Angelia -- II - Missing Angelia

February 10, 2007

Angelia
Chapter Two

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         It's now 12:41 in the morning. I spent the last three hours tossing and turning in my bed. Finally, it got up, and here I am on the computer, writing the third chapter to my novel. I couldn't sleep because I was upset when I went to bed. Dad scolded me and Jackson after dinner. I ended up crying. I had never seen him that agitated with us before. He had always talked to us quietly when he disciplined us. I think the fact that Angelia still hasn't called in four weeks is starting to disturb him a lot. He won't talk about it though, and he tries not to show his worries, but I can sense it.

         What got Dad all upset after dinner is about the clean socks that accumulated on top of the ping-pong table from several laundering. Jackson and I don't like sorting and folding socks because there are so many and they're hard to match. Dad does the washing and drying, then puts our clothes on the ping-pong table downstairs in the same big room where the washer and drier are, adjacent to Angelia's boudoir. We haven't used the table since Angelia left the last time. It's not as much fun to play ping-pong without her. She's so good at it and we have a lot of fun playing together against the men. Dad and Jackson team up against us girls, and we always beat them. Dad is a very good player; in fact, he still got that trophy he'd won back in high school. My brother is not a bad ping-pong player for his age, but he tries to spin the ball too much, imitating Dad's style, so his game is very erratic.

         Okay, back to the laundry. Jackson and I separate our clothes, put them back in the empty hampers the take them to our rooms upstairs. Except for the socks. My brother and I have gotten into the habit of just picking up socks of the same color whether or not they match. No one can see them anyway because we always wear long jeans; so who's going to care? We do this even during school days. Whenever Angelia was home with us, she did all the laundry, including the sorting and the folding. Sometimes she would even ironed Dad's dress shirts and pants. The first time I saw her do the laundry, I was so impressed and amazed at how neat and efficient she did everything. My Mom never folded socks and underwear. And certainly, never ironed Dad's clothes. She would separate the clothes in neat piles then tell us to pick them up, except for Dad's clothes. She did all that. Lucky Dad.

         So what got him all upset about the socks? Well, he instructed us several times to go downstairs and sort the socks and put them away. Jackson was busy playing his video games, and I was busy chatting with friends on the Internet. The third time he ordered us to do it, he yelled at us from the kitchen where he was fixing dinner. Jackson and I were stunned. It was the first time he raised his voice on us. And he looked mad too. My brother and I ran downstairs to finally do the socks. Oh, there were so many, and none of them seemed to match. We argued and bickered about it. Dad heard us from upstairs and he raced downstairs to silence us. "What is your problem?" he asked with an irritated expression. "Why is it that Angelia can quietly do this work without any complaint and you can't even do one-tenth of it without constantly griping about it? Are you two spoiled brats?" Jackson's eyes were big and round, and his jaw dropped. Dad had never called us spoiled brats before. "Sorry, Dad," I said, almost teary-eyed. He rushed back upstairs. Jackson and I stared at each other for a while in disbelief, then quietly finished our chore. Amazingly, it didn't seem so bad anymore.

         Okay, I admit that that wasn't enough to get me all uptight and lose sleep over it. I should tell you now that Jackson and I still did not learn our lessons from that episode. Maybe it's true that we're spoiled brats as far as domestic chores are concerned. But in our defense, I have to tell you also that we're really good kids. We don't say bad words, we don't fight (not seriously), we don't answer back to our parents, we have great friends, and most importantly, we are very good students. We credit that to our Dad who tutor us a lot, especially in math. I am a straight A student, and Jackson gets A's and B's.

         Dad made pizza for dinner, but for the first time, he forgot that Jackson and I only eat cheese pizza, not with all the trimmings. It seems that is having all these "first timer" things since Angelia left the last time. Dad is a very good cook, and he does almost everything from scratch. He makes the best pizza, but not for us this time because he filled it with sausage, pepperoni and mushrooms. "You can pick and give me your pepperonis," he suggested when he noticed us quietly staring down at our slices. When we didn't say anything, he told us to go ahead and prepare anything we wanted. Jackson and I decided on French fries.

