What was I, a retired university professor with a doctorate degree in education from a so-called prestigious university, doing with a much sought-after missing piece of evidence of a crime (as I soon would learn what it was), be on the run—sort of—because of it and engage in a cloak-and-dagger kind of existence of my own making for several days, be guilt-ridden and frightened one moment and feel privileged the next for being in possession of something I alone—as finder-keeper—knew about?
It was one of those Monday movie days and I was in one of the big malls near my home in this neck of Quezon City. I was by myself, had a small pasta lunch. Earlier I already bought my ticket with senior citizen’s discount. It was 45 minutes to the first showing of Bladerunner 2049.
My bladder was starting to fill up because of the watermelon shake that I sipped to the last drop like a thirsty deer beside a running stream, as the psalmist would say. I headed for the restroom. I did not see the ubiquitous cleaning lady with mop, wiping rag and spray. It was just me in the big restroom for women. I chose a cubicle from a row of five on one side, took a peek to see if it looked immaculate—it was—and went inside.
I did my thing, making sure no skin of mine touched the porcelain white toilet seat. Then I was done.
It was then that I noticed something on the floor behind the toilet seat. It was a package more or less the size of a small shoe box wrapped in white paper with light brown packing tape wound around it. It looked compact, solid, and heavy.
Horrors! I thought. A hidden camera! My first impulse was to dash out of the cubicle, call the cleaning lady and find out what it was some sicko had left there to record women’s body movements and excretions, for him/her to feast his/her eyes on and salivate over. There had been stories about such recordings in women’s restrooms and, true or not, one could not help feeling vulnerable to voyeurs and their craven attempts.
Oh, no! Perhaps an IED—an improvised explosive device? My mind screamed, DO NOT TOUCH, DO NOT TOUCH! I looked closer. There was nothing written on the package saying from whom, for whom or who owned it. But a tear in the pack revealed something about what was inside. I made sure the door of my cubicle was still closed. I heard someone come in and use the next cubicle. I heard the then flushing of the toilet. I waited. The person went out fast and I was alone again. I picked up the package, felt what was inside and made a bigger tear on the part where there was already a small tear. Then I put the package near my ear to listen to any ticking sound. There was none.
My heart was pounding while I partially un-wrapped the package. Cash. Looked like dollars.
Oh, my God! All of a sudden my urge to dash out and flee vanished. I took a deep breath. From my big leather vertical-shaped tote bag that my eldest daughter had given me, I took out my all-purpose eco-bag and put the still mysterious (to me) package inside it. Then I dumped the eco-bag with the package inside my tote bag.
While I was going out of the restroom, I noticed several women entering, some with shopping bags and little girls in tow. Had they come in earlier, any one of them could have found the package.
CONCENTRATE! I told myself. Think! Practice mindfulness. (I had just read a book and attended a seminar on it.) You came in with one bag, I said to myself, you should go out with one bag. The CCTV will be recording that. I have seen too many TV “CSI” shows from which one learned how suspects could be traced with the help of CCTV footage. My cinematic imagination was racing fast with various scenarios.
CONCENTRATE AND CONCENTRATE. But where to go next? It was 10 minutes to the movie’s first showing at 12:45 p.m. Do I watch the movie or head for home? REWIND, REWIND. I had already bought my movie ticket before my pasta lunch so it would be unusual if this movie ticket buyer (me, I imagined, now a person of interest) would be seen on CCTV heading for the parking building instead of the movie theater.
THINK, THINK, THINK. Watch the movie. Look normal. Buy popcorn or chips and a small bottle of water. I did. Look like any of those seniorcitz going inside, some hobbling with their canes, others in jogging attire and walking with sure steps. Stride in leisurely, hold your chips and water close to your chest—and your bag, most of all, close to your body. Act like you have no care in the world.
When it was my turn to give my ticket at the entrance, I heard a commotion. The ushers suddenly appeared alert, stretching their necks and looking far to find out where the commotion was coming from. An aging couple behind me held tightly to each other wondering loudly if they should proceed to watch the movie or leave the mall.
