by John Shors
“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.”
“Farang?”
“Foreigners.”
Ryan grunted as she pressed her thumbs along either side of his spine. “I’m not a butterfly boy.”
“Sure, sure?”
“Do I have wings?”
She paused, then began working on his shoulders again. “Why you no butterfly boy? Easy for you here. Thai women must love you. You handsome man, with nice smile.”
“I’m not so exciting. I like to work.”
“You never have girlfriend?”
“I . . .”
“You can tell me. Massage feel better if you talk.”
“I had one. But it’s over.”
Dao paused again and reached for more oil. She slid down so that she sat on his thighs. Her fingers pressing and rubbing, she worked on his lower back. “Why it over? She butterfly girl?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”
“Why it over?”
“Because I . . . I’m too traditional for her.”
“What you mean?”
He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her fingers against him. To his surprise, she pulled down the top of his thin shorts a few inches so that she could rub around his tailbone. Not wanting her to stop, he thought about her question. “I want to work, to have a career, and to support my family. I don’t . . . don’t expect my wife to have a job. Raising children is hard enough work. She doesn’t need to do anything else.”
“That good. Maybe your girlfriend is crazy. Why she want to have job and to have baby? That too much.”
“You think?”
“Sure, sure. Now I work. I make money, give to my parents. But when I marry, I take care of children. As you say, that hard enough.”
“You give your money to your parents? Why?”
“That Thai way. They poor. I make good money. So I give it to them. I live with them, in middle of Ko Phi Phi. Far away from where farang go.”
“Why don’t . . . farang go there?”
“Because it not nice.”
Ryan nodded slightly, his face moving up and down the pillow. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Once, yes. But he move to Bangkok.”
“And now no one?”
“No one. Poor me.”
“But . . . but you’re so nice. And beautiful.”
Dao laughed again, slapping the side of his thigh. “You drinking tonight? Too much Thai whiskey in you?”
“No, nothing.”
“Then why, King Kong, why you say such a thing?”
“Because it’s true.”
She started to speak and then stopped, instead helping him to roll over. Her fingers found the muscles of his upper chest, which she kneaded like dough. “Thai men want woman with big boobs and blond hair, like they see in American movies. That not me.”
“Their mistake.”
Dao slapped his shoulder. “You think I give you free massage because you say nice thing?”
“No, definitely not. Whatever this costs, it’s worth it.”
“One million baht.”
“That cheap?”
“Two million.”
They laughed together, and she began to rub the front of his arms, working on his biceps, sometimes following the patterns of his tattoos. As she rubbed away his stress and tension, they continued to talk and smile.
Much later, after a sixty-minute massage had turned into a ninety-minute massage, she pulled the curtain shut, and he dressed in privacy, reluctant to leave.
But leave he did, turning back to wave at her, glad that she stood in the entrance of her parlor, smiling and standing on her tiptoes.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 23
a light to bring you home
The day hinted of a storm, though so far only a light rain left dimples in the sand. The sky was gloomy, permeated with haze and shadows. The wind seemed indecisive, nonexistent one moment and stirring to life a few heartbeats later. As he worked on the brick path, Patch asked himself how raindrops formed so far above, fell thousands of feet, and landed precisely on his head. The odds against such an outcome seemed preposterously large. What were the chances that a single raindrop would be born miles above him and fall to touch his face?
His thoughts shifted to Brooke, and he wondered what exactly had happened to her. He would never ask, but if she wanted to talk about it, he would listen. It seemed as if she had cracked open a door to her inner self and hoped that he might peek inside. But he wasn’t sure what to do. If anyone was to look through such an opening, Ryan should be that person.
Had Ryan not known Brooke, Patch would have tried to be what he thought she needed. But because of his brother’s presence, Patch saw himself as a raindrop that was falling toward Brooke but would inevitably be swept aside by the wind.
As Patch thought about this raindrop, he reached for a brick, only then realizing that Ryan was standing nearby, holding their old leather football. “Remember when we’d throw it in the rain?” Ryan asked, and tossed Patch the ball. “We’d stay out until our fingers were numb. Mom would call us in for dinner and we’d have to strip in the mudroom.”
Gripping the football, Patch stood up. “You brought this? All the way here?”
“I’ve always brought it on our trips. Why change a good thing?”
Patch smiled. “Let’s go to the beach. You can be Joe Montana. Just like old times.”
Ryan left the path, walking between bungalows, glad for the rain, since it meant the beach was empty. He headed toward the water’s edge, feeling buoyed rather than weighted down by the wetness. Patch started to move away from him, but Ryan motioned him forward. “Can I tell you something?” he asked, his voice much softer than usual, softer than the little waves tumbling on the shore.
“What?”
“You have to promise to keep quiet about it.”
“Don’t worry.”
Ryan leaned closer to Patch. “Last night, I went into the village and got a massage.”
“I know.”
“Well, this Thai woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, gave it to me.” He smiled, glancing toward the village. “And she made me laugh. And later, I told her she was beautiful.”
“Really?”
“And I think she was glad when I told her. I don’t think she wanted me to leave.”
Patch wiped rain from his brow, surprised that Ryan had said so much. His older brother had always been private, seemingly not interested in talking about girls and first-time loves. “How . . . how did sh
e make you laugh?”
“What do you think I should do?” Ryan asked, seeming not to hear Patch’s question. “I don’t know Thais like you do. Would it be weird if I went back for another massage? Would she expect anything from me?”
“But what about Brooke? Don’t you—”
“She doesn’t love me. And I feel the same.”
“But I don’t understand. You came all this way together.”
Ryan glanced at his bungalow. “Coming here was . . . naive. Like all our problems could be solved by going on a trip together. It was wishful thinking. And I think we both knew that before we even left.”
“How did things go wrong?”
“How did they ever go right? Whatever she wants, I can’t give her. This trip . . . It’s just reminded me of that, and how we’re so different. She knows it and I know it, and there’s no point in pretending that we have a future together.”
Patch watched a distant longboat cut through the rain and disappear around a cliff. “And Brooke knows how you feel?”
“Jesus, Patch. Aren’t you listening? She feels the same way.”
“I just . . . This is a surprise. A big one.”
“I’ve hardly seen her for the past two days and you’re surprised?”
“Well—”
“What did you two talk about last night anyway?”
“Nothing, really. We just smoked a little and laughed.”
Ryan’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know what to do about this massage girl.”
“The Thais are playful. Are you sure she wasn’t just doing her job? Keeping you happy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But she did go to the door. She waved good-bye.”
Patch spun the football in his hands, thinking about how his brother should proceed. Ryan almost never came to him for advice, and Patch didn’t want to let him down. “Don’t ever talk to her about money,” he said, still spinning the football.
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll never know what she really wants if she thinks you have money. You’ll wonder about her motives. Right or wrong, you’ll wonder. Because for some women around here, that’s what it’s about. Not that I judge them.”
