Beth woke up with a start to the unearthly screams of a pig as it was being lashed to the long wooden bench in the dirty kitchen. The animal protested; its initial squeals became an alarmed bellow as it struggled to free itself. She could imagine it struggling, while the town butcher grasped its ears to steady the head. Beth knew what would happen next, and she covered her ears to the long, drawn-out wet gurgle that followed. Celebrations in the province often start with murder. Although, murder meant the fattest swine to slaughter; and the celebration could be anything, from marriage to birthdays. This time, though, it was another event, a funeral. Her Lolo Manuel’s funeral. It was just 15 minutes after 6 a.m., but the rest of the townsfolk of San Enrique, Iloilo, were sipping freshly ground hot coffee from white sartin cups.
Beth’s window opened to the east and the sun’s yellow fronds had already reached into her room on the second floor, separating into discrete bands of multi-colored light as it hit the pane of glass. An early morning breeze wafted through the kitchen below and lifted in the scent of fried eggs and chorizo. Beth breathed in the savory aroma, and she remembered her vacation here three years ago before the lockdown due to the pandemic. She had narrowly escaped to Bacolod City. She yawned, stretched on the bed, and unfolded her limbs the way a feline would elongate itself to reach out for prey. Beth had a classic Chinese face: slanted slit eyes, a pert nose, and thin pink lips. Her hair was neatly parted in the center and was always neatly tucked behind her ears. She was tall for her age. She was a head’s length above anybody in her class and was teased mercilessly for it. As a result, she had a permanent bend in her spine to accommodate her classmates’ height, and a forward, apologetic curve of the neck from listening too much to their jabs.
Coming to their barangay several kilometers from the San Enrique town center was entering a transparent dome where everything was frozen in place. Shanties which bordered the gravel main road were still covered in perpetual dust, making them look like huge straw hats of ogres buried under the dirt. The towering wrought iron gate screeched its welcome the same as years past. The ancestral house was a two-story monstrosity of forbidding tisa and cement and lacked any trace of refinement. A thick mat of ivy vines had claimed one side of the house’s wall, softening its severity. The house looked out of place, as if an errant tornado had uprooted it from the posh line of imposing structures in the plaza and plunked it in the middle of a sugarcane field. Sixty-eight-year-old Lolo Manuel, despite his grand manner of sweeping into town was a bit of a recluse, and preferred the cicadas to the inane chitter of the local elite.
Loud voices erupted from below, and tsinelas-clad feet slapped the floor in a crescendo as the house gradually woke up. There was an undercurrent of constant activity which never really went away. Beth hesitated before descending the stairs from her room, having changed in to her school gym shirt and jogging pants. She apologetically bobbed her head to the elders gathered about the table: her mother, Eden, her unmarried aunt Linda, and several others who helped in preparing meals and other errands during the wake. Linda hooked Beth by the right elbow as Beth passed by her on the way to the coffee pot, dragging the confused girl to face her.
“Beth, why are you so thin? You look like Nang Lourdes with tuberculosis. She died after coughing out half a lung! I even saw the bloody meat on her handkerchief!” Tita Linda was in full histrionics. “Or perhaps you need ipil-ipil seeds?” She referred to the tree with flat green pods whose seeds were a folk remedy for intestinal worms.
“Are you sure you are sixteen already? Where are your breasts?” She comically honked her niece’s breasts with a duck’s bill she made from right hand. “Eden, is this really your daughter?” Her booming laugh had a manic quality to it, behind it was the inexplicable mirth of the insane. Her mother just rolled her eyes. It was too early in the morning for a sisterly spat.
“What course will you take, Beth?” Tita Linda goaded her niece.
“Computer Science, Tita.” Beth answered meekly.
“So, what will you do then? Be a call center agent?” She gasped theatrically, her face contorting with derision. Other people at the table laughed. Beth flushed with embarrassment. She looked over at her mother’s muted exasperation. Despite her Mama Eden’s discomfort, she didn’t do anything except chuck in a chunk of pan de sal into her mug of steaming coffee.
Beth mumbled unintelligibly, excused herself and left.
The sala was designated to receive the patriarch’s remains. Beth was immediately at work after breakfast. She was on her knees alongside the house help, scrubbing away the coagulated dust and cobweb. It was a rhythmic exercise, like praying the rosary. She hoped her aunt would approve of how spotless the sala was. Beth thought of her Lolo Manuel, who up to his unforeseen death, treated her like he always preferred a grandson to a granddaughter. He was always careful to insinuate it during his tuba-induced inebriations. She suspected he used the drunkenness as an excuse to blurt out barb after barb. He would feign innocence afterwards, blaming his silliness on alcohol. His yearning for a male heir stemmed from his desire for someone to carry the family name. Beth’s family was quite comfortable. Lolo Manuel owned nearly 21 hectares of land filled to the brim with sugarcane. Their family initially owned the largest tract of land in their town, all 40 plus hectares strong. However, his brother sold off his parcel to somebody other than family and fled to Canada. He got tired of his abrasive brother.
