Adawia J. Jamasali
It was an unusual day in September for Melyn. She sat outside her house, frowning the whole morning. It was so unlike her. Usually, her mornings were filled with gossip about her neighbor, Mrs. Abdulla, whose sons and daughters were already professionals and based in Zamboanga City.
Melyn would proudly tell her other neighbors, Jumma and Nora, that she had seen with her own eyes how sad Mrs. Abdulla looked when she went out to throw the garbage. It was because she was alone in the house. Her huge mansion was useless now, since all her children had their own lives. Her sadness was unfathomable, worsened by the fact that her elderly husband—bedridden—was not with her, but with his second wife, who was far too young for him. Life must have been cruel to Mrs. Abdulla, leaving her stuck in Sulu and all alone.
Jumma and Nora would listen attentively to Melyn and even admire how credible and detailed her information about Mrs. Abdulla was.
Just yesterday, the three of them spent the whole day talking about the mysterious man who visited Mrs. Abdulla. He was new to them. They didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t a relative or a known friend of any of Mrs. Abdulla’s children.
The man, who appeared to be in his early twenties, was tall and slim. He wore a black face mask, a black hat, and black sunglasses. His black shirt was plain, with no prints or logos. He seemed very mysterious.
He rang the bell at Mrs. Abdulla’s house around ten in the morning, while Melyn and her companions were still arguing about the garbage truck, which was running late in their village. After a few minutes, Mrs. Abdulla, now in her late sixties, slowly opened the gate. She silently nodded to the man and invited him inside. Melyn and her two friends watched in silence. Mrs. Abdulla locked the gate, and the two disappeared into the mansion.
The three women were now very curious about what they had just seen. Instead of going back to their respective homes to do chores, they stayed, waiting for the man to come out so they could ask him who he was. Jumma said she had asked her husband to do the laundry, while Nora, luckily, had no one at home, so they had the entire day to keep watch. Melyn, on the other hand, told her nephews to buy their own food since she couldn’t cook for them because of the unfolding drama.
They brought out their plastic chairs and sat outside Melyn’s house. While waiting for more action from Mrs. Abdulla’s residence, they gossiped, laughed, and poked fun at their topics.
But today, Melyn was frowning. She couldn’t compose herself. She was wondering why the man hadn’t come out of the mansion since yesterday. He must’ve spent the night there. But who was he? How was he connected to Mrs. Abdulla?
She was also puzzled that Mrs. Abdulla hadn’t gone out that morning to throw out the garbage, as she usually did. What could the two of them be doing? Could they be romantically involved? But that didn’t make sense—how could a man in his twenties fall in love with an old woman? Unless… he was after Mrs. Abdulla’s pension.
Melyn stood up and walked toward Mrs. Abdulla’s gate. She craned her neck, trying to catch sight of either the woman or the mysterious man, but to no avail. She looked at her wristwatch. No one was coming out. And soon, her friends would arrive. She had no new information to offer them this time.
She returned to her plastic chair. Eventually, she saw Jumma and Nora approaching with their chairs and paper bags of snacks. They greeted one another and positioned themselves beside Melyn.
Jumma, in her late forties, a small woman with a flat tummy, brought out the snack she had prepared: pastil, a Tausug delicacy with bihon-filled dough fried to a crisp.
“Any news today, Melyn?” she asked while chewing her first bite.
“No,” Melyn admitted sadly.
Melyn was a few years older than Jumma. She was tall and heavyset, often mistaken to be pregnant because of her protruding belly. But she was a spinster. She was manly and nagging, and no man had ever seriously pursued her, much less married her. She had lived alone for years, though her siblings had entrusted some of their children to her care.
“That’s sad, Melyn. I thought you’d feed us with some juicy news today,” Nora chimed in.
Nora was the oldest of the three. Tall and fair-skinned, she must have been beautiful in her youth—she still carried traces of it. She was married to a police officer who was often away on duty. Their three daughters were studying in Cebu City. When her husband was at work, she spent most of her time with Melyn, gossiping.
Melyn remained silent while the two women enjoyed their snacks.
“Oh, this is so delicious,” Nora exclaimed. “Where did you buy this?”
“At Sitti’s,” Jumma replied.
“I see. That explains it.”
“Yeah, you know how good she is at baking and cooking. The other day, I bought daral and putli mandi, and the kids devoured everything right away. They loved it,” Jumma said as she chewed another bite of pastil.
“Melyn, try some—it’s really good,” Nora offered.
Melyn leaned toward them but didn’t take any food.
“They still haven’t come out,” she finally said.
The women looked at her, puzzled.
“But why? How did they cook breakfast this morning?” Nora asked.
“Yeah, and what clothes did that handsome guy wear to bed?” Jumma added with a smirk.
“Do you think they slept?” Nora asked again.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Jumma replied.
“Oh come on, Jumma! When it’s just two people alone in a house, what else would they do? Cook?” Nora laughed.
“But I didn’t hear any cooking last night. Not even a voice,” Melyn interrupted.
“Oh my God! Do you think they’re dead by now?” Nora shrieked.
“Shut up!” Melyn and Jumma snapped at the same time.
“We have to figure out what happened,” Melyn said softly.
The two women leaned in to listen. Then, they all continued talking, eating, and laughing in their chairs well past noon. The sun was high and the heat oppressive. Still no sign of life from Mrs. Abdulla’s house.
By late afternoon, Nora and Jumma were stretching and yawning. Mrs. Abdulla and the stranger were still nowhere in sight.
“I have to go home and cook dinner. See you tomorrow, Melyn,” Nora finally said.
“Me too. Let’s keep watch again tomorrow,” Jumma added.
Melyn was left alone in her chair, her eyes fixed on her neighbor’s house. As darkness fell, she stood and walked to Mrs. Abdulla’s gate. She rang the doorbell. No response. She rang it again. Still nothing.
Frustrated, Melyn’s face flushed red. She began to push the doorbell more aggressively, over and over. The bell rang loudly inside the house. Its echo traveled through the halls of the mansion, then spread to nearby houses, then farther, until the whole neighborhood heard it.
Melyn’s strength began to fade as she gasped for air, still pushing the button endlessly.
Some neighbors came out of their homes, curious about the strange sound. Dogs barked. Cats spun in circles, chasing their tails. Even Jumma and Nora peeked outside, looking up at the sky in search of the sound’s source. When they couldn’t find it, they returned to their sofas, turned on the TV, and munched on popcorn.
At exactly 6 o’clock, the Azan echoed from the village Masjid. Amid the call to prayer, the doorbell kept ringing.
Some families began dinner. Others rose to perform Maghrib prayer.
Only one person remained at the gate, still pressing the doorbell: Melyn.