by John Shors
Suchin grinned as the children clapped and Miss Wattana examined the paper, held it up, and pretended to nail it to a nearby wall. Lek smiled, finding his daughter’s eyes with his own and nodding to her. She hurried back to her seat, leaned forward, and watched as the next student stepped to the front and held his paper aloft.
Niran was one of the last students to present his work. Though he didn’t smile as Suchin had, and no one clapped over his words, he was obviously proud of his efforts. His article was about a boy who rescued an injured sea turtle from a fishing net, nursed the animal back to health, and released it. Niran was quite scientific in his article, talking about the turtle’s weight, age, and injuries. He had drawn a picture of it trapped in a net, as well as one of it swimming free.
When Niran returned to his seat, Lek raised his hand just enough so that Niran detected the movement and looked up. Lek smiled, nodding. He and Niran had gone fishing so many times together, and he was proud that Niran’s love of the sea mirrored his own. That pride grew each day as Niran spoke more openly about becoming a scientist, about how he wanted to study the ocean’s creatures.
Rubbing his hip, which ached more when the rains came, Lek prayed that he wouldn’t have to take Suchin and Niran from the school, from their teacher and friends. They would survive a life in Bangkok, of course. But Lek had been to the capital once and knew that his children would feel caged in the city. Most children would be fine there, but not Suchin and Niran, who had been raised on the beach, who swam and played and had never been confined by concrete and overcrowding. If his family had to move, Lek knew that they would share a small room in a squalid part of the city. A factory would be his home. He would be gone, unable to rub Sarai’s feet during the day, to comfort her, to smile with her. And their children would suffer so much. Suchin’s laughter would be less of a constant. Niran would never see the sea. And Achara would not remember it.
Lek glanced at his children, then moved to the final screen that needed mending. As he worked, he wondered how he might make more money. Sarai’s massages would help, certainly, but they needed more guests and had to somehow attract foreigners who could afford to stay at the nicer hotels and bungalows.
Lek was a simple man. His father had been a fisherman. His mother had mended nets. He had never gone to school and wasn’t sure how to lure more tourists. He’d thought of so many ways to earn more money over the years—some of which had worked, but most hadn’t. Yes, he could spear a tuna. He could make Sarai smile and forget her worries. He could play soccer with Suchin and Niran, and could hold Achara against him and whisper to her that the world was a beautiful place. But could he protect that beauty? Could he ensure that his loved ones’ happiness and dreams and comfort remained precious and safeguarded?
The last screen was mended. Lek nodded to Miss Wattana, waved at Suchin and Niran, and then stepped from the school and into the rain. His stride was feeble, as usual, but his mind, focused on how he could keep his family on the island, moved with the strength of the currents and tides he knew so well.
THE RAIN LESSENED, TRANSFORMING INTO a damp veil that hung around the island. Ryan walked into the village, avoiding muddy puddles, not minding his wet clothes and skin. He hadn’t known that rain could be warm, that experiencing a storm in the tropics was almost like stepping into a shower. Having finally realized that his clothes made him look like someone who had just disembarked from a cruise ship, he’d bought a black T-shirt that depicted the Thai flag and left his Hawaiian-style shirts in his bungalow. He had also set aside his running shoes for flip-flops. His iPod was in place, and Jimi Hendrix’s “The Wind Cries Mary” drifted in his head, seeming to lead him forward.
Ryan hadn’t checked his emails or studied in more than twenty-four hours—an unheard-of lapse that surprised him. Though he continued to think about Patch’s situation, and how best to deal with it, he was no longer obsessed with getting his brother to the American embassy. He’d certainly do that, but time didn’t seem as pressing as it once had. Perhaps that was because on the island, time seemed strangely irrelevant. No one wore watches. Clocks didn’t appear to exist. The passage of hours was measured by the voyage of the sun, the rise and fall of the tide. People didn’t set alarm clocks but awoke at the sound of distant roosters announcing dawn’s arrival. No one ate lunch at noon but waited until they were hungry.
As he neared the massage parlor, Ryan felt his heartbeat quicken. He cracked his knuckles, wondering whether Dao would be there, or if she’d be serving another customer. If she was busy with someone else he’d wave to her, continue his walk, and most likely not return. His pride would keep him from appearing desperate, and making repeated stops during the same day to see her would mark him as someone whose needs were too many.
The sky lightened and one end of a rainbow appeared over the mountainous cliffs. Ryan studied the arcs of color, looking from hue to hue, wondering whether Patch and Brooke saw it too. He wished that his heart still fluttered at the thought of meeting Brooke, of touching her and seeing her reaction. But it didn’t. She no longer moved him and had blended into the social landscape that comprised his friends and acquaintances. And while he had a history with her, a shared experience that was both intimate and compelling, that experience was over. They were two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together. They had tried to force that merging, but failed.
