Acapulco at Sunset and Other Stories

By Cecilia Manguerra Brainard

Acapulco at Sunset and Other Stories by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard was first published in the Philippines in 1995. It was published in the US in 2020.  The book collects 17 stories inspired by the author's Filipino and Filipino American experiences; they are grouped into four categories: Long Ago Tales, Stories from the '60s and '70s, Stories from the '90s, and American Tales.

 

In the Introduction to the 2020 US edition, the author notes "The book had a strange beginning. Shortly after it was launched, Anvil (the publisher) had a fire in their warehouse, and many copies of this book were destroyed. Because of that the hardbound and softcover copies of this book were particularly hard to find.

"In fact, there are many strong stories in this collection, some of them dear to my heart, such as: "Butterscotch Marble", inspired by my early married years in San Francisco; "Manila Without Verna", inspired by the death of an activist classmate during the oppressive Marcos dictatorship; "The Virgin's Last Night", inspired by my spinster aunt who had a suitor who never gave up; and many others.

 

PRAISE

 

The poet Marjorie Evasco praised the book saying: "The stories of Cecilia Manguerra Brainard tell of  voyages the heart could have taken, of places haunted by old memories like ghosts lingering under an ancient mango tree, of times seemingly irretrievable but always there at the farthest end of the thread of remembering"

 

Professor Les Adler writes in Pilipinas that "Brainard enriches the conventional understanding of exile by applying the concept to Filipino experience in the Philippines. She is thereby able to show the cultural and social issues that a Filipino/a faces while in exile are universal Filipino experiences."

 

Isagani R. Cruz's review in StarWeek notes that: "In Brainard's stories, Acapulco and Intramuros are the same, and at the same time, completely different places. Dead characters and live characters talk to each other nonchalantly. A young poor boy falls in love with an older rich woman, and by loving her, kills her. Filipinos find their identity in, of course, San Francisco, but not so ordinarily, in Alaska. The green card — actually blue — spells the difference between authenticity and an authentic life, between dreaming and the American dream.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PALH
• Release date: Nov 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9781953716088

Book preview

CONTENTS

Introduction

I—Long Ago Tales

Chino’s Dream

Acapulco at Sunset

Temptations of Padre Joaquim

Casa Bonita 

II—Stories from the ‘60s and ‘70s

The Virgin’s Last Night

The Dead Boy

Melodee

Almost Forgotten

III—Stories from the ‘90s

A Very Short Story

Killing Time

Lucy and Ben

Manila Without Verna

IV—American Tales

Welcome to America

Butterscotch Marble Ice Cream

A Matter of Perspective

Sid Lansky’s Vacation

Alaska

INTRODUCTION

I AM PLEASED to present the American edition of my second short story collection, Acapulco at Sunset and Other Stories. This anthology was first published in 1995 in the Philippines by Anvil Publishing, Inc. The book had a strange beginning. Shortly after it was launched, Anvil had a fire in their warehouse, and many copies of this book were destroyed. Because of that the hardbound and softcover copies of this book were particularly hard to find.

A year before the release of this collection, in 1994, Dutton/Penguin released my first novel When the Rainbow Goddess, and that novel overshadowed Acapulco at Sunset and Other Stories.

In fact, there are many strong stories in this collection, some of them dear to my heart, such as: Butterscotch Marble, inspired by my early married years in San Francisco; Manila Without Verna, inspired by the death of an activist classmate during the oppressive Marcos dictatorship; The Virgin’s Last Night, inspired by my spinster aunt who had a suitor who never gave up; and many others.

I grouped them into four categories or themes: Long Ago Tales, Stories from the ‘60s and ‘70s; Stories from the ‘90s; and American Tales." The stories will speak for themselves. I hope you enjoy them.

~Cecilia Manguerra Brainard, September 2020

I

Long Ago Tales

Myth must be kept alive.

~ Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

CHINO'S DREAM

In 1780, the Filipino Antonio Miranda Rodriguez — nicknamed Chino — joined the Spanish expedition from Mexico headed for Alta California. The mission of the Moncado Expedition was to start a settlement, which was named El Pueblo Reina de los Angeles.

