It started the day Delia Albala realized that the little boy she woke, fed, dressed, and dropped off at school that morning was not her son. It happened on the drive back from the school, like a lightning flash, like the contents of a dream you suddenly remember, and the shock made her stop in the middle of the street and stare at the hood ornament on her car. A voice repeating something in singsong, like the sound of a bell ringing, woke her from her trance:

"Hello, Mrs. Albala. Hello, Mrs. Albala."

It was little Bebe Alvarez from Dagoberto's class, standing on the sidewalk on her way to school, in her cute navy blue and white uniform with her backpack slung across her shoulders, waving at her. Mrs. Albala waved back, smiled hard enough to hide her embarrassment, and returned her foot to the accelerator.

How to describe what went through her mind as she dropped her keys on the hallway table, wandered into the kitchen, and poured the last dregs of coffee into her cup. It was like the moment in her favorite Agatha Christie books where the detective stops what she is doing and assembles all the clues in her mind. All the pieces of her life with her son floated around her as in a kaleidoscope: the time she tried to take him out rowing when he was six, washing the sand out of his hair from kindergarten, taking him to the pet store to find a puppy, the way his fingers would curl around the edge of the blanket, the warm soapy smell he had after he was born. The pieces gathered around her and fixed themselves into a vision of her son, a vision that she carried with her in the center of herself, her Dago. And still there were other pieces, and these pieces didn't fit. They didn't make sense to her, and they swirled around her like the moths in her attic that surprised her one day last spring. She swatted at them with her hands, but they continued flapping near her eyes and in her hair. And then they collected themselves into a swirling mass of dust and wings and small humming sounds that shaped itself into something curled, like a dried tree branch. And when it stopped its spinning, its only movement was the gentle heaving of Dagoberto's chest as he slept, and Mrs. Albala watched its rhythm from the rectangle of doorlight at the edge of his room, stunned and scared.

She tried to start a conversation with her husband at the dinner table, but it came out as nothing, only as a short cry between forkfuls of chicken adobo and rice. And then Lucia started crying because the dog was licking her toes.

"Aiyy, Lucia," she said. "Stop it, Lucia." She rubbed her daughter's shoulder, trying to massage away the fear. "The doggie loves you."

Washing the dishes after dinner, with the kids in the other room watching television, she watched her husband's meaty hands on the table formica work at shelling peanuts.

"Alvin," she said into suds. "Have you noticed that Dagoberto has been quiet lately?"

His thick fingers cracked open two peanuts, popped them into his mouth, before Alvin stopped to consider.

"No," he said.

"Oh."

"Why do you think he is quiet?" he asked, alarm entering his voice. "Is something the matter with Dago?"

"Aiyy, no. I did not say that."

"Is he sick?"

"I don't think so."

"So what is wrong with him?"

She rinsed off the sponge and wiped the soap suds off the counter.

"Nothing is wrong with him," she said, looking at those brown arms that had finally reached around her one night in a smoky movie theater in Manila and held her. "He's just not been talking very much."

Alvin shelled two more peanuts which Delia heard cracking against his molars.

"So do you want me to talk to him?"

"No," she said. "I did not say that."

"Then what do you want me to do?" he asked, raising his voice.

"I don't know," she said, shushing him with her eyes. The kids might hear them from the living room. "I don't know," she whispered.

But he would not let it go. He pushed the bag of peanuts away from him, leaned back, and watched his wife wipe down the stove.

"Should we take him to the doctor?"

"No. I don't think so."

He watched her turn off the stove light and wring out the sponge over the sink.

"What about your cousin, Magda?"

"What about Magda?"

"Isn't she a nurse practitioner?"

"No. Forget it."

"Isn't she?"

"Forget it," she insisted with finality sticking in her throat.

Then it became a matter of trying to get Dagoberto to say something, anything. She asked him if he slept well? Did he want something different for breakfast? Did he brush his teeth? Did he pack his schoolwork in his bookbag? What would he like in his lunch? Did he need help with his homework? How about going to get some ice cream? Are the other kids at school treating him nicely? Did he want to take one of his toys with him for show-and-tell? Would he like to see the new Walt Disney movie next Saturday?

Dagoberto met every one of her questions with a dim stare, his brown, almond-shaped eyes opening wide as a cat's, before answering with a monotone "yes" or "no." After a while, Delia found that she couldn't look into those eyes anymore. They reminded her of the sea, two moist almond-shaped oceans that stared up at her, and she felt like she was drowning in their dimness.

