Birthplace

by K. S. Villoso

  “I believe you. Well, I’ll see what I can do. Text me if anything happens. And send me some load, won’t you? I’ll be out of cash at this rate.”

  I heard Mike curse before he mumbled, “All right.”

  I turned the phone off and returned to where Rachel Ann sat in the distance, looking into her jelly drink like she suspected it carried some sort of disease. I sighed. She wasn’t going to take this well. As soon as I’d tell her what her father had been up to, she’d scream, cry, blame me for everything, and then insist we get back immediately. Forget that the man had just threatened me bodily harm and that I was too young to die—I still hadn’t gotten what I wanted from Ciskong. I stood there, contemplating how I was going to break it to her. And then a grey cloud appeared overhead, which made me wonder why I even needed to break it to her in the first place.

  As soon as that idea got into my head, it started to make more and more sense. Why tell her at all? As far as she was concerned, her parents were giving her time and space and cooling their heads off in the process. It was just going to upset her to learn that was all an act and what they really wanted was her to make another mistake so they could grill her about it. I smiled at myself and strode back to the store. She gave me an icy glare.

  “So what was that all about?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Mike was just asking how we were and I told him I might drop by the hospital soon to get checked. Raw chicken can’t be good for you.”

  “And you say I’m paranoid about my food.”

  “There’s paranoid and then there’s seeing actual blood floating in your soup.”

  “And drinking it all up anyway. You know, the Japanese ate raw chicken during the war. It shouldn’t hurt you.”

  “So you’re Japanese now, is that it? I’m going down to check for a tricycle to take us back to town. Stay here and eat your jelly—it’s getting dark.”

  “Jelly tastes like piss.” But she didn’t get up from her seat, so I took that as a yes. I went back down again and kept walking until she was well out of sight. And then, I walked some more. I didn’t really have a good plan on hand—I just strolled around until it got dark and then I went back to the store, placed a hundred pesos on the counter, and frowned at her.

  “What?” she asked. “Where’s the tricycle?”

  “It’s too dark,” I said. “He didn’t want to go all the way down.”

  “Tonyo might,” the stall owner piped up helpfully as she took my money. “He’s got a tricycle.” I glared at her.

  Rachel Ann looked up. There was this hopeful look on her face that kinda made me sick. I shook my head. “No, no, I can’t impose on them like that, and Rachel Ann, it’s too dark. I don’t want our ride to hit some rock and go flying down the hill. Ciskong will let us stay the night. Come on.”

  “What?” she said. “We’re staying here? I’ve got nothing, Pablo! Nothing to wear, nothing to—”

  “We’re going to have to make do,” I said.

  Her voice became shrill. “That’s ridiculous! You could at least have told me we might have to stay the night so I could’ve packed better or not gone with you at all!”

  “And not met Enrique?” I asked her. “I didn’t know where we were going, remember? We just wanted to get out of there. Don’t blame me now.” I patted her shoulders. “It’ll be okay. We’ll run down home first thing in the morning. You’re tired, anyway—do you really want to commute at this hour and just end up having to listen to my aunt yell at us for staying out so late?”

  That got her. She made a face. “I just don’t much like the idea of staying at Old Ciskong’s, but I guess if we have no choice…”

  “Oh, you’re talking about that Ciskong, eh?” the stall owner broke in. “Well!”

  It’s amazing how little attention you pay someone until they do something really annoying. I hate it when people just butt into my conversations, especially strangers. Especially twice in a row. I pretended to scratch something under the bench, just so I wouldn’t have to answer her, but Rachel Ann, blessed chatterbox that she is, immediately pulled herself closer to the woman’s ear. “Is there something we should know?” she asked, using that fake-whisper tone that indicated a natural gossip.

  The woman took the bait. “He’s been living here for a while now, for as long as I can remember, but I could never figure him out. I tell my kids to keep away from his farm. He’s a recluse, is what he is—keeps to himself, rarely comes by. Mumbles to himself a lot. Anyway, a few years back he leaves for about a month or so and we thought for sure something must have happened to him. I mean, his carabao died within the week, just tied out there in his field. The stench was horrendous. Then when we were starting to ask around about him, wondering if he’s not lying in some ditch somewhere, same as that carabao, he strolls back home like nothing happened with a little boy in tow.”

