“Excuse, please?”
He started to say something, then looked at her closely. He frowned. “Say … you are a dependent, aren’t you?” Yolanda thrust out the yellow sheet of paper. The military policeman’s eyes widened. He took the sheet and scanned it. “Well I’ll be dipped.…” He squinted at Yolanda, then down at the sheet. “Yolanda Sicat?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not a dependent?”
Yolanda answered slowly. “I do not think so.”
He looked her up and down, then slowly handed the sheet back to her. His voice suddenly sounded gruff. “I’m sorry. Uh, I could have sworn you were a dependent. I mean, you look like an American.” He stopped, embarrassed and unsure of what to say next.
Yolanda took back the visitor’s pass. She lowered her eyes and stood there. The rain continued to increase in intensity. The policeman backed up.
“Sorry … Go on, then.” He turned and jogged back to his post.
Yolanda turned and headed for the man shepherding people onto the buses. She took her place at the end of the line, under an awning. The intensity of the rain had increased, so that it was difficult to see the main gate from where she stood.
When Yolanda’s turn came, the brown-shirted man whirled to her. She stood at least a head above him. She shoved the yellow visitor’s pass at him.
“I wish to visit Lieutenant Steele.”
“Lieutenant Steele?” The man lifted a brow and studied the paper. “Do you know where he live?”
“No.”
The man set his mouth. “Not married?” Yolanda looked surprised, but shook her head. The man brightened. “Okay. Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. Blue line, that bus over there. Look for many two-story buildings with a sign out front: BOQ.” He nodded to the third bus in line.
“Salamat po,” said Yolanda, but the bus dispatcher was already helping the next person in line.
She paid the one peso fare and settled back near the rear of the bus, which soon filled with Filipino workers and American youths.
Yolanda looked out the window as the bus rounded the long runway. Although the giant American base was not more than five miles from where she lived, she felt as though she were in a totally different world. Everywhere the grass was cropped close to the ground — a shame, she thought, for this would have provided a huge grazing area for water buffalo.
The buildings were all well-kept and painted, yet no one worked outside them. It was all puzzling to her.
But whatever the difference between the two worlds, she knew that she must not let it affect her meeting with Bruce. He seemed to be an honest, decent man … nice-looking, and he treated her well. But her father’s wishes must come first.
She closed her eyes. My father’s wishes, she thought. But he is not even my real father!
The thought left her cold, unsure of what was happening. Things had seemed to be so secure in her life: the knowledge that someday she would attend the University of the Philippines, thinking that it was her father that had raised and protected her.
She opened her eyes, but couldn’t see through her tears. Discovering that she really was an outsider tore her apart. The lie she had lived through the years only intensified her feelings — telling her childhood friends that she had never known her mother, when it was her father she had never really known.
What kind of man would rape her mother? Knock her senseless, so that she would never regain consciousness?
No wonder that Pompano — yes, he was her father! — was driven to get back at the Americans.
She too felt the anger, the blind white rage.
It was the only thing she could do, to save face and to ensure that her girlhood dreams were not dashed … to meet with Bruce and explain, however hard it was, that they could not go on seeing each other.
Cervante let the phone ring twenty times, then slammed the receiver down. “Booto!”
He glanced at his watch. Pompano should have gotten the flight times by now, he thought. If I am to start the harassment, I cannot afford to wait for the old man.
He lit up a cigarette, the last one in the pack. He crumpled the container and threw it across the room. Sucking on his cigarette, he thought through his options. He could not allow the HPM weapon to just sit in the jungle. It worked and was ready for use. But without the incoming flight information Pompano would provide, the HPM would be a mere random operation. He knew that was what he had originally wanted, but that vision of the 747 flying overhead had sparked his imagination. Bringing down an entire plane!
He glanced at the phone. The sooner he had the flight schedule in hand, the sooner they could start the operations. Cervante finished his cigarette.
By this afternoon he would be back in action, operating the HPM weapon.
Catman had the speakers cranked up to the max, playing vintage Toto.
The rock group played the type of technorock that Catman couldn’t get enough of. He’d seen them once, playing a concert in Phoenix during their 40th reunion tour, and the live concert hadn’t differed at all from his CD. They were that exact, that … perfect. Like executing a belly roll, a pilot turning a supersonic fighter around in the opposite direction from where he was looking, checking a blind spot. At over one thousand miles an hour. A technically correct, technically perfect maneuver in the hands of a shit-hot fighter pilot. The best.
Catman had just pushed out of the bed and begun to flip through his CD collection when a curt knock came at the door.
He ambled to the door and swung it open, wide.
She stood no more than six inches away, just under the overhang.
“Uh …” It was all he could manage to get out. Behind him came the erotic beat of Toto’s “Rosanna.”
The girl held out a wet sheet of paper to him. “Excuse, please. I am looking for Bruce Steele.”
“Bruce, uh?” Catman gathered his wits about him and tried not to stammer. Of course, he thought, the house girl. There is a God in heaven. He swore to himself that he’d attend Sunday School for the next twenty years. “Come on in and get dry. Sure, you’re looking for Bruce — uh, I’m his roommate.”
She hesitated before entering. “You are not Charlie.”
“Charlie? No, no. I’m Catman, Ed Holstrom. Call me whatever you like. Bruce, Charlie, and I are all getting a house — I’m really his roommate.” He stopped talking and just grinned. Thank you, Charlie, for picking out this woman. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
The girl stood at the door, uncertain whether to enter. Catman just watched her, drowning in her large brown eyes, relishing her long, black hair. It was time to make his move. And to think he had almost turned down this assignment to Clark! He grinned like a goofy puppy … until he realized that they were he was at a Mexican standoff. He tried to make her feel at ease by sticking out his hand.
“I didn’t catch your name. If you want to come in, I’ll let you know the kind of food I eat, how much we’ll be paying you, and that sort of thing.” Catman stood aside to allow her to enter.
She frowned and ran a nervous hand through her wet hair. “Excuse, please. I do not understand why you will be paying me.”
“For doing the house. You know, making the beds, cooking the meals, cleaning up.…”
The girl slowly shook her head and took a step backward, into the downpour.
“Hey, wait …” Catman felt suddenly foolish. “You’re not coming here to interview as a house girl?” His voice trailed off.