Honey Ko - A Novel

Book Six, Chapter Twenty-Nine

Olongapo, Philippines

1991

Tom

The Victory Liner carrying Aida and me back from Bataan sped through the countryside, bouncing side-to-side on the rough road, belching black clouds of diesel smoke every time the driver shifted gears. At frequent intervals along National Highway, children in blue and white school clothes waited for jeepneys to carry them to school. Between those intervals, carabao seeking relief from the blazing heat wallowed in mud-holes lining the edge of the jungle, a jungle not long removed from the horror and bloodshed of World War II.

The Kodak moments whizzed by, unseen, as my thoughts lay elsewhere and my camera lay unused in its case. The bus lurched as it hit a pothole. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. A woman on the other side of the bus crossed herself. The bus had passed a church. I leaned back. I'd asked Aida once why people crossed themselves. She explained that, to Catholics, it was a sign of respect when passing churches, funerals, even roadside markers for victims of vehicle accidents. She had asked me if Americans crossed themselves.

"Not that I know of."

Aida had remarked, "Oh, maybe Americans always in a hurry and don't see out the window even when they looking."

Aida dozed against my shoulder, her breathing a soft purr in my ear. The even rise and fall of her chest might have indicated a dreamless sleep, or a pleasant dream. She wrinkled her nose at a fly buzzing around her head. She stirred but didn't wake when I waved the fly away. She looked innocent and vulnerable in her sleep, and beautiful too. My heart leaped at the depth of tenderness I felt for her. The visit to her village, seeing her family and friends, the drowsy bus ride all combined to relax her. Happiness had smoothed the worry from her face and replaced it with contentment. Is she dreaming? If so, they must be happy dreams to bring such a sweet smile to her lips.

I had always felt tenderness for Aida, but always questioned my love for her. Fear of ridicule for marrying a barmaid, a prostitute in some people's mind, plagued me too. I believed her when she said she never took a man's money. She dated men because she liked them, and if they slept together—were American women prostitutes because they slept with the men they dated? I disliked judgmental people like Kenny and others who poured scorn and opprobrium on those who saw through external appearances to the soul inside the person. A person often beat down by life but urged on by a spirit that refused to give up. When refusing to give up meant performing work that others found abhorrent and beneath contempt. I knew Aida's story. She had refused to give up. She had worked as a barmaid to support her family and to meet a Sailor who might take her to America with him. She could provide better support for her family from America. I knew Aida viewed me as her ticket to a better life, and I didn't fault her for that. People everywhere looked for someone who could help them, lift them up, give them a fresh start. Some people weren't honest about it. Aida had never hidden what she wanted from me: love and a better life.

"Honey ko. What you are thinking?"

"Oh, nothing much, Aida. I'm just thinking about life and the universe. That's all."

"Okay. Think about me too, a little, okay?" She nestled her face into my neck, her lips pressed against me.

I smiled at her words. If she only knew. I rubbed her shoulder and hugged her. Maybe she does know.

She had once told me the things she observed in me: insecurity and indecisiveness. I sensed she kept others to herself. I had told my friends that Aida had me wrapped around her little finger, and they had laughed and called me pussy-whipped, and I had laughed with them at the truth in her words. But I could not shake the fear.