  “Enrique,” Rachel Ann said.

  The woman nodded. “That boy. Well! Bunch of other things I can tell you about that boy, too. But where was I? Yes, Ciskong comes back with little Riko. Boy was thinner than a reed and looked like a ghost. Said the boy’s mother just died and he had no one else in the world, but we thought that was strange, because it’s not like Ciskong to care. He’d been alone for the longest time.”

  “Not the longest time,” someone said from behind her, and I had to stop myself from groaning. Great. Interrupt the interrupter, why don’t you? At this rate we were never going to get anywhere. An older woman appeared, likely the other’s mother from the same flat shape of her nose. She had a wart the size of a raisin on her forehead. “You wouldn’t know, because this was back when we moved to the city for a while and you were still so young. But he had a boy there on his farm too, for a while. Aldo or something. Ronaldo, I think.”

  “Julio,” I said.

  The old woman nodded gravely. “Yes, Julio! That was it. So you’ve heard? Poor boy.”

  I pretended not to be as interested as I was. “Why do you say that?” I asked, looking down. My heart started hammering against my chest. I didn’t know why.

  She gave a nasal snort. “I was a young woman then, coming by to visit my parents back when they owned this store. Some of my errands took me past his farm. Once in a while I would hear that boy screaming, arguing, and one time I caught him outside with bruises down his shoulders. I tried to talk to him but he wouldn’t look me in the eye.”

  “I don’t understand.” I took a deep breath. “He lived here?”

  “For a while,” the old woman grumbled. “Like I said.”

  I left that store feeling like someone had taken an ice pick and jammed it through my skull. That sounds like something a drunken seaman would say, but it’s true. I’m usually pretty sure about what I think or feel about things and it was the first time in my life, I guess, that I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t know if I was angry that Ciskong didn’t tell me sooner that Dad had lived there before, or if I was angry at my dad for being the way he was that I had to come all the way out here and walk into things I never wanted to know, or angry at myself for thinking that I would feel sad at the thought of my father crouched out there by the side of the road with tears running down from his eyes. Complicated stuff, I know. Without a doubt, though, I felt like shit. And Rachel Ann picked up on that, because somewhere down the road, in the dark, she came up to me and slapped me on the cheek.

  “What the hell was that for?” I grumbled, dodging the second blow.

  “You were too quiet,” she countered. “It scares me.”

  “I was thinking about Joy,” I lied.

  She narrowed her eyes. I guess she didn’t know me as much as I sometimes believed, because she nodded. “You miss her, huh?”

  “Sure,” I said smoothly. “Especially when I’m around you. When you’ve been around such a sweet, and shy, and demure young woman—”

  Yeah, yeah, I’m a jerk, but in my defense, she started it.

  Anyway, we got back to Ciskong’s house and Rachel Ann told him we had t
o spend the night and I don’t think I’ve ever seen an old man smile the way Old Ciskong did at that news. It chilled me to the bone. After dinner, which was rice and canned sardines, thank God, we set up weaved mats on the floor. Rachel Ann was supposed to sleep in the only room, out of courtesy for being the only girl, but she sat by me while she watched TV and I stared at the flickering lights, my thoughts scrambling all over each other like rats in a bucket. I supposed they bit each other, too, because when I finally closed my eyes to catch some sleep, all I could see was blood.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  * * *

  You know how sometimes you wake up and you just know that there’s something wrong? Maybe someone had forgotten to lock the front door, or your favourite cat’s been run over somewhere down the road, or it’s early in the morning and your father isn’t home yet. That sort of thing. Well, that night I opened my eyes and that feeling descended on me as if someone had just thrown a heavy blanket over my head. I couldn’t ignore it and go back to sleep—it was that strong.

