Cross Currents (21 page)

Patch returned to Brooke, climbing back up beside her. They spoke about Ryan for a few minutes, agreeing to be more inclusive of him, to try to avoid making him feel uncomfortable. Then Patch sighed, studied the sky, and explained how to smoke the joint. Brooke held it too tightly, though as he lit it, he didn't notice the press of her fingers so much as the fullness of her lips when she prepared to inhale. She took a shallow drag, pulled the smoke into her lungs as he'd taught her, and held it there for as long as possible before exhaling. Patch took the joint and repeated the process.

They smoked until only the smoldering tip of the joint remained, which Patch rubbed against the sole of his sandal and then put in his pocket. Above, stars began to congregate as if waiting to hear a sermon. Bats chased insects, a monkey screeched, and a breeze tugged at the treetops. Though night had fallen and the wind was picking up, like any living thing, the island continued to exude warmth.

“He wants to help you,” Brooke said, her thoughts slowing, the beam comfortable beneath her.

“I know.”

“He just doesn't know how to do it. His mind is ideal for a lot of tasks, but this situation . . . is nuanced. And that's not his forte.”

“I'm not mad at him. It's my fault.”

A palm tree near them swayed, its fronds seeming to whisper as they rubbed against one another. “Are you scared about going to prison, about trying to sneak away?” Brooke asked, breathing deeply, bringing so many fragrances into her. Her senses seemed heightened, her body at ease yet acutely aware.

“Yes.”

“It's all right, you know. It's all right to be scared.”

He nodded but didn't answer. It seemed to her that the marijuana was making him quiet, while it made her want to talk. It was as if the muscles that kept her repressed thoughts and emotions in check were relaxing and releasing. “I know about being scared,” she said, swinging her legs beneath her, wanting to share her secrets with him.

“You do?”

She followed the flight of a plane, its red lights twinkling like magical stars. After a while, the plane disappeared, and she remembered his question, which seemed to echo in her mind. “That's why I've never smoked a joint. Because once when I was in college, after I'd had way too much to drink, a man hurt me. I'd been at a party, and I went back to my room. I was all alone. And he . . . he pushed his way into my room and stole something from me.”

“Stole what?”

“I . . . I don't know.”

“It's okay. You can tell me . . . if you want.”

She watched a distant fire juggler on the beach, trying to forget, as she had ten thousand times before, the image of the stranger forcing his way into her room. “He hurt me. And I think he stole a part . . . of my spirit . . . of my soul.”

Patch edged toward her. She felt his hand rest on her shoulder. His skin was warm and soft and somehow serene. She'd never felt such a touch, and wondered whether the tingling sensation on her shoulder was from the presence of his hand or the drug.

“No, he didn't,” Patch said, her obvious pain compelling him to speak.

“Didn't what?”

“He didn't steal a part of your soul.”

“What . . . what do you mean?”

“He hurt you, yes. He scared you. He made you cry. But you're still whole. Every bit of your soul is still whole.”

Her eyes watered. Sniffing, she wiped away her tears. “How can you say that?”

“Because you can't steal something that you can't feel. And he . . . he didn't feel your soul. He didn't come close to feeling it.”

She sniffed again, her hand on his knee, squeezing it tight. “You think?”

“It's impossible to steal something you can't touch. Impossible. The only person . . . the only person who will ever touch your soul is the person who falls so in love with you that you're all he can think about. You're in his thoughts and dreams and his . . . his every waking moment. And this person . . . whoever he is . . . he'll treasure your soul. He'll protect it.” Patch paused as a shooting star blazed across the sky. “That man . . . who hurt you . . . he didn't see your soul. He didn't touch it. And he certainly didn't steal a part of it. So don't ever worry about that again. Not for a second.”

Her mouth opened, but no sound came forth. She thought about what Patch had said, wondering if he could be right. She silently repeated his words, and as she did, the wind gained strength, caressing her, answering her as if he had spoken again. Her emotions seemed heightened, perhaps from the drug, perhaps from Patch's belief. Or more likely a combination of the two. But whatever the case, she smiled at the thought of her soul being intact. For so long, she'd thought that part of it had been stolen, that she would have a hole within her for as long as she lived.

But maybe Patch was right. Maybe he had answered many of her questions with those few simple statements. Maybe he'd handed her a key with which she might unlock herself and emerge anew.

THE MOSQUITO NET RIPPLED, GIVEN life by the wobbling ceiling fan. Lek sat at the end of their mattress, rubbing Sarai's feet. She wore her thin cotton pajamas, as well as panties and a bra. Lying on her back, she watched his face and smiled faintly.

“You rubbed a lot of feet today,” he said, massaging her toes. “It's only right that you get yours rubbed too.”

“Does your hip hurt?”

He shook his head, though his old injury ached as usual. “It's fine. Better now that I'm with you.”

“Six hundred baht. Can you believe it? I made six hundred baht rubbing feet.”

“A small fortune. Though you barely got to the restaurant in time. Our guests were getting impatient.”

“True. And you need to learn how to shop like a woman. I need firm tomatoes that can handle heat, not those old mushy ones you got me.”

