Page 19

Dutch Braids and Eggplants

S itting at her vintage pale pink vanity adorned with gold painted accents, Huni made haste in finishing the last twist of her braid.

She’d parted her hair and divided it into two sections, affording her flawlessly interwoven Dutch braids.

Winding the sturdy rubber band around the final strands of hair, she secured it in place.

She dabbed her finger in perfumed oil and ran it gently across the two salt and pepper plaits that draped down her shoulders.

Her tresses were silky and smooth, but far thinner than she recalled.

She leaned forward and studied her face, her smile slowly fading as she spotted a new gathering of wrinkles she hadn’t noticed the month prior.

Reaching up, she circled her crow’s feet and the delicate crevices with a gentle touch.

How cruel Father Time was, yet how beautiful Mother Nature reminded her that she was.

She fell deep into the discolored memoirs of yesteryear.

The mirror reflected her past and future, cramped with yellowed photos wedged between the wooden frame and glass, mainly of her and her mother, brothers and sisters.

Most of them were dead, with the exception of her eldest sister, who still lived in the Philippines, and a brother, who was in prison.

Her husband, who’d passed away during a trucking accident, was featured in several of the photos, too, and of course there were an assortment of pictures of her holding onto a little brown girl with gorgeous jet black hair, who was now a grown woman full of whimsy, intelligence and beauty.

Her daughter. Not by blood, but by love. Poet.

‘Listen to the Music,’ by the Doobie Brothers, played from her radio that she kept on the windowsill.

She popped up from her little pink tufted velvet chair, and began to sway her skinny, knobby legs, while snapping her fingers to the tune.

Memories living in Mandaluyong, Philippines rushed to the forefront of her mind.

How scared but excited she’d been to travel to America, never expecting to stay forever—but she’d met someone in one of the Philippine communities in Texas, her dear Joselito, and fallen in love. So, she’d left her past far behind.

Oh, how she missed home some days. She hadn’t returned in many years—at least ten.

Once she started getting ill, she rebuffed Poet’s offerings to fly her there to visit her old family and friends.

Was it shame? The fact she did not wish anyone to see that her memory was getting fuzzy around the edges.

Worst of all, she’d suffered so much in life, showing up would simply be a miserable experience of forced smiles and pretending to be something she no longer was.

She’d made it—escaped poverty, got an education, married a great man and adopted a child, but now, all of that was gone.

Yes, going home wasn’t possible… for it would remind her of all that she’d lost, while certain undesirable family members would surely gloat and roll about in glee at her misfortunes.

When the song was over, she heard a strange, buzzing noise, loud enough to tear her away from her thoughts.

She peered out of her bedroom window, but saw nothing more than Poet’s orchard trees, and bags of mulch.

She slipped her fluffy white robe over her pink satin pajama shirt and pants, and padded down the steps.

The cold wood shocked her senses and made her walk a bit faster, bouncing along like a ball.

When she reached the front door, she caught sight of a huge, scary-looking truck.

Like the one belonging to that tall man with the big skunk-striped beard.

The skull’s eyes were a dull red now, its life drained as the truck sat parked, devoid of electrical juice.

Another buzzing sound.

She craned her head from the doorway—still nothing. Nobody.

Is that tall man here? Poet didn’t tell me he was coming.

She looked down at her watch. Poet wasn’t due back from work for at least two hours.

Slipping into a pair of navy blue rubber flip-flops that she kept at the door, she headed towards the side of the house where all the ruckus was coming from.

As she drew nearer, a rock and roll song was playing from what looked to be his phone sitting on a stack of tools.

The big man with the beard was a towering tree.

A frighteningly beautiful sight to behold .

What did Poet say his name was? I don’t remember.

It began with a ‘C’. No, a ‘K.’ He was shirtless, a silver chain swinging from his neck, and below his waist, dirty blue jeans and work boots.

His skin was covered in a tapestry of black ink, more than she’d ever seen on someone’s backs, arms, and neck before.

His arm and back muscles flexed and strained, shiny with sweat and taut with repetitive movement.

