Anibong

1- Ado

He could see the pain in his mother’s face as it grimaced, her mouth twisting, eyes closed and forehead perspiring. Her breathing was labored as she gasped for precious oxygen, clutching at a piece of cloth now wet with her own sweat. It was always like that when the asthma attacks came. He remembered it started when he was 12. At first it came every two weeks. Then weekly. Now when he was 18, the frequency increased. There was no telling when the attacks would come. Especially when the weather was hot and humid.

The weather was like that in Sto. Rosario, one of the interior villages of Sta. Rita, in the province of Samar. Probably it had to do with its closeness to the sea. Years ago when the big trees were still around to provide shade to the village, it was cool. The place was engulfed by the air exhaled by the trees. That was the story of his grandfather when he was still a boy. The air was not humid then. His mother did not have those attacks.

On times like this, Ado Bacaltos felt helpless. He could only watch with pity. It tore his insides just watching his mother grimacing. Money was hard to come by. After high school, he did not know what to do. His father once told him: “What’s the use of muscles if you don’t help in the farm?” It was with reluctance that he went with his father one day to the farm and . months later, saw it didn’t work out. Farming on a sloping hillside on a land that had become infertile because of constant use and abuse had produced little for the Bacaltos family. The fertile soil went down the slopes whenever the heavy rains fell. In the last few years, the ears of corn were getting smaller and smaller. His father tried planting root crops like camote and cassava, with the same dismal results. These were barely enough to feed them.

Two years ago, his older sister Annie left them, saying she was going to Manila to look for a job. His father had to mortgage their carabao so she could have money to pay for her fare. He had hoped to redeem it as soon as she sent money home. Now she must be 21, but there was no word from her. Now they had to till the land using their bolos and bare hands. In her calm moments, Ado’s mother would whisper Annie’s name in between her soft tearful sobbing, like she was praying for someone who had died.

Two months ago, his younger brother had to stop going to school in the next village because he could not give anything when the teacher asked for contributions. One morning, he volunteered to help his father in the field. But that did not improve the size of the ears of corn or the root crops. It seemed like there was a bad curse on the sloping hill.

When he was 17 after he finished high school in the neighboring village, Ado also thought of going away to look for his fortune. After all, the city of Tacloban was just close by. He had classmates who went there to find jobs. Most of them found something in the city. They became janitors, bus dispatchers, laborers in some construction site, pier workers and stevedores, tricycle drivers. Not much money came from these jobs but they managed to stay alive and they would even send something to their families on weekends. Ado knew because people in the village talked. But he could not leave his mother, not when she had her attacks.

But one Tuesday in the month of September, he finally mustered the courage to leave his family to look for a job. With his strong arms and large physique, he could easily find one. He was prepared for anything. A dock worker, a porter or stevedore. Or perhaps a kargador. Or maybe a laborer in a construction firm. Or better still a waiter in some classy restaurant. He got in touch with a classmate whose family lived nearby in Sto. Rosario, a guy named Efren Salinas. After two days, Efren’s mother told him there was a vacancy in a store owned by a Chinese merchant. They were looking for a helper. Somebody who was strong and honest. Efren was also working in that store for more than a year already.

So that Tuesday, Ado took an early bath and had an early breakfast with his father. The day before, he told his parents that he was going to work in Tacloban as a store helper. They made no objections, although he saw the sadness in his mother’s eyes. He knew she would cry again. Probably that made her all the more vulnerable to attacks as did the humid air in Sto. Rosario. The thought of moving somewhere closer to the edge of the village where the trees had not been felled came to his head. That is, if he earned enough from his job as a helper. What if it did not suffice even for his own needs? There was that part of his head that Ado could not quite control. Thoughts like this suddenly flashed in his head uncontrollably.

He almost got lost in the downtown section of the city where the big stores were. The city had changed a lot since he last saw it seven years ago. His father took him on his 11th birthday to a nice restaurant after he sold their vegetables in the market. It was a different city then. Now there were new buildings and flashy eateries. Ado had no memory for streets. So he could not easily locate the street where the store was located. He had to walk by it several times before he saw his friend inside.

“Efren,” he called, trying to control his voice which was easily drowned by the sounds of tricycles in the street. He had to call three times before Efren finally saw him and motioned him to come inside.

“Sir, this is Ado Bacaltos, our neighbor in Sto. Rosario,” said Efren, introducing him to the store owner, Mr. Gerry Chan.

“So this is Ado,” the tall, thin, middle-aged and pale-faced store owner of Chan Enterprises said, his face expressionless. Ado felt there was a certain hostility in that voice. There was a rough edge to it.

“So you want to work as a helper. What can you do?” he man asked.

“I can work, sir, lift things, and do what you want me to do, sir.” Ado replied almost timidly.

“I don’t need anybody. I have enough men already.”

“But Efren said you need a replacement for_”

“That was last week,” the Chinaman said, then turned around to face a store customer.

Ado felt like he was being put down, dismissed like a stray animal. No, it was not Efren’s fault. It was this arrogant Chinaman that made his blood boil. The bastard looked down on him as though he was a beggar probably because of his tattered clothes. He clinched his fist, leapt forward to where the store owner stood, and swung his right fist at the face of the Chinese. The latter staggered and fell unconscious. Ado’s sudden attack caught the two security guards frozen, but one of the two pulled out his .38 service pistol, pointing it to Ado. Efren could only watch at his friend, shaking his head and turning away.

ADO was the sixth prisoner bought to the congested city jail at the back of the old city hall that Tuesday afternoon, the 30th person held inside a 6 x 8 feet cell where everyone was stripped to his waist, drenched in perspiration. The Chinaman did not waste his time after he regained consciousness. He called his lawyer to press charges against Ado for assault.

Suddenly, his life had turned from bad to worse in just one day. His parents would learn of his predicament only days later when Efren went home.