Engracia

By Ladisa Quintanilla

We arrived after a typhoon. The island seeped that unmistakable crushed citrus, overturned-garden-pot, poached fish scent. I heaved gulps of spicy air, thickened by salt and heat. Coconut trees stood in shame, naked with hungry bites ripped from their leaves. I slipped on a squished guava and dropped my suitcase. Dad told Mom it was only temporary. Of course, I thought, trees grow back.

Grandma Engracia didn’t talk much. Well, she talked a lot in Chamorro, but I couldn’t understand her. She preferred not to speak English and this made Mom angry. Mom grew up in the California desert; Dad grew up on Guam, an island in the Pacific Ocean. Their differences grew from there. Maybe Grandma thought I’d pick up her language if I heard it all the time. Until then, we mimed our questions and made a lot of faces. She’d fling her hands and I’d nod. As long as I ate whenever she flicked her wrist at me or stirred a pot when her head bobbed two times to the right, we were good. Life went on like that for months. Then summer ended. Mom bought me a backpack and I made the trek up the hill to school along with the rest of the kids who spoke the way Grandma did. I’d smile and nod. They didn’t seem to notice anything except my nose. One boy kept laughing and pointing at my nose. I knew what he meant because I noticed it myself. My nose was very big compared to theirs. I let them laugh, that way I didn’t have to talk.

The scent of compost filled Grandma’s home. It was an unpleasant scent. While in class, I imagined Grandma sweeping leaves out her back door. She swept them out the back door because she didn’t have a front door. Two six-foot long, three-foot high metal gates connected by a latch at the middle were all that separated Grandma from the world.

On the trek home, all the kids gathered in front of Grandma’s gate. Her house was the closest to the school, but why were they stopping? I squeezed past damp, smelly kids. Then I saw it; a long line of five-gallon glass jars on a table. Jars and jars of colors—lime green, golden yellow, burnt red. Insane amounts of pickled papaya, pickled daigo, pickled mango, peppered whole pickles, pickled eggs, pickled onions, pickled chorizos! I squished my body through the tiny opening between gates. Grandma smiled, handing me a pair of silver tongs, "Go, fan, nene, the sangwitch baks."

We made good money for Grandma. Village kids were eager to pay 10 cents a tong-full and my cousins and I made our tongs less full for the kids we didn’t like and more full for our buddies. As business picked up, Grandma added five-gallon glass jars filled with individually wrapped gum. Artificially flavored cherry always sold out first. But our biggest seller was a sickly sweet gelatinous red syrup mixed with tap water, packaged in white Styrofoam cups, and frozen. They sold for 20 cents a pop!

After a month of solid sales, Grandma paid me to paint her metal gates green for good luck. She paid me in small sandwich bags filled with pickled veggies, whatever she had the most of at the time. I sat on the steps, eating pickled papaya, careful not to lick the paint off my fingers. Grandma was busy in the kitchen all morning. Her soup bubbled and burped for hours. Grandma sat beside me, mending her handmade broom. She caught my eye, bobbed her head twice to the right. I ran over to the stove. A gigantic cast iron pot sat on an open flame. I grabbed a towel and placed it over the lid. It was still too hot so I doubled up the towel and pulled off the lid. A cloud of gamey sweetness nearly knocked me over. I waved these new smells away from my nose then grabbed a spoon to stir Grandma’s soup. When the smoke cleared, I peered into the pot; plunging the spoon to the bottom. An oblong shaped dark mass rose to the top of the broth. I shook, dropping the heavy iron lid. Thrang!

Grandma came running, screaming at first then laughing. I gawked. She cackled, right in my face, showing off her toothless gums. I retrieved the lid, scrubbed it off, then stood by the back door, trying to find the right face to convey my horror. I wanted to run up the hill or down the hill; but I just stood there, confused and frightened. Something that shouldn’t be in that pot (or any pot) was in that pot! Someone’s stomach? An unborn fetus?! Grandma flicked her wrist. I froze. She grabbed a big bowl. Stopped. Turned to face me. Flicked her wrist. Only jungle behind me. Trapped. I sat at the kitchen table, preparing myself to eat stomach or fetus or…

Grandma heaped two enormous piles of white rice into a bowl, walked towards the steaming, gurgling iron pot. Horrified, I watched her plunge a ladle in, swirl and toss the contents roughly, finally lifting the ladle above the rim. I craned my neck to see. She moved, shielding her actions. Ruthless! My imagination let loose with each saucy splatter and clunky thunk. Another slosh, grumble, and thump. A click! What in that pot could possibly click?! She placed the ladle on the counter. I closed my eyes.

One whiff of that stench smacked my eyes open. I gasped for air, turned my head, scrubbing the stink from my face. My stomach turned. A wrist flicked over my bowl. The spoon jumped into my hand! She had magic, I swear she did. "Boka," she said. The spoon lifted my hand. I watched as the tarnished spoon approached the black carcass sprawled out in the center of my bowl. A rusty stormwater-grey sauce mingled with bits of white rice. A few speckled grains found safe haven at the bowl’s rim. I envied these quick thinkers. "Boka!" The spoon poked at the black meat. It caught hold, lifting the carcass into mid air. Boiled and shriveled couldn’t disguise what hovered before me—a furry drenched bat! I stared—head to toe to claw. Click, click, clackety-click; the claws rubbed against one another as my hand shook the spoon that shook the coconut-soaked mammal. Grandma howled, thrusting her dress between her knees as she sat down next to me. Her feet tapped wildly beneath the table. She leaned over, taking the bowl of bat soup from me, careful not to spill a drop. The spoon left my hand and found hers. "Kadon Fanihi, nene, for when you’re grown. Watch, this is how you do."

That’s all I could do—watch my grandma tear at that bat with a hunger I never saw before. Could I attack a pickled papaya like that?! I gasped as she tore meat from bone and sucked each toe down to the last claw. She cackled and slurped and clinked the claws to the edge of the bowl; dead tap dancing bats. She knew she was grossing me out. She was a bit mad.

A week later, I smelled Grandma’s bat soup on my way home from school. I arrived just in time to see Mom wave the smoke from her face, drop the lid, and scream. Grandma caught my eye and we laughed.

Engracia’s Kadon Fanihi

3 fruit bats, well washed, leave skin on and do not eviscerate

water

1 Tbs. finely sliced fresh ginger

1 large onion, quartered

salt and pepper to taste

a splash of soy sauce

coconut milk

Place bats in a large kettle and add enough water to cover. Add soy sauce, ginger, onion, salt, and pepper. Bring to boil for about 45 minutes. Let simmer. Add coconut milk. Serve with a cackle and a side of howl.

Skinned option: Bring to boil for about 45 minutes. Strain broth into a second kettle. Skin bats, discard skin or give to neighborhood booney dogs. Return bats to broth. Heat. Add coconut milk and cackle.

Yield: 4 servings