Cross Currents (25 page)

“Of course I do. That my job.”

The music stopped. “Can I tell you something?” he asked, unsure of himself, of his words.

“What?”

“I'm glad you didn't have another customer when I stopped by.”

“Why?”

“Because you . . . you make me feel good.”

Her smile was unseen by him, but her fingers spoke, moving in circles, treating his flesh as if it were sacred, as if soothing its aches and imbalances were like whispering an endearment, like sheltering a candle from the wind.

Dao rubbed and stroked, happy to feel his muscles relax, his tension disappear like footprints swallowed by the sea.

THOUGH THE SKY HAD CLEARED, as if it were a churned-up tidal pool that had finally settled, drops of water occasionally still fell from the leaves above Patch, keeping him cool in the heat and humidity. He sat with his legs on either side of a thick beam that he'd secured to a Y-shaped pair of branches. Wielding Lek's hammer with precision, he drove a nail into a beam that ran parallel to the one that supported him. The nail pierced the beam and entered the tree. Patch hammered until only the head of the nail remained visible. He repeated the process with a second and a third nail, then wrapped a rope around the beam and branch until both were securely fixed together.

Studying the two beams, which were separated by three feet, Patch wondered how many smaller crossbeams he'd have to put in place before nailing a thick piece of plywood on top of the structure. He thought several two-by-fours would be necessary, but decided to ask Ryan. Patch guessed that once he had finished the tree house, it would be often filled with children. And so it needed to be as safe and strong as he could make it.

Patch looked down, wondering what would happen if a child fell from the twelve-foot-high perch. The ground below was firm, and he decided to borrow a wheelbarrow and bring up sand from the beach. A six-inch layer of sand would help cushion the ground.

As he debated whether he should build some sort of giant box to keep the sand in place, Patch noticed Brooke walking in his direction. She wore cutoff jeans shorts and a purple tank top. Her hair was pulled back and partly covered with a violet bandanna.

“Hi,” he said, moving on the beam so that he had a clearer view of her.

“Hey. Making some progress?”

“So far, so good.”

She smiled and walked to the base of the tree. “I was just talking to Niran and Suchin. They're so excited.”

“I know.”

“I asked them if they'd seen Ryan. They haven't. Have you?”

“Not since around lunch.”

“Where could he be?”

Patch wondered whether Ryan was getting another massage, whether it was right to keep Brooke in the dark. “I don't know,” he finally replied. “But he's probably working out, running ten miles, or climbing up and down the mountain like it's his own StairMaster.”

“Maybe.”

“Want to come up? The sun's going to set in a bit.”

She nodded and climbed the ladder, pleased that she had helped him carry down some of the building material. The ladder was tied so tightly against the trunk that it almost felt like a part of the tree. She straddled the beam across from him and looked out over the bungalows toward the sea. Longboats prowled the tranquil waters, bringing tourists back from snorkeling or fishing tours. A few people still swam in the shallows. Somewhere a dog barked.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Patch said, setting down his hammer.

“What?”

“You seem . . . kind of quiet. Is everything all right?”

“Sure.”

“The Thais would say, ‘Sure, sure.' ”

The corners of Brooke's mouth rose, a smile spreading across her face. “Everything's fine.”

“But?”

“Well, actually, it's my birthday. Ryan and I . . . We were going to celebrate tonight. But I don't think that's going to happen.”

“It's your birthday? Really? Why didn't you tell me this morning?”

“It's no big deal.”

“Yes, it is. We should be celebrating.”

“No, that's not necess—”

“Of course it's necessary. How often do you have a birthday in Thailand? Really, how often is this night going to happen?”

Her smile came again. “I don't know. You tell me.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four. You're twenty-three, right?”

“Yeah, but wait. Just wait here a minute.”

“Patch, you don't need to—”

“Just a sec,” he replied, moving toward the ladder, hurrying down, jumping as he neared the ground.

Brooke watched him jog toward the restaurant. He turned, waving, and she laughed and waved back. When he disappeared, she shifted her gaze toward the setting sun. As the sun approached the horizon, its light changed colors, as if it were penetrating stained glass at an ancient cathedral, illuminating the island and sea in scarlet and amber. The sun's descent was slow and peaceful, as were the sounds of dusk—the beeps of tree frogs mingling with the distant drone of longboat engines.

Realizing that dawn was unfolding back in her hometown of Portland, Oregon, Brooke thought about her family. Her mother would already be at the television studio where she produced the morning news. Her father would be drinking a Diet Coke and watching the broadcast, his ritual before he left for the county courthouse, where he was a judge. And her brother would probably still be asleep in his college dorm in Eugene, a guitar lying next to him. Brooke knew they'd want to wish her a happy birthday and decided to find a pay phone before she went to bed. She thought about how her parents had struggled after she'd been attacked, how she'd slept between them for almost a week. They had sheltered her when she needed it most. And though she no longer wanted such shelter, she'd be forever grateful for their love.

A few more minutes passed before Patch's voice interrupted her thoughts. “Close your eyes,” he said. “No peeking.”

She did as he asked, glad to no longer be alone on her birthday. “What are you doing?” she questioned, hearing him grunt as he climbed the ladder.

