The flight back to the Philippines took sixteen hours. One stopover in Japan and then to Manila. An hour after landing at Manila International Airport greeted by stifling heat and humidity, and then escorted to a more secure area of the airport to avoid the media, Seymour and his son boarded a smaller plane to the island of Alegria.

Four years ago, there weren't any flights to the island southwest of Manila, but after a tourism boom, apparently they'd built a small airport to accommodate those who didn't like having to get on those charter boats like everyone else. Seymour and his son sat among the many other foreign tourists in the small plane, none of them paying him and Junior any mind. News about the murder case didn't concern them, not when most of them were there to get laid with the hundreds of desperate women eager to be with them. You couldn't get a better deal for eighteen bucks, US. One girl every different night, if you wanted. And boy, would you want a different girl every night. Mina had been girl #5. Too bad he fancied himself in love with her after five days of San Miguel beer and sisig, a dish of pork simmered in spices. One month later, he found himself filling out the papers to get her to the US and then eight months later, she was there, his mail order bride all ready to give him everything he wanted. Everything.

Unfortunately, she fancied herself suddenly an American woman, unwilling to do anything for him. She wanted to work, and even go to school so she could learn how to speak flawless English, words beyond "yes, Seymour," or "How may I serve you, Seymour?" Then she got pregnant even though he'd done his best to make sure she wouldn't. But damn it, she did. The last thing he wanted was a child to put a damper on his kinky lifestyle, but the child arrived anyway, healthy and screaming its head off every chance it got.

And now here he sat next to Seymour Jr., his three-year-old mute son. Seymour had to promise the boy's doctors that he'd find similar therapists back in the Philippines to help with the boy's trauma - whatever trauma that was, Seymour scoffed. The kid didn't do crap! He just stared at Seymour with those big brown eyes of his and it drove Seymour crazy. Of course, therapy wasn't going to happen, not when every eligible speech therapist and psychologist had left the small island to work elsewhere, like Manila or even better, if they could swing the cost of relocation and job placement, the US. But Seymour couldn't care less. He needed to wash his hands of the boy. He didn't need him, and the boy surely didn't need his father, not after what he'd seen Seymour do. Being mute certainly had its advantages.

Mina's family greeted them at the airport with signs welcoming them home. It was embarrassing. But at least, no one said anything about a murder or even a legal case, even if he'd been found innocent by a jury of his peers. Her family couldn't have cared less. He was free and that's all that mattered. They still got their monthly stipend, no matter what. And besides, the less anyone else said about the damn case, the better. His plan was simple: he'd simply unload the luggage filled with all kinds of sweets he picked up at the warehouse store the moment they'd get home, and everyone would love him even more. Mina used to send similarly-packed boxes home, filled with chocolates, candies, and warehouse-size multivitamins that her family would then sell piece by piece from their corner store. One tablet for a few pesos. It was crazy, but that's how they did things. Even eggs could be sold one by one, as were cigarettes—one stick at a time.

"Jun, go say hello to your Lola and Lolo," Seymour said, nudging his son forward. Within seconds, Junior disappeared amid wide open arms and teary faces. Seymour couldn't understand what they were saying, but he didn't care. He'd only made arrangements to stay for two days before he'd head up to Manila and get his fill of San Miguel beer and bar girls. After a year behind bars awaiting his court case, he needed to make up for lost time.

But first, he had to play the grieving and wrongfully-accused husband. The family showered him with their sympathies, plying him with delicious food and beer. He must be tired, they told him. The flight must have been so long, they said, and so he should rest. And in the morning, they'd visit Mina's grave.

"What grave? They couldn't find her body," Seymour said, perplexed. What was there to bury? For all they knew, Mina had run off with some boyfriend and was living somewhere in Milwaukee. Well, that was his reasoning anyway. For why else would she simply disappear like that?

"It's just a pormality," replied one of the cousins, a woman named Alma. Just like Mina before she started taking English classes behind his back, none of them could pronounce "f" without replacing it with "p" and "v" replaced with a "b."

"That way we hab a place to go and lib plowers," continued Mina's mother, whom everyone called Nanay. "And we lib plowers ebryday."

Seymour exhaled, wiping the sweat that gathered on his brow with his handkerchief. For a minute there, he thought he'd gone crazy. Pormality. He liked that. "Oh, I see. So it's just an empty plot then."

"Not really empty. Why don't you come and see?" Asked Alma. She was older than Mina by a few years, and Seymour remembered how the women used to write letters to each other until he put a stop to it. All they did was ask for money anyway like they did whenever Mina called home.

They decided to visit the cemetery right after the mid-afternoon snack, even when most everyone else complained that it was too hot to go outside. But Seymour figured he might as well do it now. Besides, what game were they playing with him? Not empty, my ass. Did that mean there was someone else in there?

Who?