Now You See Us, page 12
When the menu comes, Cora cannot help looking at the prices. As always, she searches for the cheapest thing there is, and she insists on having tap water even when the waiter says they only serve bottled and asks her to choose between sparkling and still. “I will have the garden salad,” Cora says, pointing at an appetizer that costs thirty-four dollars.
“Just that? Cora, you must be starving. Have some pasta. You eat shellfish, right? Their shrimp fettuccine Alfredo is amazing. The cream sauce is better than anything I’ve had in Italy,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.
“No, thank you,” Cora says. “I will just have the garden salad.”
The waiter writes down their orders and retreats to the kitchen. It is a small, elegant restaurant with starched napkins that sit upright next to wineglasses. Through the kitchen’s viewing window, Cora sees long noodles powdered with flour splayed across a marble counter. The cook calls something over his shoulder but his voice is muted. Cora avoids Ma’am Elizabeth’s curious gaze.
A message alert pings on Ma’am Elizabeth’s phone. She looks at the screen and sighs. “Jacqueline worries about me,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, not looking up. “I haven’t told you this, Cora, but I was very sick last year.”
“Sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Cora says. She rolls the corner of the tablecloth between her fingers to keep them busy.
“I didn’t tell my daughters about it for a while because I didn’t want them to worry, and then when the doctors started bandying about words like metastasized and advanced, I thought my days were numbered. I finally told Jacqueline and Cecilia, and they were understandably upset when they found out I’d been getting chemotherapy. They had lost their father only the year before. They were furious with me for keeping it from them until it got serious. Jacqueline started dropping in all the time. It drove me crazy to be supervised like that, so I agreed to let them hire somebody, even though I’d been given the all-clear by my doctors.”
So this is how Cora came into Ma’am Elizabeth’s life. “Ma’am, it is very nice of them to be concerned. This is only natural for daughters to do. I supported my parents too.”
“Did your siblings help you?” Ma’am Elizabeth asks. “I think Jacqueline feels the pressures of doing it all on her own because Cecilia . . . well, she’s a free spirit, that one.”
“No,” Cora says. “I had four brothers. I did everything.” There was a time when she used to complain that her brothers relied on her too much, but the bitterness is gone. Too much has happened for her to feel hostile towards anybody in her family.
Ma’am Elizabeth’s smoked salmon and artichoke risotto arrives on a huge white plate trailing a cloud of steam. Next to it, Cora’s salad is a limp arrangement of leaves, and her stomach really is starting to growl after she catches a whiff of the risotto, but she still refuses when Ma’am Elizabeth offers to share. When Ma’am Elizabeth scoops a couple of spoonfuls onto a side plate and puts it in the middle of the table, Cora looks away. She stabs her fork into the salad and chews her way through it.
“Mr. Lee and I could never decide on a place to eat together,” Ma’am Elizabeth comments. “We always ended up at hawker centres, even on special occasions, because there were so many stalls to choose from. I remember spending our wedding anniversary in Lau Pa Sat after we’d wandered around the city for ages—he had satay and I had char kway teow, and we called it a night.”
It’s funny to imagine a couple so dignified and dressed to the nines eventually finding themselves in that whirlpool of hawker stalls in the heart of the business district. “Ma’am, I think you prefer more simple things,” Cora says. This is the impression that Ma’am Elizabeth always tries to give her, at least. So why are they here? If she wanted to take Cora out to lunch, why not take her to one of those hawker stalls in Newton Food Centre, where skinned ducks and chickens hang from hooks in the window, and a meal costs only four dollars?
“I do,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, nodding deeply. “Before I married Mr. Lee, though, I didn’t really know about life in Singapore. My family dined in restaurants at hotels like the Shangri-La and Raffles. I was wrapped in cotton wool, as they say. Then Mr. Lee came along and showed me a different life.” Her eyes are glossy with reminiscence.