         I took the package of French fries from the freezer and cooked about two cups in boiling oil. When I finished frying, the stovetop was swimming in splattered oil. I cannot understand how Angelia always managed to avoid the spillage of oil from the pot during cooking. I put the cooked fries in a large bowl and served it on the table. We were quiet throughout dinner. The phone rang and we looked at each other like we always do when it rings. Dad doesn't show it, but I sense the anticipation in his eyes. Could it be Angelia calling? It's always me who runs to the phone to answer it. And I'm always the first one to look disappointed when I realize it's not her calling.

          After eating, Dad retired in the living room with his glass of wine. Jackson resumed his video game, and I continued Internet chat with my friends. Dad fell asleep on the sofa, his empty glass still in his hand over his abdomen. I slowly took it away from him and put it on the kitchen counter.

         So, are you getting the picture here? We have one big mess in the kitchen and no one is cleaning it. Dishes, cups, glasses, pots, pans, utensils are all over the counter tops, grease on the stove top, even some on the floor, leftover foods at the table as well as milk in half-filled glasses. When Dad woke up and saw the big mess in the kitchen, he blew up.

          "Are you waiting for Angelia to come and clean up this mess?" His voice was loud again.
"Well, she may never come back, and we would have to live in a pig sty like this until you learn how to clean up after yourselves."

         Jackson didn't budge. I stopped typing and started picking up things from the table. "Daddy, why can't Jackson help out?" I pleaded.

          "Turn that TV off Jackson," Dad ordered. "That's all you've done the whole day. Get up and help your sister."
          Jackson was mumbling something incoherent when he approached me. "What do you want me to do?" was all I understood.

          "You wash the dishes and I dry," I said.
          "No. You're taller. You wash the dishes and I dry them.

          "Okay. But bring the dirty dishes to me and you wipe off the stove."

          "Yuk! How did you get all the grease all over the stove? You clean it! It was your mess."

          "You ate the fries, too!"

          "So? I don't know how to clean this." He stood in front of the stove and stared at the grease.

          "Just take a bunch of paper towel and wipe it, you idiot!" Even I was shocked that I called my brother an idiot. I felt bad. Before I could say sorry, he ran to Dad in the bedroom where he was brushing his teeth.

          "Daddy, Ellaine called me an idiot!"

          I heard Dad's hurried footsteps toward me. I acted serious with my dish washing. I didn't want to see his face. Nobody said 'idiot' in this house. Even the words 'shut up' were not said in this house.

          "Ellaine, come over here," he said. I turned around, a soapy plate in hand, and saw an angry face again. He proceeded to the living room and sat down on the chair. I followed slowly. "Sit down," he said, pointing to the floor. Jackson and I sat down.

          "You are both grown children," he started. "It was probably my fault for not making you help me clean the house, but my God, Ellaine, you're sixteen. You should have been doing the household chores since you were twelve. Many times you embarrassed me in front of Angelia when you create a big mess in the kitchen and leave it for her to clean up. What do you think of her? Our maid? Just like tonight. You cooked the fries and left a big mess. Were you waiting for me to clean up? You don't do this at your Mom's. I know that won't work with her. Why are you so lazy in this house? Don't you consider this your house, too? Have you forgotten that you were born here? That you grew up here? You think you're only guests in this house? Well, I have news for you. This is your house, and you are obligated to clean it and keep it that way. And I don't want to hear any more arguments between the two of you when you work. You understand?"

          The sermon did not end there. It went on and on. Dad couldn't stop. It was as if he was letting out some big frustration that he's been bottling up for a long time in his chest. Jackson and I started crying. He's never talked to us like that before. But everything he said was true. And I just now realized that my brother and I are really spoiled brats in some ways. Boy, do I have something to apologize for to Angelia. Dad was right. We treated her like a maid, even though it wasn't intentional.

          "I'm sorry, Daddy," I said and hugged him. He gathered Jackson and hugged both of us.

          "I'm sorry too, honey," he said. "This is a difficult time for me, and I hope you understand."

          "I do, Daddy, I do. I'll be good from now on."

          There you go. Now, can you understand why I am losing sleep over that? Frankly, I think I am missing Angelia more than ever after what happened. I realize now how bad I've been toward her; I mean just the cleaning part, because I do adore her in every way. Where is she? Why is she not calling? And why is Dad so proud to inquire about her whereabouts? Doesn't he have her family's telephone number or address? I'm sure he does. Her sisters have called here many times before, and they've sent her packages and letters to our address.

