Father

Author

Jul 1

I was wailing. I was gasping for air. I was nearly deafened by my own screams, but the more I cried the more he hit me with his thick army belt. Each hit marked my skin like hot metal branding a cow at the cattle farm. I could taste my salty tears running past my lips.

I was kneeling on a heap of mung beans in a bilao, a rice container placed in front of the mirror. Each grain felt like a sharp pin pricking me. The pain from the slashing of the belt and the prickling of the beans on my knees exacerbated the bizarre emotions I felt, as I switched from seeing my face in agony to laughing at it.

'Say sorry to your mother!' thundered my father, clutching the big belt he wore with his army uniform. 'How could you be so ungrateful to your parents? We work hard to raise you kids, wake up at dawn, prepare your food, carry heavy basketfuls of foods to sell to earn money. Your mum does that for you each day. And what did you just say to her?'

I simply sobbed.

'What did you say to her?' he roared. 'I want you to repeat what you told her so you'll be aware of your mistake.' His face was red. He looked like the cobra which confronted me in the rice field the other day. I was afraid of him. 'Say it! Now!'

I bawled until I gagged. He was the judge and the law enforcer in the house, and you would be sentenced without delay if you upset Mum. 'I said why did you have us in the first place,' my voice was breaking, 'if you couldn't feed us?'

'See.' His eyes widened. 'Did you hear yourself? Do you think it's proper for a child to say that to his parents?'

'She told me I was ungrateful in front of all the visitors.'

'Because you never listened to her when she told you to wait until we have enough money to buy your pants.'

'Well, she could have just told me so without putting me down.'

'Balong,' he lowered his face at me, 'as a child, the best thing to do is simply to listen to your parents. They know more than you do.'

'Well, she shouldn't call me a wicked child,' I cried loudly.

'You should not have said what you did. We're not rich, but we are trying our best to give you what we can. You and your brothers and sisters are very precious to us, more precious than money. So even if we don't have enough money, we keep you. Do you understand that?'

I nodded, and now I felt guilty. Now I wished I had not said anything when my mother criticised me. I knew that they loved me and they wanted to give me the things I wanted. She should not put me down like that, though. I cried incessantly.

I went to bed with bruises on my legs and lower back. The edge of the belt had scraped the outer layer of the skin off my thigh. I also felt sore just above my bottom, where my father had made me bend down and whipped my lower back; the tip of the belt also reached my right wrist.

I wished I had been born to different parents. I sometimes thought of running away and standing at other people's gates. Then I wondered if they would let me in. One time, I tried to scare my mum by telling her that I would run away and live with other people. She said she would even pack my clothes for me because I was useless in the house anyway. She said that I was turning her into a maid. Who was I to simply sit at the table and wait for someone to bring me food, she would say.

The hole in the left corner of my mosquito net had ripped again; I thought I had mended it the other night. I turned to my left side, where I could not feel my bruises. The tightness in my chest started to wear off. It would be okay tomorrow, although it would be embarrassing, especially after the noise I had made tonight.

Suddenly, I saw my father's shadow coming near. He came closer, inside my mosquito net.

As usual, I pretended I was asleep.

He touched my lower back and I groaned a little from the pain. He rubbed my sore skin with drops of Betadine. He said, 'I just wish you wouldn't make your mother angry like that.' He turned me to my right and looked for more bruises. He rubbed the one on my thigh. 'Does it hurt?'

'Yes.'

'Stop crying now. And don't do it again.'

The next morning, my younger sister commented that discipline probably suited me, because it made me sleep well. 'You were snoring loudly,' she said when we were having breakfast.

'I don't think so,' I replied.

'Anyway, Dad's going to be away for at least three weeks, so you won't be getting another beating like that for a while.'

Everyone was sad because my father would be going away to a military operation for a few weeks on the boundary of Cotabato and Bukidnon provinces. Even after the plebiscite, many fundamentalist Muslims still believed that Islamic rule in the region, as promised by the Marcos government many years ago, should be pursued. The tension between the Muslim rebels and the government soldiers had worsened, government road projects were hampered and elementary schools were closed.

Dad was all packed and ready: his canteen dangled from his hips, his backpack bulged with bullets, a mosquito net, a tube of insect repellent, a blanket, a towel and lots of canned sardines. His radio handset was prominently tucked into his chest.

