THE STEEL BRASSIERE

by Iris Sheila G. Crisostomo

AT first I thought I was hearing the wind whistling through

the termite-infested wall of Tiya Anding's house. Wind on a hot summer

afternoon? Dismissing the noise as coming from rats slipping through hidden

holes and crevices in the old house, I rummaged through the remaining boxes for

things worth keeping.

My visit to Tiya Anding's house on J.P. Rizal Street was

prompted by a public notice from the city engineer's office that the property

was scheduled for demolition to give way to the construction of an annex

building for the town's health clinic.

Tiya Anding was a friend who had no living relatives. When

she died, her house and the 300-square-meter lot reverted to the government.

With the impending demolition, I had hastily driven to that humble abode hoping

to save a few memories of a past life.

One of the queerest things I recovered from the pile of old

clothes was an old bra. It wasn't fit for any young lady's breasts because it

was made not of soft cotton or lace but of cold and hard metal. A steel bra.

What was it doing in Tiya Anding's box? I thought to myself.

For several nights, my thoughts were on the brassiere. Two

cones of stainless steel with straps made of hammered wire. I tried it in front

of the elongated mirror in the bedroom after I made sure the door was locked

and the children had retired to their beds. I knew Lindoln wouldn't be home

until midnight.

I laughed when I saw myself with the bra covering my

breasts. I looked like a character from a Mad Max movie. The bra looked like

pointed armor ready to deflect an ax or a lance from the enemy--a sure

protection for the delicate female flesh underneath. I remembered Madonna in

her skimpy get-ups, net stockings and all, her tits in similar, pointed cones.

After a while, the cold of the metal against my skin

produced a strange eerie feeling. The bra properly belonged to an ancient

warrior-princess yet I felt I was too weak to fight my own battles.

"YOU'VE been to the old house again," my husband's

voice boomed from the bathroom. He had just finished shaving. I said nothing as

I handed him the towel like I always do each morning. "I called the house

at 3 o'clock and the maids said you went out," he continued while wiping

his chin dry.

"I was at the house all afternoon," I replied,

seeing no reason to withhold the truth. "The house will go down next week.

I just took home some things."

I thought I saw a smirk on his face when he remarked,

"It's about time they do something about that house. It's rotting,

anyway." I wanted to walk out of the room in protest but didn't. I was too

kind--too foolishly kind.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window. The

curtains lifted in the breeze. It would have been a beautiful day if not for

the conversation.

AFTER breakfast, I asked him for money because I would be

taking little Gina and Jonathan to the park that afternoon. He took out P500

then changed his mind and gave me P300 instead. I whispered "Thank

you" loud enough for him to hear but my hand was crushing the bills inside

my pocket.

I had been married to Lindoln for eight years but it felt

like I'd been living with a stranger. He was the champion debater in my class

and he won me over an argument why two people needed each other to live:

"A man needs a woman to take care of his needs and the woman needs a man

to support her." Later I wondered about the role of love which was

supposed to be the reason why two people share their lives.

Lindoln was a good provider, the sales manager of a

pharmaceutical company that paid well. He gave me a big house with a lush

garden, a dutiful maid and an excellent cook. There was nothing more to ask but

I felt I really had nothing.

"Stay home. It's best for you and our children,"

he told me after I gave birth to Jonathan. He thought he was relieving me of

the trouble of working outside the home but he was really closing a door and

locking me in.

I took the children to the park to see the great fountain

that squirted water 50 meters high. With each squirt came sounds of innocent

wonder as little heads looked up the sky, following the burst of crystal liquid

that disappeared for a moment then fell back with a great splashing sound.

There were shrieks of glee and the patter of little feet running to get nearer

for a closer look each time the fountain squirted water once more.

"Mama, the fountain!" cried eight-year-old

Jonathan. He was holding his sister Gina by the hand and leading her to the

edge of the fountain.

"Take care not to get wet," I called out. He

nodded. I could see him smiling in the distance. He had his father's winsome

smile. I finished my ice cream, my second helping.

Later in the afternoon, we wandered through the playground

and spent time pushing one another on the swing. Twin metal chains fastened the

swing to a horizontal steel bar and once again the feel of the cold steel

between my fingers made me think of Tiya Anding's breast armor.

As the swing swayed back and forth, I closed my eyes and my

hand went over my chest, remembering how the hard metal felt against my flesh.

