Chapter Thirty-Six
NOI COULDN’T forget the sight of Somchit in handcuffs, pleading and crying. She would never have believed he would harm a child. But Philip was missing, and Somchit had been drunk and angry when he’d driven off that day. What had he done?
Daeng went to the police station the next morning, stayed away all day. Choy reported later to Noi that Daeng had waited hours there with her daughter, but hadn’t been allowed to see Somchit. The next day she did the same, and again 9 Soi Nine was left in the care of Noi and Choy. They did the cleaning, then Choy prepared lunch and Noi served the girls at the table and the master in the party room before carrying a tray up to Madame.
On the third day, Noi noticed that the larder seemed to be emptying itself. At first she thought she was imagining it, but the next morning she looked again, saw bare patches where drums of cooking oil had stood. That afternoon she saw some young men behind the house carrying a large bag of rice between them through the laundry area to the back gate, where Daeng was waiting; she closed the gate after them.
“The farang won’t stay long enough to eat all that rice,” said Daeng when she noticed Noi. “They won’t find the boy. And then they’ll go.”
“Where did Somchit take him?” asked Noi.
“He swears he had nothing to do with it,” said Daeng. “He says he went for a drive.”
“He was gone for days,” said Noi.
“He says he was afraid to come back,” said Daeng. She looked at Noi, and a frown crept over her face. “All of this is your fault,” she said. “He’s besotted with you. It was your responsibility to resist him. Men are weak. Women have to be strong.”
“I didn’t make him drink and steal the car,” said Noi. “I didn’t make him hurt Philip.”
“He didn’t do anything to Philip,” said Daeng, impatient. “Somchit is a coward and a liar, but he wouldn’t hurt the boy. He’s not capable of that.”
Wasn’t he, though, thought Noi. Not that he would have done so intentionally, but she could easily imagine Somchit having an accident while Philip was in the car, and simply driving away from the consequences. But what had he done with Philip? She had a brief image of his small face, eyes closed, sinking under brown river water, and she put a protective hand over her own belly.
Daeng saw the gesture.
“Have you decided about the medicine?” she said. Noi shook her head. “You need to do it soon. For your own good. When the farang leave, you won’t get another job—not with a baby coming.” She seemed struck by an idea. “You can make up for your mistakes,” she said. “You can come with me tomorrow, and tell the police that Somchit was here with you that afternoon.”
“But he wasn’t,” said Noi.
“Yes, he was,” said Daeng. “He was here at three o’clock, fighting with you.” She made it sound like a lovers’ quarrel, that terrifying experience when Somchit was forcing his way into Noi’s room. “Whatever happened to Philip happened between four-thirty and six, all the way across town. If you say Somchit was here at five o’clock instead of three…” She saw that Noi understood. “Tell the police exactly what really happened, but add just two hours to the time. It’s not such a big lie. You can say you were ashamed to tell anyone before now. They’ll believe you.” She smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “And then I’ll give you the medicine. And I’ll teach you to read and write English. Someday you can be Number One like me. Better than babies.”
* * *
Noi sat at prayer that night with a blank mind, uncertain what to pray for. Philip’s safe return, of course, but what after that? She felt unable to entreat the millet seed, who might be the size of a longan now, to stay or go. So many decisions to make. Should she tell the two-hour lie? Or tell Madame or Master about the theft? Their house was being robbed blind, all the valuables being removed. Only the bedrooms on the second floor and the party room where Master sat smoking alone day after day were untouched. He didn’t seem to notice the disappearance of all the little statues, the urns, the gold-leafed panels and pressed-silver boxes. The Preston girls asked no questions, staying most of the day in their room. The household that had been like a solid locomotive felt now like a rickety cart, oxen bolting without a driver.
I want things to go back to the way they were, she whispered. How far did she want to go back, though—before Somchit, yes, but before Krung Thep also, before the fortune-telling? Everything that had happened since was bad, a tangled mess of bad. Seven times bad, seven times good. Her grandmother had often repeated that proverb, which counseled optimism and jai yen, encouraging a long view of any situation, reminding that good always came along with the bad. This situation seemed no exception: Noi could come out of it reading and writing English. Daeng wasn’t exaggerating about the value of such skills: they could vault Noi to a Number One position. But first would have to come the medicine, and the two-hour lie. Maybe sometimes bad things had to happen, to make way for the good.
* * *
Noi took the breakfast tray up to Madame the next morning, pushing the door open into the cool, shuttered room. After setting the tray on the chest at the foot of the bed, she didn’t withdraw as she usually did. Instead, she went to kneel beside the bed on the side where Madame lay. Madame turned over toward her.
“Are the girls all right?” she said. Her voice thin as gossamer.
“Yes, Madame,” said Noi.
“Then whatever it is, Noi, you decide,” said Madame. She turned away, put her face into the pillow so that the next words were muffled. “Please. You decide.”
Noi sat back on her heels, then rose and left the room.
* * *
She went to Daeng, said, “If I am to lie, I need one promise: the farang must not find out.”
