Words meant not to be heard, a few drops of rain on parched ground.
We arrived at the station at dusk. No one met us but the baggage boys, who recognized me at once. They gathered around, and one got hold of my canvas bag, while another hurried down the platform to hail a calesa. They did not speak much.
Even the calesa driver did not speak until we were close to home. Cousin Marcelo placed a salapi in his palm, and as we got down, he turned to me and said he was sorry about what had happened. Sepa could not contain herself when she saw me coming up the stairs. She waddled down and exclaimed: “You are so tall!” Then she broke down and cried. Cousin Marcelo held her shoulder, then freed me from her. I did not cry; for a long time now I have not tasted the salt of tears. Darkness fell quickly, and since it was too late to go to the cemetery, I hastened to my old room and unpacked.
The supper that Sepa prepared was excellent — roasted eggplant, crab and meat stew — but I had no appetite. I went to the azotea. Sepa followed me; she had lighted her hand-rolled cigar.
“Tell me,” I asked after some silence. “What has become of the people in Carmay? Who did it? Surely you have an idea.”
“I do not know,” she said feebly. She leaned on the azotea ledge and turned away. “I’m just an old, worthless woman imprisoned in the kitchen. All I know is this: death hides now, not only in the delta but in Carmay as well.”
“Will they kill me, too?”
“Drive the thought away,” the old woman said. “You are young and good, and you have no enemies.”
“And Father was old and bad and he had a hundred?”
Sepa flung her cigar away. In the soft dark I could make out her face. Her voice was sharp, “Your father was good. He was not seen clearly, that’s all. Now don’t let such thoughts grow lush in your mind. Drive them away quickly.”
Silence again.
“Tell me, what has happened to the people in Carmay?”
“There are a hundred people there,” she said, “and all of them are still alive.” Then she must have guessed what I wanted to know. “You are asking about Teresita?”
“I wrote to her many times,” I said. “She never answered. Not even once.”
“She died last month,” Sepa said softly. She shifted her weight on the ledge. “The old sickness in her family …”
I could not speak for some time. The old woman prattled on: “It wasn’t much of a funeral. I wanted someone to write a letter to you, but I couldn’t find anyone I could trust.”
“Maybe,” I said after another uneasy silence, “it’s better this way. She won’t suffer anymore.”
Sepa grunted: “Yes, death is a blessing. People who grow old should remember that. How is David?”
“I didn’t see him when I left,” I said. “Tia Antonia must be taking good care of him. He’s well, I suppose. I visited Tia Antonia often. But Old David, he always seemed busy. He avoided me. At first, it was difficult; I couldn’t understand. I do now.”
She grunted again.
“You have no news about Angel? Where is he now?”
“He’s lost,” Sepa said without emotion. “He is a soldier. But he is no problem, really, the way she is.”
“Who?” I asked, leaning over to hear her every word.
“Your father’s woman. It must be very sad, being cooped up in that house by the river, unable to show her face …”
“How did you know?” I asked. Sepa did not answer; she stood up shaking her head and left me to the night.
Morning came to Rosales in a flood of sunlight. I woke up, a stranger to my old room but not to the happy sounds of morning, the barking of dogs in the street and the cackling of hens in the yard. Cousin Marcelo was in the sala, waiting.
“I know my way to the cemetery,” I said.
He pressed my arm. “All right then, if you want to go alone. But be sure to be back as soon as you can. We have many things to talk about. You are an heir, remember.”
Breakfast was waiting. I took a small cup of chocolate, then went down to the street. Day was clear, and the sky was swept clean and blue with but wisps of clouds pressed flat against its rim. The banabas along the road seemed greener maybe because my eyes had so long been dulled by the dirty browns and grays of the city. Housewives were hanging their wash in their yards, and their half-naked children played in the street, their runny noses outlined in dirt. The day smelled good with the witchery of October, the tingling sun. Tomorrow, it would probably rain.
It was a long walk to the cemetery. The morning etched clearly all the white crosses and the gumamela shrubs that the grave watchers tended. I walked through narrow paths between the tombs, past the small chapel in the center of the cemetery, beyond which was Mother’s tomb, and now Father’s, too.
A woman was bent before the white slab of stone, and, as she turned I caught a view of her face. I was not mistaken — it was Father’s woman. When she saw me, she stood up and walked swiftly away. I followed her with my eyes, until she disappeared behind a sprout of cogon that hid the road.
I went to the tomb and picked up the bouquet she had left — a simple bundle of sampaguitas — then placed it back on the slab. It was not yet completely dry, and the gray cement that the masons had left unleavened still cluttered the base.
I remembered my first visit, Father’s quavering voice again: Nena, I’ve brought your son to you now that he is old enough.
I must see her, tell her it’s useless harboring ill will. I hurried from the warren of white crosses and headed for the river, down a gully, and along the riverbed until I came to another gully beyond where she lived.
The footpath was widened by carabaos that went down to the river to bathe, and beyond the bank was her house. It looked shabby from the outside, with its grass roof and buri walls already bleached and battered. A bamboo gate was at the end of the narrow path. I pushed it open.
Within the yard, I called: “Man. There’s a man. Good morning.”
No answer. I went up the bamboo stairs. From the half-open door I could see the narrow living room furnished with three rattan chairs, a coffee table with crocheted doilies, and some magazines. A Coleman lamp dangled from the beam above the room. In a corner was a table clock and a sewing machine. A vase with wilted gumamelas was on a mahogany dresser near the open window.
“Man. There’s a man,” I repeated. Still no answer.
In the room that adjoined the sala, someone stirred.
“Please,” I said, rapping on the bamboo post by the door, “I have to see you. I wanted to talk with you at the cemetery, but you left so quickly.”
A shuffle of feet, then she flung the door open and I saw her — not she who was gay and laughing but a tired and unhappy woman, her eyes swollen from crying. Her hair, which would have looked elegant if it were combed, cascaded down her shoulders. She was dressed in a dark shapeless blouse. From her neck dangled a red bead necklace whose medallion of polished gold rested in the valley of her bosom.
“What do you want?” she asked, glaring at me. Then recognition came, and the annoyance in her face vanished.
“You are his son,” she said simply.
“I want to talk with you,” I said.
She came to me. “Why did you come? You don’t have to. It is not necessary.”
“I have to,” I said. “Maybe, because we both lost someone. Maybe …”
“But you didn’t love him,” she said, looking straight at me.
I was too surprised to answer.
“I suspected it all along,” she said sadly. “Many did not like him, and I wouldn’t blame his only son for feeling the same way. Sometimes blood isn’t really enough.”