Sometimes Delia wanted to sneak up behind him and clutch his head right above his ears and shake it. Shake his head like she would a bottle of orange juice or the way a bartender shakes a martini with the cubes of ice clattering inside the metal shaker. A good shake might be all he needs, she thought, staring at the back of his head as he sat at the kitchen table doing schoolwork.

"DEL-Lee"

"Yes, Al-veen!"

"Onde 'sta?"

"I'm here in the kitchen."

"I'm going to the Seven Eleven."

"Oh-oh."

"We're out of beer."

"Okay."

She missed Dago too. His silence reminded her how lonely her life was. Before, Dagoberto brought her art projects from school made out of construction paper with "I love you, Mom" on it etched in crayon in his crooked hand. She looked at them now, hanging on the refrigerator, wondering if they stopped doing art projects at his school. He used to watch her with wide, unblinking eyes making cookies, and he'd offer to measure out the flour and baking soda with such precision, like he was counting every granule. All she had to do was to give him a look, and Dago understood that he should look after his sister, clutching Lucia's hand in his. It was easier then.

And then there was Lucia. Since she asked her daddy to take the training wheels off her bicycle last week, Lucia rode her pink Huffy around the neighborhood in a frenzy with the dog running behind her. She would take off from the driveway with her skirts flapping in the wind and wouldn't be seen for hours. At dinner time, instead of sending Dagoberto after his sister, Delia would walk up and down the front walkway, wringing her hands into her apron yelling "Loo-SEEEE-yaaaa! Loo-SEEEE-yaaaa!" Some days, she thought the neighbors were peeking at her through their drapes wondering if she'd lost control over her child, or maybe she'd lost her mind.

They are slipping away, she thought to herself while pulling overgrown weeds in the backyard one hot afternoon. They do not remember that I am here, waiting for them, all of them, to come home. She used to love gardening in the yard, with the sun warming the back of her neck and the breeze from the bay rustling the leaves of the apple tree. Does it have to do with that day? She remembered the afternoon she heard Dagoberto screaming. It was such a long, horrible howl for his small lungs that Delia felt her hair stand on end as she ran to the back of the garden to find him. He was hysterical, pointing at a hole in the fence the size of a drink coaster and at the undulating snakemeat moving through the hole. Taking him by the hands, she turned Dagoberto away from the fence and then quieted him with a long hug, patting him on the shoulder, saying "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay, now," while keeping one eye on the scaly movement. Its top half was dark green, and its creamy underbelly was freckled with dark, black spots. She led Dago up the cement steps to the front of the yard by the house.

"Just rest here a little," she told him, "We'll have some ice cream. Some Neopolitan?" He smiled a little while she reached for her small gardening spade, feeling for an overhand grip on its enamel handle. "Just wait here, honey. I'll be right back."

The first blow glanced off the snake leaving a vertical scratch in its scaly meat that drew little blood. Her second overhand swing stopped the snake's movement through the hole, though. Regripping her spade, Delia stabbed its thick body several times in quick succession. The spade was not very sharp, and she thought that a good machete would have taken care of this snake with one strike. She turned to find something sharper or larger, maybe a hoe or the shovel, but instead she saw her Dago standing at the top of the steps crying onto the cement. He was looking into the bushes at the snake's head, wavering and bobbing above the damp ground. When she moved to hug him, he yelped at her through his tears with eyes hard as rocks.

"Dagoberto," she said, dropping the spade. "What is wrong?"

He looked at her as if she were a stranger, and his tears collected around his chin into one big drop.

"Dagoberto," she said, and she held out her arms.

And he ran. He ran away from her and into the house. She searched the attic, the basement, the laundry room before she finally found him, curled underneath a box in the small closet in the guest room. She wanted to carefully carry him to his bed, but something made her stop. So instead, she put the box back down over him and closed the closet door. Dazed and tired from searching, Delia found herself walking down the back steps to the toolshed, picking up the large shovel, and then slowly walking to the back of the garden to kill what was left of the garter snake. The blood and the scales were so messy, and the body was so heavy that she had to ask Alvin to haul it away to the dump, all twelve feet of it.

Delia stopped enjoying gardening after that. Now the yard was full of dandelions and weeds. Fruit from the apple and tangerine trees rotted on the ground beneath. Birds hopped gleefully among the tall grasses. Drinking a glass of ice water, she looked at the messy lawn from the kitchen window and wondered What should I do? She rummaged through Dagoberto's chest of drawers, lifting underwear, pushing socks aside, looking for anything, any clue that might help her understand what was happening, and she asked herself again What should I do?

