The girl who loved the Beatles

Myrna was my mother’s student in Grade 6, a girl who sat quietly in class, read her books, and passed. She went to the local public school, and for her college her parents sent her to Manila, since she was the eldest. Her father Mang Johnny was a soldier who served as the assistant to the chaplain every Sunday, for the 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. masses. Thus, he went to Mass at least twice every Sunday, and in my young mind I realized that that gave him enough indulgences to ensure for him a room in Heaven.

Now Myrna was back from Manila after only one semester of Business Administration. She was in her room, surrounded by children like me, while her mother and brother held her down. The old woman was moving her lips, uttering something in pidgin Latin. In front of her was a burned candle atop a brass holder stolen from the chapel. Over the flame, the old woman held a plate, face down.

Then Myrna’s voice floated in the room as she sang, “Hey Jude.” Her mother was in near tears, running her fingers through her daughter’s hair, wiping the sweat on the young woman’s forehead with the back of her palms. Through it all, her younger brother, all of 16, stood stoic.

“It’s over,” the old woman said. At that, we all rushed to Myrna. Gathering around her in a tight circle. Myrna seemed to have been drained of all strength, for she just wilted and fell into a deep sleep. The old woman, who smelled of my grandmother’s White Flower, slowly turned the plate, face up. On the plate was drawn a figure: a conical hat, pointed nose, and chin with a long beard. It was sharply drawn, charcoal black against the plate’s whiteness.

We all gasped. Duwende, we said, the murmur spreading around us. Gravely the old woman said, “A dwarf in your backyard must have taken fancy on Myrna. He lives in that tall mound of earth at the foot of the banana tree.”

“What must we do?” the mother asked. “My daughter hasn’t eaten anything in two days. She vomits the food and speaks in language we can’t understand.”

“There’s a playful dwarf inside her,” intoned the old woman. “You can only appease him by burying a native chicken’s egg beside the dwarf’s house.”

Myrna’s mother followed the old woman’s advice, but the next morning, Myrna’s name was again on everybody’s lips. It was past 12, and their neighbor Aling Naty had just finished pressing their clothes. She wanted to take in some fresh air, so she walked to the window. But she could not believe what she saw when she looked out of the window.

“JesusMaryJoseph!” she shouted, and her husband, Mang Teddy, was soon by her side. Mang Teddy once called me a sissy to my face (I don’t know why, I was so butch), when nobody was around. I felt my ear turning into flames, but how do you get back at a man twice your height and thrice your age? He played the trumpet for the military brass band. That was why he had such big balls, from all that blowing, said one wag. In my mind, I wished those balls would grow bigger then watermelons so they could be easy targets for my trusted slingshot.

But that night, Myrna stood in the middle of the street, stark naked in the moonlight. I was not sure how Mang Teddy’s balls responded. But he had difficulty following his wife, who had run down the stairs and draped a colorful Ilocano blanket around the young woman’s body. She brought her home, and though Aling Naty tried to make Myrna speak, no words came from her lips.

Matilda, who lived near Myrna’s house and whom we called “motor mouth” because words zipped from her mouth at a fast clip, said that Myrna only wanted to grab people’s attention. Connie, another neighbor who also studied in Manila, postulated that Myrna might have a drug problem.

“That’s why I avoid parties,” she sniffed. “A boy might put something in your drink; then he’ll play with you all night long. And after you’ve been damaged, nobody will want you anymore,” she added daintily, her fingers fluttering on her neck.

“Or perhaps, she’s just depressed because the Beatles has disbanded?” opined another classmate.

“Whatever—” said Matilda with finality, and then tossed her head, her hair full of split ends.

Through it all, Mang Johnny continued working from Monday to Friday, then served the Lord every Sunday. He did bring his daughter to the doctors, but they found nothing wrong with her – neither pregnant nor mad. They just prescribed rest, healthy food, and rest. “Perhaps she has not yet adjusted to Manila’s fast pace?” the doctors pressed on.

Her father sent her home to Masbate to rest and take in fresher hair. A year later, she returned to Manila and finished her course. Two years after graduation, she even got a scholarship for an MBA at the Asian Institute of Management. She now worked as the chief accountant for a multinational company in Makati. Once, she did go home to bury her father, who had died peacefully in his sleep. I saw her at the wake. In her blue designer suit, the pearls cooling her neck, her long hair swept in a stylish bun, I tried to look for her: the girl who once sang in a voice cut with shadows.

But the woman before me was no longer young and no longer lonely. Finally, the world was now in the palm of her hand.

* * *

This narrative forms part of my latest book, “Ranga: Writings on Bikol,” to be published by the Ateneo de Naga University Press this year. My other books on sale at National Bookstore include “Riverrun: A Novel,” “Happy Na, Gay Pa” and “The Best of Ladlad: An Anthology of Philippine Gay Writing,” co-edited with J. Neil Garcia. Comments can be sent to [email protected]