Mango Seasons Read online

  Mango Seasons

  Michelle Cruz Skinner

  Mango Seasons

  Copyright to this digital edition © 2016 by MICHELLE CRUZ-SKINNER

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced

  in any form or by any means

  without the written permission

  of the author and publisher.

  Published and exclusively distributed by

  ANVIL PUBLISHING, INC.

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  125 Pioneer Street, Mandaluyong City

  1550 Philippines

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  First printing, 1996 (BP)

  Second printing, 2010 (NP)

  ISBN 9789712733543 (e-book)

  Cover design by ARIEL DALISAY

  Interior design by ANI V. HABÚLAN

  Version 1.0.1

  For Mike

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a great debt to all the teachers and friends who, over the years, have read my work and given me honest responses. However, my deepest gratitude goes to my family for teaching me to love books and encouraging all my early, and messy, creative efforts. Maraming salamat.

  Contents

  Mango Season

  Smoke Trees

  The Gift Apples

  Elena’s Marriage

  Pneumonia and Other Injuries

  The School of Fathers

  Rains of August

  Angel’s Story

  Recounting the Days

  Katorse

  Soledad

  Two Prayers for the Living

  The Beginning of Summer

  Mango Seasons

  Mango

  Season

  Every April, after the fires of March have burned away the cool weather, the mangoes ripen. The March fires are meant to smudge the trees and hasten the ripening of the fruit. Under our tree in our house in Manila, the yard man burns rubbish in a sawed-off, metal drum. The smoke from the drum is heavy, mixes with the dust and stings our noses and eyes. We close all the windows on that side of the house. A month later, through those same windows drifts the sweet smell of the mangoes hanging from the branches.

  The next few months hang full of heat and sweetness, a humid season even before the rains of July and August and September. Our bodies grow heavy and sticky under the sun. In the darkest rooms of this house, sweat beads on the untouched curves of my back.

  We store mangoes in our refrigerator to eat with almost every meal. My children are messy. They scoop the yellow fruit out of the mango halves with spoons. Juices slide down their faces and I have to remind them to eat over the plate otherwise they will drip all over the table and themselves.

  Today, as I do sometimes, I have sliced each fruit in half and pushed the soft flesh up so my children eat mango flowers. Even out here in the country we are eating mangoes. We have arrived too late in the season for setting the fires under the trees. Still, we have many mangoes and many more mango trees here than at our house in Manila. This will help pacify the children.

  They have never lived here and do not want to spend the summer. When we were packing I told them this house is where I spent my summers as a girl, but they were not impressed.

  “I’d rather go to Baguio with Lolo,” my daughter Marisa replied. My father had offered to take them to Baguio. I pretended not to hear Marisa.

  “Don’t worry, Clara,” said my husband as he drank his cup of coffee this morning. Nick’s always telling me not to worry. He said this when his friend Rueben came for dinner. “Don’t worry, Clara. He’s just one more person.” But I am so careful and Rueben, unexpected, startled me. He was pale, handsome. When he held my hand and said “Mrs. Salcedo,” I felt an old feverishness in my stomach, in my palm. I remembered this house and Danny holding my hand sticky with sweat.

  This morning, across coffee, I nodded and avoided Nick’s eyes as I have been doing for the past few weeks. I do not want him to look in my eyes and know anything. “Don’t worry,” he repeated softly, oblivious.

  He left this morning, before the day became too hot, and took the older maid, our cook, with him. He and I and the two maids sat around the kitchen table in the early light, drinking weak coffee and eating rolls. The meal felt strange because normally they didn’t eat with us. But, I was thankful for their company since the children were still asleep and couldn’t fill in the space between Nick and me. We finished our coffee, then walked out into the hazy light.

  I reminded him to bring the curtains for the living room on his next trip. He moved as if to kiss me, but I backed away and pretended I had something stuck to the bottom of my slipper. I picked intently at the rubber sole. He held his hand out for me to take, to steady myself. But I clung to the porch rail.

  He dropped his hand and silently looked at the yard. “How long since anyone lived here?” His voice was loud.

  “Four years,” I said. “Since Lola Ofelia died.”

  He nodded. “It needs a lot of work.”

  “It’s just dirty. It’ll look better when you come back.”

  “Let the maid take care of it,” he said. “You should get some rest.”

  I smiled for him. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Nick looked at me closely. “Well, get some rest anyway. And hire a yard man.”

  I waved to him as he backed the minivan, borrowed from the bank where he works, out of the driveway. I began to close the gate. “I’ll be back next weekend,” he yelled.

  So, I have a week to myself. I smile at my children sitting around me at the dining table, but they’re intent on their mango flowers and don’t notice. Maybe I will buy a few things at the market today. I should get out of the house. Two of my aunts live only a short distance away; we’ll have to visit them while we’re here, but not yet. I want to see Danny now, to talk to him. This is why I’ve come, I admit it. Do you remember? I will ask him. I’ll touch him, his dark hands, long, slender fingers which I still can feel, or think I feel, these many years later.

  I place my hands over my eyes and run them back through my hair. A breeze blows across my neck. My neck is dry but my hands are damp. The backs of my knees, under my slip, are damp also.