“You must be missing Mr. Lee very much,” Cora says.
There is a distant look in Ma’am Elizabeth’s eyes, and then she takes another scoop of risotto. “Have you ever been married, Cora?”
“A long time ago,” Cora says. She instantly regrets it and wishes she had just said no to Ma’am Elizabeth, who is looking at her curiously. “We couldn’t have children, so I gave my husband my blessing to find somebody else.”
“I’m sorry,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.
“It was a long time ago,” Cora repeats. It was not altogether a terrible thing to have no children. Enough responsibilities were heaped on her after she went abroad to work; she didn’t need the worry of mothering in absentia.
“I can’t imagine how those women do it, the ones who have to leave their children behind,” Ma’am Elizabeth says, unconsciously following her train of thought. “Of course, it’s not easy for any of you.”
“It’s okay, ma’am,” Cora says. “Our lives are different from yours but—”
“Cora, I know why you dropped to the ground like that,” Ma’am Elizabeth says quietly. “We should talk about it.”
Cora’s fork is suspended between her plate and her lips when Ma’am Elizabeth says this. She pushes it into her mouth and chews carefully, looking down at her plate. Her heart begins to thump wildly.
How does Ma’am Elizabeth know about the shooting? Did she send somebody to investigate Cora’s background? She must know everything, then—that Cora had had to flee after she tried to get justice for Raymond and those men had trailed her to Dasmariñas, their guns gleaming in their belts. She must have contacted the Calverts and found out about Cora leaving in the middle of the night. She must know about the deal Cora made with the Calverts’ security guard so he would give her a head start. Cora feels her legs getting weak and she is thankful to be sitting down. “Ma’am, please understand . . .” she whispers.
Ma’am Elizabeth’s eyes widen and she reaches across the table. “Oh, Cora, of course I understand,” she says, squeezing her hand. “It was inexcusable.”
“This doesn’t affect my job, ma’am? I don’t want to go back to Manila right now.”
“Of course not! It was his fault, not yours.”
At this, Cora pulls her hand away and stares at Ma’am Elizabeth. “Raymond didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He absolutely did,” Ma’am Elizabeth says firmly.
Cora’s voice gets louder as she repeats herself. “My nephew did not deserve this.”
“Nephew?” Ma’am Elizabeth looks at her, confusion wrinkling her features. “Cora, we must be talking about different things. I thought you were having a reaction because of the abuse you suffered in your previous employer’s house.”
Cora doesn’t know whether she feels more relieved or angry. “You think I jumped to the ground because somebody threw an ashtray at me?” she asks, and she doesn’t realize she’s speaking in Tagalog. It’s the language for first reactions and for complete disbelief. Ma’am Elizabeth shakes her head slightly.
Cora tries to ask the question again in English, but what comes out is all her built-up frustrations. The red-and-white-chequered tablecloth, the waiter pulling out the chair for Ma’am Elizabeth and coolly ignoring Cora, the doctor’s assumption that Cora injured herself in order to get time off. “Ma’am, you don’t understand anything,” Cora says. “And you keep taking me to all these places as if I am your friend, and you think we are the same, but we are not the same. Ask the Starbucks barista, ask the neighbours, ask anybody who sees us together. They know I am your maid. Why you must pretend it is not like that? And why you must pretend you know one thing happened to me long time ago, this must be the reason for all of my problems?”
By the end of her rant, Cora is breathless. The colour has drained from Ma’am Elizabeth’s face and she looks mortified. “Cora,” she starts, and then she can’t continue. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Just take me home,” Cora pleads. “I just want to do my job, not go out and share my life with you.”
Ma’am Elizabeth’s hand trembles slightly as she runs her spoon through her risotto. The other people in the restaurant have dissolved into the background, and it is just the two of them. Cora’s mouth feels dry, and the salad goes down her throat with difficulty. Ma’am Elizabeth gestures for the waiter to bring the bill. Moments later, they are hurrying out of the restaurant and into the car. Ma’am Elizabeth lets Cora open the door herself, and she turns on the radio to fill the silence between them.