Beth’s only bright spot was her late Lola who doted on her as a grandmother would. Beth and her grandmother would lay down at night on her bed and count with the gecko as it croaked its own version of marking time. She listened to her stories on how her Lola escaped the Japanese. She was scarcely four years old when the Japanese came with bayonetas and rifles. Lola’s father quickly lowered her to a hole in the ground he had dug for the occasion, buried her with sticks and leaves with only her head out of the soil and loosely covered that, too. He fled the forest cover shouting, to draw the Japanese to him. Lola had no memories of her father’s face. Only of his feet thundering away, his screams, three sharp gunshots, and silence. Beth snuggled close and wondered how it would feel if she were thoughtfully buried in the ground, smothered with love. It wouldn’t matter if she won’t see her father’s face, either. His loving feet would be enough.
Beth’s father was a sore topic with Mama Eden. He had his own family in Iloilo City before Beth; she was born out of wedlock. Sometimes, on their way to San Enrique from Bacolod, they would have lunch at Roberto’s in Iloilo City. The pancit and siopao were her Mama’s favorite. Beth would steal glances at the family at the next table, hoping that it would include her father. Perhaps, he might look their way, and with a startle, recognize Eden and realize he had a daughter all along. He would gasp and marvel at how tall she had grown, how akin their features were. That never happened.
The hearse arrived later that morning. Lolo Manuel lay resplendent in a piña jusi Barong Tagalog he used a few months before when he received an award from the Mayor, recognizing him as the top taxpayer in their municipality. He had openly reveled in the award, boasting of his contributions to the community. The casket was surrounded by four large poles with flickering electric lamps. Several wreaths in profound condolences thronged the area. It was nauseating; the scent of funeral flowers refused to rise as vapor, mixed with the candle fumes and roiled as a pungent cloud clustered about the casket’s metal struts. After the customary wailing and pronating on top of the coffin, Eden and Linda exited to hydrate themselves. Which is imperative, as another round of hysterics was in the offing.
Ruled as a stroke, the immediate cause of death was actually drowning and suffocation. Manuel was found face down on a small ditch filled to the brim with rainwater. The muddy soup was just enough to cover his nose and mouth and cause asphyxiation. His arms and elbows were bent from his body at awkward angles, his fingers splayed in agony. He had thrashed about; twigs and pebbles made half-circular scratches on the ground. It was a morbid equivalent of a snow angel – a soil angel. The mortician did an excellent job of covering the bruise. Underneath the slathered make-up was mottled skin. The cheek was especially raw, as if sandpaper was repeatedly rubbed on it.
He was making his rounds in his sugarcane empire when tragedy struck. It was unfortunate that he was visiting the farthest part of his property, bordering Passi City. He had instructed the farm help to go on ahead of him to prepare the small nipa hut in the area which he has been frequenting lately. The woman and her daughter who lived there owed him several thousand pesos as he lent them money to pay for her husband’s hemodialysis. When the farmer inevitably died, he left his widow penniless and heavily indebted to Manuel. Agnes, his widow, had agreed to stay in the dingy hut without electricity, potable water, surrounded by sugarcane and to continue working with minimal pay. It was a miserable existence, but she soldiered on, not knowing any other job.
Beth remembered her last visit to San Enrique three years ago. She woke up to the palpable pre-dawn silence which promptly swallowed the crickets’ violin notes, leaving no echo. Beth involuntarily shivered the last dregs of sleep, dressed quickly and silently stood behind her grandfather who by then had a bellyful of scorching coffee. She didn’t get the chance for the steaming cup of chocolate, though. But Lolo Manuel set out early, before the sun rose above the trees and burned the red mud into cracked terra cotta clay and dust. Beth quietly plodded a few steps behind.
She saw the wall of towering sugarcane in the distance and felt how Moses must have as he beheld the entry to the dry corridor on the bottom of the Red Sea, flanked on both sides by soaring, sheer sheets of water which blotted out the sun. She held her breath and walked right into it, and was immediately engulfed by the tubo, their long leaves rubbing against each other, whispering of secrets only they had seen. After what seemed like hours, they exited to a natural clearing where several mahogany trees bloomed in leafy profusion, shading the ground below and prevented other trees from growing. Grass was kept in check by an elderly cow who elected to spend the rest of her bovine days eating frog grass. Nang Agnes, a hunched woman clad in patadiong over faded maong pants and a muddy long sleeved buttoned-up polo looked up from a pot of boiling water and shyly smiled at Beth through the smoke. Her skin was leathery, her face pitted like a dried raisin. Her eyes, though, were clear and crinkled merrily every time she smiled.
