In the Country: Stories

by Mia Alvar

“They will win,” she said, “if they have to drag you out kicking and screaming.” Jim shook his head. “I can’t fear a weak man. If there’s anything emptier than his promises, it’s his threats. His own kidneys are in revolt against him, at this point.”

Rich-People Power. Martial law, to some, was a rude interruption: now their fancy dinner party can resume.

On the twenty-fifth of February 1986, thinks Jim, who can’t resist a juicy lede, sometime between his oath of office and his helicopter ride out of the country, the tenth President of the Republic of the Philippines shat himself.

of Manila has stormed the palace. Cries of Soubenir! Soubenir! bounce off the mahogany-paneled walls. Those who can’t make off with a military helmet or a high-heeled shoe settle for a radio, a plant. Jim threads his way against the stampede.

Recant. Stop the presses. Cease and desist. He’ll do it all, and more. She watches his mouth move. She even hears some words from it. Something about not expecting forgiveness, or even a response.

That girl lived in this house, where a man had died; that girl married Jim inside a prison; that girl let her children play, sometimes, above a shelter where objects no safer than bombs were made. And now that girl’s son, her only son, is gone. But Jim is not the one—at least, he’s not primarily the one—Milagros blames.

The receiver struck the floor. “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head, bringing his fingers to his temples. “No.” Milagros watched her husband cover his face and fall to his knees before the kitchen sink, as if the time for praying, or begging, had not yet passed.