Free When the Elephants Dance by Tess Uriza Holthe Page A

was a little more elaborate than her usual fare, to celebrate my cousin Julio’s good grades in school.
    My father and I each received one lumpia and a spoon portion of pancit noodles. My cousins received heaping portions.
    “In case you finish,” my aunt said, smiling, “there is always more on the table.”
    But you see, there was not always more, because any glance, any look, toward the extra food would warrant another glare from my aunt, and I already felt unwelcome as it was. Sometimes she surprised us and offered more, but these times were rare and almost always when something had gone wrong in the cooking of the meal. When I was near to finishing, my eyes began to drift toward the platter in the middle of the table.
    My aunt was like a watchdog. “Carlito,” she barked, “finish your food before it grows cold, then tend to your chores.” I looked to Father, willing him to say something, but he quietly ate his food. My stomach growled, irritated at the teasing I had given it. I willed my father to find his voice, to speak up. My eyes burned, urging him silently to ask for more food for the both of us. He was her older brother after all, but he never looked up from his plate. I became a keeper of secrets, a silent witness to my father’s humiliation. Finally, when I could stand it no more, I had one of my few moments of bravery, when my hunger overcame my aunt’s wrath.
    I asked,
“Tita
, could I have another helping?”
    She smiled frightfully at me. “Too much food makes one lazy, Carlito.”
    I saw her game then; I tasted its bitter rules. “Is that why you take a siesta each afternoon?”
    There was not even time to move out of the way. Her chair scraped loudly and she stood, grabbing me by my ear. “How dare you, after I have fed you this wonderful meal! You are an unruly child, Carlito. Do you know what that means?” my aunt asked.
    I shook my head.
    “It means you do the opposite of what good people tell you to. We are your guardian angels.” She put a hand to her chest. “You should listen to us. Yet you have a devil watching over your shoulder. A deeveel, whispering to you.”
    I looked over my shoulder in terror. Throughout this my father sat with his head bowed as my aunt raged on.
    “ ‘Do that, Carlito.’ ‘Say this, Carlito.’ That is what the devil whispers to you,” she spoke in a fury. “You should see my friend Sanctisimma Bulaklak’s boy. So well behaved, his
yaya
brought him up with discipline. Too bad your papa cannot afford a
yaya
. If you had one, she would watch over you like a mother hen. She would not allow such abuses from a smart-mouth such as yourself.”
    I knew her friend Sanctisimma Bulaklak’s boy; he was my age, a simpering, pale-faced boy with a constant runny nose. He was not allowed to play in the dirt or to run too fast. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded. I saw him often being led by his
yaya
through the market. They dressed the boy like an old man, wearing a Western-style shirt and bow tie, in our tropical heat. But in my aunt’s eyes, he was the Santo Niño, the infant Jesus himself.
    His
yaya
was a young woman who went to school in the neighboring village. A
yaya
, as I understood it then, was a governess who gave special privileges.
    “Do you know what his
yaya
does if he is bad?” My aunt was in a rage now.
    I thought quickly of the last time I saw the boy’s
yaya
. I had come to ask if he wanted to come play, we needed an extra person in our game of hide-and-seek. The boy and his mother, Sanctisimma, were not home, but the
yaya
was, with Mr. Bulaklak’s face deep in her unbuttoned blouse, and I said the first thing that came to my mind. “Feed Mr. Bulaklak milk?”
    “What?” My aunt chased me out of the house, her fingers curved like talons and her face more ferocious than any demon I could ever imagine.
    I was so hungry when I left that I ran over to the San Lupe house. They were a wealthy family that lived a kilometer away.