The Way to Paradise - Part 2/10

"Tabonon", a Visayan word which cannot be translated faithfully into English without losing its major connotation, the closest being light brown-skinned beauty, would be perfect to describe her and the occasional acne was the only blemish on her sultry face. No one could really fault her for such a minor imperfection since her only guilt was that of harboring a full complement of the female hormones. Her alabaster-white bosom, overlaid with barely visible errant baby-blue veins, strained against her dress, negating the myth that breast-feeding can diminish the female mystique, and the "tabunon", being fully cognizant of this attribute, had this unconscious inclination to wear cleavage-revealing blouses with maddeningly magnificent effect.

She had thick and wavy, black and shiny hair that cascaded down to her shoulders to frame a face adorned by pair of mischievous eyes that tease and that promise a glimpse of the unattainable. The unrehearsed impish smile at the corners of her mouth had managed to camouflage the gnawing loneliness she had felt since her husband died of hemorrhagic fever.

Nobody knew exactly when and where the ambitious bank accountant got bit by that innocuous white-chested mosquito that preyed on unaware victims during the daytime but he started feeling ill one early morning and did not pay much attention to the symptom, thinking he was only coming down with a simple cold. He took a couple of Tylenols and one tablet of that ultra-mega-high-potency-double-strength multivitamin that was flaunted on the local TV channel by a retired doctor from Nasipit, a cure-all for every possible disease imaginable, athlete's foot and prostate cancer included. He drove his used red Honda sedan to Cagayan de Oro to attend a seminar but by late afternoon, on his way back to Butuan, he was not feeling any better and was beginning to suffer a bad headache, debilitating chills and muscle pains and by the time his wife took him to the hospital, he was already in a state of shock and when the diagnosis was made, pinpoint petechiae on the white of his eyes, chest, abdomen, and extremities were already evident, signs of generalized bleeding.

The Red Cross Blood Bank did not have a single drop of blood of his type, not a surprise, since the blood bank usually did not have any blood of any type either and the person-in-charge was not in the office, having gone with the nurse and the clerk to Chowking for a bowl of halo-halo, parking the Red Cross Ambulance in the No Parking Zone, which is his divine right as a Red Cross lower-grade employee.

And so the accountant died just after midnight.

He was embalmed and was to be buried three days later. But when that day came, it had rained fast and furious, and the skies were lined by dark and angry clouds and the sun did not come out the whole day and dozens of mucoid iridescent earthworms were desperately trying to wriggle away from the dark brown muddy water that was collecting on that particular four by ten feet rectangular patch of land in the cemetery, the three-year-old son kicking and crying and screaming that his father should not be buried on that day because it was raining too hard and the ground was too wet and that he did not want his father to drown and his mother, now swollen with another pregnancy, agreed. So they had him buried two days later although they had to buy more sweet-smelling flowers and cans of lemon-scented Lysol deodorizing spray for their living room where the casket was displayed. The budget-conscious director of the funeral home had been known to skimp on formaldehyde.

She had gotten pregnant during a spur-of-the-moment encounter the very first time they met at a party in Duka Bay. They were guests of a mutual acquaintance celebrating a birthday anniversary in that romantic resort fifty kilometers west of the city. She was a little drunk and was ovulatory, a dangerous combination. He was a little drunk and a lot horny, another dangerous combination. Half-past midnight. Factor in a horizontal half- moon reflected like a gently undulating painting on a mirror-quiet ocean and the consequences were as predictable as sunrise.

He did not know that he was going to be a father. Neither did he know that he was the father until he looked into her eyes during their second chance encounter, this time at the Bancasi Airport. At six months, she could no longer hide the predicament she was in. The baggage claim area, as usual, was a madhouse. Not aware that he was one of the passengers, she came to pick up her sister who was arriving from Manila on the same flight. He saw her standing near the routinely unattended Butuan City Tourism desk.

"Is it....?" There was an awkward moment of silence, both scrutinizing each others face.

"Yes," she finally nodded.

He paused, accountant's mind working, "January?"

"Yes."

"Why did you not tell me?"

"No, no! Don't feel obliged."

"But I am! Did you have an ultrasound? Is it okay? What is it?"

"Boy. And it's perfectly normal. But don't worry. Nobody knows anything. I did not tell anybody. Not even my mother. Please don't feel obligated. I can manage on my own." She was looking everywhere now except at him.

"But it's ours. It's mine!" There was no hesitation in his voice. There was no doubt in his mind. She was a virgin that April night at the beach. And here she is. Pregnant. "This baby is mine," he thought to himself, and not without pride.

They got married before the month of October was over. She, at first, refused his offer. She had always wanted to get married in the cathedral with hundreds of guests in attendance, in a white flowing wedding dress which she, of course, would design herself. This was no longer tenable. A white wedding gown was supposed to indicate a state of innocence and her protruding abdomen, well. And so they settled for a simple and private ceremony after which her father left in a huff, while her mother was crying and smiling at the same time. His parents and sister were there, too, but they barely acknowledged her presence, avoided looking in her direction, each one giving her a perfunctory kiss on the right cheek with unpuckered lips, while staring at him with a look that said. "Stupid!"

Fr. Robert was the officiating priest.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.
_{Featured Image: Route 6 Iowa}