  I groped around in the dark and finally found a sofa leg, which I used to pull myself up. When my eyes finally adjusted, I realized that I was alone. I had been sleeping on the floor beside Enrique and Old Ciskong—like I said, there was only one room and they gave that to Rachel Ann. I fell asleep before either of them, but I remembered Enrique coming home before I drifted off completely.

  Anyway, the dilapidated plastic alarm clock on the window sill, with the glow-in-the-dark arms, told me it was half past one. I leaned back into the sofa and placed it in my hand, just to be sure. A soft breeze came in through the lace curtains and I felt a chill run across my arms.

  The bad thing about being alone like that is how you start thinking about things, even when they’re totally inappropriate for the situation. That old woman’s words came back to me. The image of my father as a young boy was stronger than ever. Try as I might, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Don’t take it the wrong way—I didn’t feel sorry for him, not one bit. If you got hit by your elders, it was your fault; he’d drilled that into my head long enough to know that he deserved whatever lashing he got from Old Ciskong. But I guess it was because I had never imagined my father as a boy, ever. All my life I had known him as this dark, stone-faced man who loomed over everything I did and everything I was. Suddenly, I realized that I wanted to know more. Not just so I could hack his stupid email account. I wanted to know what he had been doing here, and where his father was, and why my grandmother and him separated, and where was Aunt Sabelle in all this?

  It bothered me a lot. It wasn’t like me to care.

  Exhaustion crept up on me again and I dove back to the floor. For maybe a good five minutes I lay there feeling the round cotton seeds inside my pillow, and then it seemed like I didn’t sleep at all and it was already morning. There was light streaming from the windows and all across the living room and I was staring at Enrique, who looked less handsome with spit around his perfectly-proportioned mouth.

  “Breakfast!” I heard. Rachel Ann walked out of the kitchen with a huge grin on her face. “Come on, you two. Lolo got some eggs this morning. He already ate. Said it was up to me to take care of you boys.”

  Something about the way she held that ladle in her hand made me narrow my eyes in suspicion. “You cooked?”

  “Of course I cooked,” she said. “Why not?”

  “Because you can’t cook.” It would’ve been too mean to outright say the other half-dozen responses that came to my mind.

  She frowned. “I can so cook. But if you don’t want any, that’s fine. Go hungry for all I care. I made it for Riko, anyway.”

  “Wake up, sunshine,” I grunted, kicking Enrique awake. “Rachel Ann has a surprise for you.”

  We stumbled into the kitchen. Rachel Ann took the still-confused Enrique by the shoulders and fussed over him like a mother hen. She got him a plate, served him up some scrambled eggs, and started mixing him some coffee. In the meantime, I had to sit at the far end and serve myself. The stuff wasn’t half bad, if you ignored the bits of shell and that hair I found, but honestly, how much worse can you screw up eggs? They’re practically pre-mixed. I started to tell her that, but she was too engrossed with Enrique, who, to be honest, seemed more interested in picking at his food than pretending to listen to her ramble. There were round, black rings under his eyes.

  I chewed on a piece of bread carefully. “What’s the matter, man? You look like a mess. Didn’t you get any sleep?”

  “Knowing how much you snore, Pablo, I’m guessing he didn’t.” Rachel Ann gave me her usual accusing glare.

  Enrique pushed the plate away. “He didn’t snore,” he said levelly, as if it had been a serious statement. “I’m sorry. I’m—I’m just not fond of eggs.” I noticed his skin was a little pale, as if he’d been dipped in ash. He also looked like he was about to throw up.

  “Oh. That’s okay, then,” Rachel Ann said. She looked disappointed and strangely non-homicidal. I didn’t have time to comment. My phone started buzzing and I flicked it open to reveal a message from my service provider. Mike had just sent me a hundred pesos worth of load. I excused myself from the table and went outside to give him another call.

  “What’s up?” I asked, as soon as I heard him pick up on the other end. “I’ve had my phone on since this morning. What’s happening out there?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t get the chance to text you or anything.” There was a brief pause. “Er, I dropped by your house. Her father’s still there. With the gun still in his hands.”

