Gemma cries. He gives them each a long hug. “Don’t worry,” he tells me and smiles weakly. Once he has left, life in the house rearranges to fit his absence. The days stretch luxuriously before me. Marisa and Emil play with Gemma. “There’s nothing else to do,” Marisa says, accusing me.

  The men return to continue working on the fountain. They’re not even halfway done yet, they tell me. Maybe by the end of the week. Then they will bring the man who will do the plaster work. I feel somewhat ridiculous. As if cleaning the house, fixing the fountain and restoring the yard will mean anything, will change anything. Still, I cannot help but believe this.

  I go to the market again, hoping to find Dolores. I plan it carefully this time, going on a different day, taking another route. On the way home I become brave and turn on to a familiar street. The street is rutted, dusty, full of stones. It has never been paved. My feet hurt from walking on the stones. Dust clings to my legs. I walk further.

  The children playing in the street stop to stare at me. One of the little boys pulls on his sm
udged t-shirt and it slips below his shoulders. A woman watches me from behind the counter of a small sari-sari store selling only soft drinks and beer and snacks.

  I stop to buy a soft drink from the woman. She gives me a big smile and is full of activity as she prepares my drink. It is like a show for me. Pluck the bottle out of the old cooler, wrench the cap off, insert a straw and set it firmly down on the counter with a smile. But I do feel better and I appreciate this woman. I pay her for the drink and sit down on the stool in front of the store.

  “Did you just come from the market?” she asks.

  I swallow the soda and it fizzes in my throat. “Yes.”

  “It’s a hot day for walking.”

  I nod in agreement. She is waiting for me, so I reciprocate. “I’m looking for Aling Zenaida. I remember she lived around here.”

  The woman shakes her head and lays her fat hands on the counter. She leans toward me. “She died ten years ago. She became very sick one summer. She had diabetes you know.”

  “I didn’t know. I haven’t been here in many years.”

  “Did you know the family? Her youngest, a daughter, lives there now.”

  “No.” This is partially true. I didn’t know the youngest daughter. She was a baby whom Dolores sometimes carried and fed so her mother would be free to tend to her sewing orders. The baby was the same age as my sister and I paid little attention to either of them. “She used to sew our clothes,” I explain to the woman. “She was a very good seamstress.”

  “Her daughter also sews,” says the woman. “I’m sure she could do anything you asked her. She’s as good as her mother.”

  “Oh no.” I stand. “I won’t be in town much longer and I wouldn’t want to rush her.” I smile my thanks to the woman. “Goodbye.” The children again interrupt their games to watch me as I leave. I try to ignore them. They are watching me and whispering among themselves. I walk quickly, the bag of groceries scratching against my left leg. I feel they know what I have been thinking and are whispering my secrets.

  When I arrive home I leave the bag in the kitchen and hurry to my room. I lock the door and lie on the bed, my hands clasped over my stomach. A breeze blows through the room bringing the smell of mango from the trees below the window. The chiffon curtains flutter. The palms of my hands lie sticky and sweaty on my stomach. Finally I get up and try to leave the room without looking out the window which, of course, I can’t do. There isn’t much to see. Outside the air is darkening, and inside too.

  “Mommy, Mommy.” Gemma is knocking at the door so I let her in. Her dark eyes squint at me. I give her a hug of reassurance and she takes my hand and leads me outside to admire, in the dim light, a picture of herself drawn in colored chalk on our driveway.

  “Did you do this? It’s very pretty.” I pat her hand. “You look very happy.”

  “Yes,” she says proudly, then “Mommy, are you happy?” I notice that Marisa, who is sitting on the porch, is also waiting for an answer.

  April passes into May and the days grow hotter and more humid. The trees grow heavier with mangoes and a few of the neighbors ask if they can pick some. My husband has already told me I shouldn’t let them. They might think they can just take the fruits once we are gone. But he isn’t around so I let people pick the mangoes. They come in groups and stand under the trees wiping the sweat from their foreheads while they look up into the branches. One person in each group climbs into the branches searching for the choicest fruit. Some of the others use poles with hooks at the end to grasp the fruit by the stem and pull it down.

  Sometimes I offer them drinks and we talk for awhile. They are always very polite and always remember that I am Doña Ofelia’s granddaughter. My name is no longer Villamor, but Salcedo. Still, I am the granddaughter of the family who once owned a lot of the rice fields surrounding the town. We still get our rice from these fields, although the location and extent of our holdings are a mystery to me. Once a month my brother Gil, or his eldest, Gabby, delivers a huge sack of rice to our house. I do not know where it comes from.

