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a Pick for the Future
cc&d, v275
(the Sept. 2017 issue)

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a Pick for the Future

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Pick For The Future

Charles Hayes

    Pitching about in the rough waters of the Philippine Sea near the Island of Cebu, the little outrigger struggles to keep an even bottom as Carloi pulls his net aboard. Not as heavy with tuna as he would like, having come this far out, but enough to feed his aged parents and himself for a few days.
    Gauging the Sea and the heavy wind pushing it, he decides to go in with the currents past Betty Sentagal’s place.
    Making it inside the reef and out of the rough water, he folds the jib and takes the paddle for the last leg to his home, a half kilometer on. Passing the small beach that borders Betty’s home, Carloi sees her sitting on a large rock with a well dressed white man. Not even looking to sea but only to each other, the pair share a kiss that sends Carloi’s thoughts reeling.
    Stunned to see his pick for the future taken in real time, he quickly paddles by, staying out near the reef.

    Monsoon rains whip the outer edge of the crowd taking refuge under the fish market roof. Carloi and his friend William, standing near the street side of the shelter, have prepared for this time well, rehearsing just what to say. Often they have stood here, waiting, observing the arrivals of the different people.
    Almost ready to leave, Carloi sees the trisikad with its white foreigner pull up. Nodding in that direction, his excitement barely under control, he tells William in passable English, “That’s him and it is time. Come, we must get close like I told you.”
    Working their way toward the edge of the crowd and directly behind the place where the foreigner has also taken shelter, they are ready. Leading off in a low voice after a nudge from Carloi, William says, “ I tried many times when we were in grade nine and she would not do it.”
    Also speaking discreetly but loud enough, Carloi replies, “That was you my friend. I am not you. I was with her the other night at our old place after she snuck away from some Joe.”
    Pausing to let imagination work, Carloi takes a slow breath.
    “She moaned and hopped just like old times.”
    Almost seeing the ears in front of him burn, William replies with a grin, “Amigo, you are one lucky guy. Betty Sentagal was the wish of every guy in my class. No wonder your nets are never empty.”
    Almost in a whisper, Carloi spreads it as thick as he dares.
    “Ah man, she is easy. And in tune, no sweat.”
    Not wanting to lay it on so thick that the big foreigner confronts them, Carloi pulls William toward the other side of the shelter.
    “Come on my friend, let’s go have a San Miguel and watch the girls. The seas will still be here tomorrow.”

    The old Spanish church, a monolith of early occupiers, takes up almost the whole lot. Pageantry is visible throughout the grounds and robed assistants mingle about as Carloi and Betty exit the arched main entryway hand in hand and all smiles. Wearing a new laced polo barong, dark trousers, and shoes that hurt his feet, Carloi leads Betty, in her full white gown and white slippers that peek out, to the Jeepney waiting at the end of the church walkway.
    With the religious stuff over and the priest happy with the sanctity of a life long union, the celebration can begin. Carloi’s mother and father, longing to ditch their clothes, and Betty’s parents and siblings have come together to put on a show for the whole Barangay.
    Suckling pigs turning over charcoal, grilled fish, and all the other favorite Island foods await them. Tubs of iced San Miguel and bamboo canisters of tuba, or coconut wine, to serve those who wish a little zen are ready. And a new house, complete with grass roof and air conditioning, its front door decorated with bows and flowers, stands by at Carloi’s place by the Sea.
    After helping Betty into the front part of the jeepney as a crowd of others pile in the back, Carloi turns to his best man and says, “William, we did the impossible.”
    Shaking Carloi’s hand warmly, William leans in and whispers, “That we did amigo, we beat a rich foreigner out of his woman. Long lives to us all.”
    Laughing, Carloi nods and hops to the shotgun seat of the jeepney for their ride home.

***


    Noticing the Sentagal’s Toyota in the coconut grove on his way in, Carloi stows his fishing gear and enters his house to find several people, including Betty’s mother and father, in the little living room. All eyes briefly explore his face then return to the bedroom curtain. He looks to his mother, who simply nods.
    Pacing in and out of the small house, Carloi searches for any calming influence while they all wait. Outside again, looking to the sea and the distant grey blue outline of Bohol, Carloi hears the baby’s first cry and rushes into the house to witness a flurry of movement about the small living room. Like a freeze frame, it all halts when the curtain spreads and the midwife appears.
    “You may see your wife and son now Carloi,” she says. “But don’t stay long, Betty is very tired. A healthy baby but large. She needs rest.”
    Moving to the bedroom, Carloi edges to the side of their bed and looks down at his wife holding the bundled child. Her face tired but seemingly resigned, Betty folds back the towel to reveal the baby as Carloi hesitantly leans in and lowers his eyes. The baby is white.



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