Francisco Jose - The Samsons - Two Novels

“No,” she said, “it is not just being friends. You know them, you understand them.”

“Because I come from a village, Tia. I never really left it.”

After some silence, “Pepe, there is something you do not know and I do not think Padre Jesus ever told you. I come from the same town as you.”

I looked at her incredulously.

“You do not believe it?” she asked, her eyes crinkling. She was now speaking in Ilocano. “I do not speak like this often. There are many things I want to forget. Padre Jesus can tell you — he picked me up in Divisoria where I was staying, sleeping in the empty stalls, helping whoever wanted to be helped. It is not difficult for an old woman to stay alive.”

“I pity you, Tia.”

“There are events I don’t remember now — months I was not well, that I was not myself as they would say. But everything is clearer now and I am grateful to Padre Jesus. You said you came from Cabugawan? Of course, I knew people there. I am from Sipnget. We — my father— They came from the Ilocos, too. Did you know that there was a big brick house in the town? It was burned, rebuilt, then burned again. Did you know that?”

I nodded.

“I worked there,” she said, her eyes downcast. “The first house, that was where I learned Spanish — I was very young.” Then she was quiet and her eyes misted.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Tia.”

“I had two sons, Victor and Luis, but I lost them both. And my father, too. So I have nothing — nothing but memories. And when I lost them my mind gave way. But even now, I still carry with me their letters. And sometimes, when I want to go back to the past, I read them one by one. One by one.”

She stood up and went to the open window; outside, the sun was a flood upon the Barrio.

“How is it now in Sipnget?” she asked, but did not expect a reply. “The fields must be golden, the rice as high as a man. I remember the palms, the martins there. In the dry season we used to tap them for sap that we sold as drink or boiled into sugar. You know that, don’t you?”

I nodded again.

“And the tobacco fields in Carmay. I wonder if they still plant tobacco there. They used to grow so tall, their leaves so huge. We would string them and dry them below the houses. Ours were the best, good enough to be ba-ac. You know that?”

I nodded although I was not too sure. “This Christmas, would you like to go to Rosales again, Tia? A short visit?” I asked.

“And whom would I see there? I don’t know where my sons are buried, or my father. I don’t know where to go and pray for their souls.”

“You can come home with me.”

“Yes,” she said, turning to me, her face agleam. “I should go back. I hope that day will come very soon.”

With Toto gone, she was drawn closer to me as we consoled each other with our presence, our thoughts. She had asked about Betsy, how she was, and because I told her that Betsy was in the Brotherhood, that she was in the same demonstration where Toto had been killed, she now regarded her with some affection.

“How does the future look to you, Pepe?” she asked after a while. “If you go back to Rosales, will you bring Betsy with you?”

I shook my head.

“Her family, I am sure, looks down on you,” she said. “But you are smart; you will flourish without help from anyone, least of all her family. When you have done that, then they will respect you.”

“You are not wrong, Tia,” I said. “Her parents loathe me. They are sending Betsy away, very soon, to America, so that she will no longer see me.”

Tia Nena shook her head. “I hope she loves you enough to wait, maybe a long time, but you never know how steadfast women can be. You will see. And someday, I hope she will marry you.”

But Betsy did not marry me. She came to Tondo for the last time in late November; her father had returned and her mother was going to take her to New York the next day. She had just returned from Bacolod, where she had spent the semester break.

I had gone to Divisoria with Tia Nena to help carry the food that she bought for the week, and when we got to the Barrio, Betsy’s Volks was parked in the alley that led to the church. She had enough problems; I decided not to tell her about my torture and the city jail.

Father Jess was with her in the kumbento. She had had a long talk with him, for he looked serious and said we should be alone. She had acquired a bit of a tan and her hand, when she held mine, had roughened a little.

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“What I came to tell you.”

The receiving room of the kumbento was shabby — a cracked cement floor, uneven, wooden sidings, images of the Virgin and the Nazarene, a shelf of religious publications and high-backed rattan chairs that had begun to fall apart. But everything was clean, Roger and I saw to that — no mud, no dust, even the cement floor was polished. Although the cool season had started and there was a long pause in the rains, it was still gummy and warm, and beads of sweat glistened on her brow. I reached out, caressed her forehead and brought my wet fingertip to my tongue, tasting her sweat. “Very stale,” I said.

She smiled, shaking her head. “I am so tense not knowing what to think, and you keep teasing me.”

Though she was perspiring, her hand was cold.

“Pepe,” she finally said, blushing and unable to look at me. “Please marry me.”

I wanted to embrace her then — how precious little time we had! I tried to suppress the tremor in my voice. “Betsy, I do not have a job. I am not even finished with college …”

“I don’t want to go to New York,” she whispered. “And I don’t want you to go to the mountains. I want you with me.”

I shook my head.

“I have some savings, about twenty thousand. I have been quite frugal, you know, and I am from Negros. No new dresses the last three years unless Mama bought them. Or Papa. I have some jewelry. And the Volks is in my name — I can sell it.”

I shook my head again. “Please don’t be angry. I don’t want it this way.”

“I knew you would say that. But we can live cheaply anywhere. I will not complain … I promise.”

I leaned over and pressed her hand. It was still cold.

“You will not mind in the beginning,” I said. “Then you will be missing many things — comforts you have been used to. And I don’t want you to make sacrifices for me. You … you caring, it is more than enough. Besides, you are very young.”

“I am twenty. I do not need their permission anymore.”

“Not that,” I said. “You will be angry with me later. That is in the cards. You will regret what you have done. You don’t know how it is to be hungry. How to live in places like this. I want you to have a good life. I want no regrets.”

“I know what I am doing,” she was determined.

“Did you tell Father Jess?”

She nodded.

“Everything?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But he guessed. No, Pepe, I am not pregnant, but I wish I were so I can have a hold on you”—she pinched my arm—“then you would have to make an honorable woman out of me.”

I would not have shirked that responsibility, but I also did not want to appear as having taken advantage of her. Always, I could not forget Carmen Villa and my father.

“Betsy,” I said, “we are one.”

She looked at me gratefully and whispered, “Thank you … thank you.”

“We must wait. You will go to New York and be there for a year, two years. You may forget me, but I will not forget you.”

We were silent again.

She knew I had made up my mind. “Tell Father Jess I am leaving. And come with me. We cannot part like this.”