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By Root 629 0

to his father or taking them from him. He stopped sending letters and e-mails, and he returned the ones he received without reading them. Given the amount of time that Howard spent abroad, there was about a seventy-thirty chance that he’d be gone if something tragic ever happened. The higher odds won out, and when Benicio dialed his father’s number for the first time in almost five years it was to sob and say that his mother had been crushed between a Dodge and a brick wall on her way back from the hairdresser—a humiliatingly flamboyant, stupid way to die. Howard was so shocked to hear his son’s voice that it took him a while to understand the words. But when he did understand he began to sob as well. And that’s how it ended. Five years of silence, and then the two of them, on the phone, weeping.

It was a change that persisted after the funeral. Their grievances—or rather Benicio’s grievance, as the silence was largely one-way—were not forgotten, but they began talking again. Before Howard returned to the Philippines they even made a vague promise to see one another in the coming months, though neither suggested when or where. It was a slow correspondence, at first. Howard began sending postcards, and in late February Benicio received a slim package that contained an odd-looking eggshell shirt that went down to his thighs when he tried it on. Benny, the note inside said, I sent one of these a year ago, but I guess you didn’t get it. Guess? Benicio had sent it back. This is called a barong. It’s formalwear here in the Philippines, made from banana fiber. A good one can cost hundreds of dollars. Don’t worry though, this isn’t a very good one. I’ve got a few that I have to wear to events sometimes, and in case you’re wondering, yes, I do look pretty stupid in them. Thought you might find it interesting. Benicio hung the barong up with his work shirts and left the closet door open so that he could sit on the end of his bed and look at it. He did find it interesting.

A few days later Benicio got a cell phone call at work. The reception was so bad at first that he almost hung up, but then through the static he recognized his father’s voice.

“Ben, can you hear me?”

“Yes,” he said. For a while there was nothing but popping and tearing sounds. “Yes,” he said again much louder, leaving the hum of servers in his little office and stepping out into the hallway. “Hi Dad. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Even through the static Benicio could tell that his father was excited about something. “I’m sorry to call while you’re at work. Is this a bad time, Ben?”

“Not really.” Benicio wasn’t being polite—if it had been a bad time he would have said so.

“Great.” The static flared up and his father’s next words came through garbled. They sounded like: guess who I am.

“What?” Benicio turned down the hallway, pushed open the front doors and walked out into the parking lot where the reception was better.

“Guess where I am,” his father repeated.

“I don’t know … business trip? Home?”

“No.” The static died down. “No, I’m on the beach! I’m still in the Philippines and I’m on the beach. Ben, the most amazing thing is happening. There’s all this … I don’t know how to describe it. The moon is out, but it’s cloudy and dark, and there’s all this stuff out. This plankton. The waves are just washing it up. It’s glowing Ben. Bright greenish, in a thick band all along the sand. It’s just amazing.”

Benicio didn’t really know what to say, so he settled for “wow.”

“Listen Benny,” his father continued, “I’ve been thinking, for a while, that it might be really nice if you came out here. You know, for a month or so, maybe early summer?” He paused for a long time and left a silence that Benicio didn’t fill. “You could stay in the same hotel as me. It’s really … it’s really a beautiful country. I could take you around, or you could do a little exploring on your own, if you prefer. We could do the rice terraces or fly down to the chocolate hills. I mean, if you got here in May we’d beat most of the rain, and could even hit up Boracay Island. Or, there’s always plenty