The Stories of Three Women

Allow me to thank chasten, PickFiction and SleeperyJim for the excellent suggestions and vote of confidence that led to the writing of these short stories.

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"DO NOT JUDGE. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT STORM I'VE ASKED HER TO WALK THROUGH."

-GOD

(lest we forget)

All she had to do was to close her eyes, and Salud would be back at her father's farm, its green bamboo fence surrounding the house and her mother's beloved vegetable garden.

It would be the morning of Christmas Eve, and they would all be up before three in the morning, getting ready to attend the last mass of the misas de gallo, a string of nine dawn masses which ran from the sixteenth of December up to the twenty fourth, a novena of masses which the old parish priest said would ensure a joyful Christmas.

Salud and her younger sister believed him, there was no reason not to.

Their family had always enjoyed the holidays; in fact, their town of Santa Monica was quite famous for having one of the grandest Christmas fiestas in the province.

Salud remembered the meticulous preparations her mother and grandmother performed when the month of November drew to a close.

The most elaborate table linen and curtains came out of the closets where they had lain wrapped in layers of sinamay cloth for a whole year. Grandmother's antique silver, which had been part of her dowry, was taken out of the wooden case and given a high polish. She could still see Landro, their mayor-domo, wiping the spoons, forks and knives with a thick cotton rag until they gleamed.

And then there were the endless revisions to the menu for Noche Buena, the midnight repast on Christmas Eve, which was the pride and joy of every household in the town. Would they serve jamon de piña again this year or would galantina de pollo be a more appropriate main course? And what about the accompanying soups and sauces?

Salud's mouth began to water as she recalled that yearly feast.

"I'm hungry, Salud," her sister, Nining, said, as she lay with her head on Salud's lap.

Salud gently drew Nining's hair away from her forehead.

"Don't think of it, Nining, and the hunger will go away," Salud answered softly.

"Will that work for the pain too, Ate?" the younger girl asked.

Salud had no answer to Nining's question, and even if she did, she would not have been able to give it. The door to the tiny room where they slept was suddenly thrust open and five uniformed men came in. Salud knew right away that they were officers in the Imperial Army, for they all had long swords dangling from their waist-bands.

One of them grabbed Nining's hair and yanked her out of Salud's arms.

"Please, please, no more," Salud pleaded in a whisper, she had no strength left to raise her voice.

The men did not answer. The officer who had grabbed Nining dragged the young girl out of the room. The four remaining men closed the door after him. The tallest of them shoved Salud onto the mattress lying on the floor.

As their hands tore into her flesh and soul, Salud closed her eyes. Her father's farm suddenly seemed so far away and she could no longer remember the color of its fence.

THE END

She woke up early; it was, after all, the last Friday of the month, the day she had looked forward to for four weeks. She stretched her arms over her head and looked over at the ornate clock on her night table. It was half past seven -- a small smile formed on her lips, he would be here before dinner. She sat up and decided to forego breakfast -- a quick shower and then a trip to the fresh food market which would be open by now. She would get all those dainty bits he so loved to eat. His house was by the ocean, so it was no wonder that he loved the bounty that came from it.

She hummed as the warm gentle needles of the overhead shower rained down around her. She ran her hands down her breasts and hips, imagining it was him touching her secret places; she was sure she wouldn't be alone when she showered again later that night.

Today was her special time with him, the one day they were together, out of the other twenty-nine in a month.

She turned the water off and stepped out of the stall; she reached for the large towel on the railing; but was stopped by her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She stepped closer; her features were blurred by the steam from the heat. Lifting a hand, she wiped off the drops on the smooth glass and looked at the face that stared back at her. It was the same and yet on this day, it was also different -- more... alive. She had long ago let go of convictions and morality, and even of friends who did not approve of her relationship. She wrapped the towel around herself and shrugged her shoulders.

She quickly dressed and went downstairs. She checked her purse for her wallet and the shopping list she had made the night before. She decided against bringing her mobile, she had forgotten to charge it but she wouldn't be gone long. She switched on the telephone's answering machine and stepped out the door, humming the same tune she had in the shower earlier.

She was at the fresh food market, choosing between smoked salmon and fresh lobster and finally deciding on the more expensive crustacean, when the telephone in her apartment rang.

The answering machine started to record the voice on the other end:

"I can't make it today, love, both the wife and my little Julie've been under the weather. I hope you haven't gone shopping yet. I'm so sorry but I promise -- next month will be extra special."

THE END

(a different celebration)

February 14 -- Valentine's Day, the day of love, a day for lovers and to Aling Renata -- her wedding anniversary. It would have been their fiftieth, but her husband, Berting, had died in an accident a month before. "A freak accident", the newspapers called it. Her husband and eight other men were in a construction lift, when the carriage fell twelve floors.

Four of the workers survived, but Berting and the others... the rescuers said that Berting was already dead when they reached him, he would not have suffered, they said; no, that had been left to his widow. But then, Berting had always been the one to leave whenever there were problems. Renata could no longer recall the number of times he had left -- only to return a week or two later.

She never turned him away.

She did remember the first time, though; one always remembered the first of anything. They were not even married then when they 'broke up,' -- lovers' quarrel their friends laughingly called it -- and when Berting showed up at her door two weeks later, the same friends all chorused: I told you so!

Of course, they had not known that her family had discovered she was pregnant and her father had gone to Berting's apartment with a gun and a 12-inch bolo knife.

They were married a week later.

When she looked at the few wedding pictures she had, Berting was smiling in all of them. Renata put it down to the copious amounts of beer he had imbibed at the reception, and to the "romantic" spirit that had flavored their hasty nuptials. Her husband had loved parties, almost as much as he loved his beer; and both more than he did me, Renata sadly thought.

If one truly loved another, surely there would be better memories, lighter remembrances, recollections that would not bring pain and then numbness. But she knew, almost immediately, that her marriage would be a burden to them both, and that she would carry most of it.

'It is always the wife who will give, Renata, she will give and give until there is nothing left, and then she will give some more,' her grandmother had told her before the wedding.

And true to the old woman's predictions, Renata gave.

She had given herself to Berting before the wedding, given him her loyalty through all the years when there was never enough money; given her trust when he promised he would stop drinking (he did not); given her pride when he vowed he would never sleep with another woman again (he had); given her faith when he said he would never hit her again (he did); and she had even given him a son.

Roberto -- Jun, the nickname for Junior -- would be almost fifty now. What did he look like, Renata wondered, their son -- whom she had not seen in thirty years?

Their son, now a middle-aged man, who had left them when he was barely twenty because he could not bear to see his father beat his mother. Jun had come to her the last night she had seen him, and begged her to leave with him.

"Please, Nanay, come away with me," he had begged. But she could not and did not.

"I promised, hijo, before God and man, I promised to stay."

So he had left -- a defeated young man at twenty -- he had left.

Once again, Renata found herself facing another anniversary, another Valentine's Day -- alone. She sighed, went to the small kitchen where she had prepared thousands of meals, opened the bottom kitchen drawer -- and took out a candle. She lit it and then placed it on the small dining table in the middle of her kitchen.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Berting, and Happy Anniversary," she whispered.

A soft knocking at the front door interrupted Renata's thoughts. She made her way out of the small kitchen to an equally small living room. The soft knocking continued. She opened the door. A grey- haired, middle-aged man stood outside. He looked vaguely familiar.

"Nanay?" he said.

THE END