John Wayne’s real name is Wayne. But he loves cowboys and wears a cowboy hat every day. Everyone calls him John Wayne, even his mom, who would call him Hercules if he wanted her to.

My father said when John Wayne was six, he took to spear fishing like other kids take to playing Nintendo. Back then, Mrs. Cruz used to paint other things besides fish. She painted Cocos Island, sunsets, nude people, but never fish.

Mrs. Cruz tried to teach her son to kill only the fish they’d eat. But John Wayne couldn’t resist. He’d spear any fish he saw.

So Mrs. Cruz put away all the things in her head that she wanted to paint and instead painted skipjack, tuna, and atlulai. “See the pretty fish,” she’d say. “Don’t kill all the pretty fish. Leave some for us to admire, some for me to paint.”

It didn’t work. John Wayne gets a big thrill out of the fish he stabs. He holds up his spear for everyone to see and dances around in a circle. “See what I did!” he sings, while the fish flops on his spear. “See, see, I got a fish!” It doesn’t matter if he catches another one in five minutes. Spear held high overhead, he dances and sings the same words.

One good thing came out of Mrs. Cruz’s plan. Her fish paintings are very popular with the tourists. I guess no one wants a picture of a naked lady, but everyone is proud to hang a fish on their wall.

The Way It Was Before

Frank is in the cabana, playing kong-gi. I wonder why he’s not with his friends. Isn’t he glad to be home? Doesn’t he want life to go back to the way it was before?

Back then, Frank’s friends hung out in the cabana after school and on Saturdays. Frank played the ukulele or, if it was a good day, my mother played. The boys were in love with her, but not as much as Frank. Not like my father loved her, but a love, I guess, that a boy has for his mother. And a love that she has for him. It was different with Olivia and me. My mother looked at Frank like he had wings and could fly across the ocean. When he first began to play the ukulele, Mom covered her mouth and cried tears of joy. When Olivia danced, she’d beg my mother to watch her, but Mom would narrow her eyes and rub her temples as if it gave her a headache to see Olivia cha-cha. I hated my mother in those moments when she wouldn’t pretend to be happy.

Auntie Bernadette walks toward our house, carrying a sack filled with our dinner. I’d forgotten the time because my stomach is still full from the hot dog and papaya. Maybe Frank’s friends were here earlier but had to leave for supper. I think my mother was right. I worry too much.

Second Night