Orchid House

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  Julia sat in the front row, joining the sisters. A few others came to greet her, and then Markus appeared, handsome in his elegant dark suit, his black hair slicked back and smooth brown skin freshly shaven.

  “How are you today?” His thick black eyebrows were drawn together in concern.

  “Do I look that bad?” she said.

  He laughed. “Not at all. You look beautiful always, but indeed tired.”

  Julia moved over for him to sit beside her as the music from the organ suddenly swelled, and many of the mourners began to sing as they entered the church and found seats. Soon the pews were full; then the sides and back were stuffed with standing mourners. Some even peered through the open windows. Father Tomas came from a side door to a small balcony, where he was viewed by all below. He prayed in Latin and then spoke in a mixture of English and Tagalog.

  He spoke of Captain Morrison’s valor in war; his love of his wife, Julianna; his wisdom in rebuilding the hacienda; and the sorrow of them all over his exile from their land. Honor, courage, redemption, love.

  A man Julia had not known enough of. A man who began something great and was forced to leave it. His American family hadn’t listened much to Grandpa Morrison’s stories. They didn’t know him, know of the honor of such a man in their midst. Julia realized how little could be seen in the very details of a person’s own life, especially when she hadn’t been looking far beyond herself.

  The elements of Christ’s body and blood were carried to the front. Julia repeated the Lord’s Prayer and listened to the other prayers she didn’t know. She knew the solemnity of this ritual that was more than a ritual, a symbol and action of the heart and soul. She asked for a pure heart and longed for Christ to be within her. She did want renewal. She did want the bread and wine as the symbol of Christ’s body and blood to join within her body and blood.

  The stories of those who’d been here before came to her then. The faces of Elena the Cook and Cortinez, the One-Armed Spaniard, her grandparents. Weddings and wakes, infants christened, redemption sought, the Eucharist celebrated—all here within these walls.

  The Mass drew to a close, and Julia felt a great weariness envelope her. She grieved for a man, her own grandfather, whom she’d loved and thought she’d known until she came here. He was a cartoon character compared to the real man he had been. How she longed to hear his stories now, to go through his logbooks with him and discover his thoughts and plans to revive this place. During the final prayer, Julia felt something wet touch her hands. It was her own tears.

  Julia cried for the man in the casket. He had drawn her close and sent her here, not fully knowing what he sent her to do. She cried for what he’d loved and all that he’d lost. And she cried for her own life, unworthy of stories. For living for herself and fighting her own selfish causes. For the losses that crushed her, that made life empty. For tears that cleansed and for openness to the Divine.

  A horse-drawn carriage waited outside. The afternoon light shone on the black wood of the coffin; countless handprints covered the surface. Someone should have polished it, Julia thought, and then realized the poignancy of those handprints going with her grand-father into the earth.

  The horses’ hooves made the clickety-clack sound along the paved road as they quickly left the church and south end of the village and went toward the hacienda entrance. It was a long, silent walk. From farther away came the sounds of highway, an occasional dog or rooster crowing, some whispered conversations.

  Julia’s feet began to hurt, and a few children complained. She’d worn a black dress without nylons in this heat, but her low-heeled shoes chafed the tops of her toes. A few cars crept behind them, carrying elderly mourners. Some of the walkers began to sing again, and a young child raced up to hold Julia’s hand as they marched along.

  They walked between the lines of palms and through the iron gate; then the jeepney turned down a nearly overgrown road.

  The stories birthed from this very earth walked with the hundreds who followed her grandfather’s casket. A one-armed Spaniard bringing his bride to the land, a forlorn cook finding true love in a mythical cove, villagers crying to God through centuries of injustices, and the countless voices who would never be named.

  They were all here. The stories were the ghosts. And her grand-father, a man revered and greatly loved, had come home to join them.

  MANALO AND PACO FINISHED THEIR SECOND BEERS WHILE SITTING at a table outside the carinderia. The scent of grilled meat made Manalo’s stomach growl. The funeral procession was coming down the street, the clippity-clop of horses’ hooves and the footsteps of hundreds walking behind were like a cacophonic rhythm of failure.

  Timeteo had yet to return with word of his family.

  Times were changing. Manalo knew he might be reprimanded for the lack of action during Captain Morrison’s wake and for not striking the old Japanese commander out on the road. It surprised him how the American woman had respectfully dealt with the situation without being insensitive to the people. He couldn’t help but see something of value in her even if she was an American. Her eyes had glanced over him as she passed, and as he left, she’d come and shaken his hand, asking again what his name was and saying that she felt very honored that he had come.

  The boy had come close to her, and while she bent to adjust his tie, the boy’s eyes had stared cold into Manalo’s. He’d wanted to smile at the boy’s ferocious nature. He wondered if his oldest sons were so protective of their mother and sisters.

  The carriage came into view first, followed by the people. The American woman walked quietly with the others. Paco raised his eyebrows and did a low whistle when he saw her, but Manalo didn’t respond. He was that most rare of creatures, a one-woman man. Perhaps it was because they were so much apart that Malaya was a near mythical being to him. Of course he had been tempted over the years, but it was always Malaya for him and always would be.

