No Surrender Soldier (12 page)

Father blessed the Eucharist. He lofted the wafer high, “… with Christ’s body…” He broke off a smidgen and ate. He raised the chalice and crossed himself. “With this blood…” and drank.

People filed forward two by two as ushers directed each from one pew, then the other.

I looked down at my feet and tried to think pious thoughts. I didn’t notice until I reached the altar Daphne had fallen in step beside me.

She closed her eyes, crossed herself, opened her eyes and lifted her face toward the padre. He placed a tiny bit of wafer on her tongue. The priest broke off another piece for me. All I could think about was what a gecko-sized bite Daphne had nibbled from the host. The priest extended the wafer. I ate Christ’s flesh.

I turned to watch Daphne’s lips sip from the communal chalice.

The priest handed it to me.
Her mouth touched this.
I gulped.

“He who eats and drinks unworthily eats and drinks damnation unto himself.”

Never before did Christ’s body and blood stick in my throat. I wanted to spit out the wafer and wine. I felt dirty. What about Confirmation? What made me think I was good enough to be confirmed into the faith?

I walked down the aisle beside Daphne, close enough to whiff the plumeria blossom in her hair. I had to restrain myself from reaching over and holding her hand.

After Communion we were swept outside to fiesta under the canvas covering. No longer the solemn atmosphere of
novenas
—prayers for the dead—as noisy throngs of people crowded around tables overflowing with food.

I took a deep breath to smell the red rice stained with achiote seeds, finadene sauce, empanadas, lumpias, and Filipino noodles marinated in ginger, soy, and rice wine. My mouth watered at the sight of mangoes, papayas, guavas, breadfruit, coconuts, and tart little mountain apples that were pickled, baked, juiced, or offered whole and unspoiled.

But at the center of the fiesta, like a sacrifice on the altar, was smoked pig. My pig. Simon. I felt proud.

“Amen.” Father finished the blessing prayer. “And dig in!”

The priest led the procession down the tables, pausing over each dish as if it were a rosary bead.

Daphne smiled at me and swayed her body to strains of ancient Chamorro music.
Butsu
—three-quarter waltzes—flowed sweetly from the mandolin, ukulele, guitar, accordion, and bass fiddle. I wondered if after we ate, would Daphne dance with me? If I worked up the courage to ask?

I twisted my neck around, looking for Tatan. I hadn’t seen him at the shrine with my parents. He should’ve been there, sharing in eating pig with me. After all, we slaughtered him together, Tatan and me.

Tomas came up behind me and slapped between my shoulders. “What you standing here for, eh? Let’s eat.”

Tata was slicing Simon, and Nana cut up pies. I lightly backhanded Tomas in the stomach. “You go on, bro. Catch you later.”

I searched the crowd for Tatan’s pale blue
guayabera—
Filipino shirt. I passed tables where children pleaded for sweetbreads and cakes. I wanted him to be with me when we dished up our pig on our plates.

I pressed by politicians, though not without having to shake a number of hands and getting caught in a few arm-on-shoulder hugs. I nodded and bobbed my head past nuns. I slipped past my buddies checking out young Chamorritas, like how I checked out Daphne.

Finally, I thought I spotted Tatan wandering around a group of
maga’hagas
. The older matriarchs sat waiting for family to bring
manamkos
plates of food so they wouldn’t be jostled in line.

“Tatan,” I waved, motioning for him to join me. “Tatan San Nicolas!” I called again.

As I drew closer to where I thought Tatan was standing I heard one heavy-set
maga’haga
in an orange muumuu say, “Shame, eh? About Tatan San Nicolas.”

Another
maga’haga
in a green dress printed with pineapples replied, “
Lytico-bodig
. Sad. Thought he might be husband material.”

The orange muumuu
maga’haga
jiggled with laughter. Several women twittered.

Embarrassed, I tried to move past them and call for Tatan on the other side when Widow Muumuu said my nana’s name.

“Poor Roselina, after all these years… people forgetting where Sammy came from… now Tatan dredging up how Rosie was… soiled by those nasty Japanese fellas.”

“Do you know that for a fact?” said a
maga’haga
wearing a cowry shell lei
.

“It’s come out,” Widow Muumuu assured the women. “Day he chased that Japanese man at the beach, I heard. Couldn’t help but come out now that Tatan San Nicolas has
lytico-bodig
. A man can’t hide anger forever.”

