After Fred’s death, Joe Steele volunteered for a remote assignment — one without his family — at Subic, his last naval station.
Thirty-two years in the navy. One son dead, a martyr. The other seeming to do everything in his power to piss his dad off. A wife whose only purpose in life was to attend the noncommissioned officers’ wives’ bazaar.
His father stumbled over the words. “Now, you know I’d never do anything to hurt your mother. She and I’ve been married nearly twenty-six years now.” He hesitated. “Well, I’ve got someone to introduce to you.…”
Bruce didn’t bat an eye when Joe introduced him to his Filipino girlfriend.
Chapter 8
His father’s girlfriend looked pretty. Or maybe Bruce’s mind was forcing her to be pretty, seeking a reason for his father’s behavior toward his Mom.
Bruce knew the answer — the practice was openly condoned overseas. It kept the men out of the bars and out of trouble, and put some sort of routine back into their lives.
No one had ever taken UCMJ action against those who did it, even though the Uniformed Code of Military Justice specifically prohibited the behavior. Very few of the men took their girlfriends back to the States.
The woman extended her hand and smiled. “I am Tanla.”
“Hi.” Bruce quickly shook her hand and looked around for his seat, not wishing to show his embarrassment.
“She has to go to work,” said his father, gruffly. He, too, seemed embarrassed.
Tanla nodded and slipped from the room. Bruce remained quiet; he stared at one of the anchors holding up a flower pot. Tanla appeared a minute later, smiled at Bruce, then said to his father, “You stop by later?”
“Sure.” Joe Steele dismissed the woman, who left through the front door.
Bruce’s father lounged back in his chair and took a pull on his beer. He hesitated before speaking.
“It’s the only way to keep from going crazy, Son.”
“Don’t make apologies on my account,” said Bruce. “You never have.”
His father put down his drink. “Now don’t start that up again.” A moment passed, then, “Okay … okay. Bruce, I want you to listen to me.”
“I am.”
“I love your mother very much. If I didn’t have Tanla here, I’d probably have killed myself. She keeps me honest, sober enough to go to work, and we have sex much less frequently than you’d ever think.”
“Then why does she shack up with you?”
Joe answered softly. “Security, Son. It’s her way of ensuring she’s always fed, always has a roof over her head. She’s lived with men like me for probably ten years now … and as long as there are crusty ole Bosun’s mates out there, she’ll always have a place.” He scooted to the front of his chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “She doesn’t mean a thing to me, Son — I’ll be gone next year, and someone else will take my place. It’s purely for convenience.”
Bruce continued to stare, away from his father. He felt confused.
“I’m not asking you to approve, Bruce. Just accept what I’m doing.”
Funny, thought Bruce. You never accepted what I was doing. It seemed so absurd to Bruce: The times that his father had been at home when he was younger, it had been all putdown and competition. And now, when things were upside-down, he felt closer to his father than he ever had.
Bruce whispered, “I’ll try to come back after things settle down.”
His father simply nodded and leaned back in his chair.
The ride back to Clark was a fog of memories, contradictions, and reminiscences. It would take time to sort out, to put the pieces together so that it all made sense.
A lifetime of put-downs can’t be healed overnight.
The trip took a little longer than two hours. They were stopped once by a roadblock. Men wearing colorful barongs and wide smiles waved them down and boarded the bus. The Filipino driver interpreted the rapid-fire Tagalog that the men spat at him: they were collecting for the barrio fiesta and wanted to know if anyone on the bus would care to donate.
A look outside the window revealed that the bus was surrounded by men carrying rifles and semiautomatic weapons. They didn’t aim the guns at the bus, yet they made no effort to conceal them.
Everyone on the bus donated at least a dollar.
The man backed off the bus, bowing and smiling while all the time repeating “Salamat po.”
As the bus drove along the two-lane road, the rice paddies became dotted with activity. Houses began to appear, and before long they entered Angeles City. The traffic grew thick, and soon the background noise seemed to consist of one long melee of honking.
Bruce watched out the window, still sorting things out in his mind. Suddenly, he spotted a sign outside the bus: fire empire, the strip place he had left … Friday night? Only four days ago.
He remembered the girl he had met that night … Was it really that she had been so beautiful, or had he still been on that adrenaline high from arriving at Clark, starting a new life?
“Driver!” Bruce moved to the front of the bus. “Can you let me out here?”
The driver looked puzzled. “Traffic no move.”
Bruce shook his head. “I don’t care — can you let me out?”
The driver shrugged, then started to open the door. He spotted the Fire Empire, then grinned widely. “Okay, have fun, G. I.”
“Right.”
Once off the bus the heat hit him full in the face; the sky looked like it was going to rain. Bruce darted around the jeepneys and cars, finally reaching the front of the striptease club.
“Hey, Joe — special show! Good seats for you!” A burly man waved him in.
Bruce ignored the hawker and strode up to a row of jeepneys waiting just outside the door. He tried to remember the driver and the paint scheme of the vehicle that had taken him and Charlie around. No two jeepneys were alike, but he still couldn’t tell one from another.
One of the drivers gave his cigarette to his friend and called out to Bruce. “Hey, Joe — go to Clark?”
“No, the market.”
“Market?” The driver grinned and threw a sideways glance at his friend. The other driver had finished off the cigarette down to the butt. “Which one?”
“Uh, one that’s part indoor and outdoor. It spills into the street, high buildings all around?”
“Oh, yes — I know.” The driver hopped into his jeepney and patted the seat. “Get in, Joe — I take you.”
Bruce approached warily. “How much?”
The driver eyed Bruce and started to name a price. One of the men jabbered at him in Tagalog, and the driver stopped and seemed to think things over. “You been there before, Joe?”
Bruce hesitated. He wondered if the guys were about to fleece him, or if they figured that if Bruce had been there before then he would have a good notion of what the fare was. Bruce answered, “Sure.”
“Okay, twenty-five peso.”
Bruce climbed in back to show his approval.
Just as Bruce suspected, the man took off down one of the side streets. They wove a complicated path through the city, never quite stopping at the myriad stop signs but not racing through them either. Shortly, the high buildings that marked where the market had been appeared. The driver slowed to a stop. Bruce paid, then stepped out.
Here he was back at the sari-sari store. Three children, all dressed in white shirts and dark pants, sat giggling around a table outside the tiny store. He was too far away to make out the sounds, but he could see that they all drank Pepsi. I’ve still got the eagle eyes, he thought.