literature quinto fiso 2009

8/3/2019 Literature Quinto Fiso 2009

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Either follow the steps below or go directly to the section that begins with How to analyzeShort Stories/Novels


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Read the assignment carefully and do the activities within.

1. Go to the following site and read the information under the title "Short Story Analysis"http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.html

Make sure you read it thoroughly as you may miss important information for the developmentof this task. Also, keep in mind the 26 questions that are at the end of the article.

2. Click on the links below and read the stories you find there.

The Mats, The Witch, Wedding Dance, Sink or Swim, Mahogany Watera. http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=12b. http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_10_01_archive.html3. Answer the 26 questions for each of the stories you read. The answers MUST beHandwritten and presented the first day of class next school year. Remember your vacationassignment represents 25% of your final score for the first partial.

Note: Answer MUST be well supported. Even yes/no answers need evidence from the storiesto be well supported.

------------------------------------------------------------------------How to analyze Short Stories/Novels

I. In literature and in writing its important to understand the subject and the theme and also beable to identify key points and create your own opinion. When analyzing a novel, you need todiscuss the following literary elements that are interwoven together seamlessly to create thegreat themes and plots.

Setting (When and where the story takes place)Mood(The overall feeling created by a writers use of words or the tone of the novel)Main Characters (Names, descriptions and events associated with them)Main Conflicts (The main disputes in the novel that move the story along and create the plot)Climax (The greatest tension in the story, a battle between the protagonist and Antagonist)Conclusion (The resolution after the climax).II. You also need to understand a story plot begins with exposition, introduction tocharacters, setting, rising action, turning point, climax and conclusion.

III. The following elements are also common in novels:Foreshadowing-is giving hints or clues of what is to come later in a story.1. Imagery-is the use of words to create a certain picture in the readers mind. Imagery isusually based on sensory details.

2. Irony-is using a word or phrase to mean the exact opposite of its literal or normal meaning.There are three kinds of irony:a) Dramatic irony, in which the reader or the audience sees a characters mistakes, but thecharacter does not;b) Verbal irony, in which the writer says one thing and means another.c) Irony of situation, in which there is a great difference between the purpose of a particularaction and the result.4. Point of View-is the vantage point from which the story is told.5. Theme-is the statement about life that a writer is trying to get across in a piece of writing. Inmost cases, the theme will be implied rather than directly spelled out.6. Symbolism-is a person, a place, a thing, or an event used as a technique in literature torepresent something else in order to support your writing.7. Characterization-is the method an author uses to reveal characters and their personalities.

8. Protagonist-is the main character or hero of the story.9. Antagonist-is the person or thing working against the protagonist, or hero, of the work.10. Paradox-is a statement that seems contrary to common sense, yet may, in fact, be true.11. Flashback-is returning to an earlier time (in a story) for the purpose of making somethingin the present clearer.
http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.htmlhttp://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=12http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=12http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_10_01_archive.htmlhttp://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_09_01_archive.htmlhttp://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=12http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-08%3A00&max-results=12http://tccnotesphillit.blogspot.com/2008_10_01_archive.html


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12. Stream of Consciousness-is a style of writing in which the thoughts and feelings of thewriter are recorded as they occur.

IV. Use the following: the names of the main characters, favorite quotes, while reading becausethis will be useful for an essay or book report.

How to Analyze Short Story Characterization

Characterization is the means an author uses to describe or develop a character for the reader.The brevity of a short story insures that there will be few characters. The main character is theonly character who is really developed, so characterization in a short story is fairly easy toanalyze.

Step 1Name the main character. Sometimes in a short story, the main character will be the onlycharacter. Other times there will be a few characters but only one who is mentioned repeatedlythroughout the story. Your analysis of characterization needs to focus on the main character.

Step2List the main character's physical attributes. As you read the story, keep a running list of any

physical descriptions of the main character. The author may reveal the character's height, age,hair color, style of dress or other things about his appearance. Since the story is short, theauthor won't have time to describe everything about the main character. Therefore, the detailshe does reveal are important and will probably give you clues about the character. For example,if the main character is described as having a sinister smile, the writer is not only usingalliteration to color his writing, he is pointing out that there is something evil about thecharacter.

Step3Identify character traits the main character displays. An author can reveal character traits in adescription of the character's appearance or in how he acts and what other characters in thestory say about him. Characterization in a short story is usually somewhat one-dimensional. Themain character may be evil, unpleasant and unhappy or helpful, caring and giving. She won't

usually display contradicting qualities.

Step4Consider the source of your information when deciding how accurate it is. What anothercharacter says about the main character may be more reliable than what he says about himself.

Step5Notice how you learned about the main character. Writers have different ways of describing acharacter in a short story. They can use narration to describe the character, dialogue to revealher attributes, or some combination of techniques.

How to Analyze Short Story Plot

Plot is an element of fiction that consists of the stages of action leading up to the climax of thestory. A short story does not afford the writer much time to develop an elaborate plot. A shortstory plot is rather simple and can be analyzed by following a few steps.

Step1List the events. A short story usually has one main character around whom all the action takesplace. Your list of events for any short story will probably consist of the movements of the maincharacter. Also make note of mental or emotional events that take place with respect to themain character, such as he learned how his mother died, he understood why his mother lefthim, and he stopped feeling sad.

Step2Create a timeline. Take your list of events and put them in chronological order. Sometimes a

short story begins with a flashback, in which case the events of the story are presented out oforder. Arrange your list of events in chronological order, even if that isn't the order in whichthey took place in the story.

Step3


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Identify the conflict. Conflict is what compels the reader to continue reading, so all well-writtenshort stories have a conflict. It may be as obvious as a struggle between two characters in thestory, or it can be subtle, like the main character's internal struggle to decide what is right.Identifying the conflict will help you understand the plot, since the plot is the main character'sjourney toward resolving the conflict.

Step4Find the climax. The climax of a short story happens when the tension heightens just before the

conflict is resolved. In a mystery, for example, the climax is just before you find out who thekiller is. The climax of a short story takes place shortly before the end of the story. After theclimax, the writer ties up the loose ends and the story is over.

QUESTIONS TO PONDER IN SHORT STORY ANALYSIS

1. Explain the title. In what way is it suitable to the story?2. What is the predominant element in the story - plot, theme, character, setting?3. Who is the single main character about? Whom the story centers?4. What sort of conflict confronts the leading character or characters?a. external?b. internal?5. How is the conflict resolved?