“That’s not a problem,” said Daeng. “I’ll tell the police you’re afraid for your job. They’ll believe that.” She smiled. “Good girl. You’ll see. This is the smart thing to do.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
BEA WAS taking down a book from the bookshelf on the landing outside the girls’ bedroom when she heard the bell from below. She peeked down the stairs and saw Daeng leading the Pinocchio policeman toward the party room, opening the door and ushering him in. Then Daeng ascended the staircase, went into the parents’ bedroom at the other end of the hall from where Bea stood. A few minutes later Daeng came out of the room with someone who had to be Mum, but who was almost unrecognizable. The woman who had told Bea Never greet the world looking less than your best was dim-faced without makeup, her hair in a braid, her eyes cupped with darkness. The two of them went down the stairs and into the party room; Daeng came out again and pulled the door almost closed but not quite, holding the doorknob and listening at the crack.
Nothing audible at first, and then Mum, loud. “You can’t do that!”
“I am very sorry,” said the policeman. “It is a strong alibi.” His voice devolved into an unintelligible murmur.
“They’re lying.” Mum’s voice arched up and cracked. “Whoever it is is lying to you.”
More murmurs; footsteps. Daeng pulled the party-room door shut and moved around the corner just before it opened again and the policeman emerged, with Beatrice’s parents behind him.
“I want him kept in custody,” said Mum, summoning a frail imperiousness.
“I am very sorry,” said the policeman again.
He made a somber wai, left the parents standing together in the foyer.
Mum turned to Dad. “You just stood there. Being polite.” Her eyes dry and bright. She put her hands onto his forearms, looked up into his face. “I can’t fix this,” she said. “You have to.” Her voice was harsh. “You have to do something. You need to be a man.” She was breathing hard between the words. “For once. This is the time.” Dad didn’t move, his eyes locked on hers. She repeated, still in that ugly voice, “This is the time.”
She drew away from him and went back up the stairs and into the parents’ bedroom, closed the door.
Bea crept down the stairs, went to the open party room door, and peeked in. There was a field of rubble in the near corner of the room, sharp shards and ceramic dust. From one of the larger pieces, still spinning slowly with the violence of its destruction, she recognized the pots her mother had loved. What had been precious, or merely priceless, was now worthless, beyond repair.
* * *
The doorbell went again later that afternoon. The girls were in their bedroom, Bea reading and Laura drawing at her desk. The bell rang a second time; Bea looked up. No footsteps from below. She laid a bobby pin in the book to keep her place and got down from the bed, went out to the landing. The house was deadly quiet. When the bell sounded a third time, she went down the stairs. She had never answered the door, but she’d never been told not to. She pulled the heavy door open by its central knob.
“Beatrice,” said the man on the front doorstep. “How are you?”
“Very well, thanks, and you?” It was a reflex, something that popped out of all of the Preston children when the proper trigger was given, just like Thank you for coming provoked Thank you for having me.
It was irritating that he would think she’d remember him, out of all of the adults she’d met in this house. It was obvious who she was, the only twelve-year-old at 9 Soi Nine. But then again, he was right, she did remember him; he was one of the men Daddy worked with, who sometimes came to the parties. He was charming like a cobra, her mother had said of him once, and butter wouldn’t melt.
“Where are your parents?” he said.
“Mum can’t be disturbed,” she said. Another stock response, used when Genevieve was having her bath.
“And your dad?”
Bea shrugged.
He looked up at the sky. “It looks like it might not rain again for a little,” he said. “Let’s go outside to the pool, shall we, and put our toes in the water.”
At poolside, they sat on the edge, a foot or so between them. Beatrice pulled her flip-flops off and set them beside her, and the man unlaced his shoes and set them side by side, pushed the rolls of his black socks into their oval mouths.
“There’s a car in your pool,” remarked the man.
“Our driver drove it in there last week.”
She lifted one foot in and out of the water, watching the drips falling from her toes. Water was clear when it dripped and blue when it all collected together, as if it could disguise its nature when isolated, but en masse some hidden essence was revealed.
“Are you and your sister all right?” asked the man. “Being fed properly, and all that?” Beatrice nodded. “Your mum and dad are very distracted right now.”
“They’re busy,” she said, leaving off the end two words finding Philip, because that’s what she very much wanted to believe. No matter what she’d overheard. If Beatrice let them focus on that, if she read all of the books in the house from start to finish and kept Laura quiet and occupied and didn’t ask any questions, they would find Philip and all would be well.
“Do you need anything?” asked the man.
This was more puzzling. Of course she wanted things—but was that the same as needing them? This man didn’t have the power to give Bea what she really wanted: Philip to come home, Mum to get out of bed, Dad to joke around the way he used to, pretending to take their allowance coins out of their ears.
