THE VOW Part 2 of 3 by Nelz Agustin
"The Vow" is part of an original unpublished novel I wrote called STARS. You can read it at < http://www.nelz.org/stars/ >. To read my other writings, please visit www.nelz.org. For comments or other pertinent information, please e-mail me at isaw@nelz.org. Your input and feedback are very much appreciated. Thanks for your time! -- Nelz
Paul got high marks and praises for his paper on Allen Ginsberg's A SUPERMARKET IN CALIFORNIA. Ms Calderon singled out his paper as "a fine expository example" and "an intelligent appreciation of contemporary radical poetry." Outside of English class, Paul and I were laughing hard.
My classmates had already noticed my odd bond with Paul. They continued ignoring me as the literature-loving loner, and they did not hide their disdain for Paul's anarchistic antics. But they silently acknowledged that I might be the only one who could control him. Not that I wanted to. I wished to tell them that I absolutely wouldn't want anything to do with him.
But his kiss changed everything. I didn't think he was really serious, or maybe he was just teasing-him being an anarchistic brat and all. Yet his kiss burned me-even in my dreams, in my waking moments, as if it was a brand that seared through my senses. I didn't know what I was feeling, but I knew I just had to see him everyday-to just look and talk to him.
Before the year was out, our friendship had gone deeper. After the final exams, he invited me to go with him to Batangas for the summer break. I readily agreed. I went home that afternoon to ask Mother if I could go to Batangas with Paul, but when I arrived, she was grimly reading the newspaper.
"Your Father was killed in an accident yesterday," she said quietly, even matter-of-factly.
My mouth hung open, looking at her unbelievingly.
"How? When? Where?"
Mother closed her eyes, as if trying to hold back her tears.
"Promise me Martin that you won't even try to find where he is."
"Why not?" I felt myself slightly trembling.
"Please, Martin." She looked away from me. I grabbed the newspaper from her, and she didn't even resisted.
"He's my Father," I said simply, defiantly. "I have every right to see him."
Mother didn't speak. She simply rose and walked to her room. She shut the door quietly.
I bolted out of the house, carrying the newspaper. I found out that Father was killed when a loose plank fell over him while working in a construction site. The paper also mentioned that his body laid in wake at a small chapel somewhere in Sta Mesa. I had no idea where the chapel was located, but I somehow found it through the labyrinthine streets of Sta Mesa. It was a coarse, gray structure constructed entirely of unsmoothed hollow blocks. I went inside and found it almost devoid of people. Father's coffin lay in front of the altar, with two lit tapers at either end. Someone had left a bouquet of chrysanthemums on top of the lid. I gazed at the coffin, and I thought it looked so lonely. I wondered what Father's thoughts were since he left us. Was he thinking of Mother? Was he thinking of me? Was he lonely? Did he yearn for us to be together again?
I slowly approached his coffin, my shoes making gritty, crunching noises on the gravel aisle. Two big, brawny men on the front pew turned to me, their black, beady eyes wondering and asking. I ignored them, and kept walking until I reached him. The lid covering the head was open, and I gazed at my Father's face. The angles were sharper, the hollows a lot deeper.
Father, I thought. His image bloomed slowly my mind like Polaroid photograph--his powerful arms, his strong hands as he held me high up in the air, his warmth and laughter, his half-growth of beard growing on his hard chin scratching on my forehead--
His gentle voice telling me he loved me.
I touched his cheek. "Goodbye, Father," I murmured.
I turned and hurriedly walked out of the chapel. I did not know where I was going. I bumped my arm at some passersby. They scowled at me. I mumbled my apologies, and I still went on. I rushed at this alley, turned at this corner and crossed an avenue. I did not care. My chest was heaving, and a late afternoon breeze kissed the tears that flew from my squinting eyes.
I kept walking rapidly, slicing head-on through the rush-hour crowd.
When I arrived home it was evening. I locked myself in my room, crying. Even when Mother knocked on my door for dinner, I didn't move, I didn't respond. It was way after midnight before I could sleep a fretful sleep, tears staining my pillow.
I didn't feel like going to school the following day, but I forced myself to get up, and go through my morning rituals. Mother was silently serving me my breakfast. There was no mention of Father.
"Can I go to Batangas this summer, Mother?" I asked, piercing a hotdog with my fork.
"Who's going with you?" She did not touch her food, she just watched me eat.
"Paul. You know him."
"Alright," she said. Her eyes seemed tired, resigned. "Just be back before enrollment. I need you here."
"Thanks."
I wasn't myself the whole day. I couldn't concentrate on our final lessons. Even Paul looked worried. He pulled me inside the library that afternoon during Physical Education. I guessed he had sweet-talked his coaches into something that he had exempted us from being in class.
"You ok?" he asked, as soon as we sat in our camp corner at the end of the shelves.
"No," I said. "I want to go home."
"Then ask our principal!" he said, looking intently at me. "Stop being a baby!"
"Father's dead," I said tonelessly. "I saw him yesterday. He looked so alone. He looked-"
I couldn't continue. I shut my eyes and I was crying again. Paul took me in his arms and I cried on his shoulder, wetting his white uniform. He held me, his strength steadying me.