“Don't worry about me, birthday girl. Just keep those eyes shut.”

“Don't fall.”

She felt him brush past her. Near her head, leaves rustled. Resisting the urge to peek, she bit her lower lip, smiling again.

“Almost done,” he said, and she heard the strike of a cigarette lighter.

“With what?”

“Wait, wait, wait. Okay. Now, open your eyes.”

Patch had wedged five table candles into the branches surrounding them. He'd also set a single white-and-pink orchid on the beam in front of her. “Happy birthday,” he said, facing her, holding four opened beers.

The candles flickered in the breeze. Brooke picked up the orchid, her forefinger tracing the outlines of the white petals and then the pink center. She brought the flower toward her nose and inhaled, drawing the sweet fragrance deep into her lungs. “It's gorgeous,” she said. “Perfect, really.”

“Well, I saw that Suchin had picked some. So I asked her. It's really her present.”

“Thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She looked at the flower again, then carefully placed it above her ear, moving the bandanna down so that it held the orchid's stem in place. “How does that look?”

Patch glanced from the flower to her smile, wondering which was more beautiful. “It . . . it looks great,” he replied, and then handed her a beer. “To the birthday girl,” he said, raising his bottle.

Their drinks touched, drawn together for a moment longer than necessary. She sipped the cold beer. “Thank you, Patch.”

“I would have done more, but the sun is setting and there just isn't enough time to—”

“You don't need to do more. I wouldn't want anything different.”

He smiled at the sight of her. “I wish I had a camera.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely.”

Somewhere toward the village, Bob Marley's voice sprang to life. “Did you arrange that too?” Brooke asked, grinning. “Or is it divine intervention?”

“Just another part of my plan.”

She drank again, swinging her feet on either side of the beam. “So, tell me, why are you building this? Tell me the real reason.”

He started to speak but stopped. A gecko scrambled up a nearby branch, chasing an ant. “I'm close to Suchin and Niran,” he replied. “They remind me of my cousins.”

“How?”

“Oh, when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, I used to babysit my little cousins a lot. They lived right down the road. Our families did so much stuff together. Picnics and pizza nights. And then one day . . . they had to move. Someone bought their house and changed everything about it. And I never walked by that house again. It felt too weird.”

“And that made you sad?”

“It did.”

“So . . . this tree house . . . it's something to remind Suchin and Niran of you? Something that will stay the same for a long time?”

He smiled. “Are you, like . . . clairvoyant?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, you're right. Because I want to make something here that will last. Something that will remind them of me. Because we're close and I don't want them to be sad.”

“So you're leaving? Soon?”

The gecko fell, landing on a branch below. Patch watched it right itself, not wanting to speak about the inevitable. “I'll go to Phuket, and from there, I'll sneak onto some freighter. As soon as I finish the path and the tree house, I'm going to leave.”

“How long will that take? A few days?”

He nodded. “Please don't tell Ryan. I'll sneak away before you take off. Otherwise, he'll never let me go.”

Her feet stopped swinging. She didn't want him to leave, to be separated from him. But she couldn't imagine him in jail. His spirit seemed too free. He was too good. “I'll help you,” she said, and then finished her beer.

“What do you mean?”

“I'll go to the port ahead of you. I'll find whoever's in charge and I'll ask him which ships are going where. I'll get the destinations, the departure dates, the manifests. Everything.”

“But he won't . . . he won't tell you.”

Brooke took the flower from her hair and smelled it again. “He'll tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because I'll smile and giggle and act so impressed with him. I'll ask about the big, strong boats and he'll tell me whatever I want.”

“But—”

“And I'll get you some cash. In case you need to bribe someone. On the ship or when you land.”

Patch lowered his drink. Ryan had never told him about this side of her. “It's too much,” he finally said. “You're risking too much.”

“Would you do it for me?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's not too much,” she replied, reaching for her second beer. “Because you might be a lot of things, but a hypocrite isn't one of them.”

In the growing darkness, the light from the candles became more prominent, the flames gyrating in the slight breeze. A bird squawked from the branches above. The smell of the sea permeated the air.

Patch moved closer to her until their feet nearly touched. He took the orchid from her fingers, smelled it, and then placed it back above her ear. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“It's just . . . because I'm going to leave soon. I want to ask you something, and I'll regret it if I don't, because I'll probably never get the chance again.”

“I'm not a fan of regrets. They're hard to exorcise.”

“I agree.”

“So go ahead.”

“What would have happened . . . if you and I had met first instead of you and Ryan?”

She'd asked herself the same question and remained unsure how to answer it, though she was pleased that he had asked. “I . . . I don't know.”

“Guess.”

“I can't guess. But I wish . . . I wish it had happened that way.”

“Me too.”

“Why?”

He resisted the urge to touch her, remaining still when every instinct told him to move. “Because I could sit here with you on this old beam for the rest of the night. Just talking. Just getting to know you. And I wish we'd had that chance—to really get to know each other without having to worry about anything else. I think if we'd had that chance . . . things would have been . . .”

“Don't stop.”

“I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't have had to hold back. Like I do now. You'd have seen other parts of me . . . good parts . . . that you don't see now, that I can't show you now.”