Harvesting sugarcane was mindless work. There was no need to think if the individual plant was mature enough, they all grew at the same rate. The scythed tubo lay on the ground and were methodically gathered and tied together into huge bundles several feet high. Beth thought it odd that she could not see any machinery, but some of the bundles unmistakably crawled purposefully to where the 6×6 truck waited. That’s when Beth saw them – the children. The children carried them, like how tiny ants towed morsels several times their own weight to the nest. The air echoed with their grunts as they as they skillfully heaved the sugarcane onto their back. It was scarcely six o’clock in the morning, and the air was still burdened by night chill, but the children slogged on. Steam rose from their bodies as the labor-borne heat collided with the cold. It followed them as an ephemeral blanket. When the sun came, the haze shimmered like gold.
That’s how Beth met Grace. They were both of the same age, but Grace was smaller, and her hands were calloused and rough, her hardened feet had toes wide apart to lend her support. Her straight black hair was tied in a hasty ponytail with abaca fiber, and she had on muddy maong pants and long-sleeved men’s polo from the local ukay-ukay. Large, black eyes grinned merrily at Beth from a canvas of adolescent acne and blackheads. She was missing a front tooth and the lower third one on the right from the middle. Nevertheless, she answered Beth’s hesitant questions, shyly at first, but the day ended with their raucous glee.
It was her inquisitive nature and infectious laughter that endeared Grace to Beth. Lolo Manuel, in a rare turn of mind, let her off for a day and she and Beth scampered about the farm, squealing in delight. For a few hours, they were children again. Beth craved for a companion, Grace, a childhood. The next few days cemented their friendship and Beth’s vacation ended with promises to see each other soon.
Hot steam rose from the pot that Beth was intently scrubbing. Used plates and utensils piled high in the sink. The kitchen was rarely empty, but the maids were either out on errands or attending to guests. Beth had to make herself useful, in order to be seen. She was very much in a hurry. She missed Grace. She had brought Cheez Curls, Grace’s favorite, as well as new clothes, and her old cellphone. Grace could have it charged in the barangay parish. Beth was thrilled at the prospect that they could talk more frequently now.
Tita Linda’s irritated voice rose to a shout, abruptly dimming the chorale of chanted prayers. The door burst open, and Tita Linda dragged Nang Agnes in by the forearm, gripping her with fingers that were white claws against the latter’s mottling brown skin. A long line of mud trailed behind Nang Agnes. Somewhere she had lost her slippers, and the dirt that clung to the soles of her feet followed her like obstinate ants. Tita Linda flung the poor woman to a chair.
“Agnes, have you no shame? You know you are not allowed anywhere near his home!” Tita Linda hissed with such venomous spite that spittle flecked her lips in her rage. “People know you have a whorehouse sa katubohan!”
“Please, Ma’am, please. Grace begged me to see him for the last time.” Nang Agnes was a broken thing, forlornly picking at the hem of her faded shirt.
“I gave you two enough money to go back to Bohol and start again. Must you embarrass us before you leave? Mga puta!” Tita Linda was vigorously wringing her hands as if to rid herself of disease.
“Por Diyos, Beth! What are you doing here? Get out!” Tita Linda suddenly caught sight of her niece, gaping at her. Beth jumped up immediately and fled, her mind whirling with what she heard.
Across the house was a waist-high iron fence. Rust invaded the metal underneath and peeled the paint back with red-orange fingers. This bordered the ingress to the century-old barangay church in sturdy narra and mahogany, devoutly built by men of faith. Beth determinedly cut across to head for the large swath of land adjacent to the church where dense, ubiquitous sugarcane grew without preamble, erupting abruptly beside thick carabao grass.
Beth shuddered and carefully filtered through the solid wall of sugarcane. She knew that a few meters ahead was a line of unpainted cement tamburong, large hollow pipes that were three to four feet in diameter. Several years ago, the local mayor strove for a semblance of an irrigation system to ease the monsoon flooding in the area. But poor planning and a failed reelection bid left the concrete vestiges as evidence of his folly. A makeshift bouquet of fragrant white rosal and delicate sampaguita flowers leaned against the bend of the tamburong, adjacent to its mouth. The flowers were fresh, and the heat of the midday had scarcely done its work. Grace always had an inexplicable pull to this place, something that Beth never quite understood. Once Grace was out from work, she would always be there, humming and clearing the area of errant weeds. Today, the figure of sixteen-year-old Grace huddled in the hollow of one. Beth knew she would be here.