6. How does the author handle characterization?a. by description?b. conversation of the characters?c. actions of the characters?d. combination of these methods?7. Who tells the story? What point of view is used?a. first person?b. omniscient?8. Where does the primary action take place?9. What is the time setting for the action? Period of history? Season? Time of day?10. How much time does the story cover?a. a few minutes?

b. a lifetime?c. how long?11. How does the story get started? What is the initial incident?12. Briefly describe the rising action of the story.13. What is the high point, or climax, of the story?14. Discuss the falling action or close of the story.15. Does this story create any special mood?16. Is this story realistic or true to life? Explain your answers by giving examples.17. Are the events or incidents of the plot presented in flashback or in chronological order?18. Was the selection written as a short story or is it a condensation or excerpt? Is it taken froma collection of stories?19. What is the general theme of the story? What is the underlying theme? Can you name anyother stories with a similar theme?

20. Did you identify with any of the characters?21. Does this story contain any of the following elements?a. symbolism?b. incongruity?c. suspense?d. surprise ending ?e. irony?f. satire?22. Was there a villain in the story? a hero? a dynamic character?23. Can you find any examples of figurative language?a. simile?b. metaphor?c. personification?

24. Does the story contain a single effect or impression for the reader? If so, what?25. Name one major personality trait of each leading character, and tell how the author makesthe reader conscious of this trait.26. Does the story have a moral? If not, what do you think the purpose of the author was?


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Story 1The MatsBy Francisco Arcellana

For the Angeles family, Mr. Angeles'; homecoming from his periodic inspection trips was alwaysan occasion for celebration. But his homecoming--from a trip to the South--was fated to be morememorable than, say, of the others.

He had written from Mariveles: "I have just met a marvelous matweaver--a real artist--and Ishall have a surprise for you. I asked him to weave a sleeping-mat for every one of the family.He is using many different colors and for each mat the dominant color is that of our respectivebirthstones. I am sure that the children will be very pleased. I know you will be. I can hardly waitto show them to you."

Nana Emilia read the letter that morning, and again and again every time she had a chance toleave the kitchen. In the evening when all the children were home from school she asked heroldest son, Jos, to read the letter at dinner table. The children became very much excitedabout the mats, and talked about them until late into the night. This she wrote her husbandwhen she labored over a reply to him. For days after that, mats continued to be the chief topicof conversation among the children.

Finally, from Lopez, Mr. Angeles wrote again: "I am taking the Bicol Express tomorrow. I havethe mats with me, and they are beautiful. God willing, I shall be home to join you at dinner."

The letter was read aloud during the noon meal. Talk about the mats flared up again likewildfire.

"I like the feel of mats," Antonio, the third child, said. "I like the smell of new mats."

"Oh, but these mats are different," interposed Susanna, the fifth child. "They have our nameswoven into them, and in our ascribed colors, too."

The children knew what they were talking about: they knew just what a decorative mat was like;

it was not anything new or strange in their experience. That was why they were so excitedabout the matter. They had such a mat in the house, one they seldom used, a mat older thanany one of them.

This mat had been given to Nana Emilia by her mother when she and Mr. Angeles were married,and it had been with them ever since. It had served on the wedding night, and had not sincebeen used except on special occasions.

It was a very beautiful mat, not really meant to be ordinarily used. It had green leaf borders,and a lot of gigantic red roses woven into it. In the middle, running the whole length of the mat,was the lettering: Emilia y Jaime Recuerdo

The letters were in gold.

Nana Emilia always kept that mat in her trunk. When any one of the family was taken ill, themat was brought out and the patient slept on it, had it all to himself. Every one of the childrenhad some time in their lives slept on it; not a few had slept on it more than once.

Most of the time the mat was kept in Nana Emilia's trunk, and when it was taken out and spreadon the floor the children were always around to watch. At first there had been only Nana Emiliato see the mat spread. Then a child--a girl--watched with them. The number of watchersincreased as more children came.

The mat did not seem to age. It seemed to Nana Emilia always as new as when it had been laidon the nuptial bed. To the children it seemed as new as the first time it was spread before them.The folds and creases always new and fresh. The smell was always the smell of a new mat.

Watching the intricate design was an endless joy. The children's pleasure at the golden letterseven before they could work out the meaning was boundless. Somehow they were alwayspleasantly shocked by the sight of the mat: so delicate and so consummate the artistry of itsweave.


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Now, taking out that mat to spread had become a kind of ritual. The process had becomeassociated with illness in the family. Illness, even serious illness, had not been infrequent. Therehad been deaths...

In the evening Mr. Angeles was with his family. He had brought the usual things home with him.There was a lot of fruits, as always (his itinerary carried him through the fruit-growingprovinces): pineapples, lanzones, chicos, atis, santol, sandia, guyabano, avocado, according tothe season. He had also brought home a jar of preserved sweets from Lopez.

Putting away the fruit, sampling them, was as usual accomplished with animation and livelytalk. Dinner was a long affair. Mr. Angeles was full of stories about his trip but would interrupthis tales with: "I could not sleep nights thinking of the young ones. They should never beallowed to play in the streets. And you older ones should not stay out too late at night."

The stories petered out and dinner was over. Putting away the dishes and wiping the dishes andwiping the table clean did not at all seem tedious. Yet Nana and the children, although they didnot show it, were all on edge about the mats.

Finally, after a long time over his cigar, Mr. Angeles rose from his seat at the head of the tableand crossed the room to the corner where his luggage had been piled. From the heap hedisengaged a ponderous bundle.

Taking it under one arm, he walked to the middle of the room where the light was brightest. Hedropped the bundle and, bending over and balancing himself on his toes, he strained at the cordthat bound it. It was strong, it would not break, it would not give way. He tried working at theknots. His fingers were clumsy, they had begun shaking.

He raised his head, breathing heavily, to ask for the scissors. Alfonso, his youngest boy, was toone side of him with the scissors ready.

Nana Emilia and her eldest girl who had long returned from the kitchen were watching theproceedings quietly.

One swift movement with the scissors, snip! and the bundle was loose.

Turning to Nana Emilia, Mr. Angeles joyfully cried: "These are the mats, Miling." Mr. Angelespicked up the topmost mat in the bundle.

"This, I believe, is yours, Miling."