“For sure,” agreed Widow Pineapple. “A-ranting and a-raving about what happened to us all in World War II. Concentration camps, Merizo massacre, the… well, you know, like what happened to poor Roselina… of course, didn’t happen to me… I hid mo’e better.”

I moved closer. Widow Muumuu caught my eye and puckered her mouth into a sour lime shape. Her triple chin waddled. The other
maga’hagas
must have noticed me, too.

Widow Cowry Lei said, “Nice fiesta, eh? Lots of food.”

I nodded, and stomped off. I wanted to shut them up. Shut them all up. I didn’t care that they were
manamkos
. Old biddies. They had no business talking about my nana that way. Gossipy bunch of old
maga’hagas
. Didn’t they have anything better to do? Did everybody know my nana was raped? What did they say about Sammy? I broke out in a sweat and it felt as if a tight band squeezed my forehead.

Out under the canopy of stars, lighted by moonbeams and paper Chinese lanterns, I breathed in burning citronella. My head spun along with people swaying and swirling to a kaleidoscope of music. I felt light-headed and about to pass out. I vaguely made out Tatan on the opposite side of the circle beside the ukulele player.

“The old ladies from days of old will eat betel nut,” the musician called.

People responded, “They’ll spit out the tobacco that stains their teeth…”

I inhaled until my chest swelled, then exhaled a deep sigh. I breathed deep again. I felt like I couldn’t get enough air.

Tomas came and stood beside me, balancing a plate overflowing with food.

“Seconds?” I asked Tomas.

“Thirds.” I dove my fingers into Tomas’s plate. He pulled it away. “Haven’t you eaten, bro?”

“No.” The room spun around me.

Tomas gave me a puzzled look, then pushed his plate back toward me.

“Tell you what,” Tomas said. “I’ll give you this whole plate of food if you go ask Daphne to dance.”

“What?” It was all I could do to keep standing.

“I saw you two eyeballing each other,” Tomas said.

“We weren’t eyeballing. You were snorting, and we couldn’t stop laughing.”

“Did not.”

“Did so. You were snorting.” I snorted warthog sounds through my nose. “Snorting like Simon before I slit his throat.” I plucked a slice of pig off Tomas’s plate and ate it.

Tomas glared at me. “I dare you dance with her.”

I was too upset by what the
maga’hagas
said about Nana to dance with anyone. I wished Tomas would just leave me alone. I cackled like a madman. “Like a double-dog dare?”

Tomas shoved his plate at me. “If you won’t, I will.”

My insides churned. All night I had wanted to dance with Daphne. But not now. The timing had to be right. I couldn’t dance with Nana on my mind. With what everyone said happened to her.
Soiled
, the
maga’hagas
had said.
Raped
, the history book had said. I shook my head, hard enough to rattle my brains. If I could have, I would have slapped the side of my head and knocked the bad thoughts out my ear.

But I didn’t want any other guy dancing with Daphne. I’d ask her to dance when I was good and ready. I dropped his plate as my eyes followed Tomas across the dance area toward a group of giggling teenage Chamorritas. When Tomas asked her to dance, Daphne’s eyelashes fluttered on her cheeks like moth wings. The other girls huddled and giggled, covering their pink-tinted lips. But all I could see was Daphne, with her full lips puckered like the underside of a shell, and her full hips swaying onto the dance floor.

Tomas and Daphne whirled frantically to the marimba-like music. No touching. Just a lot of twirling next to each other. Mid-stride, the band wound down and switched to a slow, soulful song about a Chamorrita who lost her love at war.

Surely Tomas would nod, say “t’anks,” and head back to finish his plate off. He’d had his dance at my expense. He’d made his point. It was over. A bro would do this for his buddy.

When I raised my head to the dance floor again, there was my best friend with both arms around Daphne’s delicate waist, and her hands resting on his broad shoulders.

The band tightened across my forehead. Sweat blinded my vision. All I saw was a slant-eyed Japanese man embracing a young Chamorrita.

I shut my eyes, pressed my warm hand against the lids, then looked again. The lovely Chamorrita’s head rested lightly on the foreign shoulder. Were his lips brushing against her long black hair? Was he holding her too tight and she couldn’t break free?