"I love him, Paul," I said between sobs. "Haven't seen him in ten years, but God! I-"
I cried harder.
It took a while before my tears subsided, but Paul still held me.
"It's going to be alright," he murmured, caressing my back. "You're going with me to Batangas. We're going to have fun!"
"I feel awful...." I took out my handerkchief and started wiping my eyes.
"Pull yourself together," he said, giving me his trademark disarming grin. "Don't be a baby. You're made of sterner stuff!"
I snorted.
"Sorry I wet your uniform," I said, touching his wet shoulder. "You can let me go now...."
"You sure?" he asked, still grinning disarmingly.
I didn't know what to say. I let him hold me, feeling the strength of his muscles steadying me.
He moved his head forward and closed his mouth over mine once more. My knees felt weak and watery. Again, my universe was spinning rapidly in this sweet, heady rush of emotions I could not understand. There's this warm, fuzzy feeling washing over my tears and my sadness, strangely assuring me everything's going to be alright. I clung to him, wishing he'd not let go, wanting more of that warm, fuzzy feeling.
When he broke the kiss, he was still smiling.
"That," he said, pushing me gently away, "is for wetting my uniform."
I slapped him across his stomach. He gave a howl of surprise. The librarian was shrieking at us as we hurried out of the library.
Batangas was like a shore-washed jewel shimmering under the hot sun. We went to the town of San Juan, on the eastern side of Batangas, almost near the Quezon province. There were less people, but the beach-though a bit murky-was gorgeous. We camped just beyond the high tide shoreline, and we were basking in the summer sun for the rest of the afternoon. I loved the sea wind against my face and my hair. When evening came, we built a bonfire. Paul cooked fish and tomatoes over it.
"So tell me about your dad," he said.
I thought of Father in his coffin, alone, devoid of the people who loved him.
"He was the kindest man I've ever known," I said.
"You must love him so much."
"I do," I mumbled, suddenly feeling the sting of tears in my eyes. "I missed him badly...."
"I'm sorry," Paul said quietly, taking the fish from the grill.
"Don't be," I said softly. "There are some things, Paul, that I felt that- I don't know if I can forgive myself...."
"What are you talking about?"
I smiled at him, and just shook my head.
"Never mind."
Paul gave me a curious look. He handed me a paper plate of fried fish and wheat bread.
"Listen, let's just enjoy ourselves, alright?" he said, digging his fingers into his fish. The freshly cooked aroma made my mouth water.
We ate in silence, the sea breeze whipping our face and our hair. Beyond the blackened sea, stars winked from behind rolling clouds while a ghostly moon shed its ghostly light over the magical rippling waters.
I had a strange dream that night.
I was standing on the shore of the inky black sea, the night wind violently whipping at my face, my hair, my clothes. The ghostly moon stood watch over the glistening ebony waves. In the distance, I could see something glowing on the water. Not the moon's reflection, but something shimmering and translucent-like a whitish flame hovering over the waters, steadily coming towards me. I was shocked to see it was my Father, walking nearer to me over the sea. His hands were outstetched. He seemed to be saying something, but I couldn't hear him. All the sound that filled my ears was the howl of the wind. I couldn't move, I wanted to run away, but my feet felt petrified. Father went nearer and nearer the shore, and I could see his gaunt face. He looked so sad, and forlorn, his mouth moving as if saying something. I was already crying, but I wanted desperately to flee from him.
He stopped several inches in front of me, looking at me sadly. He lifted a hand and touched my face. I felt a numbing coldness. He moved nearer, bending forward as if whispering something in my ear. The feeling of coldness intensified.
"I love you, Martin," came a ghostly murmur against the howl of the night wind. "Please forgive me. Please forgive yourself."
His numbingly cold touch seemed so real. I felt his hands grasp my face.
Then he kissed me.
I woke up suddenly, trashing and yelling. Paul was all over me, urging me to calm down. He took a thermos bottle and gave it to me.
"Drink," he ordered.
I gulped down cold water, slowly feeling my breathing returning to normal.
When I had calmed down, I instinctively reached out to Paul and started crying again. He held me, his warmth engulfing me.
"Your Father?" he murmured.
I only nodded.
"Hush, Martin," he said soothingly. "Your dad will always be with you."
I sniffed as I still held to him tightly, not wanting to let go.
There was a long silence. Paul was still holding me. I felt his warm, hard muscles straining against me.
"Why are you so good to me, Paul?" I asked him quietly.
"Why not?"
"Nothing," I said turning to him. "Why do you keep kissing me?"
Paul raised his eyebrows. "Don't you like it?"
"It's not that!" I rolled my eyes, withdrawing from his warm embrace. I rolled over on my back and gazed at him. He lay down beside me, propping his head on one hand as he gazed back at me.
"So what's the problem?"
"You just don't kiss guys like that!" I exclaimed.
"I've never kissed any other guy," he retorted.
"Oh really?" I playfully whacked him on his hard belly. He winced.