The thing I was carrying was killing me. Will I have to go through a bag inspection? I was relieved when the usher, looking nervous, waved me in after she tore the other half of my ticket. To look as normal as possible, I looked back, like the rest who were being waved in, to find out what was happening. But all I really wanted was to bury myself in the seat I had chosen when I bought my ticket, far to the back and near the aisle.
I pulled out the red cord with a small flashlight and whistle (a must for emergency situations) attached to my bag and put the cord around my neck. I had these since the Big One was being awaited in Metro Manila. I lighted the path to my seat and settled in. Breathe in, breathe out.
I got in just in time. The trailers were done and the sound of drum rolls for the National Anthem sort of added to the pounding in my chest cavity. I stood up, put my right hand on my left chest and sang along.
Blade Runner 2049 began. The movie did make me forget the bundle in my bag even for short periods. But every so often I would feel with my hand the bulk inside my bag, make sure that was all it was and there was nothing there that would set off an explosion.
Thoughts were popping up in my mind while the movie was going on, but I allowed my imagination to run wild and join the action on screen. Still a portion of my brain was making immediate plans. My brain was multitasking. Like, where do I go after the movie? Should I linger in the mall? Was the commotion outside over and did it have anything to do with my find? What was it all about?
While watching the movie I thought of reversing the reversible jacket I was wearing. There was no one seated beside me or behind me to notice what I was doing. I thought, I came in in red, I should go out of the theater in black. I also put on my purple beanie to protect my head from the cold. Midway during the movie, I fumbled with the straps of my bag so I could turn it into a backpack and carry it that way when I go out. That way, I thought, my overall look would have been transformed when I step out of the theater. That was in case investigators would scrutinize CCTV images that would lead to the whereabouts of what I had in my possession. At this stage I still had no idea what was going on outside the theater but scenarios were playing in my mind.
The movie did not disappoint, but I could have enjoyed it better without the bulk in my bag. As soon as the movie’s credits rolled at the end I stood up and headed for the exit with a studied gait. That is, rather leisurely and not looking a bit nervous. The ushers near the exit were talking among themselves in hushed tones. Must be about the commotion, I thought. I did not dare ask questions lest I would sound too interested.
Unknown to us who were in the movie theater, a big commotion indeed unfolded in the halls and passages of the mall. Some shop minders rolled down their metal doors and stayed inside. I did see shops still closed after I emerged from the theater. I could picture the commotion in my mind.
When I reached the area where mall goers were waiting or resting, I stopped to look around me. Did people look nervous? Were there cops inspecting bags or questioning people? What if they stopped me? My fears were unfounded. It seemed the crisis was over.
I took the escalator to the lower level that connected to the parking area. I decided I should walk straight to my car and simply drive away. No need for me to find out about what took place. If something major really happened, it would be on television news at 6:30 p.m. My watch said the time was 4:15 p.m. GET OUT. GET OUT.
But first I must buy those walnut rolls from my favorite bakeshop/cafe. I grabbed two bags with six rolls each and headed for the counter. Concentrate, concentrate. I was about to take out my senior citizen ID for discount purposes when I decided not to. If I presented my senior’s ID, the bakeshop would have a record of my purchase and, who knows, could be a tracer. I paid in cash with no discount. The sales lady did not bother to assess my looks and ask for a senior’s ID.
I was carrying two things now—my backpack with the bulk and the brown bag with the bread buns. I headed toward the bridge that connected the mall to Parking Level 3 where my car was parked. As a habit against forgetting where I park, I always mutter to myself the number and letter on the post nearest my car before I leave it. For example, R10, R10, R10, Level 3. The sound of it lingers for several hours. Or I write it on the parking stub.
So there she was, my blue Ford Ecosport beside the post marked S22. I pressed the open button on the key and stood awhile beside the car window on the driver’s side. Should I leave my backpack with the bundle in the baggage compartment? Or should I take out the bundle and put it there but have my backpack beside me?
NO SUSPICIOUS MOVEMENTS! Just get in the car. CCTV cameras all over! I drove out slowly, did not bother to present my senior’s ID for a discount at the parking exit. I handed the parking fee and drove out slowly as if I had no care in the world.
At this point I had nowhere to go but home. While at first I thought it might be good to drive leisurely and drop by here or there so as not to look hurried in case I was a person of interest and being monitored. But I was getting paranoid. I decided to head for home which was 30 minutes away without traffic.