Nana Emilia stepped forward to the light, wiping her still moist hands against the folds of herskirt, and with a strange young shyness received the mat. The children watched the spectaclesilently and then broke into delighted, though a little self-conscious, laughter. Nana Emiliaunfolded the mat without a word. It was a beautiful mat: to her mind, even more beautiful thanthe one she received from her mother on her wedding. There was a name in the very center ofit: EMILIA. The letters were large, done in green. Flowers--cadena-de-amor--were woven in andout among the letters. The border was a long winding twig of cadena-de-amor.

The children stood about the spreading mat. The air was punctuated by their breathlessexclamations of delight.

"It is beautiful, Jaime; it is beautiful!" Nana Emilia's voice broke, and she could not say anymore.

"And this, I know, is my own," said Mr. Angeles of the next mat in the bundle. The mat wasrather simply decorated, the design almost austere, and the only colors used were purple andgold. The letters of the name Jaime were in purple.

"And this, for your, Marcelina."

Marcelina was the oldest child. She had always thought her name too long; it had been one ofher worries with regard to the mat. "How on earth are they going to weave all of the letters ofmy name into my mat?" she had asked of almost everyone in the family. Now it delighted her tosee her whole name spelled out on the mat, even if the letters were a little small. Besides, there


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was a device above her name which pleased Marcelina very much. It was in the form of a lyre,finely done in three colors. Marcelina was a student of music and was quite a proficient pianist.

"And this is for you, Jos."

Jos was the second child. He was a medical student already in the third year of medical school.Over his name the symbol of Aesculapius was woven into the mat.

"You are not to use this mat until the year of your internship," Mr. Angeles was saying.

"This is yours, Antonia."

"And this is yours, Juan."

"And this is yours, Jesus."

Mat after mat was unfolded. On each of the children's mats there was somehow an appropriatedevice.

At least all the children had been shown their individual mats. The air was filled with theirexcited talk, and through it all Mr. Angeles was saying over and over again in his deep voice:

"You are not to use these mats until you go to the University."

Then Nana Emilia noticed bewilderingly that there were some more mats remaining to beunfolded.

"But Jaime," Nana Emilia said, wondering, with evident repudiation, "there are some moremats."

Only Mr. Angeles seemed to have heard Nana Emilia's words. He suddenly stopped talking, as ifhe had been jerked away from a pleasant fantasy. A puzzled, reminiscent look came into hiseyes, superseding the deep and quiet delight that had been briefly there, and when he spokehis voice was different.

"Yes, Emilia," said Mr. Angeles, "There are three more mats to unfold. The others who aren'there..."

Nana Emilia caught her breath; there was a swift constriction in her throat; her face paled andshe could not say anything.

The self-centered talk of the children also died. There was a silence as Mr. Angeles picked upthe first of the remaining mats and began slowly unfolding it.

The mat was almost as austere in design as Mr. Angeles' own, and it had a name. There was nosymbol or device above the name; only a blank space, emptiness.

The children knew the name. But somehow the name, the letters spelling the name, seemedstrange to them.

Then Nana Emilia found her voice.

"You know, Jaime, you didn't have to," Nana Emilia said, her voice hurt and surely frightened.

Mr. Angeles held his tears back; there was something swift and savage in the movement.

"Do you think I'd forgotten? Do you think I had forgotten them? Do you think I could forgetthem?

"This is for you, Josefina!

"And this is for you, Victoria!

"And this is for you, Concepcion."


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Mr. Angeles called the names rather than uttered them.

"Don't, Jaime, please don't," was all that Nana Emilia managed to say.

"Is it fair to forget them? Would it be just to disregard them?" Mr. Angeles demanded ratherthan asked.His voice had risen shrill, almost hysterical; it was also stern and sad, and somehow vindictive.

Mr. Angeles had spoken almost as if he were a stranger.Also, he had spoken as if from a deep, grudgingly-silent, long-bewildered sorrow.

The children heard the words exploding in the silence. They wanted to turn away and not seethe face of their father. But they could neither move nor look away; his eyes held them, hisvoice held them where they were. They seemed rooted to the spot.

Nana Emilia shivered once or twice, bowed her head, gripped her clasped hands between herthighs.

There was a terrible hush. The remaining mats were unfolded in silence. The names which werewith infinite slowness revealed, seemed strange and stranger still; the colors not bright butdeathly dull; the separate letters, spelling out the names of the dead among them, did not seem

to glow or shine with a festive sheen as did the other living names.

Story 2The WitchBy Edilberto K. Tiempo

When I was twelve years old, I used to go to Libas, about nine kilometers from the town, to visitmy favorite uncle, Tio Sabelo, the head teacher of the barrio school there. I like going to Libasbecause of the many things to eat at my uncles house: cane sugar syrup, candied meat ofyoung coconut, corn and rice cakes, ripe jackfruit, guavas from trees growing wild on a hill notfar from Tio Sabeloshouse. It was through these visits that I heard many strange stories about Minggay Awok. Awok

is the word for witch in southern Leyte. Minggay was known as a witch even beyond Libas, infive outlying sitios, and considering that not uncommonly a mans nearest neighbor was two orthree hills away, her notoriety was wide. Minggay lived in a small, low hut as the back of thecreek separating the barrios of Libas and Sinit-an. It squatted like a soaked hen on a steepincline and below it, six or seven meters away, two trails forked, one going to Libas and theother to Mahangin, a mountain sitio. The hut leaned dangerously to the side where the creekwater ate away large chunks of earth during the rainy season. It had two small openings, asmall door through which Minggay probably had to stoop to pass, and a window about two feetsquare facing the creek. The window was screened by a frayed jute sacking which flutteredeerily even in the daytime.

What she had in the hut nobody seemed to know definitely. One daring fellow who boasted ofhaving gone inside it when Minggay was out in her clearing on a hill nearby said he had seen

dirty stoppered bottles hanging from the bamboo slats of the cogon thatch. Some of the bottlescontained scorpions, centipedes, beetles, bumble bees, and other insects; others were filledwith ash-colored powder and dark liquids. These bottles contained the paraphernalia of herwitchcraft. Two or three small bottles she always had with her hanging on her waistband with abunch of iron keys, whether she went to her clearing or to the creek to catch shrimps or gatherfresh-water shells, or even when she slept.

It was said that those who had done her wrong never escaped her vengeance, in the form offestering carbuncles, chronic fevers that caused withering of the skin, or a certain disease of thenose that eventually ate the nose out. Using an incantation known only to her, Minggay wouldtake out one insect from a bottle, soak it in colored liquid or roll it in powder, and with a curselet it go to the body of her victim; the insect might be removed and the disease cured onlyrarely through intricate rituals of an expensive tambalan.