The massage parlor appeared quiet and dark. Ryan hoped it wasn’t closed. He pushed his hair back, straightened his shirt, and walked up the cement steps. “Hello?” he called out, and took off his flip-flops.
A curtain opened on the side of the room and Dao stepped forward, again wearing pink shorts and a T-shirt. She smiled, pushing her long, black-as-night hair behind her ears and tying it in a ponytail. “You all wet,” she said, and moved closer, tugging on his T-shirt. “My King Kong all wet. You go for a swim in your clothes?”
“No. But the rain . . .”
“You have such big muscles, but your brain, is it big too?” She laughed, pulling again on his shirt. “You supposed to stay inside in rain. Not go for walks.”
“But it’s warm here. In my country . . . where I live . . . the rain is cold.”
“It cold here too.”
“You think?”
“It make me shiver.”
He smiled. “You don’t know anything about the cold.”
“And you know everything? You so smart?”
“That’s right.”
She handed him a pair of thin shorts. “You put these on. Then I give you good massage, make you feel warm again.” After stepping into the other room and pulling the curtain shut, Dao turned on some traditional Thai music.
Ryan undressed and for a few seconds was naked with her no more than ten feet away. For a reason he couldn’t explain, this casual intimacy comforted him. He pulled on the shorts and then lay facedown on the nearby futon. “I’m ready,” he said, and was pleased to hear the curtain slide open.
“Look at you,” she replied, kneeling beside him. Her oily fingers began to work on his neck, pressing and kneading. “You body tight today. You go out last night? You find beautiful Thai girl and go boom-boom all night?”
“Boom-boom?”
“So you butterfly boy after all?” she asked, pinching his skin. “You lie to me?”
He laughed. “Ouch. I’m not a butterfly boy, and I certainly didn’t go boom-boom last night.”
“Maybe in your dreams. That why you all tight today.”
“I was throwing the football. With my brother. That’s why I’m tight.”
She paused; then her fingers began to trace the contours of his spine. “Your brother here, in Ko Phi Phi?”
“Yeah. He’s been here for a while.”
“And you come to visit him?”
“That’s right.”
Her fingers pulled down the top of his shorts a few inches, and she began to work on his tailbone. “Why you come back to me today?” she asked, her hair brushing against his l
ower back.
Her directness surprised him. “I . . . I just wanted another massage.”
“Sure, sure?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Well, I glad to see my King Kong again. I so bored today. No customers for me. Too many massage girls here. They all come from Bangkok, looking for jobs. So now, we have too many massage girls and too few customers. It hard on everyone.”
“Could you . . . do something else? Some other kind of work?”
Dao paused, her fingers resting on Ryan’s skin. “Do what? I have to make money for parents. Cannot look for another job.”
As she began to massage him again, Ryan reminded himself to leave her a large tip. He knew so little about her but wanted to help. “What happens . . . when you get married? Will you always have to take care of your parents?”
“Yes, of course. They poor. So I will always give them money.” She moved so that her legs were on either side of him, and, resting on her knees, she leaned forward, using her oily palms to rub up and down his back. “You no take care of your parents?”
“No, not really. They have enough money. But I would. Just like I will for my family.”
“Your old girlfriend, why you not with her, again?”
He grunted as Dao found a knot in his lower back and began to press her thumbs against it, rubbing with strength and determination. “I don’t know, really. I think . . . maybe I work too hard. I’m too focused. I think she wants something else.”
“Working hard is good. That how you help your family, pay for your house. Too many Thai men no work hard. Maybe they say nice thing to me, but I watch them, and if they no work hard then I no interested in them. Why I want to take care of some lazy man for my whole life?”
“So you won’t care if your husband is out, working hard, and you’re home alone with the children?”
“Me care? That good thing. That mean he love us very much. And that make me love him more.” Dao began to rub his calves. “You so strong. How you get such big muscles? You basketball player or something? Or maybe from flapping your butterfly wings?”
He smiled into the pillow. “I don’t have any butterfly wings. Never have. Never will.”
“You want one-hour massage today, or two hours? I think two hours is perfect for you.”
“Two.”
“That good. Good for me. Better for you.”
“Yes, much better for me.”
As she worked on his calves, he wished that he could see her. He imagined her small hands and her full lips and smile. He wanted to untie her ponytail and watch her black hair fall upon him. Her hair would be like a blanket over him, warming him, keeping his troubles at bay.
Ryan wanted to touch her as she was touching him, to soak his hands in oil and run them over her naked body, caressing her curves and contours. He had never touched a woman in the way that he would have liked to touch her. Nor had he been touched as she was touching him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, closing his eyes.
“You are welcome.”
“You know . . . just where to press.”
“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 approa
ched 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.”