          Should I do the calling? I wonder.

          I'm getting very tired now. It's 3:00 o'clock in the morning. I should go back to bed. I have to get up a little earlier in the morning because this time, I will make the breakfast for the first time. On weekends, Dad always made pancakes and bacon. I know how to make the dough from the bread machine.

# # #

         I remember when we were watching the movie "Windtalkers" about the Navajo Indians who've been credited with saving countless lives and hastening the end of World War II in the Pacific. Angelia had bought the DVD after having seen the movie in the theater. She does that when she really likes a movie or a documentary.

         I never liked war movies, so I didn't think I'd enjoy Windtalkers, but I did. Before we saw the movie, I didn't know anything about the Navajo Code Talkers. In fact, I didn't know anyone who did, except for Angelia, and my History teacher whom I would consult about it days after seeing the movie. I remember how impressed my teacher was that I would ask him about the Indian Code Talkers. It seems that I've been impressing more people since I met Angelia--my Daddy's wonderful girlfriend. I really miss her. We haven't heard from her for a long time, and we don't know where she is. I hope she calls soon and come back to us.

         Angelia's interests in film recordings are varied. Her DVD collection, at least those that we have here at Dad's house, includes live performances from rock groups, symphony orchestras, and even opera. I like the blockbuster movies like Phantom of the Opera, Shakespeare in Love, Titanic, Pirates of the Caribbean, Moulin Rouge, the Matrix Trilogy, Mission Impossible I, II and III. She also bought some movies that would not have interested me, or that I've never heard of before, like October Sky, Dead Poets Society, Goodwill Hunting, AI, ET, and even Bambi-a Disney movie for children (imagine that).

         I once caught Angelia watching Bambi late one night as I went to the kitchen for a glass of milk. She didn't see me as I walked past the family room. She was by herself in the dark, curled up on the sofa in the living room, watching the Disney movie. I heard her sniffling, which she would later blame on her cold that I didn't know she had. When I looked at the TV screen, I thought I was going to see some tear jerker movie like Casablanca, one her favorites, I saw the part where Bambi's mother was shot by deer hunters. I couldn't believe it. Even I didn't cry when I saw that scene. I wasn't even interested in watching the movie when she brought it with her for us to see. She has owned the movie since it first became available on VHS. I thought it was too old and too babyish for me. I was eleven then.

         I think it's funny, but not bad funny . . . endearing is probably more appropriate to describe how Angelia cries easily when she watches a sad movie. She tries to hide it, but she can't fool us, especially when she makes those teenee-weeney sobs, not to mention that her eyes and the tip of her nose become noticeably reddish after the movie. She then goes into the bathroom and powders her face.

         But I've never seen Angelia cry so much till Windtalkers. Frankly, I think she cried throughout the movie because she tried to burrow her face in the throw pillows the whole time. She and Dad lay on the sofa sideways, with Dad behind her, his one arm around her waist, while she hugged two of the throw pillows that covered most of her face. My brother and I were stretched out on our bellies on the floor, also hugging our own pillows. We always watch movies this way, except when it's a horror movie, then my brother and I sit very close to Dad and Angelia. No lying on the sofa for them when we do that.

         Okay, back to the Windtalkers. Every now and then I would sneak a peak toward Angelia, and each time I could hardly see her face behind the pillows. I knew she was emotional. I was puzzled because except for a few brief scenes, I didn't think the movie was that sad for anyone to be so emotional about it.

         At the end of the movie, my brother made a comment or two about the codetalkers. It wasn't the comment that quickly upset Angelia, but the way Jackson tried to imitate the way the Native Americans talked. I think he was trying to be funny. Angelia was not amused. She sprung from the sofa and castigated Jackson for his disrespectful behavior toward the codetalkers, after which she ran to the bedroom. Looking puzzled, Dad followed her.

         I never saw Angelia get so mad until that moment.

         "What did you say that got her so angry?" I asked Jackson.

         Looking flushed and near tears, Jackson just shook his head from left to right, unable to find words.