As the car merges onto the main road that cuts through the abundantly green land, Cora sneaks looks at Ma’am Elizabeth. She appears to be concentrating very hard on her driving, leaning slightly forward and squinting like a person pantomiming driving. Cora is still annoyed with her but also feels a bit guilty for her harsh tone. Ma’am Elizabeth has never scolded her or spoken to her with anything but kindness.
“Ma’am, maybe Miss Jacqueline is right,” Cora says gently. “You should go out more with your friends. You stay at home all the time and I am the only person you talk to. It’s not appropriate, ma’am.”
Ma’am Elizabeth grips the steering wheel. “I really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. I know you’ve had a hard time with employers in the past, and I just wanted to make sure that you were being treated well.”
“You treat me well,” Cora assures her. “But sitting in the restaurant, going to your private hospital—you think you are being generous, but the other people think I am taking advantage. I get funny looks from them, and they say things to me. There must be a line between us.”
“Okay,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Okay. I’m very sorry, Cora. I meant well.”
“I know it, ma’am,” Cora says.
“I won’t compel you to keep me company like that anymore. I had no idea how uncomfortable it was making you. But if you get injured again or become ill, I insist on getting you the best care. That’s my responsibility as your employer.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Cora replies. “It is difficult, I know. When somebody close with you dies, there is a lot of loneliness and things you wish you could say.” She feels her throat becoming thick with tears. If Raymond were here, she’d tell him that she had always been proud of him, even in her angriest moments over his new wealthy friends. “You must be missing Mr. Lee very much,” Cora says.
“I do,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “Every day.” She takes a deep breath. “I missed him even after I found out about . . . Cora, can I tell you this? One last thing, I promise. I need to tell somebody.”
The pain on her face is clear. “Okay, ma’am,” Cora says.
“There was a woman in the passenger seat next to my husband when he died.”
“Oh,” Cora says. She realizes that this is something Ma’am Elizabeth really wants to talk about, so she asks, “Who was she?”
“She was Loretta Kwok. In her late forties, a divorcée with three children. That was how I knew it wasn’t a silly, lust-driven fling; it wasn’t some Hong Kong debutante. He was committed to her. It hurt so much more, knowing that they were carrying on together like that, going out to nice dinners. And the papers didn’t report it. They didn’t want to tarnish Mr. Lee’s legacy with any speculation that he was having an affair.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cora says. “I did not know.”
“Neither did I,” Ma’am Elizabeth says. “I was the last to know, apparently. It turned out that all my friends had known about her. All of the women that I saw every week for coffee and in church.”
So that’s why Ma’am Elizabeth has so few friends. “You confront them, ma’am?” Cora asks. “Ask them why they don’t say anything?”
“I’m still working up the courage. I’ve withdrawn from most social events, though, because I feel like such a fool. My daughters didn’t know about it when he was alive either, but when they found out, they were . . .” She shrugs. “Not so bothered. They tried to convince me to move on by insisting that the past is the past. We shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. I felt like nobody understood me.”
What Cora knows about grief is that it comes in waves. It crashed down on her last week when she saw a schoolboy stepping off the bus, his backpack thumping against his skinny frame. It blacks out all of her senses and makes her say and do things she might later regret.
“Ma’am, whatever you are feeling, it’s the right way,” Cora says.
“Thank you, Cora,” Ma’am Elizabeth says.