She thought about talking to the local priest, Father Balusan, and she imagined herself sitting with him at the church rectory, maybe after the 10 o'clock mass, drinking tea or taking coffee with him. Or maybe she should go to him during confession. Yes, the quiet and the darkness of the confessional box would hide her, comfort her, and the sliding partition would only allow the outlines of faces and whispers. She could tell him how she'd failed her son, caused him to slip into this silence. She would ask him then, "What should I do, Father?"

She made up her face with more powder than usual, a little more blush, and a darker lipstick. She found a dark scarf to wear around her hair and her rosary made with small pearl beads that her best friend in Luzon gave her for a wedding present. She located her shiniest black bag on the top shelf of the closet and her black church shoes in the back.

"AL-VIN," she shouted downstairs.

"Ya," he said, barely above the roar of the football game.

"I am leaving for church now."

"But it's Saturday?"

"Ya, I know. It is my Lola Ninang's Saint's Day. I am going to light a candle for her."

"Okay-ya," Alvin said. He cracked open another beer.

She drove slowly, making full stops at each stop sign. In her mind, she rehearsed her confession: "Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven years since my last confession." And then what should she say? How should she begin to describe her problem? She parked alongside St. Elizabeth's Church and gripped the wheel with her gloved hands. She closed her eyes and tried to say a "Hail Mary" before going inside, but she had forgotten the words. She forgot what came after: "the Lord is with Thee." A metallic clicking sound startled her. Opening her eyes, she saw a familiar-looking Filipina woman tapping her keys on the window. Delia leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

"Hi! It's Delia? Delia Albala, right?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember me from the open house, Doris Baladad? Acela and Angel's mother?"

"Oh ya! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you. You must be here for the festival. You know, we need some help for the Filipino Association's booth. You know the Lumpia Booth? Everybody loves the lumpia! We made 150 dollars last night and then we ran out, and it's only me and Cora Santos until seven p.m. Do you think you can help us with the wrapping?" Delia vaguely moved her head, but it was enough of a nod for Doris to help her out of her car and lead her into the church's basement auditorium. The last time she was in Cantwell Hall it was for one of Dago's basketball games. Delia had never seen Cantwell Hall like this! With the bright lights on and all the game booths and cake booths and plant booths and children's booths with games and face painting and the noise of large game wheels clicking and so many people! It's like a casino! Delia thought. It was so crowded that she got separated from Doris in the entrance hall twice.

"There's more people tonight!" Doris said excited, pulling Delia close by the arm.

"More money for us. I hope we can make enough lumpia!" Delia laughed, and she noticed that Doris's twins, Acela and Angel, were following them quietly.

"Come-on," she said to them amidst the noise and shouts. "Take my hand. So you won't get lost." They each took one hand, and Delia remembered what it was like to be part of a family again. Something inside her smiled.

They wrapped lumpia in the kitchen for two hours straight while Cora fried them in a big pan, ten at a time. Cora's husband, who was attending the booth, appeared every fifteen minutes with empty serving dishes in both hands.

"They keep coming back for more!" he shouted over the crackle of frying lumpia.

"How much so far?"

"Ninety-two dollars. And it's only 4:30!"

"All right!" Doris held up a floured hand for a high five, and Delia slapped it creating a flour cloud over the table. They laughed and waved their hands at the cloud, and Acela and Angel played hide and go seek among the kitchen's low stainless steel cupboards.

At five-thirty, Cora's husband brought all of them cokes and told them the total was at 147 dollars.

"Ven aqui," Delia said to Acela who was sitting on the kitchen floor playing with some utensils she found in the kitchen drawers.

"You heard your Auntie Deli," said Doris, in the middle of wrapping another lumpia "She wants you to come to her." Doris looked up a little embarrassed and whispered to Delia, "We don't speak to them in Chabacano, so they don't understand. Ernie didn't want them to grow up with Pinoy accents."

"Oh-oh." said Delia, nodding.

Acela came to her with her round eyes and her pink dress dusty and wrinkled from playing with her brother. Delia patted her and smoothed her and asked if she was hungry. She nodded yes, and Delia fed her some of the vegetable lumpia filling from her hand.

"Is that good?"

Acela nodded yes.

"Do you want some lumpia?"