  The fan, which the children have dragged in from the living room, is rotating slowly and blowing on us all. Still, we’re hot. Gemma, my youngest, pushes hair from her wet forehead with a mango-stained hand. Marisa wrinkles her nose at this. She is older and neater. Emil hasn’t noticed a thing. He walks into the kitchen to refill his glass of milk.

  “You’re getting fat,” says Marisa. She looks to me. “Isn’t he getting fat, Mommy?” She’s ten and these things are becoming important to her. It’s true. He’s growing fat despite the heat.

  Emil ignores her. His glass is full when he returns to the table. Gemma, who is finished, sits in a chair licking her fingers. She runs her tongue around her lips. Mango stains cover her face.

  “You drink too much milk,” Marisa says.

  Emil looks at her skeptically and without any anger. “I don’t have to listen to you. I’m older.” He is eleven.

  “Marisa, iha,” I say, “take your sister into the bathroom and wash her face.”

  “But she’s all sticky,” Marisa complains.

  “I know.” I stand and begin collecting the plates. “Just do it.”

  Marisa grabs Gemma’s hand and drags her off to the bathroom. “You’re hurting me,” Gemma says.

  Emil finishes and I ask him to bring the glasses into the kitchen. I run water over the dishes. The water is cool on my hands.

  The maid comes in
. “Hello, ma’am,” she says.

  I smile and nod at her. She’s waiting for me to give her an order, but I never know quite how to phrase it. My sister-in-law tells me I must be more forceful or this maid will take advantage of me. “Just like the others before,” Connie warns. I would like to say a kind word, to let the maid know I’m a kind person. But it’s not what I’m supposed to do and we know this. She begins to wash the dishes, so I leave her.

  Emil has turned on the television. The reception is poor out here beyond the mountains. There’s no cable like in Manila and the antenna does no good. Still he tries to watch a game show. The sound comes in clearly, but the picture consists of black and white dots. I wish he would go outside and play.

  Outside is bright. Not like this morning when their father left. He helped us move clothes, linens and other items to this house. The furniture, which had been here for years, was waiting for us, old, heavy, wood pieces faded and covered with dust. The house never had been properly prepared for the years of emptiness. Mildewed throw pillows sat on the uncovered furniture, and the yellowing sheets were still on the beds. “It smells in here,” Marisa said and walked out to the yard. Emil gazed seriously at everything.

  The maids and I began by reclaiming the living room, sweeping and mopping, and cleaning the screens on the windows and the louvered windows themselves. The children dusted the furniture while their father trimmed the drying grass around the driveway so we would have a clear path to the gate. Emil dusted one chair until it glowed while the other two simply ran their rags over the wood. After they left, he began redusting their work.

  “It’s all right, Emil,” I said. “Just as long as it’s clean.”

  He pressed his lips together impatiently. “It looks better this way, you see.” But after one chair he too grew tired and left.

  Emil, my lonely boy. I sit and watch him watching television. I’m not sure what’s on the TV. It’s not the game show anymore.

  A mosquito buzzes in front of my face. I slap it and for a moment it sticks to my palm. I wipe my hands on the chair, trying to wipe the feeling away. My hand feels dirty. I’m angry at the mosquitoes and the dust.

  I dig my nails into my hands, close my eyes and try to remember Danny. When I open my eyes, my vision is blurred. I can’t sit still any longer. I go upstairs to my bedroom, put on some shoes and grab my purse.

  As I walk through the living room, I stop beside Emil. “I’m going to the market,” I say.

  Emil continues watching the television. No one answers. I walk up to him, blocking his view. He looks at me.

  “Where are your sisters?”

  “In their room.”

  “If anyone asks, tell them I went to the market.”

  “OK.” I want to touch him, but don’t want him to sense anything is wrong. I close the screen door quietly behind me. Far away the bell rings in San Francisco church. I lose count of the rings which are burned by the sun, and covered in dust soon after reaching me.

  The mango trees reach high and wide, heavy with leaves and the promise of more fruit. I know people climb over our wall and pick those fruits; they take the mangoes and eat them in the dimness of their homes.

  We used to eat mangoes together, Danny, his sister and I. That is one of my secrets, us sitting in the heat of the summer, on the dry grass by the fountain, juice around our mouths and telling our dreams as if they were just before our faces. When we touched each other we were sticky. And our tongues were sweet and spoke easy, placating words to my mother and grandmother who tolerated the friendship because we were children.

  Later it was only Dolores who came openly, as a friend. The last time I spoke to her she gave me a note, folded so small it sat like a precious bird in the palm of my hand. “He left this morning,” she said. And we had nothing more to say.

  At the market I look for her. The place is smaller than I remember and it smells of fresh vegetables and meats and fish ripening in the midmorning heat. I have not been to a market in a long time and I must force myself to walk through the smelly, narrow aisles bargaining for tomatoes, long beans, swamp cabbage, and squash. Then I walk over the slick sidewalks surrounding the butcher and fish stalls. The smells are thick and settle on me. I buy ground pork and fresh milkfish. Everything is wrapped carefully in plastic or old newspaper and placed in the woven bag which hangs from my right hand. The people stare at me a bit longer than is usual because I am obviously a stranger and I am dressed like a city woman in a flowered red dress and low heels, in contrast to their faded, loose dusters and slippers.