They pull up to the driveway, and as Ma’am Elizabeth presses the buzzer that opens the automatic gates, Cora remembers her daily trips to the Calverts’ house in Dasmariñas. Immense properties cloaked in the shadows of towering hedges, gardeners dragging hoses across rambling lawns, and swimming pools glaring boldly against the heat. It was only after Raymond died that she asked the Calverts if she could take them up on their offer to let her live in the maid’s quarters. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to travel to Quezon City and back every day,” said Mrs. Calvert sympathetically. “Two and a half hours, three jeepney changes, a bus, and a twenty-minute walk, you said? It just makes sense for you to stay with us.” But the commute, though inconvenient and draining, had never been a problem for Cora. Home was narrow streets filled with the lingering smell of grilled isaw from a street vendor’s stove. It was the hanging vines that wound around the iron bars of her windows, and the clean, cool tiles kissing her feet. She would have spent the rest of her life in her house if the men who killed Raymond hadn’t threatened her and driven her out.
When Cora and Ma’am Elizabeth get out of the car, Cora spots her phone still sitting on the garden path, and she picks it up to find that it has run out of power. As they enter the house, Ma’am Elizabeth turns to her and says, “Cora, please take the rest of the day off.” She holds up her hands when Cora starts to protest. “No, Cora. This isn’t special treatment. You’ve had a head injury, and it’s important that you take it easy. There’s nothing left to do in the house that can’t be done tomorrow.”
“Okay, ma’am,” Cora says. To tell the truth, she is exhausted. Thinking about Raymond can be so draining— This is what loss does as well, she wants to say to Ma’am Elizabeth, who sometimes takes long afternoon naps and wakes up looking slightly ruffled and self-conscious, then guiltily confides the indulgence to Cora.
In her room, Cora plugs her phone into the charger and shuts her eyes. She lets her mind wander away from this strange afternoon when the past came rushing at her from all directions. The phone jolts awake and begins to update her on all she has missed.
Angel and Donita are still busily discussing Flordeliza Martinez. What do you think, Cora? Angel prompts a few times. In 2001, Cora had advised the other maids on how to handle the fallout from the Marisol Concepcion murder. Now is the time to be careful, she had cautioned them, but don’t keep your head down too low or they will think we all have something to apologize for. At Sunday gathering spots, she discreetly collected cash donations in a large envelope to send to the woman’s family after the court ruled that she was guilty and would be executed.
That was all a long time ago—now Cora doesn’t even have the words to explain to Angel and Donita why she doesn’t want to be involved. All she has are flashes of regret: The single gold earring she pushed into the security guard’s hands. The smirk on his face; the cold dread spreading through her chest. The way he grasped her hand tightly, just long enough to make her understand that he wasn’t satisfied. “What will I do with one earring?” he sneered, and he waved away her suggestion that it was valuable enough to pawn. He wanted her to return to the house and come back with an even bigger prize. When he told her what it was and where exactly to find it, Cora knew this was a sin that no God could ever forgive, no matter how many times she prayed the rosary.
Murder Maid Has No Alibi
A foreign domestic worker from the Philippines who is accused of murdering her employer has not been able to account for her whereabouts on the day of the alleged killing, say police.
Flordeliza Martinez is the lead suspect in the murder of Carolyn Hong in Oldham Walk off East Coast Road last week. Police speculate that Mrs. Hong caught Miss Martinez in the middle of a theft, and Miss Martinez pushed her against a wall. Ms. Hong died from injuries to her skull.
Miss Martinez was the only person reported to be at home at the time. Mrs. Hong’s husband, Peter Hong, was in East Coast Park training for a marathon. Their daughter, Elise, seventeen, discovered her mother’s body.
If convicted, Miss Martinez could face life in jail or execution by hanging.
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Eight
It feels as though the Fanns might never leave the flat today, and this is a problem for Donita because something is happening across the street. Two white catering vans have come down East Coast Road and turned onto the street leading to the Hongs’ residence. Earlier this morning, Donita also saw a bright yellow tent being pitched outside their house. Today is one of her working Sundays, so if the Fanns are planning on staying in, she’ll need a good excuse to go outside to get a closer look.
What do you think is going on? she asked on her group chat with Cora and Angel after sending them a blurry picture taken from her window.
