For some people, the highlight of Sunday mass was the gospel. For others, it was the homily and the priest’s blessing. But for Caleb, it had always been the songs. He knew almost all of the church hymns by heart, and those that were new, he learned by ear until he mastered them.
Caleb knew he played the piano better than he sang, but this didn’t stop his voice from swelling along with the choir’s. The familiar songs of his childhood gave him comfort, reminding him that though a lot of things could change and shake up his world, some things remained the same.
When Holy Communion came, the first few notes of one of his favorite songs glided from the choir’s balcony. Caleb kneeled on the cushioned pew, folded his hands, and closed his eyes. Tunay na Yaman was always sang by a soloist, a female soprano voice that caressed the air, sounding like air itself. Instead of singing along, Caleb listened.
Kagandahang likas
Pagmamahal na wagas
Nag-uumapaw na saya
Tuwing kapiling ka
Caleb’s eyelids flew open, gaze landing on his mom guiding the parishioners as they received communion. She wasn’t as old as the other Mother Butlers who had graying or dyed hair hidden under white veils. His mom’s hair was still a shiny black, gathered at the nape in a low ponytail, her crisp curls bunched like a bouquet of dark blossoms.
On Sundays, she was dressed in a white version of her office uniform: a tailored, button-down blouse and a pencil skirt that fell below the knees. Back when she still didn’t need to work, she wore colorful, flowy dresses that made her look like Caleb’s older sister. Now, she wore these stiff-collared ensembles even on weekends, as if it were her uniform for getting through life.
Caleb couldn’t blame her. He, too, had learned that routines were crucial to staying sane after a life-shattering moment. After his mom had found out that her husband had another family in Qatar, church activities became her road map to recovery.
Ang aking tunay na yaman
Ikaw na aking sandigan
Caleb made the sign of the cross and sat back down. How was it possible for his dad to act like he had loved his family with all his heart—all his life—at the same time he was betraying them?
“Loneliness,” her aunt had said softly while consoling his mom that night six years ago. Caleb was supposed to be in bed, but his mother’s tear-stained voice had woken him up. He sat on the staircase, peeking through the balusters as he eavesdropped on their conversation.
“These things happen all the time with OFWs, usually with the husbands.” Her aunt’s voice heaved with resentment. “Men . . . men are too weak against temptation.”
That night, Caleb had wondered if this same weakness ran through his veins. That like his father, he would someday abandon his family by virtue of being male. Before he slept, Caleb vowed that he would never be a disappointment to his mom.
During puberty, when Caleb began to feel the tugs of attraction toward the same sex, he had firmly pushed them down. Down to the pit of his stomach. Down to the soles of his feet. Down to the earth beneath him.
But this part of himself that he had tried to suppress still took root. Against his will, it flourished, giving him urges and longings that had horrified him at first. In time, he had learned to give in to these desires in the privacy of his thoughts and in his bedroom. He would feel terrible after, asking for forgiveness as he said his evening prayers. But the cycle would begin not long after, and his aunt’s words would ring in his ears: Men are too weak against temptation.
When Caleb, fresh from an all-boys Catholic school, entered college, the freedom came as a shock. At the university, he saw girls dressed like guys. Guys dressed like girls. Guys that looked like guys, but didn’t act like guys. It was as if the lines between genders were blurred.
He was itching to throw himself into the colorful mix, but he didn’t know how. The facade he’d built for himself had grown too hard to chip away. But his most pressing reason of all: he was afraid that his mom would find out about his secret.
So he looked for a safe way to express himself. One of his favorite TV shows, a musical comedy, had a gay character that wore bowties. The next day, he bought his first bowtie.
Caleb would wear this accessory to school and meet-ups with Ginny, but before he stepped foot inside his own house, he would remove it. Soon, he had a growing collection of bowties shoved under the towels in his bottom drawer. They symbolized that part of him that was detachable whenever his mom was around. They were his uniform to get through his secret life.
* * *
“Say hi to Father, won’t you?”
His mother’s arm was latched around his waist as she navigated him through the exiting throng. She only reached up to his shoulders, but like Ginny, her small frame belied her physical strength. After they’d walked up the stairs at the side of the church’s entrance, his mom pulled him through the open door. Caleb couldn’t remember the last time he’d been inside the pastoral office. Manning the reception area was the secretary whose eyes widened at their approach.
“Caleb,” she cooed. “You’ve grown so guwapo—and so tall. You must be at least six feet!”
“Almost,” he mumbled.
“He takes after me, of course,” his mom said smugly before rushing to add, “The good looks, I mean, not the height.”
They both looked up when the door of the adjacent room flew open and out popped a small, hefty-looking man clad in a white habit.
“Father Mon,” Caleb’s mom chirped as she rushed forward, pulling Caleb along. “My son wants to say hello.”
The priest’s round face broke into a smile. “I almost didn’t recognize you, young man. We miss you around here.” His grin turned a shade suggestive. “I suppose you’re busy now with a girlfriend?”
Caleb felt the tips of his ears grow warm. “No, Father. Just really busy with school.”
“He made it on the dean’s list last semester,” his mom offered proudly. “And you know, Father, his piano teacher wants him to train under Cynthia Liban this summer.”
Father Mon’s thick eyebrows shot up. “The Cynthia Liban?” He turned to Caleb, beaming. “Well done, my child. Perhaps you can spare some time to play for the youth choir? I’d hate to think that the ministry is being deprived of your talent.”
Caleb felt a wave of guilt wash over him. After all, the choir was where he first got interested in playing the piano. In fact, his first piano teacher was a choir member.
Back then, Caleb had enjoyed playing the instrument as a hobby. But on the days his demons came to remind him that his life was a mess, he learned that music could silence the nagging voices. So with as much as fervor as he applied to his studies, he decoded music sheets instead of wallowing in despair. Maybe playing the piano had saved him in the same way church had saved his mom.
But since entering college, he’d shied away from church activities because now, he’d found a new sanctuary: his school. There, he could get his fill of music—in a world separate from his mom’s.
Caleb met the priest’s eyes touched with that fatherly, beseeching look that almost got every parishioner scrambling to fulfill his request. But his eyes weren’t as dark as roasted coffee beans. His smile didn’t curl up like the lazy rise of smoke. His skin wasn’t baked to golden perfection. Father Mon was not Franco De Leon, a fact that prevented Caleb from falling under his spell.
Caleb smiled an apology and said, “Forgive me, Father, for I am really busy.”