  “Are you visiting?” asks the woman who sells me the fish.

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Mundial Road,” I tell her. I have the money ready in my palm.

  “Ah.” She nods knowingly as she wraps the fish. “You’re a granddaughter of Doña Ofelia.” She lights a brown, handrolled cigarette.

  “Yes,” I say. Of course. The Villamor family once owned all the fields to the east of the town. We still own a lot of them. But I wish she didn’t remember this, didn’t know me in this way. I pay for the fish and leave although she still owes me change.

  I get home and give the maid the purchases. She peers into the bag in her hands. While I drink my glass of water she unloads the groceries.

  “What would you like me to cook?” she asks.

  “Anything,” I say and set the glass on the counter.

  “I can go to the market next time. Just give me a list.” She’s trying to be helpful. She knows I’m weak.

  “Why don’t you grill the fish?” I say, finding my place in the room. “And saute the pork and vegetables together with a little fish sauce. We’ll have them for lunch.”

  In my room I take off my shoes and lie on the bed. I didn’t see Danny. Or Dolores. A slight breeze lifts the dusty, chiffon curtains on the windows. It’s cooler here than in Manila. Still, I can feel the sweat lying on my forehead and neck and the dampness of my dress pressing against my back.

  Rueben’s hands have pressed against my back in this way. In this way, he has pulled me towards him. His fingers against my back make me dizzy. He frightens me because I know he does not love me, although, in the hidden corners of my home, he has said he does. And I have let him touch me.

  I close my eyes and when I open them everything is blurry for a moment. The blurriness does not last much as I wish it would.

  I get up and look out the window, beyond the wall. No one is outside. No one is waiting for me under the mango tree by the river, nor in the shadow of the neighbor’s wall, nor any of the other places I look. No Danny. My imagination fails me for the moment.

  In the evening we go to one of my aunt’s, Tita Lucy’s, house for dinner. Tita Lucy slurps, coughs, chews noisily, and spits fish bones onto her plate. She is too old to care about discretion. Marisa, who cannot bear for the different foods on her plate to touch, sees everything. Emil seems disturbed by the chewing and coughing, but he and Gemma are able to eat. Marisa chews on some rice, then asks to be excused.

  I continue eating so as not to offend my aunt. But I eat slowly because I’m not hungry. In the kitchen, her maid is burning katol to keep away the mosquitoes. The sweet smell is making me ill.

  “Do we have to eat there again?” Marisa asks on the way home.

  I don’t answer but I do sympathize. I run a hand over her hair and she doesn’t move away in irritation. She’s sleepy. At least the dinner has secured me a yard man. Tita Lucy promised to send her yard man over tomorrow.

  When he arrives we discuss price. His name is Elpidio, but I may call him Pedring. He agrees to twenty pesos a day. I take him out into the yard to show him what must be done although that is quite clear from looking at it. He looks at the guava tree which has dropped its leaves into the patches of grass and dirt. He fingers the banana leaves which are brown around the edges. We sweat in the yard, the grass tickling our legs. Pedring listens politely and nods. He agrees to work on Wednesdays. H
e will be back tomorrow.

  As he walks out the gate I stop him. “Mang Pedring!” I walk down the steps of the porch toward him. “Do you think the fountain can be fixed?”

  I point to the fountain between us. It is chipped and discolored. One of the sides has a large, jagged crack in it and the plumbing, I have discovered, no longer works. We walk toward it and stand on either side. He studies the fountain.

  “Perhaps,” he says. “I could not fix it but I may be able to find someone who can.”

  “Please do,” I say.

  He promises to let me know tomorrow. We say goodbye and this time he leaves.

  I sit on the edge of the fountain. Once the yard has been tamed, and the fountain repaired, the place will look almost as I remember it.

  When I was fourteen we came here, as usual, to spend the summer and Dolores came to the house with her mother, Aling Zenaida. Her mother measured me for dresses, as she did every summer. Then she proceeded to measure my mother, grandmother, and baby sister.

  Dolores and I sat outside on the fountain and talked although we didn’t know what to say to each other. Sitting, talking to her I began to feel that we would never quite be friends again. She, I knew, realized this also. I have felt this distance many times since, but my first awareness of it was sad and frightening.

  Dolores’s mother stepped outside the door of the house with her bag and called to Dolores. Dolores stood and waved.

  “Where is Danny?” I asked before she could leave.

  “Oh, he couldn’t come today.”

  For the first time, talking to Dolores, I felt embarrassed. I looked at the driveway and the wall behind her and spoke quickly so her mother, who walked toward us, wouldn’t hear. “Tell him I said hello.” Days later he came to the house with a few of the dresses his mother had completed. As she completed the others he brought them to the house also and we avoided looking at each other until I walked him out to the gate. He had dark brown eyes, the eyes of a million other people. He said I was pale, and later, beautiful.