Julia meandered through the house, which was still full of mourners, some awake, many asleep, until she found her cousin Mara in the kitchen making coffee.
“The last time I saw you, you were asleep in the parlor,” Julia said, rubbing her eyes. Mara looked tired but pretty, with her smooth complexion and her hair pulled into a silky bun.
“I saw you sleeping in a chair, practically straight up,” Mara replied with a grin, as she dried a large industrial coffeemaker.“There’s some coffee on the stove. I’m making a fresh batch for the parlor.”
Julia took a cup from the shelf. Through the kitchen window, she saw people cooking on makeshift stoves in the back courtyard and children already at play on the lawn. “Are the lolas sleeping?”
“Yes, they’ll be back in a few hours.”
“And Raul and Markus?” Julia poured steaming coffee from the percolator on the stove.
“Raul went for a quick check of the property. I’m not sure about Markus. Perhaps sleeping on the couch in the office?”
Julia wondered if Elena the Cook had ever discovered a spice for coffee that would expose secret love.
Mara scooped coffee into the large filter. “I once saw a movie about a funeral in the United States, and it was so different. Very pious and quiet, and at a funeral parlor. Here, the wake usually occurs at the home, like this, and can last for a week or even two, depending on how long it takes for relatives to arrive.”
It sounded barbaric to Julia, the idea of a body in the coffin for a week or more. “What about . . . you know, the decay?”
“By the end it can become evident, though of course the body is embalmed first. But death is not unnatural. It is as natural and normal as birth. None of us escapes it.” She laughed softly.
Julia tasted the coffee and decided to sip it black that morning. “Most Americans avoid the subject of death as much as possible. It makes us uncomfortable.”
“No one is comfortable. It is frightening, sad, eerie at times. Perhaps we understand it better because our land has known so much death. As you have seen, during the wake the family stays with the body through each night, and visitors come at all hours, around the clock. The body is never left alone. The more who come, the more honor to that person.”
Julia thought of the people all over the hacienda house and grounds, those up all night, the gambling, talking, gifts of flowers and foods. “It’s remarkable when you think of it. This entire land is remarkable.”
Mara smiled. “You may not look as if you have Filipino in your genes, but I believe you are becoming more and more a Filipina. You know, many hope you will stay.”
“But . . . how can they even think that?” Julia said. “It’s really not an option.”
“Life can surprise us,” Mara said smugly. “I need to check the biscuits and coffee in the parlor.”
That day followed a similar pattern as the evening and night before. Julia slept a few hours, and then returned to be with the mourners. Many had stayed overnight and were now becoming familiar faces. For all her offers to help in other ways, her main job continued to be greeting the visitors, who never ceased to arrive. It seemed every inhabitant of the surrounding region and perhaps a good portion of Manila had come through her door. She smiled, realizing she’d called it her door.
Julia’s cousins filled the house, helping and greeting as well. Mama Clara—Alice and Mara’s mother—took over for an afternoon, giving the lolas a break.
When Markus saw Clara, he spoke to her rapidly in Tagalog. To Julia he said, “Remember the one who always made excuses for being overweight and was always dieting, supposedly? That is Mama Clara. I told her how thin she looks—”
The old woman abruptly hit his arm, and Markus gasped and laughed as she sputtered indignantly.
“She said she gave up dieting years ago and I shouldn’t tease an old fat woman.” He put his hands up in surrender. “I guess some things do change on the hacienda.”
Soon flowers drooped and petals littered the floor around her grandfather’s coffin. The shadows in the room changed as the day progressed toward another evening. Markus continued to be her translator whenever needed. Once she saw him talking with Raul in the front entry, concerned expressions on their faces. She was curious, but then Father Tomas arrived to finalize plans for the funeral Mass and burial scheduled for the next day.
In the early morning of the third day, the house and outside grounds were renewed into activity as rooms were straightened and more tables made from sawhorses and wood panels. The Tres Lolas wove among the round and rectangular-shaped tables, giving orders, directing placement of chairs and lights.
