Jhoanna S. Aberia Only Lavinia can get money out of him these days. During the week, when we get home after school, I nudge her into his room, tell her to ask for a dollar so we can go to the store across the street for Cactus Coolers and Fun Dip. “Da-ddy?” she always begins, dragging out the two syllables in the affectedly cute way she has. He falls for it each time, if only so he can go back to watching This Old House. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” he says, peeling one soft bill from his wallet. This dollar buys him a good hour of quiet, me and Lavinia laughing at He-Man on the big living room TV, licking our fingers to get all the colored sugar after we eat up the Fun Dip’s white tongue depressor. Her empty cup of coffee already waiting its turn under the faucet, my grandmother stands at the sink, washing dishes. No one can stop her from doing this, even the aunts who all protest, “One of the kids can do that.” She ignores us all, dipping her sponge into the small bowl of soapy water on the counter, scrubbing with one hand as she rotates a plate with the other. Lola has a system, dirties on the counter, one sink full of soaped-up dishes and cups, the other sink for drying. She works in batches, stopping every now and again to tell her daughters and grandchildren to keep eating. There’s still so much food, my aunts always preparing at least seven times as much food as there are people to eat it. Finally the aunts begin packing up, loading up on leftovers for the rest of the week. Mom happily saves some bangus for breakfast, pancit and adobo for lunch, dinner, and beyond. This food will keep reappearing until each bit is gone, her prodding us at the dinner table, saying, “Hey, that’s still perfectly good.” As everyone says their goodbyes, we cousins invent a new game: reverse mano, whacking each other across the forehead again, this time taking away our respect. My mom sighs, and pushes us out the door.
138 ◆ Crab Orchard Review