| Fisher Man She was preparing him breakfast before dawn, as always on good weather mornings. There were still a few kilos of rice left from the barangay captain’s “donation” at election time. A little corn. Two onions. What there wasn’t, was fish. “We would have more food if you had not given fifty pesos to the church, wife.” “You know I’ve always wanted our babies baptized. We’ll have our whole family here for the party, Peter.” “And how are we going to afford that? Next time we’ll just dip ‘em in the kitchen sink.” Peter’s wife laughed for the first time since the Caesarean. That was a good sign. “Maybe the fish will be as hungry as me today. If they’re not biting again, I’m praying to a different pope. I’ll join the Seventh Day Adventists like your brother—no baptisms, no church on Sunday, and no more smelly pigs, only clean fish to eat.” The baby started to cry, and their first real conversation in a week was over. “Take care,” Peter’s wife told him as he left their nipa hut to board his small bangka on the beach outside. A storm the night before had wrapped junk food wrappers and cellophane bags around rocks, decorating the sand. The year before Peter had gone further out than usual, into a sea within a sea, kilometers of plastic knitted together in shiny waves on the placid water. They fouled his propeller, trapping him for hours until the trash flotilla drifted away. Peter wasn’t alone on the beach. A dozen other bangkas started, or tried to start, their one-cylinder engines. His father had sailed these waters without a motor, but sometimes spent hours waiting for wind or paddling slowly home. Peter’s engine, for once, started on the first pull of the cord and he buzzed away from the land, bouncing his bamboo outriggers over or through the small greenish-blue waves. The fleet spread out on the waters. He was surrounded by his friends and he was alone. All those boats bobbing along together could bring a false sense of security. If the seas grew rough, they were busy enough trying to stay afloat themselves. The stars were clear, dawn's moon setting brightly ahead of his bow. There would be no storm today. And there would be no fish either. The sun rose over the hungry men casting their nets into the sea over and over again. Finally the heat of the relentless sun drove them back to the beach, and meals of rice only. At least that’s what Peter thought until he saw what looked like the whole neighborhood gathered around the table eating babooey, roasted pig, while outside his wife’s brother noisily nailed together coconut wood. (continued below) |
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| Rocky Times |
| November 29, 2007 |
“What this, Nanz? You winner the lottery?” he asked his wife in English. “We speak dollars now,” she answered, also in a kind of English. “Advance Christmas Uncle Louie in America.” They switched back to Bisayan, and it felt like getting out of school—where they had been punished, even physically, for speaking in the local dialect. “So Uncle Louie is Santa Claus?” Peter spotted some big fishbones lying on an empty plate as Nanz quickly gathered them into the trash. Peter’s believed in never buying fish, only catching them. Anger rose out of his dry throat. “I told you many times we don’t get milkfish at the palenque! I wish you would…” The sight of his daughter coming into the crowded room stopped Peter’s voice. There was a glow on her face, in her eyes, shining through her old clothes. He wanted to ask for a kiss, throw her in the air, take her on his lap like he did when she was a child. Those yesterdays made him feel old and ashamed of his grouchiness. Peter started singing and dancing. “Shake it to the left, shake it to the right, point to the east and point to the…” “Maayo boontag!” father and daughter yelled together. “Good morning, daddy!” She ran to his arms and hugged him close. “How’s my pretty firefly doing? Hope you brought good mangoes home for your family and sent the rotten ones to the Japanese.” “Yes daddy. But I already ate the best ones.” “Eat some of mommy’s cooking and you’ll be giving them back undigested.” Peter’s wife, still slowed by the healing wound from her last baby, laughed for the second time in two months. “Hey Stretch. Come here darling, your dress is dirty.” She had been “Stretch” ever since arching her back like a yogi at three months trying to explore the world. Stretch had often been found in the space between the mattress and the wall, tangled up in the mosquito net, even before being able to crawl. She never stopped looking for empty places to discover. One was inside her chest, beating to a rhythm with another, needing to be filled with more than blood. She picked up the baby from its swing and told Precious Caroline, two months old, her secret. “Hi baby! Welcome to the world. It’s more than just eating and sleeping and breathing, baby. There’s something else, and I’ve found it, found it, found it, found it. Baby, promise me you won’t tell. I’m in love.” Precious Caroline would never be good at keeping confidences for her big sister. On the other hand, when she tried to tell, it sounded like this—“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” There was someone else whose power came from secrets, and he passed the door of the happy family at that moment, wondering if he should knock and share in the good fortune he could see in the store being built outside and hear from the laughter and life inside. He decided it wasn’t the right time. He wanted the things in life that couldn’t be shared. |
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