“They were cheaper.”

She grinned. “Because they were half rotten, you simple man.”

Lek pinched her smallest toe and she let out a muffled squeal. Asleep beside her, wearing a cloth diaper, was Achara. Lek watched their daughter stir. “Do you think she's dreaming?” he asked, his fingers growing tired but not pausing.

“She always dreams. I can see it in her face.”

Someone laughed outside, and foreign voices passed by. Lek wondered where they were going. He couldn't identify anyone he knew. “I see that Patch brought more wood down for the tree house.”

“I saw it too.”

“Suchin and Niran can hardly wait.”

Sarai noticed a hole in the mosquito net and made a mental note to mend it the following day. “Have you heard anyone talk? About Patch? He's been here so long. People are going to talk.”

Lek remembered pulling down the police flyer and was tempted to tell her the truth about Patch's situation, but he didn't want to argue. He was afraid that Sarai would immediately send Patch away, which Lek believed was unnecessary. “I've heard nothing,” he finally replied, pretending to focus on her toes.

“But you're not a woman. Women hear everything. And men hear nothing.”

“I hear you and your mother all day. That's enough for me.”

Sarai glanced at Achara. “What do you think he's hiding from?”

“Knowing Patch, it must be something small. Something not worth worrying about.”

“Ask him. Stop acting like a man and ask him.”

“After he finishes the path and the tree house,” Lek replied. “I'll ask him then. I promise.”

“You're so good at waiting. You realize that you're not fishing, right? That life isn't about holding your spear gun and waiting for a tuna to pass by?”

He stretched her toes, one by one, until they popped. “That's how you catch the biggest fish, the best fish. That's how I caught you.”

Her smile was broad and pleasant. “I should have swum faster. You wouldn't catch me these days.”

“Yes, I would.”

She jerked her feet away from him, laughing quietly.

He grinned, crept up the mattress, and began to rub Achara's heels. “She's had a busy day too.”

“She's a busy girl. And I'm going to teach her how to be busier, how to swim so fast that no spearman will catch her.”

Lek studied his daughter's tiny toes and leaned down to kiss the soles of her feet. “I'm a lucky man,” he said, and lay down so that Achara was between Sarai and him.

“She's lucky to have you.”

“Maybe . . . maybe she'll grow up here, like her brother and sister. Six hundred baht. That's a lot of money.”

“If I make that much every day, we'll have enough. We'll have enough to stay.”

He watched her eyes. “But can you clean and cook and rub so many feet? Isn't that too much for you?”

“It's not too much. For some maybe, but not for me.”

“Did you drink enough water today? Did you remember? You need to take care of yourself as well as you take care of everyone else.”

“I did. All day long.”

“Good,” he replied, pausing as a gecko scurried after an insect on the ceiling. “I'll help you. I'll fix things and find guests and do the shopping. And I won't buy any more old tomatoes.”

She smiled and reached over Achara so that their hands might meet and clasp. Rubbing the knuckle of his thumb with her forefinger, she thought about discovering him, about hearing his laugh as he helped fix her father's longboat. “I'm glad you were patient,” she said. “That you caught me.”

“I know.”

“There's a sea full of fish out there, and you found me, just the right fish.”

“I waited for you. I would have always waited.”

She squeezed his hand but didn't release it. Their arms descended, dropping below Achara's feet. They continued to whisper as the fan hummed above and the insects screeched outside.

Sarai fell asleep first, as she usually did. And though Lek's hip ached, and he wanted to rest on his other side, he stayed still, holding her hand, grateful that he had somehow found her amid so vast a space as a sea.

IT HADN'T TAKEN RYAN LONG to find a massage parlor, since they were all over the island. This particular structure was located only a dozen paces away from the water, and he could hear longboats come and go as a young Thai woman clad in pink shorts and a matching T-shirt rubbed oil onto her hands and then worked that oil into his sore back. He wore only a thin pair of boxer shorts that she'd given him after he had washed sand from his feet in a stainless-steel basin. She'd pulled a curtain shut between them, and he had undressed quickly, uncomfortable with his nakedness.

The woman was beautiful. Her face was dominated by wide, dark eyes and full lips that had been drawn up into a smile ever since he arrived. Her body was small, but not lacking curves. Straight black hair fell well below her shoulders. Dao was her name, and when he'd asked her to repeat it, she had done so, and added in broken English that it meant “star.” She'd smiled then, helping him lie down on a narrow futon, hands immediately at work on his shoulders.

“You so big,” she said, laughing, squeezing his muscles with her slippery fingers. “You like King Kong.”

“King Kong?”

“Yes, though you no have hair.”

He smiled, his face pressing against a pillow. “You're the strong one.”

“So, why you come to Thailand?”

“For . . . for a vacation.”

“You have Thai girlfriend?”

“What?”

“You find girl here? Or maybe you a butterfly boy?”

“A butterfly boy? What's that?”

She laughed, moving until she knelt, straddling the small of his back, and could massage his neck. “Butterfly boy fly from girl to girl, enjoying them all. Thai men, they often butterfly boys. Sometimes
farang
are too.”