Thus Minggay was feared in Libas and the surrounding barrios. There had been attempts tomurder her, but in some mysterious way she always came out unscathed. A man set fire to herhut one night, thinking to burn her with it. The hut quickly burned down, but Minggay wasunharmed. On another occasion a man openly declared that he had killed her, showing the


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blood-stained bolo with which he had stabbed her; a week later she was seen hobbling to herclearing. This man believed Minggay was the cause of the rash that his only child had beencarrying for over a year. One day, so the story went, meeting his wife, Minggay asked to holdher child. She didnt want to offend Minggay. As the witch gave the child back she said, He hasa very smooth skin. A few days later the boy had skin eruptions all over his body that never lefthim.

Minggays only companions were a lean, barren sow and a few chickens, all of them charcoal

black. The sow and the chickens were allowed to wander in the fields, and even if the sow dugup sweet potatoes and the chickens pecked rice or corn grain drying in the sun, they were notdriven away by the neighbors because they were afraid to arouse Minggays wrath.

Besides the sow and the chickens, Minggay was known to have a wakwak and a sigbin. Thosewho claimed to have seen the sigbin described it as a queer animal resembling a kangaroo: theforelegs were shorter than the hind ones: its fanlike ears made a flapping sound when it walked.The wakwak was a nocturnal bird, as big and black as a crow. It gave out raucous cries when aperson in the neighborhood had just died. The bird was supposed to be Minggays messenger,and the sigbin caried her to the grave; then the witch dug up the corpse and feasted on it. Thetimes when I passed by the hut and saw her lean sow and her black chickens, I wondered if theytransformed themselves into fantastic creatures at night. Even in the daytime I dreaded thepossibility of meeting her; she might accost me on the trail near her hut, say something about

my face or any part of it, and then I might live the rest of my life with a harelip, a sunken nose,or crossed eyes. But I never saw Minggay in her house or near the premises. There were timeswhen I thought she was only a legend, a name to frighten children from doing mischief. But thenI almost always saw her sow digging banana roots or wallowing near the trail and the blackchickens scratching for worms or pecking grains in her yard, and the witch became very realindeed.

Once I was told to go to Libas with a bottle of medicine for Tio Sabelos sick wife. I started fromthe town at half past five and by the time I saw the balete tree across the creek from Minggayshut, I could hardly see the trail before me. The balete was called Minggays tree, for she wasknown to sit on one of the numerous twisting vines that formed its grotesque trunk to wait for abelated passer-by. The balete was a towering monstrous shadow; a firefly that flitted among thevines was an evil eye plucked out searching for its socket. I wanted to run back, but the

medicine had to get to Tio Sabelos wife that night. I wanted to push through the thickunderbrush to the dry part of the creek to avoid the balete, but I was afraid of snakes. I haddiscarded the idea of a coconut frond torch because the light would catch the attention of thewitch, and when she saw it was only a little boy... Steeling myself I tried to whistle as I passed inthe shadow of the balete, its overhanging vines like hairy arms ready to hoist and strangle meamong the branches.

Emerging into the stony bed of the creek, I saw Minggays hut. The screen in the window wavedin the faint light of the room and I thought I saw the witch peering behind it. As I started goingup the trail by the hut, each moving clump and shadow was a crouching old woman. I had heardstories of Minggays attempts to waylay travelers in the dark and suck their blood. Closing myeyes twenty yards from the hut of the witch, I ran up the hill. A few meters past the hut Istumbled on a low stump. I got up at once and ran again. When I reached Tio Sabelos house Iwas very tired and badly shaken.

Somehow after the terror of the balete and the hut of the witch had lessened, although I alwayshad the goose flesh whenever I passed by them after dusk. One moonlight night going home totown I heard a splashing of the water below Minggays house. I thought the sound was made bythe witch, for she was seen to bathe on moonlit nights in the creek, her loose hair falling on herface. It was not Minggay I saw. It was a huge animal. I was about to run thinking it was thesigbin of the witch, but when I looked at it again, I saw that it was a carabao wallowing in thecreek.

One morning I thought of bringing home shrimps to my mother, and so I went to a creek ahundred yards from Tio Sabelos house. I had with me my cousins pana, made of a long steel

rod pointed at one end and cleft at the other and shot through the hollow of a bamboo joint thesize of a finger by means of a rubber band attached to one end of the joint. After wading for twohours in the creek which meandered around bamboo groves and banban and ipil clumps withonly three small shrimps strung on a coconut midrib dangling from my belt, I came upon an oldwoman taking a bath in the shade of a catmon tree. A brown tapis was wound around her to


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three fingers width above her thin chest. The bank of her left was a foot-wide ledge of unbrokenboulder on which she had set a wooden basin half full of wet but still unwashed clothes.

In front of her was a submerged stone pile topped by a platter size rock; on it were a heap ofshredded coconut meat, a small discolored tin basin, a few lemon rinds, and bits of poundedgogo bark. The woman was soaking her sparse gray hair with the gogo suds. She must haveseen me coming because she did not look surprised.

Seeing the three small shrimps hanging at my side she said, You have a poor catch.

She looked kind. She was probably as old as my grandmother; smaller, for this old woman wastwo or three inches below five feet. Her eyes looked surprisingly young, but her mouth, just athin line above the little chin, seemed to have tasted many bitter years.

Why dont you bait them out of their hiding? Take some of this. She gave me a handful ofshredded coconut meat whose milk she had squeezed out and with the gogo suds used on herhair.

She exuded a sweet wood fragrance of gogo bark and the rind of lemons. Beyond the firstbend, she said pointing, the water is still. Scatter the shreds there. Thats where I get myshrimps. You will see some traps. If you find shrimps in them they are yours.

I mumbled my thanks and waded to the bend she had indicated. That part of the creek was likea small lake. One bank was lined by huge boulders showing long, deep fissures where the rootsof gnarled dapdap trees had penetrated. The other bank was sandy, with bamboo and catmontrees leaning over, their roots sticking out in the water. There was good shade and the air had atwilight chilliness. The water was shallow except on the rocky side, which was deep and murky.

I scattered the coconut shreds around, and not long after they had settled down shrimpscrawled from boles under the bamboo and catmon roots and from crevices of the boulders. Itdid not take me an hour to catch a midribful, some hairy with age, some heavy with eggs,moulters, dark magus, leaf-green shrimps, speckled.

