We had done the usual, a trip to Christ the King for Mass, a meal at Tita Rosa’s, and, dinner now over, we sat together at the dining table as Beng began to clear the plates. Tita Rosa was relating a ghost story that had happened during their childhood in the provincial home of Gapan, where my mother and most of her siblings had been sheltered during the war. Apparently, a man who had been murdered had come back from the dead and visited the judge in the case, letting him know who the real killer had been. The wrongfully convicted man, now deemed innocent, was, of course, set free. And the guilty man found and brought to justice.

“So let me get this straight,” I said. “A ghost tells the judge who his killer is, and that’s admissible in court?”

“Who better would know?” said Tita Dom. She raised her eyebrows a few times to acknowledge the mystery of this.

I said, “You know that’s ridiculous, right?”

“Of course we know it’s ridiculous,” said Tita Rosa. “But I’m also living in a house with a dog that I don’t want.” She gestured down to her left, where Tito Iñigo was, as usual, parked. He sensed that Tita Rosa didn’t like him and he was going to win her over. “The maids are too scared to clean the upstairs bedroom because they say that the ghost of your tito Iñigo likes to stand by the mirror. But they also say he’s reincarnated as a dog. I tell them, ‘You can have one or the other. You don’t clean the upstairs and the dog goes back outside, or you have your dog and you clean because he can’t be behind the mirror and be the dog at the same time.’”

“Filipinos are very good at believing,” said my tito Ben. “They are just a little indiscriminate.”

There was then a knock at the door and Beng went to check. Standing in the entry, to the surprise of all, was Chet.

Chet seemed unprepared to see me sitting at the table. He walked across the sala into the dining room and took a seat next to Tita Dom. “Titas,” he said, politely. “Father Klein,” he said, acknowledging my uncle.

“You need a plate,” said Tita Dom.

“No, thank you, I’ve eaten.”

Everyone fell silent for a minute because no one knew why Chet was there, and all were too polite to ask.

Tita Rosa nodded to my uncle. “This is Chet Rey, son of Dinggoy Rey. Your father is Dinggoy Rey, right?”

“My father is Gabi Rey. Dinggoy’s my cousin.”

There was another moment’s silence.

“Dinggoy Rey,” said my uncle. “He was at the high school when I was principal, wasn’t he?”

“He’s an Atenista, so, very possible,” said Chet. He gave me a look that demanded to know why he was having this conversation.