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The following Saturday, Inchoy and I were seated in Tita Rosa’s garden at a tiny table on tiny chairs, this a result of Cousin Carmi’s granddaughter’s birthday party. Miggie was turning seven. The theme of her party, because children’s birthday parties in our circle needed themes, was “Old Manila,” and to this end a kalesa had been acquired, which had been taking children on rides around the neighborhood. As it was now time for lunch, the driver was sitting in the cart, parked on the nearby driveway, eating his food off a plastic plate with his hands. The horse, in a festive harness, seemed unimpressed, his head bowed low, one back hoof cocked in a defeated way. He too was eating lunch, some sort of grain that he chewed dispassionately as a great of amount of gritty drool accumulated at the edges of his mouth. Around the other tiny tables were little children in uncomfortable clothing, napkins tucked into their collars, being attended by their uniformed yayas, who coaxed food into their wards’ mouths. One boy, hands idle at his sides, opened his mouth for a spoonful of lasagna, then chewed despondently, much like the horse. I wondered if the act of feeding himself would have dispelled some of his boredom, made him a little more animated, although less immaculate in his attire.

Inchoy was taking in the spectacle with his usual disdainful acceptance. All the expense for this party could no doubt have been put to better use, but if Inchoy had only stayed friends with those of acceptable moral standing, he would have been a very lonely man.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

Inchoy laughed wryly. “Your family puts on a good show.”

“That they do, but this is when I remind you that although they are family, and I love them, I come from a different world. This is their thing, their people. I’m just a well-liked family member who is allowed to hang out. And gets to eat for free.” I picked up a chicken drummer and waved it at him.

Inchoy pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow, delivering a disbelieving look.

“Inchoy,” I said. “I am not a Konyo.”

“Why, because you’re not Castilla?”

“Exactly. I’m American. This Old World society thing, I don’t belong to it.”

“You’re not off the hook, Ting. You American mestizos are complicated.”

“In what way?”

“Well, for one thing, you come in many different varieties, but people try to put you all in the same category, which causes confusion. But you are the result of the Spanish-American War. You are an Old American mestiza.”

It was true. Great-grandfather Benjamin Klein had come over in 1898. In an odd circumstance, my name too was Klein, as I’d regained it through marriage after spending the majority of my life, courtesy of my father, as “Christina Johnson.” I now wondered if this had been part of my husband’s appeal.

“The Old American mestizos,” Inchoy continued, “slid into the same category as the Konyos.”

“Well, the Konyos wouldn’t say that. Some of these people trace their roots back to the fifteen hundreds.”

“True, but to look at you”—he indicated me with a head-to-toe gesture—“you could be one of them. The origins of white privilege become less important over time.” Inchoy considered and went on. “Because of the American thing, you get conflated with the Fil-Ams, but much of the time Fil-Ams aren’t mestizo at all. They are simply the children of Filipino workers and sailors seeking to improve their lot in a less arcane culture. They’re raised as Americans.”

“Americans who are raised by Filipinos. Laird, for example.” Laird had, of course, been invited to the party. He was now standing by the kalesa driver, chatting with him, and the kalesa driver, in broken English, was trying to chat back, intrigued by the attention. “He might not be plugged in to the culture, but I don’t think he’d be very happy that you’re calling him an American.”

“I don’t know about Laird,” said Inchoy.

Together we regarded him.

Inchoy said, “We should ask him.”

“Oh, God, please don’t call him over.”

“Why not?” asked Inchoy.

“He makes me uncomfortable. I always say things that I can’t believe I’ve said, things that aren’t so much what I meant to say but what I think he thinks I’ll say. He brings it out in me.”

“Why is he still here?” asked Inchoy.

“I don’t know.” I had also been wondering about this. “He’s supposed to be getting married in the States.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“I can’t remember.” I watched as Laird patted the horse, listening to the fascinating kalesa driver. “I saw him talking to Rocco Basilang when I was with Chet in Rockwell. Apparently, Laird’s really into improving the roads. And the LRT.”

“You say that as if it’s a bad thing,” said Inchoy.

Right then a car entered the drive. The gates had been left open, ostensibly to facilitate the circling of the kalesa. The car moved quickly, braking just short of the horse, who didn’t seem to mind, as if he’d accepted the possible collision as just another reminder of his general defeatedness. I knew this car. It was Chet’s.