Mum had tears in her eyes when she kissed him goodbye. 'Don't forget to radio us.' She nearly broke down.

'Time will go fast, you'll see,' he consoled Mum. He looked at us, his children. He touched my head and my sisters' shoulder, lifted my youngest brother up in his arms. 'We'll see each other soon.' He hopped into the jeep and it slowly moved away.

Mum wiped her tears away with her fingers.

We did not hear from Dad for many weeks. School ended and, in that term, I received an award for academic excellence. Only Mum was there to put my medal on me. Flores de Mayo came, and the rains of June poured so heavily that they made us melancholic.

Two more months passed and still Dad had not come back. Mum received a note of apology from the commander that my father's deployment was unexpectedly extended and their assignment might continue indefinitely. Mum enrolled me in grade five.

I was excited to meet my friends on the first day back after the two-month vacation. Our gathering under the huge acacia tree, next to the girls' toilet, was highlighted by everyone's holiday stories. After telling their stories, Daniel and Alfredo nearly ended up hitting each other, but one managed to calm them and suggested that, instead of us fighting, we should bring our pet spiders tomorrow and have them fight. Releasing two hungry-for-prey spiders on a thin twig would end up one spider being captured and masticated by the other. It had been a fun game for all of us nearly every recess since I was in grade one. At one stage, we were called to the principal's office after a girl dobbed us in for betting on the spiders. The head teacher reprimanded us that the spider game was okay so long as we didn't bet on it.

I went home via the thick coconut plantation and corn fields in search of a fierce spider for the next day's fight. I knew webs were best spotted at dusk. In between the coconut trunk and the corn mature leaf, was a medium size maroon-back spider tackling his prey in the centre of its web. I quickly broke a leopardwood tree twig and softly poked the spider. There and then I named him Zimatar after my radio soap hero. Zimatar crept stealthily up the stick with his flat white belly and hairy legs, still looking for his prey. I opened my matchbox, which I had filled with a young corn leaf. His silk still stuck on the twig but his body slowly fell towards the ground. I quickly caught him in my matchbox so that he would remain hungry and get even hungrier the following day, I didn't put his shrouded prey in with him.

Next morning, I woke up early and prepared for school, excited about Zimatar and how he would go with the day's fight.

My mother was rinsing the clothes in the well area. A military officer arrived and had a chat with her for a while. He asked how was the kids' school vacation and my mother said that it was fine and that they had missed their father. She asked him why there was a call for extension of assignment when the media reports about the area were okay. She was drying her hands in her skirt whilst she was talking. He asked if they could talk in private. They went into the kitchen. I hung around for a while and tried to listen to their conversation. I had to place my ear closer to the curtain to grasp his words as he seemed to be a soft-spoken man. She served him with a cup of coffee and pieces of Pan de Sal bread. Silence followed.

Then I heard mum burst into tears. 'How?' she cried.

He handed her the Philippine flag.

She covered her bawling mouth and sat on the ground like she had just lost her last penny. She shook her head and cried out loud. 'Why him?'

'I'm sorry, Rosalie. Their camp was unguarded when it was raided that night. According to the investigation, it happened when one of the officers on patrol went to relieve himself. The others were not vigilant enough. The rebels were so quick in invading the camp, cutting their throats, stealing their rifles and then running away.'

The officer brought out his two-way radio and told the person at the other end to bring the body in. A six-by-six truck pulled into our front yard. Four men in military uniforms helped carry my father's coffin down towards our living room. I trembled. Without noticing, I pushed my matchbox open and Zimatar crawled up my wrist. I caught him in time. I tucked him back into his house.

I was petrified by the shellacked coffin being carried in front of my eyes. Was it really ours? Does it belong to us? I did not know what to do? Should I help the men carry the coffin? They looked all right without my help; I would probably just be in the way.

Clutching my three-year-old brother's hand, my mother sobbed as she followed the coffin into our lounge room, where we would hold the wake. It would last a week, long enough to allow my aunts and uncles from Ilocos Norte to travel down to Mindanao.

The big wall in our living room was soon covered with white cloth pinned with purple letters saying, 'In Loving Memory of Mamang, Balong, Rico, Balen, Neneng and Joel'. The strand of bright light bulbs at my father's head beamed down on the condolence and donation book while the one at his feet added to the brightness of the room.