  I sighed. You had to admire the guy’s persistence, but this was starting to get ridiculous. “He’s serious, huh?”

  “You know him better. You tell me.” He chuckled. “If he doesn’t kill you, Auntie Sabelle will. She says she can’t forgive you for causing as much trouble as you have, and that your dad—”

  “Yeah, yeah. How about my mom? Did she ask about me?”

  “Sorry Pablo. She got to me first. And then when she found out about Rachel Ann’s dad she promised not to tell. She—well, she asked me to ask you, when she found out you went to your dad’s relatives. She wants to know why.”

  I blinked at that. Why? Why what? Why was I stirring the pot, so close to Christmas? Why didn’t I tell her what I had planned in the first place? After the way she treated me, she expected us to be close? I asked as much. Mike mumbled something, and when I demanded he clarify, he said, “You shouldn’t be so angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” I retorted. Actually, I might have been yelling a little, but that wasn’t the point. “It’s just that I’m sick of being treated like inconvenient baggage.”

  “It’s not like that.” He sounded almost apologetic. “You think too little of people, Pablo. Your mom just wanted to know why you were suddenly interested in your father’s past. She said if it had anything to do with an email he sent you a week ago, that she already talked to him about it. And that she wants to say sorry—that your dad just can’t help who he is. That they love you very much. Pablo? Pablo, answer.”

  My eyes had gotten blurry. I have allergies, you know, and there was too much damn grass on this farm. I turned my phone off and shoved it as far down in my pocket as I could.

  “Pablo.” It was Enrique’s voice.

  I ran my fingers over my eyes before I glanced up at him. There was a quizzical look on his face. I wondered how much he had heard and made it a point never to forgive him if he ever mentioned it. But he didn’t say anything like that.

  He held up what seemed to be at first glance a wooden toy gun. “We woke up quite late. I thought we could go grab us some lunch first. Rachel Ann said she’ll make the rice.” And then, looking a bit embarrassed, he added, “She does know how to make rice, right?”

  “Uh, yeah, sure,” I said. I looked at the contraption in his hands. “So by get lunch, I take it you mean something that doesn’t come in a bag or a can. What are we looking for?”

  He shrugged. “Anything.
Birds, probably. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Just let me grab some slippers,” I said. I paused. “Why not take Rachel Ann instead? She seems partial to you. And she’s probably better at killing things.”

  The look he gave me in response could have curdled milk.

  You know, as cool as I make myself sound sometimes, I’ve made my fair share of mistakes. Things that seemed like a good idea at the time and that I later regretted. Like one time when I bent across my seat to try and flip the teacher’s skirt. I had pictured a glorious moment where I would reveal her hideous panties to the rest of the class, to much hilarity, and then angelically twist back into place before she was none the wiser. Only I had misjudged the distance and ended up toppling nose-first to the floor, which made sure that the only hilarity that ever occurred that day was directed at me. Another time, I threw a ball into a window. Well, yeah, it went straight in and I heard the yowl and the ensuing crash that followed, just as I predicted. Except I sort of liked that ball and never did get it back.

  That morning marked one of those few moments in my life. I don’t know what possessed me to agree to accompany Enrique. God knows, he might’ve gone alone if I’d suggested it. I suppose I agreed mostly to be able to have some time away from Rachel Ann, but half an hour’s traipsing through the woods made the idea of getting stuck with her in Ciskong’s hut more and more attractive by the moment. Enrique had failed to mention that we were going to be hiking quite a distance, or that I was going to get a considerable quantity of leeches stuck to my thighs. And it didn’t help that I was wet, hungry (I should’ve eaten more of those eggs than I dared), and in sore need of the kind of company that talked back.

  Well, that last part wasn’t entirely fair. Maybe an hour or so later, Enrique must’ve guessed what I was thinking or heard my unsaid complaints, because he turned around and gave me his walking-stick. “Here,” he said. And then he did that half-smile. “You really are a city boy, aren’t you?”