Patron Saints of Nothing: Chapters 22–30

“I thought smoking was illegal now?” I say, remembering Tito Maning’s diatribe.

Tita Ines scoots over, wraps an arm around her shoulder, and leans in so their heads are touching. It’s an intimate moment, so I drop my eyes to my feet.

“In a country of over one hundred million, yes. It is a very small percentage. I am not saying I agree, but that is the way many Filipinos view it. It is the rhetoric that has been in use since the beginning.”

But isn’t this deeper than that, doesn’t this transcend nationality? Isn’t there some sense of right and wrong about how human beings should be treated that applies no matter where you live, no matter what language you speak?

Disembodied voices, barking dogs, passing traffic, and other night sounds float through the open window clear as if I were standing on the street.

“Oh,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around the implication that I, in fact, was no one.

There are a couple pictures of Tito Danilo in his priest’s garb looking all holy, and even a few of Tita Baby, her husband, and my cousins Prince and Rhian, who we never see since they live in the UAE.

A middle-aged man approaches, wearing Nike tennis shoes, jeans, and a tucked-in polo shirt, from which a formidable belly bulges.

During the Marcos regime, hundreds of journalists and other critics of the administration disappeared into thin air.

Every time I write an article that can be construed as critical of our Dear Leader, my in-box is inundated with vile messages.

Every time I write an article that can be construed as critical of our Dear Leader, my in-box is inundated with vile messages.

“Yes,” I finally, say, trying to imbue the word with the heaviness of the conviction I feel in my soul.

We continue following Mia's professor through the slums, guided by his notes and his frequent queries for directions from people we pass since it turns out finding someone here is not as simple as a street name and number.

Bundles of power lines siphoning electricity from the transformers snake across the tops of walls, while hoses carrying water to shared spigots run along the damp, uneven ground.

Bundles of power lines siphoning electricity from the transformers snake across the tops of walls, while hoses carrying water to shared spigots run along the damp, uneven ground.

Within the shacks and shanties, people are staring at their phones, reading, napping, eating in front of the TV—living their lives almost entirely on display.

I can’t help picturing my own family’s house superimposed over all of this to know that there are probably forty to fifty people living in the same amount of space.

The cement ground is smooth and level, painted painstakingly with regulation markings.

Brian Santos speaks with her for a few minutes, with occasional interjections from Mia.

The woman’s attitude seems to shift, and she replies at length in the same staccato cadence.

The woman’s attitude seems to shift, and she replies at length in the same staccato cadence.

Late-morning light at her back, the woman stands just beyond the threshold. Threadbare cotton T-shirt, long skirt, and bare feet.

She's wearing an oversized, dingy tank top but no pants or diaper.

“But nobody knew that at the time. The men said that they were looking for young girls to work overseas as domestics. If any went with them, they would pay the family up front, and the girls could send remittances home once they had worked off their initial debt. Beyond that, they claimed the girls would have a better life abroad in Saudi Arabia or America or Singapore or wherever they would be placed.”

Reyna makes a face and then shakes her head emphatically. “Wala.”

Reyna wipes her eyes and nose. Then she says something curtly without looking at us.

The old man’s leaning back in his plastic chair, holding the mic by his wizened fingertips, belting out all of Sinatra’s lines perfectly.

We grab our stuff, walk past a few small buildings and a thin copse of trees, and then emerge on the beach.

The adults lounge in the shade of little thatched cottages, while the kids play in the waves wearing basketball shorts and T-shirts instead of swimsuits, the wet cotton stretched out and pasted against their bodies.

The overwhelming peace of waves in the sunlight makes everything else seem inconsequential.

And it’s kind of silly, but I imagine Jun sitting next to me, the four of us comprising our own little family.

“Baha,” I say to myself as we climb out to reclaim the beach. “To flood.”

They still don’t know what it was about, though, since Tita Chato had no idea at the time, and they’re not happy about how I’ve gone incommunicado.

To explain what happened with my uncle, I toss in a vague lie about sharing some memory of Jun and him getting pissed about it, counting on my parents’ familiarity with his volatility to believe it.

Jun looks happy enough, but his face is gaunt and there are shadows under his eyes.