         "That's all right," I said as I tousled his red hair. "Dad will explain everything later, I'm sure."

         Jackson's lower lip quivered as soon as he saw Dad return into the living room. "I'm sorry, Dad," Jackson mumbled immediately. Dad sat between Jackson and me on the sofa and put his arms around us.

         "There's nothing to be sorry for," Dad said. "You didn't do anything wrong."

         "Then why did she get angry at me, Dad?"

         "She's not angry. She thought you were making a joke about the code talkers. They're true American heroes, you know. "

         "I wasn't trying to be disrespectful, Dad."

         "I know, son. There's something about Angelia that even I didn't know. She will explain this to you tomorrow."

         "We have to wait till tomorrow?" Jackson protested.

         "Now, now. Be patient, my dear. Don't lose sleep over it. Remember, she's not angry at you."

         I was intrigued. It was a personal thing to Angelia. I wondered what it was about the Code Talkers that was so personal to her. I couldn't wait to find out.

         The following morning, I looked forward to seeing Angelia to hear her explanation for her behavior the night before. Jackson wasn't so anxious to see her because he was still feeling guilty and insecure about the incident. I was disappointed when Angelia didn't come out to see us off for school. She always hugged us goodbye. Jackson always tried to escape from her but it was only a game he played with her.

         "She's still asleep," Dad told us when I asked about her. "She didn't sleep well last night. You'll see her when you come home. She'll talk to you then, I'm sure."

         In school, I couldn't wait for the last class to be over. The whole mystery about Angelia and the Navajo Code Talkers occupied my mind the whole day. Why was she so sensitive about them? I knew she was a very patriotic person, but this was something more than that. It just seemed too private and personal for her.

         As soon as Jackson and I got off the school bus, I sprinted up the long driveway toward the house. My brother took his time a little and I had to slow down and wait for him once I got up to the top of the driveway.

         "What are you in such a hurry for?" he grumbled once he caught up with me.

         "Aren't you anxious to find out what Angelia has to say about last night?" I grumbled back at him.

         "No."

         "You're just afraid it's still about you."

         "No," he protested, but I knew he was lying.

         The front door to the house suddenly opened and Angelia emerged with a smile, and walked toward us.

         "Hi kids," she said.

         "Hi, Angelia," I greeted back. She kissed me on the forehead. I was glad to see her in her usual jovial mood. Jackson stayed behind with his head down.

         "Hello, Jackson." Angelia tried to hug him, and he tried to avoid her. She caught him and gave him a kiss on the forehead. I noticed the tiniest smile at the corner of his mouth. I knew he was glad and relieved that she wasn't angry at him.

         Dad appeared at the door. "Hi kids!"

         "Hi Dad," I greeted back.

         "We're just going to stay out here for a minute while I talk to them," Angelia said to Dad.

         "Okay. Have a good time."

         Angelia ushered us toward a big boulder beneath the biggest pine tree along the driveway. She loves that boulder, especially in springtime when daffodils and some other fragrant spring flowers are in bloom. She says that the scent in the air is better than the most expensive perfume you can find at Neiman Marcus. Her favorite is Shalimar. I often see her on that rock reading, writing, or drawing. Sometimes she just sits there quietly, enjoying the scenery that overlooks the cities of Denver, Golden and Littleton. She call it her moment of solitude.

         The boulder is one of her favorite places outside the house. It's surrounded with big rocks amidst the Aspen trees. She enjoys the sound that the Aspen leaves make when they shake and strike each other at the slightest wind. She said the sound reminds her of the tone that cymbals make when a pair strikes each other at their edges. How did she know? She used to belly dance as a form of exercise, although she said that a few of the students in her class had performed at a few cultural events in California.

         One time, she brought her cymbals to the house to let me hear how they make the sound. They looked like small hand-bells as she put them around her fingers, two on each hand.. To demonstrate, she did some of the belly dance arm moves. She was right about the sound, although the cymbals' pitch is higher. Today, I think of the cymbals whenever I hear the Aspen leaves do their thing in the wind.

         I asked Angelia to show me the belly roll. She did not hesitate. She did more than that. She showed me how to do the shimmies, the backbend, and the hip bumps. I couldn't believe how limber she was. I was awestruck. I never learned how to do any of it.