“Grace!” Beth hugged her friend in relief. Grace grasped her tightly as if she was drowning, and in between sobs, told her that she and her mother were leaving for Bohol that day. A bloated knapsack was beside her, as well as a sako bag, filled to the brim. She was wearing the denim jacket Beth gave her which now was a size too small for her. Beside her was a stick of sugarcane, gnawed and chewed down to the fiber for its sweet juice. Beth gave Grace the gifts and ceremoniously presented to her the cellphone through her tears.
“You forgot, Beth. I don’t know how to read.” Grace shook her head dully and wiped her nose on her jacket.
“It’s OK. Let’s call each other, then.” Beth swiftly recalibrated and promised she would send cellphone load. Her friend gratefully accepted the gift. Callous reality stung Beth. Grace’s absence would give her no reason to return to San Enrique anymore. Beth felt empty, as if the air had been pulled out of her lungs. But this isn’t about her. Mama Eden and Tita Linda inspired white hot terror, but she had to do what was right. She could not think of a time when she had the temerity to go against her elders. Grace looked up at her with muted, imploring eyes.
“I will sneak you in. But you must be fast.” Beth stuttered. She thought of the tiny door in the kitchen where the farm help would pass through when they brought in fruits and produce, slipping in and out quietly.
She ducked her way out of the tamburong and Grace followed suit. She grasped the plastic bag with one hand, and her friend’s sweaty palm in the other and pulled her up.
“Are you ready?” Beth murmured to Grace, but mostly to herself.
“Yes,” Grace replied with conviction. “For my baby.”
Beth was taken aback and turned to her friend. Grace’s loose T-shirt spun and shifted in the breeze and at one point, clung to her body. Underneath the fabric, her belly swelled with the beginning of life.
Rather than leaving, Grace steadied her hand on the tamburong and slowly lowered herself to kneel by the flowers Beth saw earlier. On one hand was a white blur of sampaguitas. Grace dug through the damp soil. Beth was puzzled, yet kneeled beside her and helped her paw through the earth. Their breath came in puffs and they worked in silence. When the hole was large enough, Grace placed the sampaguita branch in and covered the hole. A tall pili tree shadowed from above, ensuring that in a few weeks, the plant will take root and its fragrance will permeate the place.
“I killed him, Beth.” The sounds of the plantation were hushed with the terrible words. Grace calmly breathed into the warm afternoon air. The exhale emptied more than just the wind from her lungs. She faced her friend, her eyes red but absent of tears. Beth was mute with disbelief.
“I was coming from the tubo when I saw your Lolo Manuel kneeling and holding his head with both his hands in great pain. He was like a doll that flopped about. I saw him stagger and fall face first into the puddle. He breathed in the muddy water, and I watched him thrash and eventually stop. He didn’t move after that.” Grace lifted her hand and rapidly flailed it about, to show how she remembered it.
“I let him drown.”
“But why, Grace?” Beth was beside herself with disbelief.
“I knew why he was looking for me. He wanted me to go to the manghihilot again. The one Ma’am Linda brought me to. But, I wanted to keep this one.”
“Grace, what do you mean, again?”
“This is where my baby is. The first one taken from me. Will she be safe here when I am far away? Will you watch her for me?” Grace rubbed the loose, freshly dug soil on her hands. This was as close to her child as she could get.
A dry wind rifled through the tops of the sugarcane. The leaves rubbed together and were like voices whispering each other, laughing under their breath. Beth knew why they mocked her. For as long as she could remember, she had always listened to other people’s words. How she had twisted herself into the oddest of shapes so they would approve of her. How she had fashioned herself to be the most obedient granddaughter or the most agreeable niece. But not anymore.
She was her Lola, dragging and heaving herself out of the hole up to her stomach and out of the mud. The hole might’ve been dirty and stank of the forest’s refuse but after some time, anyone could be accustomed to it and to the safety it brought. Out there, despite freedom, was alien territory filled with dangers like bayonetas for tongues and overly critical relatives. The blood drained from her the way it did with the pig that morning. When she was completely empty, blistering rage filled her with a determined rush. She knew what she had to do.
“I want to see him again, Beth, before I leave for Bohol. To tell him that I will keep the baby. I want to tell him to his face that I – we, are free of him.” Grace’s defiance fueled her.
“Come,” Beth grasped Grace’s right hand and heaved her friend up. “Let’s go through the front door.”