I saw three traps of woven bamboo strips, round-bellied and about two feet long, two hidden

behind a catmon root. I did not disturb them because I had enough shrimps for myself.

No, no, iti. Your mother will need them. You dont have enough. Besides I have freshwatercrabs at home. She looked up at me with her strange young eyes and asked, Do you still havea mother?

I told her I had, and a grandmother, too.

You are not from Libas, I think. This is the first time I have seen you.

I said I was from the town and my uncle was the head teacher of the Libas barrio school.

You remind me of my son when he was your age. He had bright eyes like you, and his voicewas soft like yours. I think you are a good boy.

Where is your son now?

I have not heard from him since he left. He went away when he was seventeen. He left inanger, because I didnt want him to marry so young. I dont know where he went, where he is.

She spread the length of a kimona on the water for a last rinsing. The flesh hanging from herskinny arms was loose and flabby.

If hes still living, she went on, hed be as old as your father maybe. Many times I feel in mybones he is alive, and will come back before I die.

Your husband is still living?

He died a long time ago, when my boy was eleven.


11/22

She twisted the kimona like a rope to wring out the water.

Im glad he died early. He was very cruel.

I looked at her, at the thin mouth, wondering about her husbands cruelty, disturbed by themanner she spoke about it.

Do you have other children?

I wish I had. Then I wouldnt be living alone.

A woman her age, I thought, should be a grandmother and live among many children.

Where do you live?

She did not speak, but her strange young eyes were probing and looked grotesque in the oldwomans face. Not far from here--the house on the high bank, across the balete.

She must have seen the fright that suddenly leaped into my face, for I thought she smiled at mequeerly.

Im going now, I said.

I felt her following me with her eyes; indeed they seemed to bore a hot hole between myshoulder blades. I did not look back. Dont run, I told myself. But at the first bend of the creek,when I knew she couldnt see me, I ran. After a while I stopped, feeling a little foolish. Such ahelpless-looking little old woman couldnt be Minggay, couldnt be the witch. I remembered herkind voice and the woodfragrance. She could be my own grandmother.

As I walked the string of shrimps kept brushing against the side of my leg. I detached it from mybelt and looked at the shrimps. Except for the three small ones, all of them belonged to the oldwoman. Her coconut shreds had coaxed them as by magic out of their hiding. The protrudingeyes of the biggest, which was still alive, seemed to glare at me---and then they became theeyes of the witch. Angrily, I hurled the shrimps back into the creek.

Story 3Wedding DanceBy Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhighthreshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to thenarrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. Aftersome moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of fallingwaters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearingthe gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave nosign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to themiddle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred thecovered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao putpieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him,because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir.

"You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at thewoman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played withstrange moving shadows and lightsupon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.


12/22

"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance.One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knowsbut that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other womaneither. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"

She did not answer him.

"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.

"Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a goodhusband to you."

"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry."No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say againstyou." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Sevenharvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance

before it is too late for both of us."

This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound theblanket more snugly around herself.

"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I havesacrificed many chickens in my prayers."

"Yes, I know."

"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terracebecause I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan,because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"

"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rosethrough the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.

Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bambooflooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo wentup and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her carethrough the walls.

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed andsturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao tooka coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from themountain creek early that evening.

"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am notforcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you thatMadulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not asstrong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean.You are one of the best wives in thewhole village."

"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almostseemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his

hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he holdher face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He letgo of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly atthe split bamboo floor.


13/22

"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. Iwill build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. Theywill need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."

"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," hesaid. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."

"I have no use for any field," she said.He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonderwhere you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."

"You know that I cannot."

"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You knowthat life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You

know that."

"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."

She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.

She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning oftheir new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the otherside of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which theyhad to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; thewaters tolled and growled,resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away nowfrom somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the

buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.

They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb tothe other side of the mountain.

She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. Hehad a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village peoplelaugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze andcompact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body thecarved out of the mountainsfive fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving;his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.

She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried."I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," shecried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in thefields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. Imust die."

"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked nakedbreast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his rightshoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.

"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anythingbut you. I'll have no other man."

"Then you'll always be fruitless."

"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."


14/22

"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have achild. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."

She was silent.

"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I havecarved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."

"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."

"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanishfrom the life of our tribe."

The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.

"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come fromup North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worthtwenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I loveyou and have nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao!Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"

"I am not in hurry."

"The elders will scold you. You had better go."

"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."

"It is all right with me."

He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.

"I know," she said.

He went to the door.

"Awiyao!"

He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. Itpained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for achild? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence ofthe night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself thatmade man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why didthe unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come afterhim? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave herlike this.

"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back andwalked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldlypossession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug outfrom the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give toLumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidiansshone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him

go.

"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in hisneck.


15/22

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.

Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. Themoonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.

She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the otherhouses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Onlyshe was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most

lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grainson the ground, beautifullytimed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envythe way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as shedanced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted,who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was thatperhaps she could give her husband a child.

"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is notright," she said.

Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of thevillage, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him

away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that aman may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely wouldrelent. Was not their love as strong as theriver?

She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glowover the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, andit seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now.The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feastgarments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heartwarmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started torun. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see herapproach?

She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped incountless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blazereached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into thewedding feast.

Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the newclearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. Shefollowed the trail above the village.

When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and thestream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadowsamong the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire atthe edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs,still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mockher; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She feltthe pull of their gratitude for hersacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.

Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boycarrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one dayas she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink andrest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that itdid not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on

his desire to marry her.

The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves ofthe bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants nowsurrounded her, and she was lost among them.


16/22

A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would beholding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got intothem, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes.The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.

Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

Story 4Mahogany WaterBy: SOCORRO VILLANUEVA

Julian has had so many pets die on him (hamsters, fish, a spider, a bird) that I worried he, onlyeight, might think life so inordinately flimsy, full of sad surprises: someone you care for turningstiff. I sat him down once, talked about lifes bumps and grinds, about cycles and seasons alongthe endless line of time. I carried on like I was Ecclesiastes until he picked up a ball, bounced itoff the wall and followed it out the door.

In October, with his birthday money he got himself a rabbit. Fine with me. White fur, twitchynose. He is not discouraged, only resolutely more watchful. He put the new pet in an oldbirdcage where Eaglet, his maya, had lived and died.