Acela nodded yes, smiling a little. Delia wrapped one of the cooked lumpia in a napkin and handed it to her.

"Be careful. It's hot."

"And what do you say to your Auntie?" asked her mother from across the table.

"Thank you, Auntie Deli," Acela squeaked, and then she raced to find her brother who was still hiding in one of the cupboards.

At 6:30 the reinforcements came. Joe and Rosie Cunanan arrived with their three teenagers and two boxes of lumpia wrapped and ready for frying. They had all worked on the festival last year, and they took over the kitchen and the booth with calm assurance.

"Go and relax," Joe and Rosie said, slipping off their jackets and rearranging the pans and dishes. They ushered the three women out of the kitchen. "We've got it under control."

Cora and her husband left to play blackjack in the small room at the back of the hall. Cora said she won ten dollars last night, and she still felt lucky. Doris wanted to play at the cake booth.

"Can you watch the kids? I'll be back in a little while?"

"Yes, of course," said Delia. "But where are they?"

"I think I saw them playing in the coat racks," said Doris over her shoulder before disappearing into the crowd.

After she found them, Delia bought the children some cotton candy and then gave them dimes for the dime toss. She had to lift Acela up high enough above the wood partition for her to toss her dime.

"My goodness, you are so heavy," said Delia, struggling to keep her purse's shoulder strap from falling onto her elbow. Acela tried to flip her dime off her thumb like her brother, but it fell to the floor feebly.

They slowed down to a stop in front of the toy booth because Angel wanted to look at the few Nintendo games lining the shelves.

"Do you have a favorite number?" Delia asked Angel.

"No." he said, distracted.

"Well, you have to choose a number from the roulette wheel to win a toy." She reached in her purse. "Here's a quarter to play. Now you choose a number." He chose 17. But after two dollars and eight spins, he still didn't win. Delia whispered to the booth attendant, pointed at the game Angel had been staring at, then took some money from her purse.

"Here you go, sweetheart," said Delia handing Angel the game. "The man says you won because you played so much."

Angel's eyes lit up and began tracing every shape and word on game package. They walked by the cake booth, but Angel and Acela's mother wasn't there.

"Kids, maybe we can get some ice cream and go outside for little bit."

It was already dark outside, and Delia looked at her watch, surprised that it was already 7:30. She should have been home by now. Alvin would be worried. Acela and Angel trailed behind her, licking their popsicles contentedly, spinning lazy circles in the parking lot. Reaching into her purse for a cigarette, Delia thought about trying to find Doris in that crowded hall, and inhaling on the sweet taste of her Virginia Slim, she had an idea.

"Kids, do you want to go for a ride?"

They had followed her to the sidewalk where her car was parked. They looked at her, expressionless, and just shrugged their shoulders.

"We'll just go back to my house to pick up my children and then come back. You know, Dago and Lucia? Angel, Dago is in your class. Right?"

"Uh-huh," he shrugged again.

She unlocked the doors and began lifting Acela into the front seat when she heard a shout from the parking lot. She turned and it was Doris walking quickly toward them, her heels clip-clopping on the pavement.

"I was looking all over for you," she said as she reached them. There was panic in her voice.

"I know. I was just . . ."

"Where are you going? What are you doing?" The panic kept rising.

"I was just taking them for a ride and . . ."

Doris took Acela out of her arms and then clutched at Angel's shirt sleeve for reassurance.

"Where are you taking my children?" Accusation replaced panic.

"I just wanted to go home and . . ." The words tangled in her throat, and in the pale streetlight, she could see sternness overtake Doris's face and jaw.

"You stay away from my children! You don't touch my children!" And Doris's heels were clip-clopping back toward the auditorium at an even faster pace, with both her children in tow.

Delia tried to untangle all the words caught in her throat to offer up an explanation, but it was too late. They had gone back inside. Her vision was suddenly blurred by tears, and she was falling, drowning. She was lying in the front seat of her car, crying into her hands, the contentment of the evening leaking from her like blood from a deep wound.

* * *

It was easier since the change. Dagoberto had more time to himself, more time to run outside and play in the sunshine. He hardly saw his mother now. She kept to her bedroom with the blinds closed. He tried to go in to see her once, but she waved him away. He still played with Lucia. He would chase after her on her bicycle with her hair flying in the breeze and her giggles filling his ears. And often, they went to the park to roll in the grass together and play games of tag. He slept at night under the stars and dreamt of nothing, nothing at all.

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Occam's Razor, Issue 14 Contents