Dogeaters Read Free

hangs a large crucifix, with the tormented face of Christ rendered in bloody, loving detail. Russet ringlets of horsehair hang from Christ’s bent head, crowned with a miniature wreath of thorns. Next to the crucifix hangs a framed painting on velvet of the Madonna and Child, which my lola brought with her from Davao. The Madonna is depicted as a native woman wearing the traditional patadyong ; the infant Jesus has the brown skin of my Lola Narcisa and straight black hair. Below the velvet painting, my lola has arranged votive candles in a neat row on a shelf meant for books. Her bed is covered with a white crocheted bedspread, which gives off a faint odor of mothballs. The bedspread and what seem like hundreds of doilies scattered around the room were all made by Lola Narcisa. A black steamer trunk containing my grandparents’ clothes stands at the foot of the huge bed, where my tiny lola sleeps alone and waits.
    She is eating, always eating, like an agitated, captive animal. She holds a bowl of rice with dilis , anchovy-size dried salted fish, on her lap. She likes to eat with her hands, and is comfortable enough around me to do so. She gestures toward the ivory-colored, U-shaped Philco radio on the table by her bed. “Turn it on for me, hija —my hands are greasy,” she says. The radio was once my brother Raul’s, but he now owns a sleek black transistor model my father brought from Hong Kong. Next to her radio, my lola has placed a chipped, crudely painted clay statue of San Martin de Porres.
    “What’s on, Lola ?” I ask, although I know the answer. She smiles at me, a hint of mischief in her twinkling eyes, which sweep over my skinny body. I am almost as tall as she is, and this amuses her greatly. “ Love Letters! Love Letters is coming on, in exactly three and a half minutes,” Lola Narcisa replies. “Sit down, Rio—get comfortable and don’t ask too many questions. The others will be coming as soon as their chores are done.” This is one of her lucid nights; she recognizes me as her granddaughter and affectionately orders me around. I turn the knob on the radio to get clearer reception. She takes a handful of rice and fish and pops it expertly into her mouth. Then she chews with a worried look on her face, temporarily forgetting I am there. I wonder if she is thinking about my grandfather. Just as abruptly, she focuses on me again. “Rio, does your mother know you’re here?” She asks. I nod. “Did you finish your homework?” I hesitate, then nod my head again. Lola Narcisa looks sternly at me. “I don’t believe you, Rio.” She pauses and studies my disappointed face before sighing and patting my hand. “All right, hija —you can stay. But if your mother comes to get you, I won’t stop her. You understand? It’s very late, and you have school tomorrow. Tomorrow is Monday, isn’t it? Uh-hmm! I don’t want your mother making sumpung and blaming me for your bad habits!” She wheezes and clears her throat, putting the now empty bowl next to San Martin de Porres. “Uh-hmm. Sige , hija —I’m going to wash my hands. Then when I come back, you can sit down near me, right here on the bed…”
    Love Letters has been on the air for years, the most popular radio serial in Manila. Even the President boasts of being an avid fan. Many of the episodes have been adapted into successful movies by Mabuhay Studios. Top movie stars still perform as guests on the show, including the biggest and most beloved—Nestor Noralez and Barbara Villanueva. Nestor and Barbara are engaged to marry in real life but keep postponing the wedding. Nestor sadly admits in numerous interviews that for him, “Hard work and Lady Success come first.” Barbara is just as understanding and loyal to Nestor as the characters she portrays.
    My grandmother’s crazy for Love Letters because the plots are so sad and complicated. Every week, there’s a new story, which always involves a love letter. An episode comes on every night