She reached for her rope necklace and squeezed it. My word. Mukha naman siyang mabait.

“Heeey!!! Tall man! TAAAALLLL MAAAN!” she hollered over the buzz of his saw and the music, but he didn’t seem to hear her. She popped up and down, hand framing her mouth to amplify the sound, then began waving her arms.

Suddenly, he turned his gaze to her, a giant being rising to the sky with clouds for eyes. With a smirk, he turned off the chainsaw, making her feel like a mere grasshopper when he looked down at her.

“Well, good afternoon, Ms. Aunt Huni. Nice to see you.” He grinned from ear to ear.

“You’re making too much noise!”

“Well, I’m so sorry that I can’t put a muzzle on this here chainsaw. It’s well past noon, and I figured you’d be up and at ’em by now, considering that—”

“Does Poet know about you?”

“I reckon that she does, Ms. Aunt Huni, seein’ as how she allowed me in ’er house the other day, introduced me to you, quenched my thirst ’nd all.”

“No, not like dat! Does she know that you are here? Right now?!” She pointed indignantly at the freshly turned soil.

“Yes ma’am. I called ’er and told ’er I’d like to continue on with this here project today. She knows. She’ll be here in,” he glanced at his phone, the rock music still playing, “…a bit under two hours.”

Hmph. She crossed her arms and glared up at him. He looked mighty confident and pleased with himself.

“Well, I need to get back to work. I promise to not dally longer than necessary.” Turning, he started up the chainsaw again.

“LUNCH!” she screamed over the racket.

She could see his shoulders slump as if he were annoyed, and then he turned off the loud thing again.

“I didn’t catch that. What did you say, Ms. Aunt Huni?”

“Come in for lunch.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I had an apple and some peanut butter ’nd crackers on the way over here.”

“Dat’s not lunch. Dat’s a snack. Come. Now,” she snapped before marching back inside the house.

When she made it to the kitchen, she heard the front door open then close.

She pulled out a plate to pile on leftovers from dinner the night before.

The tall man entered the space, casting a shadow.

He barely fit into the arched doorway. “Sit.” She pointed to one of the six dark wooden chairs at the table, on which sat Poet’s mail.

He sat down, and she offered him a big glass of cola in a red plastic cup, like the kind they served at the pizza parlors, filled with plenty of crushed ice.

With an appreciative nod, he guzzled it.

She stood there for a moment, spellbound at how loud his gulps were, and how his limbs put her in mind of tree branches, stretching out to touch the pulse of the world.

His fingers were wrapped around the cup, the knuckles alone the length of her digits.

Huge hands—especially the span from his thumb to his pinky finger.

She rested her arm on her hip. “You must have a big eggplant. Long and thick.”

He spewed cola from his mouth, and his complexion deepened as he chuckled in obvious disbelief. Getting to his feet, he snatched a paper towel from the holder and dabbed at his mouth, then the mess he’d just made on the table.

“Ms. Aunt Huni, now I hardly think that was appropriate.” He threw the paper towel away, then sat back down, grinning.

“I’m just talking. An observation. Tall doesn’t mean blessed. My late husband was only five foot five, and his was like a baseball bat.”

The man lost it again, falling in fits of laughter. But she was serious. Being satisfied sexually was important, and sometimes a large cucumber was a nice touch. She wanted Poet’s partner to be the thing of dreams come true. “It’s just another reason why Poet should give you a chance.”

“Poet and I talked quite a bit when we first met, and again here at the house. She brought you up a lot. I bet you’re her favorite person in the world.”

She shrugged, but her cheeks warmed. “I might be.”

“No, you are … and if you’re her favorite person, that means you know things about her—more important shit than just her favorite color and song. You know her heart. You know what she wants, and what she needs. Don’t you?”

His smile slowly faded, and his gaze seemed to search her, deep inside. Something about the way he used those eyes of his to beam within the walls of others, dig deep and pull their innermost secrets was rather unsettling. Yet, she let him, for she had nothing to hide.

“I do. She likes you.”

“That’s nice to hear.” He took a sip from his drink. “I like her too, but you know that already.”