By early morning the courtyard looked ready for a wedding party with white tablecloths and strings of white lights draped along the stucco walls. While the children of the hacienda gathered bunches of flowers and helped the women pull back the lower leaves to adorn vases for the tables, the children of the Barangay worked on the fringes of the lawn, carving wood with long, sharp knives. Julia couldn’t look their way for fear of seeing a finger instead of wood chips flicker to the ground.
Before noon Julia was dressed in another black dress and waiting on the lawn with the mourners, who after the days and night together felt like family to her. There was the woman Julia had met in the jeepney on the road to San Juan, who came with her entire family. The women she’d made jam with now welcomed her as one of their own, including her in stories of their husbands and boyfriends and teasing her about Markus. She also spoke more with the old soldier with the green ribbon—who said nothing of Takada’s visit, but instead continued to tell war stories through Markus’s or Mara’s translation. The children of the hacienda brought her wreaths of flowers and drawings of a light-haired woman on the plantation.
Her “bodyguards” were ever near. They slept on the veranda outside her bedroom when she slept, and once she peeked out to see their innocent faces at deep rest while Emman smoked on the steps, taking a turn at guard duty. Emman was always on the fringe, at times serious and looking like a younger Amang Tenio, at other times smiling or telling jokes to gain her attention.
Julia invited the lone girl in the group, Grace, into her room and showed her dresses and jewelry. Grace carefully touched necklaces, earrings, and a bottle of perfume. She hugged Julia tightly when Julia gave her a yellow blouse that mostly fit the girl. The boys teased Grace over her scented perfume, but continually came to smell her despite her punches to their arms.
As Julia joined the others on the front lawn, she marveled at how quickly she’d come to know so many people, some who knew no English at all, but still she considered her friends. They’d sung together, slept side by side, shared meals, and reorganized bouquets of flowers. Julia had learned mahjong late in the night with Markus, Mara, her cousins Francis and Othaniel, and some villagers. And of course, she felt a further closeness with Raul, Markus, Mang Berto and Aling Rosa, and the Tres Lolas. She wondered if Raul would begin courting Mara—she loved the way they used the word. Markus told her that dating was less prevalent than in the States; many still abided by the tradition of courting a woman with the intention of marriage.
The same chromeplated jeepney backed up to the walkway, and the black coffin was carried from the house where her grand-father had lived for twenty-five years. Mang Berto stood beside the black Buick parked in front of the house, awaiting Julia and the three old sisters. The other mourners in their black attire loaded into cars, jeepneys, and tricycles. Those from the Barangay crammed into the back of a farm truck.
Mang Berto followed the jeepney on the long road to the village church. The style was that of many Spanish churches and reminded Julia of the hacienda house as well. The red tiles were faded and a few broken; the white stucco was streaked from years of weather and damaged with pockmarks and chunks broken from the smooth lathed walls.
The Tres Lolas fussed with their dresses and hats as they climbed from the car. Julia walked ahead, up the stone steps, as if drawn inside by some force. Her grandmother had come here to light candles and pray, and her grandmother’s mother and the mothers before them. Her grandparents had married within these walls, and Julia’s own mother was christened here before being sent to the States. Her own history was within this land and the walls of this church.
The tile floor was worn in the aisles, though clean and polished. The ceiling was ornate, with murals of celestial settings; around the outer walls were depictions of the Stations of the Cross. Light streamed through arched gothic windows, and long wooden and bronze chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Outside, the church bells rang in deep resounding tones.
Julia wandered among the familiar faces already in the church, touching their arms in greeting. There was a great depth of peace in this place, and she knew she’d return here before leaving, just to sit and rest awhile.
Mara came and linked arms with her. “Let us light a candle for your grandfather,” her cousin said. “And I will light a candle for you and what you must decide for the future.”
“What I must decide?” Julia gazed up at a mural on the wall depicting Jesus weeping tears of blood in a lush garden.
“About your place in this life.”