“What the hell is Chet doing here?” I asked. I waited for Inchoy to make some equally outraged statement, but Inchoy was silent. “Did you invite him?”

“I didn’t exactly invite him, but I did tell him where I’d be when he asked.”

“Why?”

“Why would I lie?”

Chet got out of the driver’s seat and Top Gun followed, walking around to the rear of the car, where he proceeded to wrestle something out of the trunk. I could see various family members alert to his arrival, as well as their guests. At that moment, the yard was filled with groups of well-dressed adults finishing up their lunches, awaiting the next diversion. This, I could tell, was Chet, who walked up to us with his usual swagger. Top Gun struggled behind him carrying, as I saw when he drew closer, a Hello Kitty car with a big red bow taped to the hood. The thing must have weighed 150 pounds. Chet, looking at the miniature car, then at my knitted eyebrows, seemed very pleased with himself.

“Where’s the birthday girl?” he asked.

She was on her way over followed by a number of children, many of whom still had napkins tucked into their collars. Miggie had no idea who Chet was, but she did understand the gift, and her eyes were round with desire.

“Happy Birthday, Maggie,” he said.

“It’s Miggie,” I dryly corrected.

Chet was unfazed. “I’m your tito Chet.”

Top Gun set the car down and Miggie looked at it, then at me, then at Carmi, who had made her way over accompanied by her own group, which included Tita Rosa, who leaned heavily on Beng’s arm.

“Chet!” said Carmi. “What a beautiful gift.” She looked over at Miggie.

“Thank you, Tito Chet,” Miggie said. “I love it.”

She got into the car and turned the wheel. She made a car noise.

“You have to charge it first,” said Chet. “But then you can drive it all over the place.”

“With yaya watching,” added Carmi.

“This is too extravagant a gift,” I said. Miggie looked over at me, momentarily alarmed.

“Nonsense,” said Chet. “The girl needs wheels. Look at her. She’s the sporty type.”

Incredulous, I mouthed “sporty type” at Inchoy.

“How’s your father?” asked Carmi. “We were in Punta Fuego together last summer and he absolutely killed me at mahjong.”

“Well, he’s in good health and still ruthless,” said Chet.

There was a moment’s silence.

“Have you eaten?” asked Tita Rosa. “The chicken lollipops are very good. And we have lasagna. If you prefer something sweet, we have Brazo de Mercedes.”

“Sure. I just ate, but that sounds wonderful, Tita.”

Tita Rosa transferred her leaning from Beng to Chet and together they began to make their way to the food.

I watched them journey through the tables and balloons, past the clown, who put out his cigarette and resumed juggling. “This is a disaster,” I said to Inchoy. “People will talk.”

“People are already talking,” said Inchoy. “It’s your fault.”

“My fault?” Just past the fountain, the agaw bitin was being set up. Beng and I had spent some time that morning decorating the bamboo frame with streamers, attaching little toys and bags of candy to it. This apparatus was then tied to a rope that would be thrown over a branch and someone would lower it and pull it up as kids tried to grab the treats. I saw the rope thrown over the branch and noted with some alarm that Chet had volunteered to operate it.

“I need to talk to Chet,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” said Inchoy. “But that involves having something to say.” Inchoy raised his eyes to me with a grave kindness. “I have to ask. Why didn’t you go with that other guy? The guy you had the affair with?”

“Oh, so now Chet’s telling everyone,” I said.

“I am not everyone,” said Inchoy. “And Chet, shithead that he is, would never do anything to harm you, so relax.”

“Really?”

“He did ask you to move into his apartment and that was inappropriate.”

“Yes it was.” I felt myself stiffen. “Strangely, even given Chet’s buying power, I am not for sale.”

“Ting, chill out. Maybe Chet’s being opportunistic, yes, but he’s doing it because he loves you. He’s always loved you.”

I didn’t believe this. But Inchoy wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t think it true. “The feeling is not mutual. And how did Chet know about—” I didn’t want to say it out loud. “You know.”

“He probably hired an investigator. When you have money like Chet, no one has any secrets. But you still haven’t answered my question. What happened to that other guy?”

I watched Chet pulling at the rope and the children leaping to grab the prizes. He was laughing and making jokes. He caught me looking and delivered a dazzling smile.

“I didn’t want another man,” I said. “I just wanted out.” This was the first time I’d articulated this, even to myself. “I had forgotten who I was and I wanted to remember.”