She tucked her hands under her thighs and held her legs out straight, letting the water drip from her heels while she considered his question. There were water-walkers skating across the pool, and dragonflies hovering and darting. Two or three pieces of green swirled in the eddy Beatrice had created by lifting her feet; along the water’s edge where it lapped against the side of the pool a long clinging crust of white petals rose and fell. A little breeze kicked up, and more petals drifted from the trees to scatter themselves on the water.
“I want to help,” she said, finally.
“You’re very like your parents,” he said. She nodded: everyone always told her how much she resembled her mother. “You have your dad’s good heart.” That surprised her; she looked at him directly for the first time. “You’re old enough to understand this,” he said, and she wanted to stop up her ears, but instead held her breath to hear the rest. “It’s not going to go back the way it was,” he said. She let her breath out. “No matter what happens. It’s going to be different now.”
“He’s not coming back, is he?” she said in a small voice.
“We can hope,” he said.
He looked away to give Beatrice dignity while she cried.
“You’ll be all right,” he said. He put his arm around her. It wasn’t awkward, the way that it might be to have a grownup she hardly knew hug her. He smelled a little bit like her dad. He gave her a handkerchief to blow her nose, and took it back afterward with no hint of disgust at its burden of tears and snot. “Tuck this away,” he said, giving her a small ivory-colored card. She stared at the thick pasteboard. It had nothing on it but a telephone number and a mailing address. “If you get into difficulty, you can send a letter to that address, or call that number and ask for Uncle Todd, and I will get the message. I will help in any way I can. And I will always tell you the truth when you ask.”
She looked up at him, and realized what seemed wrong, what was missing. “Will you have a drink?” she said. Flooded with shame because she’d forgotten. In a clogged voice, she said, “The cook is out but I can make orange squash. And there’s bottles of things in the party room.” Too late, she remembered the mess of broken pottery, still lying there on the floor.
“Another time, perhaps,” he said. “You go look after your sister. I believe she’s alone in the house.”
* * *
After Mr. Todd left, Bea went in search of the gardener, found him out back sitting and chatting to Choy.
“We need to arrange for someone to remove the car from the swimming pool,” she said. “Can you do that, please, Kai?” He looked at her steadily for a few moments, then nodded. “After that, the swimming pool will need to be drained and cleaned.” As Kai put down the Coca-Cola he’d been drinking and got to his feet, she turned to Choy. “Will you please come with me to the house?”
She showed the Number Two the destruction in the party room; Choy went to get a broom. After the first sweeping, Bea passed a light hand over the tile and felt a grinding tumble under her palm. “A wet cloth will get up the sharp bits,” she said, and stood watching to be sure that it was done correctly, so the floor would be safe for Laura’s small bare feet.
She went upstairs again, past her mother’s closed door and into the girls’ bedroom, where Laura was playing on the floor. Bea got onto her own bed, opened the book she’d left there, slipped Uncle Todd’s card into the back of it, and lay down on her side to read. She’d turned only a few pages before looking up in annoyance to say, “Be quiet, you two.”
But it wasn’t two, it was only Laura, sitting on the round rug with a toy in each hand. She was making the toys talk to each other in small voices, the bristly stuffed fish whispering to the monkey, the monkey squeaking back. Was she playing both parts of a game meant for two? Laura and Philip had often played together. They were so much closer in age to each other than to Bea that it had almost been like having twin younger siblings. She watched for a few moments longer. Laura’s chin was curved and soft like a baby’s; her hands were so small.
“Let’s play paper dolls,” Bea suggested, closing the book.
“Really?” Laura got up immediately, abandoning the fish and the monkey. She ran to get the pad of paper while Bea drew two chairs up to her desk and set out the
colored pencils.
They spent the rest of the afternoon side by side, drawing and coloring outfits, carefully cutting them out. Folding the tabs over the paper ladies’ shoulders, they gave them stories: She’s going to the museum; She’s going to the zoo; Time for tennis! The events themselves were perfunctory, uninteresting: the preparation was all. Laura was completely absorbed, and Bea felt just the tiniest bit better, seeing her smile.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ANGER KEPT Genevieve awake after the policeman left; she went back to bed but couldn’t reenter the void she’d inhabited for a week. She wept bitterly, expecting Robert to appear, to sit by the bed and try to comfort her. She’d said terrible things to him; she would need to apologize. But he didn’t come and she lay alone through the afternoon and evening in a dull envelope of grief. The door opening, the smells of food from a dinner tray, the door opening again later, then closing; she didn’t move. The windows filled with darkness. She must finally have slumbered, because she was startled awake by the sudden stumbling shape of a man in the room. Truefitt & Hill No. 10 Finest, and a scent beneath it, one that activated some animal alarm in Genevieve and made her sit bolt upright: blood.
Robert fell onto his knees beside the bed, put his hands on the mattress, and dropped his head onto them. There was the source of the bleeding: his tattered, swollen hands. More like paws than the elegant hands she knew so well.
“What happened?” she said, resting her own smooth hand over the back of his neck. “What did you do?” He told her the whole long story in a hoarse whisper; she leaned close to hear. Halfway through she started to cry. He crawled up onto the bed and they wept together.
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