Franco’s war
Franco liked to dance. He loved cars, and called his Daddy’s Innova “Franco’s car.” He smelled of soap and giggles and baby skin. “Give me a kiss,” his daddy would say. “No,” Franco would answer. “Come give dada a kiss.” And Franco would pretend he couldn’t hear. “All right, don’t kiss dada.” And then the small body would launch itself at the laughing father, whose face would be smothered with Franco’s wet kisses.
His Daddy says Franco was expressive. “I’m happy,” Franco would say, when the sun was bright. And sometimes, on days that the world did not behave according to the plans of a three-year-old man, “I’m sad.”
Franco’s Daddy is missing his Franco, the funny, soft-cheeked baby who drowned in the dark one bright afternoon in May.
“I’m sad,” says Franco’s daddy. “I’m very sad.” And then he is quiet as he presses his palms to his eyes.
It happened on a Saturday, what Franco announced as “a sunny day.” Franco’s whole family was going to the beach, his parents and grandparents and aunt and uncle and cousins and his nanny Bambi and his nine-year-old brother Paolo. They were riding a boat from the Batangas port to Puerto Gallera, the first big family trip for Franco. There were barkers selling tickets. They carried passenger bags to the M/B Commando 6, whose bamboo outriggers sprawled from both sides. They said the boat could carry a hundred thirty. Franco’s Daddy did not worry. Franco’s mama counted just 90. They did not know the boat could seat only 45.
Franco’s Daddy says it reminded him of a ride in a jeepney –shoulder to shoulder, one row facing another. They sat apart because of the crowd, Franco with his nanny, his Mama, his cousin and big brother, then Franco’s Daddy with the grandparents, and the uncle and his family on the other end.
The boat rose and fell, flew against the waves, rising and falling and rising and falling again.
It was a long ride. An hour passed. People were seasick. There was still no land in sight. The waves were rough. And then there was a sound, bamboo breaking, the outrigger on the right side of the boat disappearing into the water.
It was quick. Water poured in. The makeshift tarpaulin walls, sewn clumsily to deflect sea spray, trapped dozens inside. The boat overturned. Franco’s Daddy was smashed by the wild waves. He took a deep breath before the water dragged him. He forced his way up. Swallowed water. Broke surface. Found the boat, hung on to the side.
There were people calling out. Paolo had been trapped, and dove down to swim his way out. The whole family was accounted for, all except Franco’s grandmother, his one-and-a-half-year-old cousin Anton – and Franco.
Franco’s Daddy does not remember how he found his mother –whether she floated to the surface, or if someone pushed her lifeless body to him. The waves battered his side of the boat. He clung to the barnacles of the boat, fighting to keep his dead mother from the sea. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t swim, the waves plastered him against the boat’s hull.
They found Anton. It was Franco’s Daddy who held the baby boy with the staring eyes, who pumped and pumped and pumped the small chest, who couldn’t understand how so much water could have filled such a small body. He knew his nephew was gone. He pumped. He thought of his own baby boy, and was helpless where he was. It was Franco’s Mama, Monique, clinging to the other side of the boat, who dove into the water and could not find her Franco.
They found Franco’s nanny, and sat her on the hull. She was screaming for Franco.
Two boats passed. Those inside saw the orange jackets, the submerged boat and the half-naked men who waved their shirts frantically. They did not stop. They did not offer lifejackets. They raced on, and while they did, people died.
Monique asked for a knife, a mask, anything to help her hunt for her boy. The crewmen could not help – they clung to the sides of the ship. Some could not swim. The captain seemed dazed. Monique asked a man to step on the edge of the tarpaulin to keep it open, so she could slip inside and look for her son. The man inched away.
Rescue came, M/B Commando boats owned by the same men who ran the overturned boat. Somebody else was holding Anton. The new crew allowed the passengers to board, then began snatching up floating passenger bags.
And this was when Franco’s daddy got angry. People, there are people under the boat. My son could be in there. Leave the bags alone.
It was a long time before anything happened.
Finally the crew righted the boat. They found Franco, and sent him to his Daddy floating on a life vest. His eyes were like Anton’s.
They hugged him, Franco’s daddy and Monique. They hugged him and pumped his chest. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty. They knew it was too late.
It was a sunny day.
They held Franco on the boat to Puerto Gallera, held him on the way to a makeshift hospital where onlookers crowded the small room and clucked over the dead little boy. Franco’s daddy sent away the onlookers. Just a little dignity, he asked. Please, let my son have some dignity.
The helicopters came. Franco’s family rode first, carrying their dead.
Franco’s brother Paolo asked his Mama if it was a dream. “I want to wake up now.”
“I’m sorry,” said his crying Mama, “I wish it were.”
In the Walt Disney movie “Cars,” the young, full-of-himself racecar Lightning McQueen finds himself in the backward town of Radiator Springs. It’s where he meets Mater, a rusty old truck with a redneck accent whose one dream was to ride a helicopter. “Cars” was Franco’s favorite movie. He wanted to go up a helicopter too.
His daddy held him as the helicopter took off, held the little boy with blind eyes and cold hands, told him, “Franco, here’s your helicopter ride.” Only it was too late for Franco, and too late for his daddy to show him how the world looked from the clouds.
It is Father’s Day. Three weeks ago, Franco’s daddy had two sons. Now there is only one, a boy named Paolo who asks for his baby brother to be brought back.
This story is a gift from Franco’s Daddy, to every father on Father’s Day. Ask him, and no matter how many times he’s told it, he will tell you about a little boy with a mischievous smile who danced on his high chair and clapped when he saw cars. Remember Franco, he says. Remember this, and hold on to your Franco.
