The Pull of Gravity

“Thank you,” Isabel said. “Thank you so much.”

“Are you staying with Mariella?”

“Only for now,” Mariella said. “Once she meets some of the girls I think it would be good for her to move in with them. Make new friends, di ba?”

More likely Mariella didn’t want her pretty cousin cramping her style. I smiled and said, “Okay.”

“Thank you, Papa Jay,” Mariella said.

“Thank you, Papa Jay,” Isabel echoed.

They headed for the door, but before they got there one of Mariella’s friends ran up and started talking to her.

“Isabel,” I called out. She turned and looked back at me. “I just want you to know you don’t have to go out on a bar fine with anyone if you don’t want to. And even if you do, you don’t have to boom-boom.”

There was relief in the smile she gave me. “Thank you,” she mouthed.

That had been six years earlier. It was almost as if it was a story from someone else’s life. Philippine Jay’s, not mine.

Almost.

CHAPTER THREE

I found Isabel huddled on the floor in a back room at Angie’s. Though I’d never been in this particular room before, the surroundings were familiar. It was a changing room, lit by two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, and littered with piles of clothes and shoes. The only furnishings were three well-worn chairs and a chipped full-length mirror that leaned against the wall next to the door.

“What are you doing? You can’t be in here.” The voice came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw another Filipina who was probably the unofficial mamasan.

Customers were never allowed in the back. I knew this rule only too well, but at that moment I didn’t care.

Ignoring the question, I moved quickly across the room and knelt next to Isabel. “It’s okay. It’s only me,” I said softly.

“I call the police if you don’t leave now!” the mamasan yelled.

I whipped my head around, and glared at her, my face hard as stone. “Then call them.”

The woman, a little fireplug who had to be pushing fifty, turned and rattled off something in Tagalog to one of the girls standing behind her. After so much time, my command of the local tongue was rusty, but I knew she never mentioned police. After she finished, the girl turned and pushed her way through a group of other girls who’d apparently also been following us.

“Isabel,” I said, returning my attention to her. “It’s just Jay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know who you are,” she sobbed.

The mamasan fired off another string of Tagalog, this time directed at Isabel. Rusty or not, I was able to pick up a little. “What does this something something want?” Her meaning would have been clear even if I hadn’t understood any of it. She was blaming Isabel for my presence.

I turned back to her, willing myself to remember the right words, then said with authority, “Police ako. Umalis ka dyan.” Basically I told her I was with the police and to leave us the hell alone. It was a handy phrase, and one of the first bits of Tagalog I’d learned when I started working in the Philippines.

I was sure she didn’t buy it. I looked about as Filipino as the pope, but she was smart enough not to take a chance. She gave me one last glare then turned and left, pulling the door closed behind her.

Isabel, still huddled in the corner, was looking at me now. There was no fear in her eyes. What I saw was shame.

I guess I should have expected her reaction. Even though our whole history together had been spent in and around bars just like Angie’s, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t just her former papasan, I was her past. I was someone who’d known she’d gotten out of the game, a member of her surrogate family, for God’s sake. And I’d just walked in and found her working at a bar again.

I held out a hand, careful not to actually touch her. “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m your friend, remember? I’m just happy to see you.”

Maybe it was that last thing that did it, or maybe she just had more shame than she could bear on her own. Instead of taking my hand, she fell into me, wrapping her arms around my neck, and burying her head in my shoulder. The sobs and tears started again, only this time the surprise of being discovered was gone. These were tears of resignation.

When her crying subsided again, I asked, “Where are your clothes?”

She nodded toward a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt folded neatly against the wall and sitting beside an expensive-looking pair of shoes. It was in the small things that the girls tried to retain some of their dignity.

“Why don’t you put them on?” I said.

Though I’d seen her nude at The Lounge hundreds of times before, I turned my back as she changed. This wasn’t The Lounge, and we weren’t those people anymore.

“I’m ready,” she said in a voice stronger than I had expected.

I turned around and smiled, then held out my hand. “Let’s go.”

The mamasan and most of the girls were standing in the hallway as we left. There were two new arrivals with them-scrawny, unsmiling Filipino guys trying to look tough. I could have taken either of them easily, maybe even both together, but as it turned out, I didn’t need to worry. The mamasan shouted a question in Tagalog, then Isabel said something that sent a murmur through the dancers gathered behind Mama. There was another exchange between the older woman and Isabel. Then, after a tense moment of silence, the mamasan let out a sigh of exasperation, then turned and pushed the girls out of her way as she stomped off toward the bar.

The girls that remained parted as I led Isabel in the same direction. Several giggled as we passed. One touched Isabel on the shoulder, and asked her in English, “Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be okay,” Isabel said.

As we entered the main room, I could see the mamasan standing near the bar. She pretended to not even notice us as we walked toward the exit.

“Sorry if I got you in trouble,” I said as I opened the front door.

“I can handle it,” Isabel replied. She slipped outside and I followed.

It was early still, barely seven p.m., but the sky was already growing dark.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

She shrugged and leaned against me. The ordeal of seeing me again had weakened her. To a casual observer, she probably looked like my girlfriend for the evening. I certainly wasn’t the only Western guy with a beautiful Filipina on his arm.

“How about some spaghetti?” I suggested. It had once been her favorite food.

She smiled, real this time, or as real as she could muster. Still, some habits were hard to break, and instead of saying yes, she said, “It’s up to you.”

I took her to The Rendezvous, one of several Italian restaurants on the island. There were few customers, so we had our choice of tables.

Now that she was sitting across from me, I didn’t know what to say. Though I knew a lot about Isabel and Larry’s time together, I’d only been a tangential player in their story. It was my desire to know the rest that had taken me back to Boracay, back to Isabel, but did I have any right asking her about it?

Finally, I just said, “Feeling better?”

She sighed, then took a sip of the wine we’d ordered before she answered. “Maybe I cannot go back to Angie’s.”

I smiled. “You know how mamasans are. Tell her you’ll slip her a few extra pesos from your next date and