OUTPOURING: Typhoon Yolanda Relief Anthology

by Dean Francis Alfar

  “I do love the photograph. People find it jarring, but these women are so beautiful.”

  “Jarring? How so?”

  But Mr. Jameson didn’t hear the question. He was staring at the photograph now, his eyes scanning the three women, left to right, left to right. “Look at the tilt of the head on this one,” said Mr. Jameson. “Just look at that.” He pointed to the woman in the center. She stood in water, her skirt wet to the knees. Mr. Jameson ran his thumb along the contour of her cheek.

  Marivic waited patiently for Mr. Jameson’s reverie to end, but after a few minutes, a sudden panic rose inside her. “Stop it!” she said. She knocked the old man’s hand away from the photograph. His watery eyes narrowed. He would have said something, certainly, if they hadn’t been interrupted.

  “Hello Carter!” Jonathan’s voice reached across the room like a slap. When Marivic turned to look, he was racing towards them, his eyes firmly set on Marivic’s. “My father says to remind you about the twenty bucks you owe him.”

  “You can tell him where to put that twenty bucks,” said Mr. Jameson. He shook Jonathan’s hand and grabbed his shoulder. “How are you, young man?”

  #

  They were greeted exuberantly—far too much so, if you were to ask Marivic—by the maitre d’, a Filipino man in his late 50s with heavily pomaded hair fashioned into what Marivic imagined was once a voluminous pompadour. Time had thinned it out, but it was clear to her that Rogelio Napoleon Macaraeg (his entire name was displayed on his lapel pin), proud employee of Club Albany, insisted on maintaining a style he’d perfected when a teenager in Manila.

  “Welcome! Welcome, Mrs. Jameson! Good evening, Madam! I see you’ve brought guests,” Rogelio said. His gaze rested on Marivic for a moment until he caught himself and continued with his exemplary customer service. Marivic blushed deeply, whether for herself or for him she wasn’t sure.

  “And will Mr. Jameson be joining you for dinner?”

  “He’ll be a little late. There’s a meeting in town, you know. The Audobon Society is raising a fuss over one thing or another. Oh, Roger,” said Mrs. Jameson, “who can keep up with it?” She offered a mock sigh and put the back of her hand to her forehead.

  “I see, Madam! My mother called those types ‘busy bodies,’” said Rogelio. He smiled wide, revealing healthy teeth.

  “Roger, remind me again. How long have I known you?” Mrs. Jameson unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap.

  Marivic, attempting to communicate her discomfort over the fact that Mrs. Jameson was not addressing the maitre d’ by his proper name, dug her nails into Jonathan’s palm. “What is it, Vic? Jesus,” he whispered. “Relax, relax.”

  “Madam, I work here at Club Albany twenty-five years now,” Rogelio answered.

  “Twenty-five years! Say it isn’t so,” said Mrs. Jameson. “Well, by now you know I can do without the chit-chat! Be a doll, would you, and bring me something to quench my thirst.”

  “The usual, Madam. Of course,” said Rogelio. He took three steps backward before turning away from the table.

  Mrs. Jameson sat erect as she surveyed the room, occasionally waving wildly and mouthing an exaggerated how are you to the friends she had known since she and Mr. Jameson were newlyweds. Her ritual complete, she turned her attention to Marivic. “Now, dear,” she said. “Tell me where you’re from? Cuba, was it? We visited in 1951! Carter and I have traveled the world, I tell you!”

  Marivic stared in silence at her hostess.

  “Her family comes from the Philippines originally,” explained Jonathan. He put his arm around his fiancee and squeezed gently. “They made their living in sugar.”

  Marivic turned her entire body towards Jonathan and looked at him as if for the first time. “What did you say?”

  “Sugar, right? That’s what your Uncle Alex told me.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Jameson. She nodded. “Sugar is a cornerstone of the economy in Cuba.”

  “Oh my god, Jonathan. Uncle Alex is a huge liar.” She held up a hand to stop him from touching her. “Excuse me, please. I’m going to find the ladies room.”