I squinted, thrust my neck forward, and saw that the Chamorrita’s eyes were closed and a hint of smile played on the man’s face as he held her close.

I lunged for him. “Get your filthy hands off her, you dirty Jap!”

He spun around and scowled at me. “What the… ?”

I grabbed him and raised my fist.

The rest was a blur. Daphne gasped and ran off the dance floor. I remember flailing my arms and cursing a blue streak until some men and my tata held me down.

“You’re crazy, man! You’ve lost it!” Tomas shouted at me and stomped off.

“Kiko!” Tata yelled at me. “Stop it!” He slapped my face. Nana grabbed my arm. She was wailing and crying.

“Leave me alone.” I shook them off and pulled away. My breathing was labored. I was suffocating.

Tatan showed up, looking like he was stoned. “Pilar? What’s happened? Where’s Rosie? Rosie all right? Who hurt Rosie? Why she crying?”

Nana put her hands on Tatan’s face. “Shh, it’s all right. Everyt’ing’s going to be all right. We’re going home now.”

But it wasn’t all right. It had never been all right. We’d only been kidding ourselves. I shook all over. Yeah, they gave me what I wanted. They all left me alone. Just stood and stared at me and left me shaking like some maniac who’d cracked. Now who’s the crazy one?

I followed Nana, leading Tatan from the fiesta. She sat in the back of the Datsun while I climbed in front with Tata. I hugged the door and stared out the window into the night. Better to watch the waves, think about walking into the water until it was deep over my ears and I couldn’t hear the band playing that frolicking song, or Daphne crying, or people gossiping.
Soiled.
Raped.

Tata started the engine, and ground the gears. He glared daggers at me. Why should I care? My heart had already been sliced with a machete. I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

When we got closer to home I stared into the boonies. Pretended I was wandering in the jungle until I got lost and never came out again. I could still feel the sting of Tata’s hand on my cheek. He’d never so much as raised his hand to me before. But this, I deserved.

I walked into the house like a zombie. Night of the living dead. That’s what I felt like. I didn’t bother to take my clothes off. I didn’t care if the noose strangled me. I’d already hanged myself at the dance.

I curled into a ball on top of my sheet. In my nostrils lingered a smell stronger than that of smoked pig, more fragrant than Nana’s orchid lei or Daphne’s plumeria blossom. I could still smell the musty odor of incense. I tried not to think about Tomas or Daphne. Or what vile, evil things happened to Nana nearly thirty years ago. For the first time I understood what drove Tatan to chase that Japanese man with a machete. Thinking about what happened to my nana filled me with such pain I was sure my mind snapped and I had become as crazy as my tatan.

Seto had hid in his cave long after he’d heard gunfire. He cowered in silence. He did not go above ground that night. He stayed burrowed below the next day, contemplating whether to go out at nightfall. He thought he would starve to death if he did not go hunting one more night. But if he did die, who would know? He was already buried.

Finally, he sat up upon his mat. What did he have to fear? Death? Was he not already dead in many ways? He was dead to his family. He was dead to the world. He had more contact with spirits and ghosts and crawling things beneath the earth than he did with man or beast above his grave.

Seto wished he had
sake
to dull his senses and warm his belly. Root tea would have to suffice. The root tea tasted like mud, but he needed something warm to flow down his throat and through his body, and even out in piss, just to prove he still lived.

He crawled to the compartment of hell where it was hottest—his stove. He rubbed two sticks together until his hands hurt. A spark caught dried leaves on fire. Seto blew his breath of life onto the fire until it danced yellow and blue beyond the smoke. Seto touched his finger to the flame until it seared. He jerked his finger back. Hot pain let him know he could still feel, therefore he must be alive.

He inhaled the musty smoke and coughed, further proof he breathed. Could a ghost cough, or start a fire, or feel heat?

“Ha! Aiee, hee, ha!”
Seto made belly sounds that forced his breath out in spurts. It was his way of saying,
I live! I live!

After drinking root tea and blowing out the fire, Seto pulled on his clothes, climbed out of his pit, and pushed through the hatch. Once in the jungle with his feet planted on a mossy floor, Seto breathed deeply, as deeply as the first god who sprang from a reed, to smell damp leaves and earthy scents.

He patted his suit.
“I am a man, not a worm that crawls up naked from underground.”