Julia didn’t argue this time. The need filled her—a need for guidance from a source beyond herself. There’d been too many years of trying to formulate her own life, reach her own dreams, create her own happiness. None of it worked. She had ended up losing or giving up all she’d tried to gain.
The table was covered in candles, many already flickering down to their wicks. Mara reached into a basket of candles, lit one, and set it into an empty space, then closed her eyes and held the rosary beads in her hands as her lips moved silently. She then lit another and prayed again.
Julia took a candle, lit it, and wondered if God could see them there. As she set it down, she felt an overwhelming sense that He did indeed.
They walked the center aisle toward the intricate gold, porcelain, and ivory altar, in front of which her grandfather’s coffin now rested; a bittersweet yet cherished sight. Giant bouquets adorned the edges of the steps, and large wreaths stood on easels along the side aisles. The organ began to play, echoing richly from long brass pipes. The altar above the coffin was intricate with its design of gold, porcelain, and ivory.
Julia sat in the front row, joining the sisters. A few others came to greet her, and then Markus appeared, handsome in his elegant dark suit, his black hair slicked back and smooth brown skin freshly shaven.
“How are you today?” His thick black eyebrows were drawn together in concern.
“Do I look that bad?” she said.
He laughed. “Not at all. You look beautiful always, but indeed tired.”
Julia moved over for him to sit beside her as the music from the organ suddenly swelled, and many of the mourners began to sing as they entered the church and found seats. Soon the pews were full; then the sides and back were stuffed with standing mourners. Some even peered through the open windows. Father Tomas came from a side door to a small balcony, where he was viewed by all below. He prayed in Latin and then spoke in a mixture of English and Tagalog.
He spoke of Captain Morrison’s valor in war; his love of his wife, Julianna; his wisdom in rebuilding the hacienda; and the sorrow of them all over his exile from their land. Honor, courage, redemption, love.
A man Julia had not known enough of. A man who began something great and was forced to leave it. His American family hadn’t listened much to Grandpa Morrison’s stories. They didn’t know him, know of the honor of such a man in their midst. Julia realized how little could be seen in the very details of a person’s own life, especially when she hadn’t been looking far beyond herself.
The elements of Christ’s body and blood were carried to the front. Julia repeated the Lord’s Prayer and listened to the other prayers she didn’t know. She knew the solemnity of this ritual that was more than a ritual, a symbol and action of the heart and soul. She asked for a pure heart and longed for Christ to be within her. She did want renewal. She did want the bread and wine as the symbol of Christ’s body and blood to join within her body and blood.
The stories of those who’d been here before came to her then. The faces of Elena the Cook and Cortinez, the One-Armed Spaniard, her grandparents. Weddings and wakes, infants christened, redemption sought, the Eucharist celebrated—all here within these walls.
The Mass drew to a close, and Julia felt a great weariness envelope her. She grieved for a man, her own grandfather, whom she’d loved and thought she’d known until she came here. He was a cartoon character compared to the real man he had been. How she longed to hear his stories now, to go through his logbooks with him and discover his thoughts and plans to revive this place. During the final prayer, Julia felt something wet touch her hands. It was her own tears.
Julia cried for the man in the casket. He had drawn her close and sent her here, not fully knowing what he sent her to do. She cried for what he’d loved and all that he’d lost. And she cried for her own life, unworthy of stories. For living for herself and fighting her own selfish causes. For the losses that crushed her, that made life empty. For tears that cleansed and for openness to the Divine.
A horse-drawn carriage waited outside. The afternoon light shone on the black wood of the coffin; countless handprints covered the surface. Someone should have polished it, Julia thought, and then realized the poignancy of those handprints going with her grand-father into the earth.
The horses’ hooves made the clickety-clack sound along the paved road as they quickly left the church and south end of the village and went toward the hacienda entrance. It was a long, silent walk. From farther away came the sounds of highway, an occasional dog or rooster crowing, some whispered conversations.
Julia’s feet began to hurt, and a few children complained. She’d worn a black dress without nylons in this heat, but her low-heeled shoes chafed the tops of her toes. A few cars crept behind them, carrying elderly mourners. Some of the walkers began to sing again, and a young child raced up to hold Julia’s hand as they marched along.