Hed always named his pets with a kind of no-nonsense logic: the first pair of hamsters hadbeen Hammy and Hammer, and then there were Hammy Jr. and Hammer Jr. The fish, justguppies in a glass bowl really, were Swimmy and Dive and Orbit and Slimy and Sharko; thespiders name was Spy. (Its not that he doesnt have a vocabulary. He says stupendous,acquisition, reverberateTouch this, Mama, feel it reverberate. Hes a genius!) I suggestedSnowball for this rabbit, as it tucks its head in and curls up into a ball when it sleeps, but hesaid, Thats sissy. And so he named it Buddy. Buddy Rabbit, like sinusitis.

We take Buddy with us, now two months old, to Punta Fuego. Takes me and Julian forever to get

Francis to come along, a roundabout series of arguing and bargaining and cajoling, come-on-Daddy, please-Daddy, until finally Julian and I win, and we all go, for private Christmasing withGracie and her kids. Its the best time to go out of town, too; all those rabid holiday shoppersmaking traffic crazy, why deal with that? And Gracie is balikbayanand not just back from theStates, but back to her old self.

The last time Francis and I saw her was three years ago in McLean where she lived, when shewas newly-divorced, losyang and pudgy and weepy. Not like her at all. She took us to Arlingtoncemetery in D.C. where she cried as if JFK was her ex-husband. Wiped her cry-snot with herpashmina like it was tissue.

Whats with your friend? Francis asked me, as if he needed establish whose friend she was.

My friend just got divorced, heartless. I said.

I took Gracie out to Red Box Karaoke the night of her arrival, just last week, the two of us. Herold shine is back; she looked sharp: jeans, tank tops, a short jacket, Blahniks. A fox! Why arewe singing alone in this tiny room? she said. Wheres the audience?

We had big fun like we did when we were skinny and clueless and boy-crazy, back in the days ofMahogany Water, that song-and-dance trio we put together in our all-girl college to meet boys. Iwas Patti Austin; she, Pauline Wilson. The good-time, big-hair mid-eighties. Our third member,Weena, played guitar and did anyone from Roberta Flack to Whitney Houston, as well as, forlaughs, Imelda Papin. We got the name Mahogany Water from Weenas father who made usdrink a concoction of steeped mahogany seeds he got from his caddy at Aguinaldo. Awfullybitter. The taste, we used to say, of boiled golf shoes. It was supposed to make us invincible.

Weenas daddy, 5-star general, what a quack! He stomped his feettiny little stomps, like a boythrowing a tantrum at a toy storeas Weena was being lowered to the ground. Dead at 21 froma steering wheel lodged in her chest. Vincible.


17/22

Gracie and I tour our borrowed Punta Fuego house, a humongous Rubiks cube made of glasswith some corner quadrants lopped off. Its shamelessly large for a weekend retreat; eight hugebedrooms spread over three floors. The bits of detailstone, wood, glass, leathersmell ofover-the-top money. Every twelve-inch plank of wood makes me think of landslides in Quezon,but I dont tell Gracie that, her sister owns the place, so I tell her, its so L Decor. I must admitits very pretty, though. The design is so open, as if the ocean and sky are part of the house,and darn it, I like it. I like it so much I attempt to compute how many million episodes oftelekomedya and gag shows I have to write for ABS, how many thousand tax cases Francis has

to lawyer for to buy us a trophy like this.

Heeey. Does this make you feel like Master of the Universe or what? I say to Francis, whomwe find at the second-level terrace, standing in the hammering ten oclock sun. Hes wearing hisnew shorts that Julian and I got only the day before (Look, Mama, Speedo Voyager swimsuitshorts!). Francis hasnt gone swimming in years, and though hed still fit in his old blue-and-white-striped Lycra trunksand hed wear them, too!that would be too funny for Gracie. Imean, lets be in vogue here, right? He has widened around the waist, just a bitthe practice ofcorporate law doesnt make for much aerobic exercise and hes near forty already. Hes lookingout at the spectacular 360-degree view through Julians spyglasses and I know what hesthinking. Hes thinking God and binoculars. Magnificent and magnifying. Hes into humanitiesand gadgets and Discovery Channel. A giant boy in shorts loose like a skirt.

Across the water on the north side where the ridge curves, there is a larger house, large likeAlcatraz even in the distance, and Francis points to it.

Whoa, that ones a biggie, Gracie says. Isnt it weird, all these estates, and outside, thosekids?

In front of barrios along the stretch of highway leading to Punta Fuego we saw children, somehalf the size of Juliantheyre babies!waving Merry Christmas placards, asking for money. Abit of in-your-face guilt they fling to the rich on their way in. Gracies half-American kids thoughtthey were there simply for the goodwill, for the cheer! Like little brown ambassadors. You too,you too, Merry Christmas!

That house has a telescope you can count moon craters with. Wohow, someones watching me

watching him, says Francis, stepping back. We see a flash of light from that direction. A glint ofsun deflected from a mirror, maybe, or something flashy like a Rolex.

Wave, Gracie tells me.I dont see him, I say.

Wave anyway, she says; smiling brightly, her hands already up in the air.

Gracie has always been the most ebullient one, forever effusive and showy, not to mention theprettiest. She got the most attention, and, even as Id rather drop dead than admit it, she wasthe chick; she was Mahogany Waters main attraction. Back in the day, I had issues with thatcalled her names to myself sometimes. I remember Ricky. Boy-of-my-dreams Ricky, for whom Idid all my tricks onstage at the La Salle College Fair, practically sang to his ear, and still he blewwolf whistles for Gracie. Youre the funny one, Beth, he said to me. Pucha! Weena had a fewmishaps like this happen to her would-be loves, too. And thisthis wide-armed lunatic opennessto people is what puts Gracie ahead.

Come on, wave!

Stop it already, I tell her.

Gracies kids, Bianca and Kevin and Carlos, they look almost as American as their father, asGracie is tisay to begin with, 25% Russiandont ask me howwith an unspellable middlename. Ma, theyre foreigners! Julian said when he met her kids. Now they are all splayed onthe living room floor, looking in on the rabbit cage. I could make out their teeth in their

reflections on the hardwood floor.

Nobody take out Buddy from the cage, Julian tells them.


18/22

Why you the boss of the rabbit? Carlos asks him. Carlos is four and must be dying to hold thepet.

Its his rabbit, Carlos, says Bianca, running a forefinger on a cage grill. She is older than Julianby a year. Why cant we take him out? Dont you ever take him out? She has green eyes.

