The Polish

Her red nail polish was chipped. That was when the fight started. Clarence never liked to see imperfections on her. He wasn’t exacting on her in other aspects of their married life, heck, she could spend all of his trust fund and he wouldn’t care, but he was very particular about her appearance.

He was the governor of their backwater province and his political aspirations spilled over to the need for her to keep up appearances. He assigned a secretary to her who did nothing but schedule appointments with hairdressers, dermatologists, makeup artists, couturiers and stylists. She was styled to the nines even when she had to go out shopping. Her outfits were so coordinated she felt like a wind up doll, a trophy put out for show when the need arose.

And when there was no need for her, she still needed to keep up appearances—with the maids, and the drivers and the bodyguards. There were no children. Clarence couldn’t stand children. He felt they were more trouble than they were worth so he put her on the pill the moment he decided she would make good wife material.

She was young when she met him in Manila. He was different then, but the pressure to continue the family’s political lineage changed him. He used to be spontaneous and fun, but after the honeymoon in France, he became a different person. Now, he is a dedicated, but not very competent politician, who is as much a wind up doll of the family’s machinery as she is. There used to be time to be alone, to cuddle and make love, but his anxieties over his future in government rendered him practically useless in bed, and maybe that was how he wanted things to be—for her fortieth birthday he gave her a vibrator and a litre bottle of personal lubricant, then proceeded to move out of their conjugal bedroom.

That was five years ago. Today was her forty fifth birth day and she thought she’d give herself a break given that it was a Sunday and there would be no constituency to please. She noticed the chip on her nail polish, red was her husband’s preferred colour, he said it went well with her creamy Spanish mestiza skin, but did not give it much thought as she went on with her morning toilette.

But Clarence, being Clarence, noticed the small chip on her pinky finger first thing as she picked up her glass of freshly squeezed dalandan juice. He went ballistic and went on a tirade of the perils of a bad image on his political career.

His outburst scared her. She had never seen him like this before. Yes, there were past lapses in her beauty regimen, but never was there a reaction like this. She apologized and asked the maid to call her secretary. After chatting with her gay style consultant briefly, they made an appointment to go to the beauty salon together after breakfast.

She apologized to Clarence again before she left for town, which was a thirty minute ride on the highway. She kissed the top of his head, she still felt affection for him even if she no longer knew where their marriage was headed. She felt him trembling and she did not know if it was anger or fear that caused it. Her woman’s instincts pointed towards fear, but fear of what she could not decipher. They no longer confided in each other, they were no longer privy to each other’s dreams and aspirations. All they were now were two automatons whose fates were dictated by a machine bigger than they could fathom.

She came back two hours later, with freshly lacquered nails and a new hairstyle, which the stylist said was all the rage in the fashion capitals of the world. She was quite proud of herself and eager to show off to Clarence, because even after all these years, she still loved him and loved to please him.

She went to the lanai, where he usually spent mornings checking the news on  the TV and Internet. He wasn’t there. She knocked on his bedroom door, but there was no answer. She opened it and peeked, but he wasn’t there too.

Horror crept through her and sent chills down her spine when she saw his lifeless body hanging from the santol tree. She couldn’t scream, she couldn’t cry. She was frozen. She felt like she was falling into an abyss, a bottomless pit and there was no way out. Fortunately, her stylist followed her into the house. He also loved seeing Clarence’s reaction to his handiwork. She turned to him and clung to him like a lost child. Indeed she was lost. What would life be now that there was no need for the mindless primping and the endless parade of parties and events and sorties?

His death was publicly announced the day after the family came up with a plausible excuse. A heart attack, sudden and fatal. Though that was hardly credible since Clarence was known to be a fitness buff.

There were questions that had no answers. She searched her mind for them but she could find none. Was it her fault? She had been nothing but a dutiful wife in all the years they’ve been married, even if it ate up her soul a little at a time until even she did not know who she was anymore.

The year after her husband’s death passed quickly. She wandered aimlessly through it, still perfectly styled and poised because it had become a habit. She went to his grave at sun up, with a bunch of pink gerberas that reminded her of him because he liked having them in the sun room at breakfast every day. She deliberately went in the morning to avoid the crowds that were certain to throng there as the day progressed.

He may not have been very bright, but Clarence made up for it with his heart for service and he was well loved by his constituents. Besides, there would be a memorial Mass for him later that morning and she would be expected to be her perfect self. Thankfully, the family did not think much of her degree in fashion design, thus excluding her from their political ambitions. All she had been of late was the poor widow expected to draw the sympathy vote for the family’s namesakes in future elections.

A young man who seemed to be in his mid thirties was there at the grave when she arrived. He bore a striking resemblance to her husband. Even more questions ran through her mind. Her arrival startled him, clearly he did not expect company at this hour.

She told him to wait as he made to go. She told him she is the wife and she could clearly see he is Clarence’s son, but she could not remember giving birth to him. Her levity drew an ironic smile that did not lift the sadness from his eyes.

Yes, he said, I am the son. He was born before they got married, long before then. Clarence was almost twenty years older than her and she knew she was not the first woman in his life, but he never told her about his having children. 

Then it came spilling out. Clarence met his son at a gay bar, he was given as a “gift” to him by a government contractor who wanted to get projects in his city when he was still mayor. He did not know what gave them the idea that he would actually want boys but he thought what the heck. It was just for one night. But his son was already experienced even if he was not yet then eighteen and was desperate for a patron because his mother was sick and he needed money for her treatment. He made sure Clarence wanted more with each rendezvous until they agreed to become lovers. He told Clarence his story, his mother’s battle with cancer and the poverty that would not let them be.

They planned to marry in Greece. Clarence wanted to do the right thing and ask his mother for his hand. But the romance turned into a horror story when Clarence saw his mother. She was his childhood sweetheart, the daughter of one of the maids in their expansive estate in the province. He got her pregnant, hoping that would force the family to accept her, instead they banished her from the province. He got it out of her before she succumbed to the breast cancer that has spread throughout her body; his lover is his own son.

Clarence set up a generous trust fund for him but would have nothing to do with him after that. He was blacklisted from his father’s life. All attempts to contact him were met with stone cold silence. Until a little over a year ago, he sent him a succinct note: “tell my wife the whole story if you ever meet her. She deserves to know. I love her but I don’t have the courage to tell her. I couldn’t bear my guilt anymore.”

He took his life shortly after that.

The questions were answered. But an unbearable pain came with the answers and waves of regret over the wasted years washed over her. She skipped the memorial Mass and packed her bags. She got her passport and booked a flight to Spain, where her mother’s family was. She did not say goodbye to anyone. She would forget, oh she would forget. The tears that would not come in the past year finally came spilling out. 

But she never forgot, even as she fled from place to place, the memory of Clarence haunted her. She could not forget to have her hair and nails done, she could not forget to wear the latest fashions from Paris and New York. Nothing could make her forget.

Until in the last years of her life, she came back to what used to be a backwater province that has become a thriving city. She went back to live in the home she shared with Clarence, with his ghost, the ghost of the pink gerberas and the bottles of red Chanel nail lacquer.

She stated it in her will that she be given a last manicure and pedicure in that hue before she was laid to rest beside her husband’s grave, in honour of the man who loved her too much to tell her the truth, but not enough to share his burdens with her.