*

Loreto, March 1781

MARIA’S SISTER, Magda, called me an old fool. I expected it. It's in your blood, this wandering, this running around. Crazy foreigner. Old fool, she shouted. She waved a spoon in the air and her black sleeves flapped, making her look like a crow. Magda dressed like a widow. She had harangued and bullied her husband so he got to be the laughing stock of town. One day he had his fill and took off for Acapulco where he found himself a good woman. They had five children. Magda didn't bother contacting him; what for? Even Magda knew you can't force a horse to drink water. No fool would leave a pretty, easy-going woman for a battle-axe like Magda.

In silence, Juana kneaded the dough. Her hands were so small; her arms like sticks. Ten years old and like a sparrow. She didn't want to leave. Rosario was her home; her mother was buried there. Sundays she'd pick colorful flowers and lay them on Maria's gravesite. They had been close; they were my delight. Give Juana eight more years and she'd look like her mother with her dark eyes and long, long lashes. When Maria flashed you a look, what a thunderbolt that was. And what a smile that woman had; it drove away the painful little thoughts that spin inside your head. She never worried much, always lifted things up to God. Even when she couldn't walk around, which was when Magda moved in to help out. After Maria died, Magda stayed on. A girl needs a mother, she insisted.

I went ahead and enlisted. My head was full of ideas; like maggots they swarmed. For weeks, Jose — who had signed up in September — talked of nothing else but what the settlers would get. He spoke about the monthly salary and regular rations for three years. He had a way with words so all these came to life in my head. Aside from the salary and rations, he threw in two cows, two oxen, and three mares. Later, two horses, a mule, two ewes, two she-goats. The list grew — implements, tools, and land, all these! Behind my eyelids these treasures multiplied, took on shape, and the animals sauntered the long stretch of our property to the river; my tools hung against the wall of my carpentry shop; and the delicious smell of wood shavings filled the air.

Jose was a talker but not very bright. I should have weighed his words. More than half the settlers died. That was a fact. When you left on a mission, you said goodbye. That was it. Even if you survived, you rarely returned home. So you forget about your dead in the whitewashed cemetery, and you forget about the plaza where the band played on Sundays, the sweet tamales on Christmas morning — you erase all that from your memory. It's just like my leaving home. When I kissed Mama goodbye, that was it. No turning back. I have not seen her for thirty years. I don't know if she's dead or alive; if my brothers are dead or alive. I can only imagine the houses they built, the wives they took, the children they bore. I can only wonder if Mama is still cooking pork with vinegar and garlic; I can only guess if the camias flowers are still below the kitchen where the soil was always damp from rinse water. That's all I can do.

But I wasn't thinking straight; maybe the crazy Mexicans were right and I was a crazy foreigner. Something got to me; I was tired of grieving. It just wasn't Maria. Ten other people had died that year. The whole place stunk of death. Basilio and I did nothing but measure corpses and build coffins. What finally got me was the boy's death. Rafael next door died. One day he had stomach pains. His mother gave him yerba buena but the pain got worse. They decided it was worms. I knew better than to give a boy like that worm medicine; I told them so, but they said, Let us do it our way, Chino.

Fine, do it your goddamn Mexican way.

They gave him worm medicine and he died that same day. An hour later, Basilio and I were sawing wood for his coffin. Later something happened: the boy came back to life. He sat up, crying, Mama, it hurts. Then he collapsed in his mother's arms, dead finally.

There was a storm that time, unusual for October, and it rained at the funeral. His mother did not go to the cemetery. While we dug, her wailing bounced around the headstones. If Rafael had been two or three, she wouldn't have carried on; babies die all the time. But he had been eight and she figured Rafael would be around. For days she kept asking if we were sure he was dead, that we hadn't buried him alive. Even though I was sure the worm medicine did it, I said nothing. It's bad enough the boy's dead; it's bad enough they blame themselves.

All the crying, the women in black (even my little Juana wore black), the weeping angels, worn crosses, flowers in vases, candles melted down to shapeless forms, all these made the marrow of my bones ache. I was sick and tired of grieving. Jose's stories sparkled; they beckoned. I remembered that three-month journey across the Pacific and what an adventure that had been. I was twenty then. At fifty I was still spry, strong; so what if a nasty crow called me 'old.' I still had life in me. I joined the Moncado Expedition. That was in November.

The Spanish official said we'd head north of Mission San Gabriel to start a settlement. We'd travel in two groups; one group would take the Anza trail; the other would cross the sea and take the Baja California route. They had it all planned; the settlement would be called El Pueblo Reina de los Angeles, after the Virgin, after my dead wife's namesake. All I knew was that the land, the river, the animals, my carpentry shop would be there waiting.