Julian turns, belly up, resting his weight on his elbows. He looks around, catches my eye for amoment and I give him a wink but his eyes are too fast, he misses it. Hes looking for potential

rabbit hazards, so I look around as well, imagining his thoughts. Buddy can ram his tiny head onthe huge glass windows all around, he can overrun the terrace and land in the swimming poolbelow; or, he might get blind from all this ocean-side light.

I dont know, he says, standing up.

I think its okay for him to run around here, says Bianca.

I dont know, he says again. Pets die easy.

No, they dont. My cousin has a golden retriever and its twowenty-four years old, saysKevin. Hearing this, Gracie raises her eyebrows at me and grins. Kids embellish! Theyexaggerate!

A retrievers not a pet, says my boy.

Its a animal, says Carlos smartly.

Julian nods his head. He thinks for a bit and then he says, A pet is something between insectand animal.

My turn to grin. Come here, Jaloosh, I say.

Why? he mouths.

Come here, gimme hug, I say, and he walks over and wraps his skinny arms around my neck.

I love you, Jalooshkins, I whisper to his ear.

I love you too, Mamooshkins, he says.

But I love you more! I say.

Na-ah. I love you more.

Thats not possible, I say, and he runs back to his rabbit, saying, its possible, its possible,as he goes.

Thats cute, Gracie says.

Its a script, I say. We say the same lines to each other everyday like prayer.

Gracie is having it really good here: two yayas for her kids, a cook, a chauffeured SUV, pantry toput Santis Deli to shame, and this graciousness of her sisters cascades down to me and mine.Having brought nothing but my Magic Sing and a bagful of kangkong for Buddy, Im feeling likeIm queen of Sheba here, fresh from a swim, eating shrimp salad with a silver fork in thebrightest dining room on the planet. The yayas have set up a kiddie table where the childrenare having spaghetti and fried chicken, and where Bianca, precocious like her mother, carrieson like she was some chairman of the board. Or like Gloria Arroyo on a good day.

Were going to call us the Secret Society Club, and Im the president and so you listen to me,okay? she says. The curls of her hair bounce like coil springs.

Whos the boss of the rabbit now? Carlos wants to know. A yaya wipes the edges of his mouthwith a linen napkin.

This is not about the rabbit, Carlos! says Kevin.


19/22

Okay, says Bianca. Julian, youre the boss of Buddy the rabbit, but you have to let all of ushold him three times a day. Kevin, you will be the vice-president, so you have to follow mebecause Im president. Okay?

Sounds like democracy, says Francis. I reach over and pinch his arm to silence him,accidentally toppling a knife to the floor. The kids turn their attention to this little commotion inour table, and I signal Gracie to pretend to be oblivious, but she cant help herself from giggling.

When she giggles, her eyes squint as if to let the light into her face so that she glows, it lookslike, from inside her skin. And she shows a lot of cleavage between the V of her turquoise topthat I suddenly feel nervous, and pucha, I need to watch my husbands eyes.

We have to have a secret spot. Every secret club should have one, says Julian, glancing at ourtable. There are spies everywhere.

Yes, the billiard room downstairs will be our secret spot. And, we will always stick together, ofcourse thats our motto of the club. Bianca is whispering now, though we can still hear clearly.

Even sleeping time?

Sleeping time, swimming time, eating time, well stick together, says Kevin.

Yes, no matter what happens, we will stick together, says Julian, mouth bursting withenthusiasm and spaghetti. Hes a joiner. He likes clubs.

We cant speak when our mouth is full of pasta, Jool, I say.

He looks at me from the corner of his eye then turns to his friends, says conspiratorially, Unlessproblems, such as adults, happen.

Gracie laughs hardest. Im laughing, too, but then I see Francis eyes flit from her boobs to hisshrimp and back again and I feel the room darken a bit. Were going to behave ourselves,arent we? I say, looking straight at Francis with my eyes popped.

There is no access to the beach. Between the houses and the water is a scraggy ridge tonegotiate which you have to be either a mountain climber with a rappel rope or a skydiver withwell, wings. No wonder theres a swimming pool. This set-up, its funnyits all for show, apretend beach house. The ocean? Untouchable! How jokey is that? Ooh, the rich and their funnyvanities.

Im sure theres a way down there somewhere, Francis says. He is on a hammock, readingwith his shades on, his six-foot frame bent like a pretzel. Gracie is face down on a mat besidethe pool just a few feet awayan ogle awaythe two swells of her butt peeking out of her bikinilike twin blimps heralding the start a major adult problem.Whyre you here? I ask Francis, pushing the rope above him with enough force so that half ofhim tilts in, then out. He lowers a leg to the floor, putting his swing to a stop. He takes off hisshades and cocks his head to the side, showing the angle where he most resembles Julian, likehe is Julian thirty years from now. He opens his mouth to speak but words dont come out so hejust gapes. Ive seen this gape many times. Its usually followed by something like, Whats yourproblem, Beth?

I dont know where my panics come from. Wifehood, motherhood, they make me crazy. I standat the gates of the grade school, picking up Julian, and a horde of them mini-Jesuits comecharging out and they all look the same so I cant tell which one is mine and that fills me up withdread. What if he doesnt see me, and he panics and he runs all the way to Katipunan and getsrun over by a maniac truck driver? I wont get lost, Ma, Im eight, Julian has said to me fourtimes already.

I stay where I am, beside the hammock, blocking my husbands view of Gracie. He is reading

Clinton, and he says Im on the Lewinsky now. Id just showered and my hair is dripping on mydress, which is a beach tunic in blinding orange; its way too short. Someones pasalubong fromBoracay. I didnt think Id ever wear itits too Joyce Jimenez. But its something Gracie wouldwear. Its a Gracie kind of look.


20/22

Is that new? Its nice, Francis says.

Its a gift. Isnt it too short? Too orange? Really, you like it?

He reaches under the hem of it, slides his fingers beneath the lacy elastic of my panties. Letsgo upstairs, he says.

Now? Its only half past three.

Now.

Sometimes after sex I think of my mother. I can tell she had sex all the timeshe gave birth tentimes, once every two years. Ten girls until she was fat and confused. Couldnt say our namesoff the top of her head. But to imagine how she behaved in bed? I cant! It must have been,what, facile? Perfunctory? As methodical as baking a cake?Tonight, were going to try to bakea BOY. Was she even awake? I cant think of my mother doing the things I do with Francis. Noway.