  #

  Marivic moved swiftly through the dining room and down an unmarked hallway muttering curses under her breath. She swung open a door that opened onto what must have been the employee parking lot. Four pinoys—two in busboy uniforms, one in waiter garb, and the other in chef whites—stared at her. They sat on upended wooden crates, smoking.

  “Do you need help, Miss? Are you lost?”

  She wanted to tell them that she wasn’t lost, that she’d known exactly where to go. Instead she said, “Can I sit?”

  “Sure,” said the waiter. His nametag said ‘Frank.’ He indicated an empty spot, and then asked her, “Filipino ka ba?”

  “Of course.” Marivic sighed. She answered this question all the time from people she felt ought to know better.

  “Sorry,” he said. He exhaled smoke and shrugged. “You don’t look Filipino.”

  “Does anyone look Filipino?” Marivic said. She looked at each of them in turn.

  There was an uncomfortable silence followed almost immediately by laughter. “That’s true, di ba?” said Frank. “We look Mexican,” he said, almost to himself.

  “Or ‘Hawaiian,’” said one of the busboys. “I always get that: ‘are you Hawaiian?’”

  “Dang, that’s funny.” His comrades slapped hands and held their sides in the exaggerated fashion particular to young men.

  Marivic stood up then and expertly flipped her cigarette in the direction of Frank, who obligingly crushed it under his heel.

  Just then the door swung open once again and Rogelio, the world’s most fastidious maitre d’, stuck his head out into the parking lot. “Frank, boys, what’s going on here, ha?” he said. “It’s getting busy in…” his voice trailed off when he noticed Marivic.

  “My father does that,” said Marivic. She smiled at Rogelio.

  “Your father does what?” Rogelio said.

  “He only uses his accent when he speaks to other Filipinos.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Yes, pare, you do,” said Frank. He gave Rogelio a pat on his back and then disappeared through the door and back to work.

  “Okay, boys, the rest of you get back inside. Break is over,” said Rogelio. He shut the door and then opened it again. “And you shouldn’t be speaking to the guests.” He took one more look at Marivic before he left.

  Marivic shrugged and stared down at her shoes. The circle sat in silence for a few minutes like children chastised for petty wrongdoing.

  One of the busboys spoke first. “You look like someone I know,” he said. “Someone from back home.”

  Marivic looked at him closely and realized he was too old to be a busboy, really. His hair was flecked with gray; she guessed he was already past thirty. But she liked him, and she liked the way his statement dropped her squarely in a place that could be pointed to on a map. Someone from back home. Her posture relaxed, and she said, “Do I?”

  Before he could answer, the younger busboy indulged an impulse. “But are you like some kinda coconut or what?”

  “A coconut?”

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “You know…”

  “Yes, I know: brown on the outside, white on the inside.” She swallowed. “That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it,” said the boy. He scanned the horizon self-consciously, pretending not to feel his shame.

  “You think those tattoos make you more Filipino than I am?” She pointed to the alibata script peeking out from under his sleeve. He lifted his arm to take a look and then shrugged. “You think because I’m with a white guy I don’t know where I come from?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, okay? That’s all.”

  By the time Marivic stood up to leave, they were all apologizing. Weeks later she would wonder why.

  #

  Back inside Club Albany, Marivic walked to t
he ladies room to wash her hands. Then she strode across the dining room and took her place beside Jonathan, who instinctively draped his arm around the back of her chair. “I’m sorry I took so long,” she said.

  “Darling, we thought maybe you’d climbed out of the restroom window!” shrieked Mrs. Jameson. “Like in a 1940s comedy!” She held up her empty glass, which was immediately whisked away by Frank. He smirked discreetly, and Marivic pretended not to notice.

  “What’s his problem?” said Jonathan.

  “Oh, who knows?” Marivic said. She sipped her ice water.

  “Look who’s here!” Rogelio called from a good fifteen feet away. He ushered Mr. Jameson to the table. Mrs. Jameson held out her hand to her husband, and he brought it to his lips.