Flowers and more flower arrangements began to flood the whole room, enshrining my father's coffin. Someone pushed me towards my family, who were crying next to the coffin. I was the oldest son and I guessed I also had to cry with them, but I was not sure whether I would cry when I got nearer to them. Would it be embarrassing if I could not? All I could do was look extremely sad, like I'd lost my most precious spider. I looked back to check who pushed me.

'Go and join in with your family,' our neighbour Manang Saling whispered.

'In a minute,' I said.

I supposed I had to join them now. Had God punished him because he was too hard on me? I should not be thinking that way; he was my father. He made me. God wanted me to love him. But how? I did not know if I would feel all right standing there next to him, gazing at his dead body with our family. Would I forgive him for hurting me? Stop it. He had not really hurt me, had he? He was only trying to turn me into an obedient child, and that was his way of doing it.

I did not know what to think. And I really didn't know what to do. I supposed I should go now next to his coffin and stand there with my family. But wait a minute, two of Zimatar's legs were sticking out of the matchbox. Oh no. Poor Zimatar, he must be dead by now. I'd have nothing to show off to my friends any more. I had always been proud of having the most aggressive spider in our street. I had had good spiders: quick in jumping, tackling and wrapping the opponents in a shroud. Zimatar was a good one, too, I knew, by the way he clung on the twig.

When my spider won in the competition, friends applauded me. They praised me for being able to find the best spiders. It also felt good when friends approached me to look for a good spider for them and they would buy them from me. I felt I was important and needed. It was the only time I felt good about myself. I never felt that way at home.

I slid back the cover of the box, and I saw Zimatar turning slowly. The two legs were bruised. I went outside and gathered some Malunggay or Moringa leaves, scrunched and squeezed the juice onto his body, rubbing the fluid evenly on its limbs, the way my father rubbed Betadine drops onto my wounds. I let him out of his box so he could get some fresh air and so his wounds would heal more quickly. Limping, he slowly crawled up my arms and onto my shoulder. He froze there for a while.

I supposed I really had to walk in now. I peeped at them. This time, they opened the coffin. They could only do that because the body was still quite fresh. I walked in and stood with my mother, brothers and sisters beside my father's coffin. My father's face was covered with thick make-up. After a few prayers, some of our neighbours and relatives had a quick look. They closed the lid but left his face and his chest visible through the glass. I tried to be as sad as I could, but I didn't shed any tears.

I went outside again. I noticed Zimatar was no longer on my shoulder. I retraced my steps to the base of the coffin but I couldn't find him. I pushed through the kneeling people to have a good look at the floor underneath the coffin, but he was not there. I gave up and decided to forget about him. Perhaps I could find another spider just as good someday.

A week of wake went so fast. What I couldn't forget was that we were told not to have a bath in our house where my father's remains were lying. If we did, another death in the family would soon follow. After three days of not having a bath and getting itchy, I took a bath in Manang Saling's well. As I poured buckets of water over my head, I felt I should be cleansed and renewed from my hatred towards my father. He'd gone now and there was no need to be bitter towards him. I supposed by having died, he was sorry for hitting me so often – almost every week. If it hadn't been because I'd answered my mother back, it was because I had bullied my younger brothers and sisters: twisted their ears or called them useless animals. Now that he was dead, I supposed the last favour I could do for him was to remember his admonition: always be good to your mother and brothers and sisters.

A huge crowd joined the funeral procession to the cemetery. On behalf of the state, a military officer loudly delivered a eulogy for my father. 'He was a hero. He fought for peace and order in our land.'

In his last moments with us, I looked at my father inside the coffin. I was shocked to see Zimatar crawling on his ears, up his cheeks, down his nose, up his forehead and in his hair. It felt uncanny. Everyone around the coffin said to remove it but my mother said to leave it there because it was not going to be long before we buried him.

I walked away and sat underneath a mango tree. The wind swayed the leaves, dislodging some of them. As far as I could remember, my father had never held me or patted my shoulder or anything like that. Perhaps, when I was really young, he used to hold my hand when we walked together. He must have held me; he brought me up, for goodness' sake!

I wished I had said goodbye to him and told him I loved him. I wished I had been able to get closer to him, as close as my spider.

Published in:

Likhaan, Issue 38, University of the Philippines, August 2000

The Beach Spirit and Other Stories, Ginninderra Press, Australia, 2001