Charlie led Nanette and Yolanda from the room. Joe sat back down in the chair and pulled at his beer. He turned his head and saw Bruce still standing there.
“Go on — get the hell out!” He turned back to the front and muttered, “I don’t care who the fuck you think you are, what you’ve done — you’re still not half the man your brother ever was.”
Bruce drew in a deep breath and clenched his hand, jamming his fingernails into his skin. He started to retort, when it hit him that no matter what he did, no matter what he said, there would be no reaction from his father except for rage.
Bruce turned. Tanla grasped his arm. “Bruce … do not take it out on him. He treats me well.”
Bruce forced a smile and patted her hand.
“Son …” Joe stood, his hands open in a shrug. Bruce set his mouth and headed out to the car, where Yolanda waited with Charlie and Nanette.
Pompano reached the sari-sari store shortly after noon. As usual the market was crowded, and it pleased him to think that he would be getting some of the overflow. He felt grimy after setting up the high-power microwave weapon, and looked forward to cleaning up and having Yolanda fix him one of his favorite meals.
As he approached the store, he noticed the chairs sitting on top of the tables. He frowned. Maybe Yolanda was sick and could not attend to the counter.
He jiggled the door and it was locked; he didn’t want to disturb his daughter if she was sick. Moving to the back of the tiny store, he found the back door locked as well. He hobbled over to a pile of bricks and wood. Pompano carefully overturned a concrete block several layers down from the top of the pile. He wiped away dirt and pulled out a small box. Inside the box were several plastic containers holding papers, deeds, old pictures. A key was at the bottom of the container. It had been two years since he had had to use this key.
Pompano unlocked the door and quietly entered. The store was empty.
He furrowed his brows. Yolanda was not one to leave the store unattended without good reason. Looking around the room, he spotted a white sheet of paper taped to his chair. He recognized Yolanda’s writing:
Father, The young man I told you about has invited me to Olongapo for the afternoon. This was the only time he could get off work, so I thought it might be best for me to go. If you get back, I will introduce you to him early this evening. Y.
He smiled to himself. His little girl was growing up faster than he had wanted.
The car was quiet. Bruce was immersed in his thoughts as he drove, mostly on “auto-pilot,” as he didn’t pay attention to where he was going or what he was doing — he let his reflexes do the driving.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Charlie had his arm around Nanette; she leaned back on his shoulder, looking outside the car. From the corner of his eye he saw Yolanda stare listlessly at her hands. Bruce set his mouth.
“I’m … sorry that my dad came over that way, Yolanda. He, well, he’s pretty opinionated and doesn’t think things through before he opens his mouth. He’s got some real problems …” he trailed off.
Charlie spoke from the back. “You don’t have to apologize. He said what he said, and you aren’t responsible for any of it. I think it’s best if we just forget about it.”
Charlie caught his eye in the mirror; he nodded toward Yolanda. She still sat with her head down.
Bruce slid his arm over the seat and took her hand. She held onto him tightly. There was nothing to say for a long time, but she seemed to hold onto him as if he were a lifeline, a buoy. He could just imagine the shame she felt, the humiliation.
He knew she had other goals, other aspirations, and coming back to the United States with Bruce was probably something she had never even considered.
Bruce tried to put himself in her shoes. What would it have been like if he had been accused — slandered! — by her father?
But he knew that the comparison could never be made. She had much more at stake. And since the Filipino culture had ingrained in her that saving face was paramount, it was as if Bruce’s father had stripped her in front of Bruce and his friends, publicly shocked and humiliated her.
Bruce glanced over to Yolanda. She shuddered quietly, as if sobbing to herself, but yet never allowing the others to see.
Bruce tried to control his voice and spoke quietly. “Yolanda … I’m … I’m sorry, and I know that nothing I do can change it. Maybe I can make you understand, tell you something that happened to me, something very close to me, that caused me shame—” He stopped for a moment, then prayed silently for the strength to go on. He found his voice had dropped to a whisper. “I was married until six months ago. I thought I had the perfect marriage, a girl that I had dated all through high school and college.
“How well can you know a person after seven years of dating and three years of marriage? But I guess it really didn’t matter — whatever is inside is the true person, and that doesn’t always show.
“Ashley and I grew apart the last few months, her job and friends demanding more of her time. Her best friend used to keep her company on those overnight trips I had to take, and I had always thought that it was a good idea.” He paused, then forced himself to continue. “One night, I came home after a flight was cancelled, and I found Ashley … Ashley with her girlfriend and a couple of guys … all … in my bed. That was the last time I saw her. Everything else, the separation, the divorce was all conducted through lawyers. I couldn’t bring myself to face her again. Or tell my friends about it.
“I guess things like being honest with each other, spending time taking walks, or just reading together … doesn’t mean much to some people. I know I can’t undo what my father did to you, but — at least you should know that you aren’t the only one to experience pain.”
Bruce stared straight ahead. The road was clear, and rice paddies on either side diffused into jungle; it didn’t take much to drive, and Bruce did the minimum keeping the car on the road.
Bruce felt a hand on his shoulder; Charlie squeezed tight.
Yolanda still sobbed quietly. Charlie removed his hand and settled back in his seat.
When Yolanda leaned her head over to Bruce’s shoulder, he felt a peace he had not felt for what seemed years.
Secretary of State Francis Acht closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. The first-floor room was down the hall and two doors down from the President’s study. Normally reserved for the President’s National Security Advisor, Acht was using the room as a temporary situation room.
He didn’t want to draw undue attention to the President’s absence, but he knew that the effort was almost useless. Sooner or later someone on the White House staff would speak to the press — a “highly placed anonymous source,” earning favor with the reporters and thus raising his stature in the press’s eyes.
Acht opened his eyes and glanced at the note just handed him: The President was still in surgery, and the prognosis was bad.
Adleman was due to arrive in the Philippine Islands in less than twelve hours and, with any luck, should be able to wrap up the treaty by Sunday. Luckily, most of the details had been hammered out by a team handpicked by Acht. Adleman’s presence would assure Philippine President Rizular that the U.S. was not treating the Philippines as an unequal.
Acht blinked. The room’s hand-rubbed wood finish, dark blue decor, and soft lighting had been designed to soothe the tensions that might affect decisions.
The Secretary of State stood and shuffled to the curtains. Drawing the thick fabric aside, he looked out onto the White House lawn. No cars had passed in front of the White House for years, ever since the street had been closed after the 9-11 attack. Now he could barely make out people as they walked along the pedestrian path in the warm Washington night. Sometimes it felt as if all the security precautions were designed to keep him caged, rather than keep the masses out.