They walked between the lines of palms and through the iron gate; then the jeepney turned down a nearly overgrown road.
The stories birthed from this very earth walked with the hundreds who followed her grandfather’s casket. A one-armed Spaniard bringing his bride to the land, a forlorn cook finding true love in a mythical cove, villagers crying to God through centuries of injustices, and the countless voices who would never be named.
They were all here. The stories were the ghosts. And her grand-father, a man revered and greatly loved, had come home to join them.
MANALO AND PACO FINISHED THEIR SECOND BEERS WHILE SITTING at a table outside the carinderia. The scent of grilled meat made Manalo’s stomach growl. The funeral procession was coming down the street, the clippity-clop of horses’ hooves and the footsteps of hundreds walking behind were like a cacophonic rhythm of failure.
Timeteo had yet to return with word of his family.
Times were changing. Manalo knew he might be reprimanded for the lack of action during Captain Morrison’s wake and for not striking the old Japanese commander out on the road. It surprised him how the American woman had respectfully dealt with the situation without being insensitive to the people. He couldn’t help but see something of value in her even if she was an American. Her eyes had glanced over him as she passed, and as he left, she’d come and shaken his hand, asking again what his name was and saying that she felt very honored that he had come.
The boy had come close to her, and while she bent to adjust his tie, the boy’s eyes had stared cold into Manalo’s. He’d wanted to smile at the boy’s ferocious nature. He wondered if his oldest sons were so protective of their mother and sisters.
The carriage came into view first, followed by the people. The American woman walked quietly with the others. Paco raised his eyebrows and did a low whistle when he saw her, but Manalo didn’t respond. He was that most rare of creatures, a one-woman man. Perhaps it was because they were so much apart that Malaya was a near mythical being to him. Of course he had been tempted over the years, but it was always Malaya for him and always would be.
“We need to remind them that this country is not safe,” Manalo said wearily. He didn’t have the stomach or the drive for this anymore, and yet he had no other option. “The American will cower and hurry home. Let us create some fear and send a death threat to her family in the States. We’ve given respect to the Captain; now we need to do our jobs.”
Paco nodded and pushed back his chair. Manalo motioned for another beer.
Because if we do not, Manalo thought, our superiors might ask for more than threats.
And even though he had more deaths to his name than he wished to remember, Manalo wasn’t itching to add any more.
EMMAN KEPT HER EVER IN VIEW.
He didn’t like not having a gun; his arms felt empty and longed even for his old wooden one. But it wasn’t respectful to carry weapons in the midst of a funeral.
After Captain Morrison was laid into his final resting place, Miss Julia chose to walk once again. He’d noticed the bright red blisters on the edges of her black dressy shoes. Markus walked with her, much to Emman’s annoyance.
Amang Tenio had sent word to the hacienda, where Emman had remained during the days of the wake. The Communist insurgents were near, and yes, they had been watched at the wake. Trouble brewed, and the men of the Barangay, gambling through the nights of the wake, talked it over.
In Emman’s young memory there was always some trouble or another in the provinces, in one of the cities or in Manila itself, among insurgents, politicians, and government officials. This time such things had to do with their hacienda. If the cousins all got together, with their lands, all for one cause, it would make other groups pretty unhappy. Like the group that Ka Manalo guy was part of.
There was the scent of rain in the sweet tropical foliage. Miss Julia paused in her walk, then said something to the lawyer beside her.
Markus watched her as she gazed around the wide, green land with an expression that told Emman that he, too, was falling in love with Miss Julia. Emman couldn’t really blame the guy, even if he wanted to punch him in the face.
He came closer, and Markus nodded to him in an acknowledgement of respect—not like most of the men in the Barangay who endlessly ribbed him about his youth. Markus wasn’t so bad, not really. In the days and nights of the wake, Emman had come to nearly like the guy. But he was still a soft city boy who was too often in close proximity to Miss Julia.