My house is in a middle class enclave for many families with university connections. I drove past the guard house, opened the automated gate of my house and settled the car on the driveway. The three dogs were overjoyed upon seeing me. They had been by themselves as Bangs, my house manager, called to say she was coming only two days after tomorrow. This meant I would be by myself for two days after today. A good thing so I could sort out the stuff, my thoughts and emotions without someone around.
I went to my room, took out the pack from my backpack bag and ripped it open. Before my eyes were 10 bundles. I ran my thumb through the edge of the bills. They were, at first glance, all in US dollars in 100-dollar denomination. I counted how many bills were in one bundle. One hundred and fifty. One hundred and fifty times $100 equals $15,000. $15,000 times 10 bundles equals $150,000.
Before me was $150,000.
Who left the pack there? Why there? What was it for? Who was supposed to pick it up?
The answers, I thought, should be in the evening news on television. I switched on the TV and waited for the six o’clock news. While waiting, I cut the wrapping paper into very small pieces. Were it daytime I would have burned it in the backyard, never mind the toxic fumes the burning packing tape would emit. But since it was getting dark, I put the pieces inside a used brown bag, crumpled it and put the whole thing in the garbage bin for biodegradables.
Evening TV news was starting. The headline: the chase for drug couriers inside the mall. Three had been caught and handcuffed right there and then.
The police’s scenario of what was supposed to happen: The persons of interest would bring in meth weighing so much, leave the merchandise in the garbage bin in the men’s room to be picked up. A woman would leave the payment in the women’s restroom and another woman would pick it up from there.
One of the couriers was about to leave the men’s restroom when the police barged in. He had been under surveillance. The meth was found inside the garbage bin.
And the money? The one who left the money dashed out as soon as she received an alert ring on her cell phone. But the cops already sighted her. She was caught but she was empty handed. The one who was supposed to pick up the money from the women’s restroom perhaps received a text message from someone in the vicinity who alerted her not to proceed to the restroom.
I imagined it to be a quick thing. Someone went inside a cubicle, left something, then went out. Another person would immediately go inside to pick up what was left in the cubicle.
Well, it did not happen that way. I happened to get inside the cubicle where the package was left while the one who was supposed to pick it up froze in her tracks. She then blended with the crowd and got away.
So I ended up picking up the package.
WHEN I WAS TURNING 65, and was informed about my impending retirement from the university after more than 30 years of teaching teachers-to-be, I imagined the next chapter of my life to be one blank page ready to be filled with adventure stories, reflections, ruminations, and creative stuff of whatever kind. The husband of 40 years had long passed over to the other side while the three children were pursuing careers and raising families of their own. I was left by my adventurous self with shelves of books, books, books, and my wilderness of a garden, three dogs and dear Bangs, my trusted 50-year-old all-around house manager and house companion on weekends.
My husband’s passing did leave me disabled for about a year. He was the wind beneath my wings, the fire that set me aglow. He used to describe me to his friends and fellow university professors—within hearing distance–as “intrepid, daring, accommodating (to a fault) and dearly beloved,” I.D.A.D. for short.
For unforeseen problems, he would boast to his colleagues, I could find instant solutions and in unlikely places at that. Few would believe that I could fix a flat tire or a busted pipe by myself. I would venture off to remote places to conduct teaching seminars with, of course, his blessings and prayers. One day I was left without him.
After a year the dark cloud left by his absence vanished by itself, thank God, but thanks, too, to my women friends from way back. They walked with me in the mist and out of the woods.
Retirement day came without weeping and grinding of teeth, just a feeling of relief and the urge to hit the ground running and begin a new chapter. The farewell party over, I thought I’d just have a good night’s sleep, get up late, and plan for the next day.
Movies, ah, the movies. There would be a lot of them for free, thanks to my senior citizen’s card and booklet that served me well the past five years since I turned 60. There are three giant malls in my neck of Quezon City and I have been a frequent goer. But with retirement at 65, I had even more free time at home and outside. At home, more time for de-cluttering, gardening, trying out new recipes, inviting friends over. Outside, more time for senior’s zumba, walking around the malls, trying out new restos and watching movies, travels every now and then with similarly-situated women friends.