  “We need to remind them that this country is not safe,” Manalo said wearily. He didn’t have the stomach or the drive for this anymore, and yet he had no other option. “The American will cower and hurry home. Let us create some fear and send a death threat to her family in the States. We’ve given respect to the Captain; now we need to do our jobs.”

  Paco nodded and pushed back his chair. Manalo motioned for another beer.

  Because if we do not, Manalo thought, our superiors might ask for more than threats.

  And even though he had more deaths to his name than he wished to remember, Manalo wasn’t itching to add any more.

  EMMAN KEPT HER EVER IN VIEW.

  He didn’t like not having a gun; his arms felt empty and longed even for his old wooden one. But it wasn’t respectful to carry weapons in the midst of a funeral.

  After Captain Morrison was laid into his final resting place, Miss Julia chose to walk once again. He’d noticed the bright red blisters on the edges of her black dressy shoes. Markus walked with her, much to Emman’s annoyance.

  Amang Tenio had sent word to the hacienda, where Emman had remained during the days of the wake. The Communist insurgents were near, and yes, they had been watched at the wake. Trouble brewed, and the men of the Barangay, gambling through the nights of the wake, talked it over.

  In Emman’s young memory there was always some trouble or another in the provinces, in one of the cities or in Manila itself, among insurgents, politicians, and government officials. This time such things had to do with their hacienda. If the cousins all got together, with their lands, all for one cause, it would make other groups pretty unhappy. Like the group that Ka Manalo guy was part of.

  There was the scent of rain in the sweet tropical foliage. Miss Julia paused in her walk, then said something to the lawyer beside her.

  Markus watched her as she gazed around the wide, green land with an expression that told Emman that he, too, was falling in love with Miss Julia. Emman couldn’t really blame the guy, even if he wanted to punch him in the face.

  He came closer, and M
arkus nodded to him in an acknowledgement of respect—not like most of the men in the Barangay who endlessly ribbed him about his youth. Markus wasn’t so bad, not really. In the days and nights of the wake, Emman had come to nearly like the guy. But he was still a soft city boy who was too often in close proximity to Miss Julia.

  She was talking to Markus again, and Emman was close enough to hear her now. The sound of her American accent was enough for him to listen to all day.

  “I’d like to investigate more of my grandfather’s plans,” she said. “I want to be involved with things here, even by long distance. Like Emman . . .”

  She looked at him then—so, Miss Julia did notice his presence after all.

  “I want Emman to have a future without a gun. I want Grace to wear a dress if she wishes, and for them to go to school and read about Tom Sawyer instead of hiding in the bushes following me as my assigned protectors.”

  Grace wear a dress? Yuck. Him without a gun? Even if he moved to Hawaii or the mainland United States, Emman would need a gun as a bodyguard or private eye. And who was Tom Sawyer? He’d never heard of Tom Sawyer on the television set. Women could be a little clueless.

  Emman longed to join the conversation—to tell Miss Julia how much he wanted to protect her and that he’d do so her entire life if she’d let him. But he must stay focused, and his faulty English always made him sound dumb.

  And then it came. He’d expected something much more dramatic, and because of the subtlety, he didn’t take it seriously at first.

  A strange noise from ahead, then a scream, and several men went running past them toward the sound. Women grabbed up their children and formed clusters that blocked the road.

  “Julia, wait here,” Markus said, and he too sprinted forward.

  A popping sound erupted. Machine guns.

  Julia ducked down, and Emman pushed her lower, covering her as much as he could with his body. More gunfire, closer now, and a sick sensation froze him with the anticipation of a bullet hitting one of them. He spotted Bok and Kiko crawling toward them—Bok had his small knife held out, ready to protect. A dog barked angrily and children were crying, probably more from being abruptly shoved to the ground than because of fear.

  Just as quickly the road ahead went silent. Emman rose up and scanned the people littering the ground. No one appeared hurt. He stood over Miss Julia, still crouched protectively low. Except for a few skinned knees and frightened expressions, all on this section of road were fine.

  “Thank you, Emman,” Julia said, brushing herself off. Then they both appeared to have the same thought. She shouted, “Come on,” and ran forward, weaving in and out of the crowd of people, some who were standing, others still crouched near the ground.

  “Wait, Miss Julia,” he said, racing after her.

  He nearly tripped over a girl who was picking up her crying little brother. Emman realized his team was coming behind them, and soon enough they surrounded Miss Julia, who couldn’t run very fast in her dress shoes.

  Then he saw Raul and Markus standing together on the side of the road.

  “Is everyone okay?” Miss Julia asked, out of breath and afraid.

  Markus was angry to see her. “I said to wait back there.”

  And then Miss Julia did a remarkable thing: she smiled. “How can I wait back there when I’m the doña of the hacienda? I’d look like a coward.”

  Markus didn’t find it humorous, but Emman did, even if he still kept guard and stayed close to her. Her brave smile in the midst of conflict endeared her to him all the more, even if she did think Grace should wear a dress.

  “The doña you are now?” Raul said, bending down to pick up an empty bullet cartridge.