I was the sixth girl, come at a time when the disappointment had given way to disgust: Babaena naman? Relatives, friends, the whole stretch of Pinaglabanan is saying the same thing.Another girl? The whole city of San Juan!

We were all mistakes. We should have been boys. My sisters and me were all screwed, trying allour lives to be the best disappointment Daddy ever had. Daddy with the stingy, stingy heart.

We had a spinster aunt live with us, what with all those girl-babies and wedding cakes Mommyhad to make. Auntie Paz told meshe told me many timesthat my father refused to look atme after I was born, left my mother at the hospital and got drunk and smashed somebodysface, so that if I didnt eat my sitaw my Daddy will give you to the bumbay who will grind youinto paper money. And Daddy will not miss me. I swear to God thats the first thought thatcame to my head.

A month before my wedding, I stopped speaking to Daddy altogether after my motherwhatwas she thinking?did me some girl-talk, and said, Anak, men are faithless. She said I had

better accept that as a fact as early as I could to save me a lot of misery.

Was Daddy?

Thats beside the point.

Does he have a bastard boy?

Thats not the point, anak.

What Francis does after sex is sleep. I leave him alone in his apnea and walk around the houseagain, dispelling the residues of passion, shaking off the happy guilt of broad-daylight sex insomeone elses bed. I see the yayas outside the billiard room like a bunch of groupies, banishedby the Secret Society. Theyre nibbling on butong pakwan, slipping the black spit-soaked peelsinto the pockets of their uniforms, afraid to make a mess. They wont sit on the Italian-leathersofas.

Gracie, fresh from a shower, is talking to her sister on the phone, lying on a divan in the livingroom with both her legs up on the wall. What are you now, a Lladro? I say. I look up to thesecond floor veranda to see if by any chance she could be seen from our bedroom upstairs.

Pee-la-teees, she says, cupping the receiver.

The stairwell comes alive as four kids run up the stairs at once, a curious formation: Carlos andKevin in front, Bianca and Julian at the back together, holding either end of the rabbit cage.

What, she blinks her green eyes at him and hes in love with her already? Three yayas trailbehind, my lieutenant, yaya Lengleng, included, their rubber slippers flip-flopping on thewooden steps. I follow the kids to the kitchen, and I hear the tail end of a sentence being spokenby Bianca, apparently a suggestion (as can only come from a girl) to wash the vegetablesbefore giving it for feed.


21/22

Hey, baby! I say.

Julian spins around, a clear ripple of disgust washing over his face. He mumbles that shush, hesnot a baby.

Oh, sorry. I forgot, youre an attorney, I say, sing-song. They are raiding the fridge, Biancagiving orders to the others like a mother in a supermarket. Dont get that. Get this. Take that

one.

Without gel on his hair his bangs keep falling into his face and he jerks his chin up constantly toflip them awaythe handsomest boy in the world. He keeps glancing at Bianca like a boyfriend,holding a bouquet of kangkong.

I will not have any other child. Hes enough. Hes plenty. Takes all my time, all my heart. Comehere, guapo, gimme hug, I say.

Tsk, he says.

He approaches me, and I stoop down to welcome his embrace, my lips already puckered. But hegoes for my ear and whispers, Ma, can you stop please?

When I go into shock my face feels numb and lines of songs go off in my head. I feel the earthmove. Shake, rattle, roll. Say you love me. Shanananana.

Gracie and I keep in constant touchI write her long emails full of exclamation points. Wevebeen face-to-face only five times in fourteen years, and each timebut for the lastis aregression into an earlier age. (The last visit kept us in the dire divorce-wracked heaviness ofher present.) With the kids caught up in their merriments and Francis watching the wholeGodfather series on a wall-mounted plasma television, Gracie and I sing and reminisce and drinkwine until well into the night. We have these little memory snippets like coins for a jukebox timemachine that returns us to a time we are Mahogany Water again and we hate Madonna andeverything disco. We are jazz. We are wearing penny loafers and smelling of Anais Anais andWeena is alive. The happy, the superkaduper fun parts. The days of giddy hope and pointless

imaginings. We will all be, someday, in New York where Weena will hang her panties on KennyGs saxophone and I will marry Woody Allen and Gracie will be Grizabella in Cats.

The memory of all that.

The next day, Buddy is dead. Dead, it appears, from a couple of siling labuyo the children hadfed him the night before. Dead from lethal ingestion, I whisper to Gracie. As hot as a Playboybuddy, Francis says. The kids are quick to point fingers, going into a vigorous exercise of blameand accusation that strains the fragile threads binding their day-old society.

I told you he didnt need a midnight snack!

I told you that wasnt a baby carrot!But you fed it to him first!

Its not my fault.I told you pets die easy, Julian says solemnly and us adults stop joking around. This is thetender and exquisite grief of the young.

We have a burial ceremony for Buddy at noon in the vacant lot beside the house. We watch asFrancis lowers what looks like a fur shoe into a shallow hole. Carlos is sobbing beside Kevin, whois wearing a scowl on his face, the top of his lips beading with sweat. Even Bianca is lookinggrave. She is murmuring something to herself, perhaps a prayer, the act of contrition.

I cringe with sympathy for him as I watch Julians quiet sadness. I havent said a word to him

since he rebuffed me yesterday, and now he looks at me and our eyes lock for a while, a secretexchange of grief between him and me, a look that says all that needs said: Im sorry, its allright, I love you.

He looks away first, looks down and starts pushing dirt onto the hole with his foot.


22/22

Buddys burial leaves me in a benign mood all afternoon. I have no wish to swim or crack jokesor make love. I sit alone on my borrowed bed and look at the sky through the glass walls andthink of Weenanot the sunshine rah-rah Weena but the Weena in a box and all the grief itstands for. I remember the debilitating envy I had of her fathers love. Grieve. I can do this allday. Through the night, I could. Im good at feeling sorryI moped and cried and stayed in bedfor weeks after Weenas deathI can do this forever. But Francis comes in and takes me by thehand to the terrace. Look, he says.

Julian and Kevin and Bianca and Carlos are playing in the pool, chasing, splashing, diving in andflapping about, screeching like dolphins, laughing like birds. Having fun. Theyd forgotten.

At the rim of the pool, Gracie, queen of fools, dances to Jingle Bells. I look away. From the houseacross the water I think I see a glint of light flash for one brief moment and I wave. I fling myarms like crazy.

literature quinto fiso 2009

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