It is good to be with friends, but I also relish being alone sometimes. I drive to the malls and do not get charged for parking. I love being retired, I love the situation. I love being a grandmother and called lola by my grandchildren, but not by people I do not know personally—whether senator, sales lady, security guard or student.
Anyway, it was during one of those Monday movie days that this thing found its way into my lap.
THAT NIGHT of the eventful mall experience, I had dinner of glorious leftover mushroom soup, crisp fried fish with pickled bamboo shoots (my concoction) on the side, and sweet pili crisps for dessert. Wine? Half a small glass to celebrate my find that, I knew, would complicate my life for a couple of days. While recalling that suspenseful day, I could not help saying to myself, what a senior moment that was indeed! Senior momentous!
In the quiet of the dining room with the curtains drawn, I again went over the contents of the package, this time more in detail. Where there notes tucked inside? What clues did it hold? Were there traces of the bank where the money was withdrawn? Why in dollars?
I removed the paper strips around the bundles and counted the money, dollar bill by dollar bill. There were no notes tucked in the pile, no names written. When I was done counting, I put back the binding strips around the bills and put the bundles inside a plastic bag.
I got an empty dog food sack, put the whole thing there and poured dog food from a newly-opened sack. So there it was, looking like a sack of dog food leaning in the corner of my kitchen. Only I knew what was at the bottom of it.
I fed the dogs, JP2, Spy, and Wolfgang, took a shower and went to bed with a book. I turned on the TV in my room. Again the late night news carried the mall incident. This time there was mention of the drug money that vanished. It was how I imagined it. The woman who left it in the women’s restroom swore she left it there but she did not know who picked it up, if it was picked up by the right person or by a mall goer who happened to have used the cubicle. Obviously the cops knew beforehand that money would be changing hands. But where was it?
Hey, it’s with me! I said the words with my mouth but without making a sound. I did not know whether I should smile or tremble.
I stayed up late to watch the news in different channels. I was beginning to enjoy what I knew and what the suspects and the cops did not know.
I slept the sleep of the just with the thought that I had done nothing wrong or criminal but was only in possession of something related to a crime. The thought gave me some kind of serotonin rush.
I decided to stay home the following day to plan what to do next, listen to the news, find out if I was in the police radar, whether there was a search at all for what was in my possession.
As the news in the newspaper and TV said, the focus of the investigation was the meth and the persons who were caught transporting it, that is, those who took it to the shopping mall for an intended recipient. But based on news reports, the exchange of goods and the exchange of money were between the drug suppliers and their recipients. What happened was not a buy-bust. What I found was drug money, dirty money. And, in my opinion, no one deserved to have it back.
I was not going to give it up to government authorities either. Over my dead body.
What to do with my momentous find? I could not deposit that big an amount in my small dollar savings account. Should I change them into pesos little by little? Where to donate much of it? Should I tell a soul about it? Definitely not in confession to a priest.
The first most important thing was how to keep the money in a secure but accessible place. The bank would have been the best place but the amount was too staggering for a retired prof to deposit. My kid abroad was sending me dollars regularly but not in big amounts.
Light bulb moment!
I have a deposit box in the bank where I keep my few heirloom pieces of jewelry. But the box is small and it cannot hold a big bulk. But surely I can squeeze in a few bundles. Problem partly solved!
While thinking of my dear departed husband and what he’d probably do in this situation, I thought we’d surely be having expensive wine! I shed a little tear and thought of visiting his remains in the columbarium in the monastery grounds.
Another light bulb moment!
This columbarium where my husband’s ashes are kept is like most columbaries where each niche can be opened with a key. Families can install a lock and key of their own choice—a cheap one, an expensive saw-proof kind or even a combination-type. They can open the niche to inspect what is inside, touch the urn, even change it. All the niches are of the same size but differed in the font used for the names, dates and epitaphs. But the locks and keyholes vary.
My husband’s niche does not have a padlock. It has a keyhole with a key. Like a tabernacle. In the years that my husband was gone, I have opened the niche only a few times—during his death anniversary. I only polish the urn and put in a little note. Biodegradables—food, flowers—may not be left inside. Flowers with stems in water vials can be placed horizontally on the narrow ledge in front of the niche.