"Why? You find it hard to believe?"
"Don't give me that," I said seriously. "Guys just don't kiss other guys. Unless you're gay."
"So what are you saying?" he asked, his voice also serious. "I'm gay?"
"I don't know!" I looked away from him. I felt his eyes burning at me. "Really, I don't know what to think! I mean you've been great to me and all, but I just don't understand why you kept kissing me!"
"Alright," he said, rolling over and lying on his belly. "If it bothers you, I'll stop it. Do you want me to stop?"
I felt my face turning red.
"Paul, you know that-"
"Do you want me to stop or not?" he snapped.
My jaw hung open. I stared at him. He stared back.
"No, I don't want you to stop." I could see him seeing my face flushed red, but I didn't care. I wanted to dare him, but then again this is Paul the UnDareable.
Paul gave a smirk. "So you like it, huh?"
I was about to whack him again on his belly when he suddenly held my hand.
"Come here," he growled, pulling me close to him.
I felt like one of those Gothic heroines in paperback romance novels. I felt powerless, yet strangely excited. He held my face and kissed me, slowly, as if tasting my lips for the very first time. I felt a strange fire raging inside me. My arousal was hardening against him, and he ground himself back against me. I felt the hardness of his passion, his thin shorts straining to contain it. His tongue darted out, forcing my lips to open, exploring my mouth. My tongue duelled with his, tasting his sweetness.
The kiss seemed like forever, until we broke apart, breathing heavily.
"Paul, I don't think-"
He pushed down his shorts, freeing his huge cock from its confines. He took my hand and held it against the throbbing warmth of his manhood. I felt like trembling.
"Go on," he whispered huskily in my ear. "You can taste it...."
The summer was like a bright memory; the sun and the sea spray burning our bodies brown, but the memory of Paul-the taste of his skin, his urgent passion and his fierce heat-burned my heart and inflamed my passion. I didn't know if we were lovers: I didn't know if he loved me, I didn't know if I loved him. But our passion was there-threatening to consume us both.
It was a very confusing time too. I still grieved for my Father, at the same time my friendship with Paul became more passionate. It had all but driven my Father from my memory. When school opened that June, we felt that we had suddenly grown up over the summer. We felt that we were more powerful and innately expressive than the rest of the seniors in our batch. My classmates may have noticed this bit of a change, but we didn't care. They kept ignoring us, and we kept to ourselves.
Ms Calderon was still our English teacher, and she was tougher than ever. The whole class groaned when she announced that we would be required to turn in a major term paper by the end of the year, and that would comprise our final grade. However, due to my classmates' difficulty to write, she relented and allowed a team of two pupils for one term paper. Most of them turned hopefully in my direction, but I knew I would be teaming up with Paul, who raised his hand to catch Ms Calderon's attention.
"What is it now, Mr Morales?"
"What are we write about, Ms Calderon?"
"You are to submit a literary critique on a novel, short story or a poem of your choice," she announced, eyeing the whole class with her steely gaze. "Mind you, your subject matter would still have to be approved."
There was a groan again from the class.
"But I don't understand," Paul persisted. "Why would we have to choose something that you'd still have to approve?"
"Quality control," Ms Calderon muttered. "It is hoped that none of you will be writing about Mother Goose."
"But can we write something radical? You know, a bit subversive and unconventional?"
Ms Calderon steadied her gaze on Paul. Then at me.
"I'm sure that you-" she flicked her eyes over at me, "-or Mr de Vera beside you can handle the more mature literary works than most of your classmates. Yes, you may do so."
We preened.
"I'm expecting a lot from the both of you," she said. "I'm quite sure you'll enjoy writing this particular paper."
Paul and I exchanged looks. We had no idea what she meant.
Later that lunch, in the library, we argued what we were supposed to write. "ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE by Gabriel Garcia Marquez?" Paul suggested.
"I don't think so," I said. "It's boring!"
"THE FOUNTAINHEAD by Ayn Rand?"
"Too tedious!"
"THE BELL JAR by Sylvia Plath?"
"Too dark!"
"THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA by Gaston Leroux?"
"Oh please!"
"I give up!" Paul threw his hands up. "I can't believe you've already read all that!"
"Hey, why don't we do HOWL by Ginsberg?"
"Are you sure? I mean I've already done Ginsberg last year. You'd think Ms Calderon would-"
"Leave it to me," I said, smiling at him. "So HOWL it is!"
"So, are you expecting me to write it again?" he grinned at me.
"Oh no!" I protested, moving away from him. "This is a major term paper, Paul! At least help me out."
Paul was still grinning at me. He glanced sideways, but the stacks were deserted as usual. Then he unzipped his pants and pulled out his cock.
"What do you say you write that paper for us, and I can let you have all of me for until finals week?"
"No way!" I hissed at him, but I watched him, mesmerized, as he fondled himself to erection.
"I know you want it," he added coyly.
"Fuck you, Paul!"
"Come here!" he ordered.
There was no question that I would be writing our term paper.
End of Part 2
Copyright (C) 2002, 2003 by Nelz Agustin. www.nelz.org