I knew where Inchoy’s thoughts were going. Chet was not a hugger and our somber demeanor attested to the fact that Inchoy was about to face intolerable grief. He could read the signs, and the problem with having an intellect as sharp and sensitive and quick as Inchoy’s was that he could not shelter from the truth for long.

Inchoy was ungodly still. Finally he said, “There is a mistake,” his voice muffled by Chet’s embrace.

“It’s on Channel Four,” said Zackito. “She’s been identified.”

“There is a mistake,” Inchoy repeated, but this repetition told me that he at least knew the situation. How could he not? Inchoy had been worried for over a year. Inchoy, of course, had tried to reach Bibo, but the phone had not been answered. Inchoy had then called Bibo’s mother, but when she had picked up the phone, her voice uncharacteristically strangled with pain, Inchoy had hung up on her.

I think maybe an hour passed while Inchoy asked short questions, and we responded. The news had identified Sebastiano Pagangpang. We didn’t think anyone had been arrested. Together, we watched the story repeated on the news cycle, the closeup of Bibo’s hand. I was struggling with my own grief but knew that Inchoy’s was greater. Inchoy’s mother stood looking from the kitchen door, wondering what had occasioned such a joyless assembly.

The tears and wailing came later. Inchoy’s mother kept asking what was wrong, but all we could do was say that a friend had died and try to eat the very expensive sliced ham that she offered us, sweet and succulent, a ham that I knew was good, but in my mouth at that moment, as I chewed it into pulp, was almost inedible.

XVIII

XVIII

I spent the next few days in a stupor. I would wake in the middle of the night and wonder why I was no longer asleep and then remember. Not one for tears, I didn’t have that release. Rather I stayed in bed with my mind racing, trying to fix the past, wondering what we could have done differently—which would occupy the minutes but accomplish nothing else. My tita Rosa had noticed my drop in appetite, the general malaise, but I was not forthcoming and there was much on her mind. She knew a friend had died, which was all I told her. Bibo’s identity was still a secret.

Ten days had passed since Laird had gone missing and Tita Remi was getting desperate. How could he vanish without a trace? Tito Ben contacted people he knew at Ateneo de Zamboanga, but what would they know? They were just priests teaching Lacan in English to the Chavacano-speaking, uniformed youth of the south. Unless Laird had presented himself in the rectory or tried to eat at the cafeteria or shown up for Mass, how would they have seen him?