The Pull of Gravity

everyone.

There was one thing Larry did notice, though.

“Where’s Cathy?” he asked.

“She had to go away for a couple of days,” I said. It had become my standard answer.

“Is she coming back soon?”

“Should be any day now.”

“Tell her I’m sorry I missed her,” he said.

“I will,” I told him, but there was a part of me beginning to wonder if I would ever get the chance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Larry left on a Tuesday, and Robbie two days later on Thursday. On that Saturday, a full two weeks since I’d last seen her, Cathy came home.

The night before I’d ended up doing a double shift, covering for Tommy in the afternoon and working my own shift that evening. It turned out to be a busy night, so I hadn’t gone to bed until well after six a.m. on Saturday. I was dead asleep when noise from inside the house woke me.

It took me a moment before I realized someone was running the water in the kitchen. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It wasn’t even eleven yet. My first thought was that it was my part-time maid, Patricia. I was pissed, because I thought I’d made it clear she should never show up before two p.m.

But as I pulled myself out of bed, and donned a pair of shorts, I remembered that Saturday was Patricia’s day off. So what the hell?

I realized it was Cathy before I even got to the kitchen door. There was the hint of vanilla in the air-her personal scent, she’d called it. I hadn’t realized until that moment how much I’d missed it.

So there was no surprise when I looked into the kitchen and saw her standing at the counter, only relief. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a yellow shirt I hadn’t seen before. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail that trailed down her back. On the counter was a pile of fresh vegetables. I had caught her in the act of chopping onions. It was almost like she had never been gone.

“Hi,” I said, my voice still full of sleep.

She jumped, nearly cutting herself, then looked at me. “Why you scare me like that?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“You should be more careful.” She held up the knife. “I could have hurt myself.” She resumed her chopping.

I was still standing in the threshold, too afraid to approach her for fear that she would disappear. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Making lunch. What does it look like?” She looked me up and down. “What time you go to bed?”

“I don’t know. Not long ago, I think.”

“Then what are you doing up? Go back to sleep. This won’t be ready for a couple of hours.”

“I heard a noise.”

“Bah. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you later.”

I allowed myself to take a tentative step into the kitchen. I wanted to ask her where she’d been, and if everything was okay between us. I wanted to make sure she was real. But I didn’t want to break the spell, so I said, “There’s chicken in the refrigerator, and I bought a new bag of rice. It’s in the pantry.”

She turned to me, brandishing the knife. “Go, go, go.”

So I went.

She woke me midafternoon.

“You going to sleep all day?” she asked. “Take a shower and get dressed.” She almost turned away, but she stopped herself and looked at me for a moment. “You look thinner.”

She’d set everything up on the patio table by the pool. There was even a cold Gordon Biersch Marzen waiting for me, which meant she must have had a stash somewhere in the house I didn’t know about. She’d made chicken adobo and pancit, but there was only one place setting.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I asked.

“Already,” she said.

She sat down across from where she’d put my empty plate, a full glass of red wine in her hand. I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed she wouldn’t be eating with me, but at least she was there. I took my seat, then reached over and put some adobo on my plate. As I took my first bite, I suddenly realized I was starving.

“Good?” she asked.

I nodded and smiled, my mouth full of chicken.

She didn’t force me into further conversation, and though all the same questions were still on my mind, I had no desire at the moment to voice any. We were together again, and I was happy, that’s all that mattered.

It occurred to me somewhere in the middle of the meal that maybe I did love her-I mean, really love her. The relief and the happiness I felt had to mean that, didn’t it? Of course, I was ignoring all those other times with other women when similar feelings had surfaced in me. Each and every one of those relationships proved to be something other than love, and in the clarity of years removed, they’d all been cases of something more akin to misplaced desperation as I tried to hold on to something I never really had.

But for that moment, that wrinkle in time, I loved Cathy.

“You want some Halo-Halo?” she asked as I pushed my plate away.

“As great as that sounds, I’m pretty full right now.”

She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

I glanced at my watch. It was getting close to four thirty, almost time for me to leave. I debated telling Cathy about my new stake in The Lounge, but decided I’d let her find out on her own. That way it wouldn’t seem I’d bought in only to please her, at least that’s what I thought. “I need to head in,” I said, still unable to engage in anything other than the most basic of conversations. “You gonna work tonight?”

“If you need me,” she said.

“We always need you,” I told her as I stood up.

Her smile faltered, and I didn’t realize until later that the correct response was, “I always need you.”

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll come in. Around eight, okay?”

“Okay.”

We stayed there for several seconds, me standing next to the table and Cathy sitting holding her untouched glass of wine, looking at each other, both with something to say and neither of us saying it.

Finally I smiled and turned back for the house.

The girls welcomed Cathy back with shouts and cheers and kisses. Unlike me, several asked her where she’d been, but she would only answer, “Away,” or “Out of town.” Afraid that she might divulge more than I wanted to hear, I made my way to the back of the bar and left her to the hordes.

Soon I found myself listening to stories from a group of Americans who’d decided they’d met me on a previous trip, though I was pretty sure it was the first time we’d ever seen each other. They’d been making the rounds in Manila and had only arrived in Angeles that morning. From the way they told it, they’d each had a girl in Manila fall in love with them and beg them to stay. Fell in love with your money is more like it, I thought, but didn’t say anything. The working girls in Manila, as a lot, were hardened professionals who seldom entertained the dream of finding the right foreign guy and “getting out.” Finding a rich local guy who’d put them up in an expensive apartment, bought them fancy clothes, took them out to exotic dinners before returning home to his wife and kids-that was the height of their hope pyramid.

Ty, the unofficial group leader, talked like he’d been coming to the Philippines for over a dozen years. But I could tell he was all show. He’d been coming, at most, for the past year or two. It was obvious he didn’t want his friends to know because his experience made him “The Man.” Still, I couldn’t help dropping in a few names of