A SHORT STORY
By ERWIN CABUCOS
HERE’S THAT LADY
from the second floor
again, standing at the
door, towering over
Mama and looking mad.
“It bloody stinks in here.
You and your smelly food!
You’re not the only ones
living in this building you
know.” She cringes. “It’s
unbearable!”
Although I can’t see Mama’s face, I can
tell she’s upset.
My brother Leo and I are having
breakfast at the dining table and I can
hear her, yelling at my mother. Leo tears
some fillets off the dried mackerel in the
serving plate and pastes them on a handful
of steamed rice, moulding them with his
fingers and throws them into his mouth. He
swallows, takes a drink and pans his eyes
from his plate to Mama, to the lady at the
door, and back.
I walk towards Mama; her hand is glued
to the side of the door, as if it is the only
consoling shield she can cling to at the
moment. I should be there now, at least a
moral support to her, but I want to finish my
food. She always tells us not waste food and
be mindful of our relatives in the Philippines
who have nothing to eat at all. She nods as
the lady continues to yack, she doesn’t have
a chance to respond to the Australian lady.
She straightens her back once in a
while, perhaps trying to look confident and
dignified amidst the insults and demeaning
words from the woman. The wooden
sandals she bought from Baclaran Market
before we migrated to Brisbane clack as she
shifts her support between each foot. Her
T-shirt, with ‘Palmolive’ written on the front,
is now looking grey and old. She flicks her
hair from her face to her back.
The lady’s suitcase stands firmly beside
her legs. Her perfume smells like the Ajax
soap bar that our maid in the Philippines
used to scrub our clothes with every
morning. Her ash grey business skirt extends
to her knee, accentuating her slender hips.
Black stockings wrap her skinny legs.
“S-sorry, miss,” Mama says with a wry
smile, looking embarrassed. “We actually
turned the exhaust fan right up to max to
get rid of the smell. Obviously, it hasn’t
worked very well.”
Mama uses a humble tone, showing
sincere apology for pestering our
neighbour’s life, but the effect of her
10
response infuriates the lady even more:
“I actually had to decide to move out.
My boyfriend refuses to visit me. If you’re
having dead rats for breakfast, I don’t care.
Just don’t bloody cook them until next
month when I’m gone, then you can feast on
your stinking fucking food!” She throws her
hands into the air.
Blood rushes to my ears. This is really
smell is now all over my curtains, pillows,
everywhere!” She shakes her head and walks
off. Her tight silky black top shines as the
eight o’clock sun hits her in the hallway. She
looks for something in her bag and pulls out
a pair of sunglasses then trots to the main
door. Her heel’s clacking on the floor are like
drums fuelling my anger.
Mama shuts the door and returns to the
Artwork by a Brisbane-based Filipino painter Anthony Quidong
bad; who is she, yelling at my mother?
Mama blushes. She tries to smile but she
looks like she’s about to cry through gritted
teeth. I feel like yelling at the woman but I
don’t know how. I feel like punching her in
the gut, how much I want to hurt her, but I’m
not sure if Mama will appreciate it. I will hold
off for now.
“We’ll spray some deodoriser around the
apartment then,” Mama says, nodding her
head, resting her clenched fist on her chest.
“That should get rid of the smell.” She bites
her lower lip and sighs.
“Is that going to help my apartment? The
OCTOBER 2017 | AK NewsMagazine, Vol 8 No 1
kitchen, her chin quivers and her shoulders
droop. “We’ll buy our own house soon so we
can cook whatever we want. I’ll have to get
a second job to help your father. Hindi tayo
pumunta rito para pahiyain, we didn’t move
here to feel ashamed of who we are.”
My heart sinks along with the pan that
Mama carries to the rubbish bin, twisting it to
let five pieces of finger-sized dried mackerel
dive into the mound of trash. Murky oil with
scales follows. The crunchy, tasty fish lying on
potato peels, tissues and egg shells don’t look
right. Those dried fish are my favourite. Papa
and I took the trouble of catching the train to
Fortitude Valley shops yesterday to buy three
packets, only to be thrown in the bin! They are
my food. I grew up with their crunchiness and
saltiness and their tanginess when dipped in
vinegar. And now that we are in Australia it’s
hard to believe I can no longer have them.
That’s not fair.
Mama goes to the bathroom. I pluck the
fish out of the trash and wrap them in foil.
I run outside, widening my strides to catch
up with the lady. Her high-heeled shoes
clack on the pathway along Coronation
Drive. She’s now crossing the road and the
pedestrian lights are just about to turn red.
She must be working in one of the corporate
offices in Milton. The traffic resumes.
I zig-zag through the honking traffic. I
stand in front of her.
She halts.
My lips purse and my knees tremble as I
lift my hand to throw the fish at her face.
For some reason, I can’t throw it at her. I
freeze. I turn around, in tears.
She walks past, staring at me.
I sit on a bench nearby, facing the
Brisbane River. Brown water laps on the
rocks below. Still it’s nowhere near as brown
as the Pasig. Every splash seems to snap me
back to reality. I feel so useless that I cannot
really defend my family. If I can’t stand up
for myself, what am I? I sig