The wind was brushing against my face with every swing and I felt like a

warrior riding with the wind, charging towards the enemy. Then I felt a drop of

liquid on my cheek. Was it a tear? Was I crying?

As I felt more drops, I realized a drizzle was starting. I

called out to the children and we ran to the parking lot but it was a long way

getting there. I stepped on mud and slipped on the pavement made slippery by

the rain. Jonathan came back to help me but I was already up and laughing at my

own clumsiness.

The rain was now falling harder and I was dripping wet.

Trotting to the car with the children, I found myself in a playful mood,

enjoining them to guess which key will open the car door. There were about

twenty keys in the chain and it took me several minutes before I finally opened

the door.

By that time, we were soaked to our skins. Jonathan made

faces as he pulled at his baggy pants heavy with rain. Gina was laughing as she

changed into an old T-shirt she found in the car. It turned out to be a clean

rag but she didn't mind. She was just glad to be out of her wet clothes. I knew

it was foolish to play in the rain but I felt no remorse.

As expected, the children came down with a cold and Lindoln

kept me up all night with his how-to-be-a-good-mother lectures.

"Haven't you any sense at all?" he asked, slamming

the closet door with a loud thud. "No mother in her right mind would

permit her children to play in the rain. And what's worse, they did not even

ask to do it. You actually invited them to play. So what do you call

that?"

"I'm sorry," I replied flatly. "'Something

just got into me. It will never happen again."

"Unbelievable. The kids get into more trouble when

they're with you," he barked then crept into bed with his back turned to

me. I lay awake for what seemed like an hour before I heard a faint snore. Then

I went to the balcony for some air. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I

wanted to laugh if it would help. For the first time, I felt nothing. Lindoln's

words which used to bother me into sleepless nights didn't mean anything

anymore. I looked up the sky but saw no stars. I felt no fear. I felt I could

do anything and still remain unfeeling.

Then I remembered Tiya Anding. We used to walk together

along stretches of empty streets with nothing but towering lamp posts above us

craning their necks as if eager to listen. She would tell me about her husband,

Tata Fernan, who used to berate her about her smoking. Tata Fernan hated her

smoking. But Tiya Anding brushed aside all his words aside calling him a coward

because he feared for her life.

"That old man just cannot live without me;" she

said with a smirk on her face.

"And you?" I asked.

"You can say the feeling is mutual. We go a long way

back. Had lots of fun together. He was never a bore. So how is Lindoln?"

Tiya Anding always had a way of shifting our conversation to my husband. She

remembered Lindoln whenever she spoke about Tata Fernan.

"Always too busy," I answered.

"If that man could just slow down a bit, he wouldn't be

missing out on things." Tiya Anding said, making a round billow of smoke

in the air.

I WATCHED as the demolition team tore the house down, clouds

of dust and dirt went flying everywhere. I thought of Tiya Anding's similar

emissions as a heavy smoker. I watched as wooden planks were pried from the

walls and the old, rusty roofing pulled down. Doorposts fell like giant

toothpicks against the heavy arm of moving machines. Besides myself, children

from nearby shanties were standing by, watching the men operate their giant

toys with ease.

When the entire structure finally torn down, I felt like I

had lost a part of myself--an arm maimed or broken off in an injury. With a

heavy heart, I headed back to the house thinking about Tiya Anding and her

words: "That old man just can't live without me." Can I say the same

about Lindoln? And can I live without him?

After lunch, I helped the maid get the laundry from the

clothesline. After a few minutes under the hot midday sun, I went back inside

to the kitchen for a cold glass of water. The feel of the cold pitcher in my

hand made me think of the cold metal I once wore against my breast. The feel of

the steel brassiere was as comforting and reassuring as the ice water running

down my throat.

The sound of the ringing phone brought me back to my senses.

It was Lindoln.

"Hey, Pareng Jimmy will be coming over for dinner

tonight. Can you prepare his favorite rellenong bangus?"

"What?" I asked, still holding the cold glass in

hand.

"I said Pareng Jimmy will come for dinner

tonight..."

"Call again. The line is bad. I can't quite hear

you." I put the phone down and leisurely walked to the bedroom.

And the phone rang again and again and again.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window. The

curtains lifted in the breeze. It would have been a beautiful day if not for

the incessant ringing of the phone.