  A few of the boys take Emil up into the trees with them and soon he is balancing on the limbs like an expert. Marisa yells to him the locations of the mangoes and he picks them and drops them down to her and Gemma. I remember Danny would drop those yellow mangoes down to Dolores and me, and we would miss most of them. We accused him of throwing and not dropping them, but I think the problem was we grew dizzy from looking up into the trees, so dizzy that we would collapse on the grass. Danny would join us and we would lie there talking and trying to clear our heads. We didn’t mind that the grass was dry and poked us.

  At some point, which I can no longer locate, we crossed some line or some golden, blurred moment of time and Danny and I were no longer only friends. The three of us accepted it as we accepted the necessity of keeping this knowledge from our parents.

  Danny and I, we met secretly under the mango tree by the river. Everything was rushed and furtive and left a longing which I hoarded. It was an aching, empty feeling and when it grew dim I fed it with memories of slender hands and sweet lips and dark, dark hair and eyes. We could not let other people see us together, I told him, because they might talk about us. The truth was I wanted to long for him. I wanted to long for him and so I did not let him get too close. Passion is sadness, it is preserved by distance. This is what I had been told, what I had learned in stories, in the romantic poems. He knew those too. He knew those same stories.

  I shade my eyes and look up into the tree at my boy who is beginning to slim down a little, who is a little less serious up in the branches. Marisa’s hair clings to her neck and shoulders. She is yelling to him, “more, more.” They still need more mangoes, many more.

  I can see these two are becoming exuberant. They are beginning to discover a depth and immensity in themselves that I once knew. Danny and I thought we were vast. How could anyone possibly know us? I think this is true; we were immense because we were young and passionate. But this is dangerous, I want to warn my children, because it does not last. “Enough,” Marisa yells. “Enough.” And I am relieved.

  The two workers, and the one plaster worker, finish the fountain. I pay them the rest of the money and give them each a bagful of mangoes. Before they leave they turn on the water to the fountain and give me a few last-minute directions. They have no telephones, so they leave me their names and addresses in case I have any trouble with the fountain. I cup my hands to catch some water. It’s surprisingly cool.

  Again, I go to the market, a Thursday this time, and I take a slightly different route. I’m not sure why I’m going, not after the meeting with the woman who sold me the soft drink. I should have asked about the other children, if they were still around, what became of them.

  Does Danny remember me? Does he sometimes look in a woman’s eyes and feel, for a moment again, that vastness? Does he sometimes think of the taste of mangoes on our tongues? The questions I really want to ask are the ones I can’t ask. Even listing them, asking myself makes me hurt.

  At the market I buy anything. I don’t know what we need and I never ask the maid. Onions, garlic, fish, bean sprouts, even some sweet rice cakes, all go into my bag. I buy a drink from one of the vendors and it comes in a pink plastic cup which is almost too flimsy to hold. The cup feels like water in my hands.

  I am at the corner of my street and almost home when a woman calls my name. We have just passed each other and I stop when I hear her say “Clara.” The sun is shining down on us prickling our skin. There are no trees around.

  “Clara,” she says again softly.

  I recognize her eyes first although they seem to be set deeper in her face than I recall. They are like Danny’s, large and dark brown in color. “Dolores!”

  We kiss each other on the cheek. She asks me if I have moved back. I’m only here for the summer, I explain. “You’re still so slender,” she says.

  She tells me she has four children. She married shortly after high school, to a man from a
town north of here. She is still pretty if a little tired-looking. Her hair is short now, short with white streaks. And her smile reveals old wrinkles. But my face has wrinkles also. I’m uncomfortable and not sure what to say to her although we were good friends once and I have been hoping to see her. We both look around the street. She shades her eyes from the sun. Her eldest, a boy, she tells me is due to graduate from high school soon. I wipe the sweat from my eyes.

  “Well, I must get home,” she says. She also has a bag which she switches from her right to her left hand.

  “You must stop by the house,” I say.

  “OK.” She nods.

  “Really, you must,” I insist. “Come pick some mangoes. The trees are full and I don’t know what to do with all of them.” I nod encouragingly. “And bring your children. They can see the fountain.”

  “Yes,” she says softly. She promises to drop by sometime. Then we leave that too-sunny corner. I think of her and Danny and I sitting on the brittle grass under the mango tree, our tongues sweet with the juice of mangoes.

  The next day I send the maid to the bakery to buy all types of pastries. I give her a list of meringue- and jelly-filled cakes, and airy rolls dusted with sugar. The children I send out for soft drinks. I am overpreparing, I know, but I want to be ready when Dolores comes.

  But she does not come immediately and the children and I eat the pastries and drink the soft drinks. We purchase more. And purchase more again. This is an act of faith which comes easily to me. Two weeks later, to the day, Dolores knocks on the gate.

  The sun is slipping behind the mountains already, but the light will last for another hour, long enough for us to pick fruit. Dolores is dressed in a shapeless, but neatly ironed sundress. Her children stand behind her, two boys and a young girl of about six. The other girl could not come, she explains. She gives me a jar of guava jam she made.