  “Thank you, Roger,” said Mrs. Jameson. She had somehow managed to smear lipstick all over her front teeth. “Goodness, James-y, I thought you’d never get here.”

  Mr. Jameson took a seat and tipped an imaginary hat at Jonathan and Marivic. “Good evening, young lovers.”

  “Hello, Mr. Jameson,” said Marivic. She turned to Mrs. Jameson. “His name is actually ‘Rogelio.’”

  “What’s that? No, I call Mr. Jameson ‘James-y.’ Always have.”

  “Sweetheart,” said Mr. Jameson. “I think Marivic is referring to our maitre d’. And she’s perfectly correct: his name is Rogelio. I’ve been telling you that for years.”

  “Thank you,” whispered Marivic. She wasn’t sure why she said this. For pronouncing her name correctly? For pronouncing Rogelio’s name correctly? For correcting his insipid wife? Jonathan stared at her, bewildered.

  “Who?” asked Mrs. Jameson. “I have no idea what’s going on.” She placed her cocktail on the table and crossed her arms over her chest. “What is going on?”

  “Rogelio,” Marivic said, her voice rising. “The man who’s been seating you here at Club Albany for the last twenty-five years. His name is not ‘Roger.’ His name is Rogelio.”

  “I don’t know what she’s saying.” Mrs. Jameson shook her head and looked first at her husband, then at Jonathan. “What is she saying?”

  “Why can’t you understand me?” said Marivic. “I’m speaking in plain—”

  “It’s nothing, Tish. I think it’s just something about the maitre d’.” said Jonathan.

  “Did you just cut me off, Jonathan? Because I was speaking, you know. I was speaking in plain English.”

  “Baby, please stop,” Jonathan said. He grabbed her right hand and squeezed it gently. “Please.”

  Mr. Jameson slid his glass of scotch in Marivic’s direction. She raised the glass towards him and took a long sip.

  “This is all about the maitre d’? I’ve never seen such a fuss,” said Mrs. Jameson. “Have you ever seen such a fuss?”

  #

  A little after midnight, Marivic slid closer to Jonathan and listened for his even, steady breathing. She stared at his profile and tried to pinpoint the moment when everything had stopped making sense. She rested her forehead against his bicep, breathed deeply, and muttered an apology. Five minutes later she was in the bathroom, changing into jeans and a tee shirt. Then she walked into the great room, took the photograph off the wall, walked out of the Jameson’s house, and climbed into the car Jonathan had rented that morning.

  As she drove she checked the rearview mirror frequently, half expecting to see Jonathan, the Jamesons, and even Penny the maid chasing after her. At the airport, she paid a huge fee for changing her departure date.

  “This is extortion,” Marivic hissed.

  “Actually, Miss, it’s company policy,” said the customer service agent. She was unusually tall, her complexion washed out by a combination of the fluorescent lighting and her platinum-colored hair.

  “Yeah, well your company policy is extortionary.”

  The woman pointed to the photograph, which Marivic had gently placed next to her suitcase. “This will have to be boxed,” she said.

  “Oh, I’m not checking it in. I’ll be carrying it myself.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s too big to carry onto the plane. You’ll have to prepare it to be checked in.”

  “No, I’m carrying it on.”

  “Miss…”

  “Yes?”

  “You cannot carry that on.”

  Marivic glared. “I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”

  The supervisor was a man in his late twenties. He had emerged from behind a door with lips shut tight, his forehead creased with irritation. But when he saw Marivic, everything about him appeared to open, to soften. She elicited this reaction in some men—Jonathan among them, of course—and was utterly without compunction when taking advantage of the situation. “I’m Steven,” the supervisor said, reaching out his hand. “How can I help you?”

  “Well first of all, Steven, she is in a terrible mood,” said Marivic. With a tilt of her head she indicated the customer service agent and smiled. “She needs a raise or something. Employee of the month or something.”