The epitaph for my husband reads: “Waldo de Dios, beloved of wife Lily and children Ralph Waldo, Crisantha and Jacintha.”
I am the only one with the key. None of my children has a key. The times they wanted to open the niche they had to borrow the key from me.
Why not keep the cash there? Not all of it but some of it. But is it safe? Have there been burglaries of ashes and urns? Have there been trespassers? I decided not to inquire in the monastery office because doing so might sound suspicious. The columbarium is inside the monastery grounds and it has a round-the-clock guard and CCTV at the entrance but not inside. It is a garden-type columbarium, with grilled passageways that look out into the wide garden. A beautiful resting place, I must say. Outside are benches in the shade of trees where one could meditate, contemplate and ruminate. The side door of the monastery chapel is always open for visitors to the columbary.
In the morning of the second day, I just puttered around the house and when I got tired I sat before the piano and thought about what to play that would make me feel at ease and in command. Bach’s Prelude No. 1 in C was it. I pulled out the music sheet. An easy-difficult piece, my piano teacher when I was a teenager used to say. It sure is, I thought, and hit the keyboard. The following morning—the third day with my find—I drove to the bank to put several packs in my deposit box. At home I kept an ample amount of green backs in case of a trip abroad soon or suddenly. I also kept enough dollars for the money changer in case I would need sums in pesos. The bulk, I decided, would have to be kept somewhere for the nonce. No, I would have no dollars to spare for those needing to exchange big amounts lest I get asked how I got to have so much.
All this time I had not talked to anyone but myself, God, and my husband in the afterlife. No verbal conversations at all, not even on the phone. I replied to a few text messages that I considered unimportant, queries about meetings with friends, etc. I was on silent mode. And the world, too, seemed to be on silent mode.
In the afternoon, I headed for the monastery. I first went to the chapel to pray, to ask for guidance from the Lord and, as always, to pray for my husband’s eternal happiness. The chapel was empty. I knelt and began emptying my mind. I was still for some 10 minutes. I then poured out my prayers of supplication.
My chapel visit done, I proceeded to the columbarium. The guard was familiar with my face so he waved me in without asking for my name and who I was visiting. He smiled upon seeing the small white rose that I plucked from my garden and made a sign to say he was going to the monastery to bring a plant that someone must have left for the monks.
I walked slowly toward my husband’s niche which was at the far side of the corridor. No CCTV here. I took out the key from my leather bag and opened the niche. The urn inside, custom-made for us by an expert tile layer, is of faux marble, cube-shaped like a box with the four sides screwed into each other so it would not fall apart. It has a sliding lid. Etched deeply on four sides and the lid is “De Dios.” The urn can hold two bags of ashes—my husband’s, and eventually, mine. While wiping the urn with my hands I felt something warm on my eyelids. I blinked and let it go.
In the stillness I took out the small bundles from my bag and laid them gently inside the niche. I slid the urn’s lid to the side and squeezed the small bundles into the urn. They all fit in perfectly. I quickly closed the niche and turned the key. The clicking sound was music to my ears. I placed the white rose on the narrow ledge outside the niche, made the sign of the cross and released a silent prayer.
As calmly as I came in so did I walk to the outside to greet the heaving greenness that was waiting for me. I felt a serotonin rush. I sat down on a bench under a tree and inhaled deeply to fill myself with the earthy scent of the freshly mowed grass and newly cut tree branches. I was reminded of cologne with leafy and woody notes in it. But lest the past come crashing down on me and I got senti (as the millennials would say), I thought I’d focus on today and plans for tomorrow which, as Scarlet O’Hara in Gone With the Wind said, is another day. And my thoughts turned to my senior zumba session with friends late in the afternoon, there to expel the remaining tumble of feelings I have inside and celebrate. CELEBRATE!
Suddenly I felt like I have stepped out of a suspense movie with me starring in it.
Just then the cell phone in my pocket rang. I took it out. I saw a new, unfamiliar number on the screen.
Calmly and almost in a whisper I answered, “Hello?”
“Hello, Lola,” the voice said, “Is that you?”