  “That’s what everyone keeps calling me. So what happened?”

  A large group of people gathered around them, asking questions, pointing toward the left side of the road where a path could be seen leading into the jungle.

  “We had a disturbance, no one injured. Shots fired into the air, not at anyone.”

  “Who did it? Was it because of Mr. Takada?”

  “No, not that. This was Red Bolos. A scare tactic.”

  Emman knew why. They wanted the region and the country, wanted to save it in their own twisted way, and so they murdered and stole and terrorized.

  Markus kept looking around as though Julia could be shot any second. But the Communists would be gone, the men of his village hot on their trail.

  “Can we get her to the hacienda house?” Emman asked.

  “I’m fine,” she protested. “Where are the lolas?”

  “No, he’s right,” Raul said. “Good idea, Emman. And the Tres Lolas are ahead and surely need calming as well.”

  When they had Miss Julia safely in the house, consoling the Tres Lolas, Emman overheard Markus talking to Raul.

  “I think she needs to leave soon. Pinatubo is going to erupt. Manila isn’t the safest place either; there’s talk about another government coup, and she might be trapped there. I think for her own safety, Julia should return to the States.”

  SEVENTEEN

  M analo, I’ve been so worried.” He closed his eyes in relief at the sound of her voice. At last, at last. Timeteo had sent a message with a date and a time, and as he waited at the telephones, one of them had rung. And now he was hearing her voice.

  “I thought something had happened to you and they didn’t want to tell me. No one would tell me anything.”

  “Everything is fine. I’m sorry you were worried.”

  He wanted to tell her how he’d run to the house and found it empty. How he’d sobbed in the darkness out of such despair. And if he was with her, he’d whisper it all in her ear, and she’d cry and hold him close. But she’d never beg him to stay, though they both wished she would. They knew he might leave everything for her and the kids if only she asked. And then where would they be? Without the party, none of them had any protection at all. Manalo knew too much, and there would be no quiet retirement until something changed.

  “Are you okay, mahal kong asawa?”

  “They woke us in the night. It really scared the kids. It scared me too. I thought for sure—” Her voice broke then, and he could hear her courage dissolve.

  “Baby, it’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “What would I do if something happened to you?”

  “You won’t be on your own. You’ll always be taken care of.”

  “I don’t mean that. What would I do if I lost you? Even though we’re apart, we are together. You are always with me, and I am always with you.”

  He leaned his head against the metal of the phone booth. “Mahal na mahal kita.”

  “Oh, Manoy, I love you too. Mahal na mahal kita. This scared me.”

  “Don’t let it.”

  “We are all tired of this life, Manoy. Your children need a home. And after this last move, Akili and Rapahelo are having nightmares. Akili needs his father. He wants to join you.”

  “Never.”

  “Never? He needs a man; he needs you. I don’t want him to join the cause, but it’s his only way to know you.”

  His son was seventeen years old and had such potential to do much more with his life. Manalo had been fourteen when he first tasted battle, and from there he’d become a hunted fugitive. It wasn’t the life he wished for the boys. Their country was supposed to be a better place by the time his children were adults. And here the years had passed and he’d missed so much of their growing up.

  “Manalo. I’ve never asked you to find a way to be with us. But we can’t live like this much longer. And so for the first time, I’m asking.”

  It shocked and thrilled him. She was desperate for him, as desperate as he felt for her. “I miss you, Malaya. Don’t worry, I’m going to work this out.”

  They couldn’t talk long, not this time, so they made another appointment. Manalo hung up the phone and sat down on the curb, staggered under the weight of his sadness. Then he slowly rose back up as something more than his lon
ging and loneliness grew within the memory of her voice. More than at any other time in his life, Manalo knew he must do his duty now.

  Before the party, before himself, he had to save his family.

  “WHAT DOES THIS MEAN FOR US?” JULIA ASKED RAUL, HOLDING up the newspaper at the table. The photo depicted Mount Pinatubo with a plume of smoke and ash filling the clear blue sky. Seis-mologists believed it was only the beginning.

  For several months there had been volcanic activity around Pinatubo. The U.S. Clark Air Force Base had been evacuated as well as the towns around the mountain. Refugees were forced to live in camps. But that was far to the north, even north of Manila, and they were to the south. The distance looked to be about the same as that from San Francisco to LA.

  “It means nothing,” Raul said.

  And Julia translated his simple answers into what she thought he meant; it was a new amusement of hers. . . . Well, Julia, it doesn’t change much of anything here. And there is enough to worry about.

  “Then do we need to worry about what happened at the funeral?”

  “No.”

  No, Julia, the men of the Barangay Mahinahon have you well pro- tected, and it will not happen again. Though we do need to discuss your departure.

  She sometimes asked meaningless questions just to get his simple responses, until he frowned at her smile and Julia worried that she’d disrespected him.

  “Are the Communist rebels still in the jungles?”

  “Yes.”

  I’d rather not tell you these things, you being not only a woman but an American as well, but Captain Morrison would want me to show you respect and so I will.

  She smiled. As usual, he frowned. Julia picked up the paper and headed outside. At least she had a few days to decide what to do next.