Collected Philippine Short Stories

The Steel Brassiere | Iris Sheila G. Crisostomo

AT first I thought I was hearing the wind whistling through the termite-infested wall of Tiya Anding's house. Wind on a hot summer afternoon? Dismissing the noise as coming from rats slipping through hidden holes and crevices in the old house, I rummaged through the remaining boxes for things worth keeping.

My visit to Tiya Anding's house on J.P. Rizal Street was prompted by a public notice from the city engineer's office that the property was scheduled for demolition to give way to the construction of an annex building for the town's health clinic.

Tiya Anding was a friend who had no living relatives. When she died, her house and the 300-square-meter lot reverted to the government. With the impending demolition, I had hastily driven to that humble abode hoping to save a few memories of a past life.

One of the queerest things I recovered from the pile of old clothes was an old bra. It wasn't fit for any young lady's breasts because it was made not of soft cotton or lace but of cold and hard metal. A steel bra. What was it doing in Tiya Anding's box? I thought to myself.

For several nights, my thoughts were on the brassiere. Two cones of stainless steel with straps made of hammered wire. I tried it in front of the elongated mirror in the bedroom after I made sure the door was locked and the children had retired to their beds. I knew Lindoln wouldn't be home until midnight.

I laughed when I saw myself with the bra covering my breasts. I looked like a character from a Mad Max movie. The bra looked like pointed armor ready to deflect an ax or a lance from the enemy–a sure protection for the delicate female flesh underneath. I remembered Madonna in her skimpy get-ups, net stockings and all, her tits in similar, pointed cones.

After a while, the cold of the metal against my skin produced a strange eerie feeling. The bra properly belonged to an ancient warrior-princess yet I felt I was too weak to fight my own battles.

"YOU'VE been to the old house again," my husband's voice boomed from the bathroom. He had just finished shaving. I said nothing as I handed him the towel like I always do each morning. "I called the house at 3 o'clock and the maids said you went out," he continued while wiping his chin dry.

"I was at the house all afternoon," I replied, seeing no reason to withhold the truth. "The house will go down next week. I just took home some things."

I thought I saw a smirk on his face when he remarked, "It's about time they do something about that house. It's rotting, anyway." I wanted to walk out of the room in protest but didn't. I was too kind–too foolishly kind.

Sunlight was streaming in through the open window. The curtains lifted in the breeze. It would have been a beautiful day if not for the conversation.

AFTER breakfast, I asked him for money because I would be taking little Gina and Jonathan to the park that afternoon. He took out P500 then changed his mind and gave me P300 instead. I whispered "Thank you" loud enough for him to hear but my hand was crushing the bills inside my pocket.

I had been married to Lindoln for eight years but it felt like I'd been living with a stranger. He was the champion debater in my class and he won me over an argument why two people needed each other to live: "A man needs a woman to take care of his needs and the woman needs a man to support her." Later I wondered about the role of love which was supposed to be the reason why two people share their lives.

Lindoln was a good provider, the sales manager of a pharmaceutical company that paid well. He gave me a big house with a lush garden, a dutiful maid and an excellent cook. There was nothing more to ask but I felt I really had nothing.

"Stay home. It's best for you and our children," he told me after I gave birth to Jonathan. He thought he was relieving me of the trouble of working outside the home but he was really closing a door and locking me in.