         I am getting sidetracked here, which happens a lot when I get carried away with my memories. Back to the subject of the Navajo Code Talkers, which, as you've guessed by now, is going to be the topic of Angelia's sermon" on the boulder.

         "You know why I brought you here," she began, "but first, I want to apologize to you, Jackson." She put her arm around my brother's shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. Jackson's face turned red. "I didn't mean to get you upset," she continued. "You see, there are very many things on this earth that we shouldn't take lightly by making jokes about them. The Navajo Code Talkers are one of them. If it had not been for them, and the codes they invented, the War in the Pacific might have gone on a lot longer, and we would have lost many more lives."

         "How come they didn't use the Code Talkers during the first World War?" I asked. "We've studied World War I in school, but I don't remember hearing about the Code Talkers."

         "That's a very good question," Angelia said, looking impressed. Jackson rolled his eyes. "Actually," she continued, "a lot of people don't know this, but the Choctaw Indians had been used successfully as Code Talkers during World War I. However, in early 1900's, some German nationals had visited the United States to study the languages of American Indian tribes. So, concerned that the American Indian languages were already shared with the Third Reich, the U.S. decided not to use the Choctow codes again."

         Jackson's brows furrowed when he heard Angelia mention the Third Reich. I've learned about Hitler and the Nazis in school so I understood who she was talking about. I wanted the conversation about the Navajo Code Talkers to continue, so I pressed on. "What makes the Navajo language different from the other Indian languages?" I asked. Jackson planted an impatient expression on his face, as if saying: 'Stop asking all those questions. Let's get on with the main topic: why she acted all too weird on us last night.' I glared at him. He glared back at me.

         "Because the Navajo language was unique," Angelia explained. The Navajo tribes came from a very remote region. There were only a few non-Navajos who had any knowledge of the language. It was not a written language, so even though the Navajos spoke the language, they could not write or read it."

         "But some did," I said.

         "Of course. But there weren't many of them. In fact they had to search hard to find these men who could read and write their own language."

         "How come the Indians couldn't read and write their own language?" asked Jackson.

         Angelia gave Jackson a warm smile, not a condescending one. "It's hard to do that when the language is not written," she explained. "Also, when the White people started teaching the Indian children in school, the children were to speak English only. They were prevented from speaking their own language. Anyone who was caught doing it was punished severely."

         "That's terrible!" Jackson exclaimed with a frown.

         "I know," Angelia said. "As you know, that wasn't the worst thing that the Whites did to our Native Americans. But, that's another story for another time. Now . . . back to the Code Talkers."

         "Yeh , let's stick to the Windtalkers," I said, shooting a sharp glance toward Jackson. "Did they have to take tests to qualify?"

         "Yes, they did."

         "Did everyone pass?

         "Initially, four hundred of them did. I really don't recall if any one failed the tests."

         "They joined the Marines, didn't they?" Jackson said. "If I ever become a military man, I'll be a Marine."

         Angelia chuckled, and squeezed Jakson's shoulder. I think he scored a big one with that comment because we all know that she supports the U.S. Troops. She's got that "Support Our Troop" magnet on the back of her car. "Good for you, Jackson," she said.

         "You're too scrawny to be a Marine," I teased him.

         "I'll grow muscles when I get old," he said.

         "You don't grow muscles. You build them."

         "Okay guys," Angelia interrupted. "Shall we continue about the Code Talkers?"

         For a minute, Jackson looked as though he was going to stick his tongue on me, but he knew better. Dad would not like that . . . not at all.

         "I know that you're anxious to hear my explanation about last night," she said, and Jackson's eyes sparkled. Yeah! I screamed inside me. I was getting kinda hungry, and it was getting cool outside. I couldn't wait to get inside the house. But this was more important, and I couldn't wait to hear her explanation.

         "Let me start by telling you a story about a friend of mine in Hawaii," Angelia said.

         At this point, we heard Dad's voice from the upper deck. "Hey guys, it's getting cold out there. Why don't you come inside? I'm also getting hungry. Maybe we should have supper now and you can continue your discussions later."

         "Oh no! We have to wait for the story again?" I said in mild protest.

         "That's okay," said Angelia. "It's a story worth waiting for."

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