ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHELLE TANDOC-PICHEREAU grew up in Manila, greased elbows in Los Angeles and currently lives in Bretagne, with the best husband in the world and a spoiled cat. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in elimae, WORD RIOT, Chronogram Magazine, Contemporary Rhyme and Heights.
A Small Difference
By Michelle Tandoc-Pichereau
Smaller than a cell and barred to ward off thieves, Manang Ettie's had it all, sold piecemeal and at a chunky profit. Sugar by the cup. Marlboro or Hope by the stick. Even sanitary napkins, each pad wrapped discreetly in yesterday's paper. There were rows and rows of rainbow-colored candy, chips, plastic trucks and trinkets for us kids - we were, after all, Manang Ettie's best customers. I tell myself that what happened wasn't my fault, but sometimes I can't shake it off.
I was thirteen then. I remember because that was when I got my first "visitor" and had to buy wrapped rations from Manang Ettie's with swiped coins, before nana found out and made me use cloth pads like any normal frugal woman. That was the year when my breasts bloomed, when my skin fell short of expectations, and when Rowell carved my name onto a strip of wood, pushing it toward me through the bars of his mother's store, mute like jelly.
Looking back, I have to admit I knew he liked me. How could I not, when he always punted and passed the ball in my direction, always looked for me first when we played hide and seek? Plus, he gave me free candy. Just a Tootsie Roll at first, then a piece of Bazooka gum, a shiny Jawbreaker. I accepted them all without shame or self-consciousness - I may have been dabbing gumamela juice on my lips and cheeks to make them redder, but I still liked my sweets.
The thing about Rowell though, the thing that nobody wanted to be caught dead saying, was that he'd been broken in good by Manang Ettie. So he always walked around with his shoulders to his ears, like he was bracing for a hit. And he got it often enough, no kidding. To the point where the whole street knew when not to run errands. Or, if some folks were really desperate for rice, then they just had to chat nonsense with whoever was sweeping their front yard that moment, until the dogs stopped barking and they could safely ring Manang Ettie's bell. Whether it was the mother's huffing plastered face or the son's swollen cringer that appeared, nothing would be said except for pleasantries. Hot day, isn't it. Oh yes. Just the usual kilo, please. And thanks very much.
That was the way of the village, you see. Just proper neighborhood etiquette. You can criticize the lives of celebrities and politicians, impose your opinions on relatives to the nth degree. But butting in on what's happening next door? A capital sin. Even if you had to cover your ears or huddle your own kids close when the blows echoed off the walls, you kept mum.
So it isn't hard to see why I wasn't swayed by Rowell's Tootsie Roll tributes. With a mother wiping other children's snot and bottoms abroad and a grandmother descended from Genghis Khan, I was brought up to expect - no, to fulfill - a better future. Rowell wasn't it, not from any angle.
But still, I let him go on. I was hungry for praise, eager to affirm my desirability. From chocolates and candies, Rowell one day plucked up the courage to carve "Alisha" on the bark of a mango tree (it should have been spelled with a "c" and an "i") and handed it to me. I took it. Thanked him. Years later, I resurrected it from inside a knotted sock in my bottom drawer. It's in my jewelry box now, top tier.
Was I wrong to lead him on? At that time, I thought I was being kind - he adored me and I didn't argue. But I guess, when he finally gave me that brooch, I had an inkling we went too far. It could have been fake, probably was, but to my young, callow eyes, it was indescribable. A bouquet of white and rosy pearls. I wanted it. Never mind where it came from (Rowell couldn't even afford a bath, what more a brooch?), it was mine.
This gift I carried in my pocket. Every time I snuck my hand in and secretly traced its silky orbs with my fingers, I felt giddy. But the other shoe fell quickly enough. In less than a week, a most violent uproar hit our street. People were glued to the same page on their magazines, or watched TV with glazed eyes, ears pricked at every vile thump and cry coming from Manang Ettie's. I was crouched by the window, watching. I saw mother and son emerge, Rowell backing away with his hands to his face, Manang Ettie chasing him with a broken chair. I couldn't stand it. Each strike that fell on him stung me with guilt. I knew how it started. I could hear Manang Ettie clear enough, asking him where it was, where Rowell's filthy thief hands hid it, what he, the devil's son, did again. Rowell didn't confess. He just stood there, eyes thick with tears and bruising, taking it blow by blow. I was frantic. Why didn't anybody do something?
I thought she might kill him. And there it was, the brooch, heavy like Judas’s coins in my pocket. I knew it was my fault. I got too greedy. Rowell couldn't have known better, couldn't have helped himself. He was just a kid stuck in a grown man's body. So I flew across the street to Manang Ettie's and shouted for her to stop. Please stop!
To my surprise, she did. But first, she looked at me - through me, actually, because her gaze knifed me open. No one ever dared interfere before, not the mayor, not the police, not even the town priest. And yet there I was with my pockmarked face, minding her business. She dropped the chair from mid-air and turned on her heel. Rowell didn't look at me when he followed her. I didn't know what to do, so I took out the brooch and chucked it in their yard like it had just been dropped there by accident.
The next day, there was no one at Manang Ettie's. Several folks rang the bell, rattled the bars, but no one came, so they had to walk half a mile down to another store to get what they needed. The day after that Manang Ettie was back, but she was curt, snappish and looked too much like the gin she swigged in the open - dry and on the rocks. Most people began to avoid her. I don't know what happened to Rowell, no one did. Some say he was booted off to relatives, others say to an institution. I choose to believe he went away, that he hot-footed it to freedom while we all slept. All I know for sure, now that I’ve left that part of town, is that something so small can make a difference. Like a name on a piece of carved wood.
Published January 2008