Growing up in a tiny Filipino village without most of the things I take for granted, my Aunt Hester was so poor that a family pet was a luxury way beyond her means. She told me, “ ‘Hester, too many mouths to feed!’ were my grandmother’s words, when I asked about keeping a housepet.” So she let the subject drop outwardly, but inwardly began to breathe life into the inanimate objects around her.
“A doll would just get stolen, and we could not afford one anyway, so I snatched a finely embroidered tea towel from my grandmother’s bureau, and was delighted when he introduced himself as Rikki. I would play with him each day, tuck him back into the bureau each night, then fetch him again the following morning, not knowing that my Lola always knew and allowed me to do so. As if I could sneak something by my Lola! It was many years later that I learned Rikki was a wedding gift from her own Grandmother, which she patiently watched her little granddaughter tie into doll shapes, drag through the mud, and tuck in with love each night. As it became more ruined in her eyes, it became more precious in mine. ”
Age, personality, and proximity kept my mother and Uncle Bob from ever being close. Dad optimistically took this as a challenge, and when Bob and Hester moved back to the states on furlough, Dad was quick to volunteer his time updating their parsonage and allowing Bob to take a rest and take in a few Steely Dan shows. Dad said he loved the idea of serving someone who served so many, and hoped it would be a springboard toward closeness in the life of his wife and brother-in-law.
During the summer of ‘82, Dad renovated their kitchen, tearing out a wall, tiling the floor, and building the breakfast bar that I would spend hours at for years later. Toward the end of construction, he spotted Rikki sitting on one of the new countertops and made a mental note--with an updated kitchen, who wanted ratty old rags laying around?
He finished grouting the backsplash on a Friday night, with just a few minutes to toss the last of the construction debris into the backyard burn can before my mother arrived with pizza and cold beer to toast a job well done. Dad’s optimism had been working, as Mom and Uncle Bob had spent more time together in the previous month than they had in the past 10 years.
That stopped after Mom brought in a gift basket for the new kitchen, filled with cooking gadgets, hand soaps, and a selection of new dish towels matched to the kitchen. “We noticed the old one was pretty worn, so I picked up some new ones at Penny’s...hopefully the color’s all right; if not, I can always exchange them...”
That was all I remember before Hester turned and screamed, as she saw my father casually toss Rikki into the burn can and head back toward the house. Rikki never stood a chance, and Dad never stood inside the new kitchen, or inside Hester’s good graces, again. Swearing at them, she chased my confused parents off the porch and back into Mom’s little Subaru before Dad could unload the beer, and Mom and Dad stayed up late drinking Rolling Rock after trying to patch things up on the phone with Uncle Bob.
When my parents took their fateful doses of tainted Tylenol the next morning to ease their aching heads, it was Hester who was first to arrive when I called in a panic, it was Hester who followed the ambulance to the hospital, and it was Hester who informally adopted me throughout the duration of my childhood. For me, the sins of the father were not passed down to the son.
Even so, it was years before she let me dry the dishes in the new kitchen, and even longer before I could light the burn pit without first counting the towels.
