Page 7 of Signal No. Us

“Let me know when there’s a verdict,” Robby said.

“Robby’s been here since yesterday,” Cora said, not looking up from her rice. “Fixed the porch railing before someone else went down on it too. Drove me to the health center for my follow-up. Drove all the way to Virac when the pharmacy here ran out of my maintenance meds.” She said it plainly, like she was reading off a chore chart, not handing out a compliment. “I told him just to shower here instead of wasting an hour walking home and back before his barangay meeting tonight.”

“Least I could do,” Robby said, shrugging it off. “Your mom tried to reschedule her own recovery around everyone else’s convenience. Somebody had to keep her honest.”

“Have you eaten yet, Robby?” Tita Gemma asked, already handing him a plate before he answered.

“That’s what Tita Loida used to say,” Tita Becky said. Then, catching Allan’s blank look: “One of us, from way back, before you left. She passed away, anak. Two years now. She used to say the same thing: ‘Robby, eat, so you’ll have the strength to save us all when the storm comes.’”

“Sorry to hear that,” Allan said, and meant it, filing the name away, one more absence he hadn’t been home for.

“Anyway,” Tita Yolanda said, moving briskly past grief like only a barangay elder could, “We have news, Allan. We have a list.”

“A list of what?”

“Of men,” she said, producing an actual folded piece of paper from her bag like this was a covert operation. “Single. Good family. Has a job.”

“Absolutely not,” Allan said.

“There’s one who works at the municipal hall. There’s an engineer. There’s a seaman, but he’s usually away, so maybe not practical⁠—”

“There’s another name here,” Tita Becky added, leaning over her shoulder. “Number three. Has his own piggery business. Very promising, they say.”

“A pig farmer.”

“Successful pig farmer,” Tita Yolanda corrected, offended on the man’s behalf. “Has a three-bedroom house, close to the health center.”

“I appreciate the specificity, but no.”

“Number five, from Virac, an elementary school teacher. Young, handsome, knows how to cook⁠—”

“Tita, I’m begging you to stop reading the list.”

“Why not? You didn’t even have a boyfriend in Manila, right? Your resignation email said⁠—”

“How do you even know about my resignation email⁠—”

“You told us last night, quite clearly,” Tita Gemma said. “You were crying right here while you ate.” She patted the table for emphasis.

“I… I don’t remember. Are you sure that was me?”

“Ay iho, who was that then? A ghost or something?”

Allan looked at Robby for backup. Robby, mouth full of tapsilog, only raised his eyebrows in a very unhelpful, very entertained way.

“Please,” Allan said to the ceiling fan, since it was the least judgmental presence in the room, “I just got here.”

“That’s enough of that,” Cora said, and to Allan’s genuine surprise, the table actually quieted. “We have something very important to do. One wedding at a time please.”

She reached into the sideboard drawer where the good scissors and the emergency candles lived, and pulled out a folder: old, soft at the corners, held together with a rubber band that looked like it predated Allan’s childhood.

Inside were photographs. His lolo on a bamboo scaffold. His dad, teenage, holding a paintbrush like a sword. A whole cinema façade, hand-painted, towering over a street Allan barely recognized as San Andres’ town plaza.

“Cine sa Isla,” Cora said. “Closed for four years now. Kapitan keeps saying they’ll turn it into storage.”

“Storage?” Allan said, his stomach twisting at the idea of that whole painted history reduced to storage for plastic chairs.

“The new generation,” Robby said, unexpectedly serious, setting down his fork. “The children of the barangay. They have no idea it used to be like this. All they know is that it’s closed. Off-limits.”