Mango Seasons

Mango SeasonEvery 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.”