Juana and I were assigned to the Baja California group. Magda shrieked, Old fool! Crazy ideas! But later she said we were in the safer group; the scalp-hungry Yuma Indians along the Anza trail hated the Spaniards. Still grumbling, she sewed dresses for Juana; she even helped pack our trunk. I told her to come along because women were scarce up there and she'd surely find a man, but she hit my arm with a broom. Better to be alone than to be with some mad sojourner, she shouted.

Before we left, Juana and I visited Maria's grave. After laying the flowers down, Juana lit three candles. She was crying. She and her mother had been close.

Maria had a hard time carrying Juana. She had to keep her feet up for half a year. I thought she'd die birthing a no-good baby. I've seen them — with big heads full of water, minds not working right, crippled, deaf, hare-lipped. A difficult pregnancy meant something was wrong with the child. Maria must have said a dozen novenas for the baby; she wanted it badly. When labor started and the midwife checked her, the baby was sideways; the arm was down the birth canal.

How can babies be born that way? I asked.

They're not. They die. So do the mothers, she said.

She was old, this midwife, and knew a few tricks. She dunked her hand in cold water and shoved it in. Her cold hand made the baby pull its arm back. Then she had Maria get down on all fours and made her rock back and forth. She massaged Maria's belly and did other things. The baby was born, so tiny, like a pile of bones covered with some skin. I checked her over carefully, counted her fingers and toes, snapped my fingers near her ears to make sure she heard right. She was fine. Even her mind. And good, like her mother.

I stroked Juana's head and said we weren't leaving her Mama behind, that she was now an angel and could travel with us everywhere. The girl wiped her tears and smiled. Her smile should have lifted my soul but the sight of the white cross left me cold. Shivering, I closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids, I watched the animals drink the river water, then they lay down and died. At that moment a breeze blew out the candles.

*

At Guaymas the Spanish officer counted us like cattle — one-two-three-four. There were forty-seven, instead of forty-six. He started over and found a stowaway — a beggar with sores over his body. He had no papers; he had no trade; he could not join us. The Spaniard sent him away. The beggar cursed and spat at us.

Maybe the beggar had something to do with it, but soon it drizzled and the sea curdled. I felt uneasy. It wasn't fear exactly, because I'm not easily afraid. I don't talk about it but I've killed a man after all. It happened when I was very young — who else would foolishly gamble the rest of his life over a woman? I can't even remember her face, although she must have been a looker if I took on a Spanish official on account of her. Mama hid me. She sold her jewelry and put me on that galleon. What a miserable trip that had been — typhoons, lack of food and water. I thought then that God would go ahead and punish me for killing that man. But no, He let me escape that time.

Papa, is that a river? Juana asked, clutching my hand. She knew only the dry rocky land of Rosario.

It's the Sea of Cortez, I said.

The sea, she repeated, her eyes growing large. Like your ocean? She must have remembered my stories about galleons teetering on the points of enormous waves. Nighttime, she and Maria used to listen to me talk about places I had seen, about the home I had left behind.

The moment Juana stepped on the ship, her skin turned green. But she was truly a good child and seasick as she was, she did not complain. She sat quietly with her eyes closed. When the rain fell stronger, I strapped her and myself down. I had seen a man washed overboard. Years ago when we were rounding the Horn, a wave splashed over the deck and swept him away. There was nothing anyone could do. We were all just scrambling to survive.

Juana started praying when the waves became taller than the ship. I held her tight and murmured assurances, but my own heart pounded. Just when I thought we would not make it, the rain suddenly stopped. The clouds parted and shafts of sunlight fell on the sea that now lay flat, without a ripple. The color on Juana's lips returned.

Ahead, the City of Loreto sparkled. The worst was over, I thought. I planned on showing Juana the city — the shops, the bars and grills, the lively vendors along the streets, the numerous people dressed in laces and silks and not just the rough cottons of Rosario. I wanted her to sniff the small shop where I bought perfume for her mother. I wanted all these for Juana. The child had dragged Maria's deathbed by the window so the people could greet her; and she had closed the shutters when her mother was too weary to chat. She had fed Maria her soup, spoon by slow spoon. She had washed and clothed her