  Steven laughed. “I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  “And second of all, I very much need to carry this picture on the plane with me. It’s a family heirloom,” Marivic lied. “And I’ll be completely disowned if anything happens to it.”

  “I understand. Let me just put this tag on it so no one bothers you.”

  “Thank you.”

  After boarding, Marivic was able to gently wedge the photograph between the left edge of her seat and the side of the plane, where it did not quite reach the level of the window. She wanted to sleep. Oh, how she wanted to sleep. Instead, she rested one hand on top of the photograph frame, leaned her head against the window, and waited.

  #

  Jonathan arrived the next evening, sooner than Marivic expected. She jumped off the couch and tried to look out the peephole without being detected. “I see you,” said Jonathan. “Open the door.”

  “Why? What’s the point?” Marivic asked. But she opened the door anyway.

  “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?”

  “You have got to be kidding me, Vic. I need it back.”

  “No. Why should I give it back?”

  “Marivic,” he said. “Are you crazy? Maybe you should give it back because you stole it from my parent’s oldest friends in the world.” He stepped over the threshold. “And made me look like an idiot, by the way.”

  Marivic scratched at her neck, leaving red marks. She shrugged her shoulders, shook her head, and then walked to the couch. It was a beige couch covered in a faint pattern of white circles. The walls were beige, too, and bare. Marivic could never decide what to hang, so she hung nothing. She collapsed onto the couch and stared at Jonathan. He leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. “What’s going on?” he said. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “You won’t get it.”

  “Then speak slowly.”

  “Oh, shut up, Jonathan,” she said. She instinctively covered her mouth with her hand, shocked at her own words. She had never spoken to him like that, but saw no point in reigning herself in at this point. She removed her hand casually. “You’re so patronizing.”

  “I’m the one who’s patronizing? You just told me I won’t ‘get it,’ and I’m the one who’s patronizing?”

  “You know, I could sit here all day trying to make you understand, and you would never get it. It’s just…it doesn’t belong to them, okay?”

  Jonathan opened his mouth to speak three times, but nothing came out. Finally, “Yes, it does.”

  “How? How does it belong to them?”

  “First of all, Vic, it was hanging in their home. Also, they’ve had it for almost a hundred years.”

  “That does not constitute ownership.”

  “What? Jesus Christ.” Jonathan put his head between his knees and stared at the rug. “Jesus Christ. What is the problem? I mean, exactly. I want to know exactly what the problem is.”

  “This was just neve
r going to work, that’s all.” She fumbled with the zipper on her sweatshirt. “I’m… I don’t know. I’m Filipino.” In the silence that followed, Marivic wanted nothing more than to take those last two words back; it was all so stupid. And though just three days ago Jonathan would have done anything to ease her discomfort, he no longer felt the responsibility.

  “Like I didn’t know that before? You are so full of shit. Why don’t you go ahead and explain to me how complicated it is to be Filipino.” Jonathan said. He said this while walking out of the apartment.

  #

  Marivic never spoke to Jonathan again, though she once called him at work and hung up. He had left without the photograph, and so she hung it on the wall in her bedroom, directly across from her bed. For some time she was worried he might come back to take it away. Part of her hoped that he would. Though she didn’t know it at the time, many of her solitary moments in the years to come would be devoted to imagining this meeting with Jonathan: what he would say, how she would answer.

  She glanced at the photograph before she fell asleep each night and when she rolled over each morning. She sipped green tea and stared at the woman in the center of the photograph, whose mouth was a perfect “o.” What are you saying? she asked as she dusted the dresser or changed the sheets. Her neighbor, a comic book artist with literary aspirations, now and again provided her with a small tin of marijuana. A few times a week, she smoked in her room and imagined that the woman on the right, whose free hand was caught mid-gesture in greeting or supplication, was calling to a young man she loved, but who had never loved her back. And then there was the third woman, the one Mr. Jameson had singled out that afternoon in Albany, her thick eyebrows knit together for all time in an expression of disappointment or, when observed during the subdued light of the winter months, disdain.