She was talking to Markus again, and Emman was close enough to hear her now. The sound of her American accent was enough for him to listen to all day.
“I’d like to investigate more of my grandfather’s plans,” she said. “I want to be involved with things here, even by long distance. Like Emman . . .”
She looked at him then—so, Miss Julia did notice his presence after all.
“I want Emman to have a future without a gun. I want Grace to wear a dress if she wishes, and for them to go to school and read about Tom Sawyer instead of hiding in the bushes following me as my assigned protectors.”
Grace wear a dress? Yuck. Him without a gun? Even if he moved to Hawaii or the mainland United States, Emman would need a gun as a bodyguard or private eye. And who was Tom Sawyer? He’d never heard of Tom Sawyer on the television set. Women could be a little clueless.
Emman longed to join the conversation—to tell Miss Julia how much he wanted to protect her and that he’d do so her entire life if she’d let him. But he must stay focused, and his faulty English always made him sound dumb.
And then it came. He’d expected something much more dramatic, and because of the subtlety, he didn’t take it seriously at first.
A strange noise from ahead, then a scream, and several men went running past them toward the sound. Women grabbed up their children and formed clusters that blocked the road.
“Julia, wait here,” Markus said, and he too sprinted forward.
A popping sound erupted. Machine guns.
Julia ducked down, and Emman pushed her lower, covering her as much as he could with his body. More gunfire, closer now, and a sick sensation froze him with the anticipation of a bullet hitting one of them. He spotted Bok and Kiko crawling toward them—Bok had his small knife held out, ready to protect. A dog barked angrily and children were crying, probably more from being abruptly shoved to the ground than because of fear.
Just as quickly the road ahead went silent. Emman rose up and scanned the people littering the ground. No one appeared hurt. He stood over Miss Julia, still crouched protectively low. Except for a few skinned knees and frightened expressions, all on this section of road were fine.
“Thank you, Emman,” Julia said, brushing herself off. Then they both appeared to have the same thought. She shouted, “Come on,” and ran forward, weaving in and out of the crowd of people, some who were standing, others still crouched near the ground.
“Wait, Miss Julia,” he said, racing after her.
He nearly tripped over a girl who was picking up her crying little brother. Emman realized his team was coming behind them, and soon enough they surrounded Miss Julia, who couldn’t run very fast in her dress shoes.
Then he saw Raul and Markus standing together on the side of the road.
“Is everyone okay?” Miss Julia asked, out of breath and afraid.
Markus was angry to see her. “I said to wait back there.”
And then Miss Julia did a remarkable thing: she smiled. “How can I wait back there when I’m the doña of the hacienda? I’d look like a coward.”
Markus didn’t find it humorous, but Emman did, even if he still kept guard and stayed close to her. Her brave smile in the midst of conflict endeared her to him all the more, even if she did think Grace should wear a dress.
“The doña you are now?” Raul said, bending down to pick up an empty bullet cartridge.
“That’s what everyone keeps calling me. So what happened?”
A large group of people gathered around them, asking questions, pointing toward the left side of the road where a path could be seen leading into the jungle.
“We had a disturbance, no one injured. Shots fired into the air, not at anyone.”
“Who did it? Was it because of Mr. Takada?”
“No, not that. This was Red Bolos. A scare tactic.”
Emman knew why. They wanted the region and the country, wanted to save it in their own twisted way, and so they murdered and stole and terrorized.
Markus kept looking around as though Julia could be shot any second. But the Communists would be gone, the men of his village hot on their trail.
“Can we get her to the hacienda house?” Emman asked.
“I’m fine,” she protested. “Where are the lolas?”
“No, he’s right,” Raul said. “Good idea, Emman. And the Tres Lolas are ahead and surely need calming as well.”
When they had Miss Julia safely in the house, consoling the Tres Lolas, Emman overheard Markus talking to Raul.
“I think she needs to leave soon. Pinatubo is going to erupt. Manila isn’t the safest place either; there’s talk about another government coup, and she might be trapped there. I think for her own safety, Julia should return to the States.”