by John Shors
Ryan turned toward her. “Sure.”
“Let’s . . . let’s take a hiatus from this conversation. Just for tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re tired from our trip, and we’ve got plenty of time to talk.”
“Being tired has never stopped me from doing anything. And I’m sure as hell not too tired to talk about this. And we’re going to talk about it, Patch. We’re going to talk about it until you do the right thing.”
Brooke watched the fire juggler, wondering if he ever burned his hands, if he lived with pain on a daily basis. She turned to Patch. “I don’t blame you . . . for thinking about escape. And I don’t blame you for what happened. Neither does Ryan.”
“Thanks.”
She was going to ask Patch about what there was to do on the island, but then Ryan ignored her request, as he sometimes did, and started to once again pressure Patch to turn himself in. Putting her head down, she swam out into deeper water. She surfaced and studied the stars, thinking that each star had a history, and that somehow each history now included her.
The starlight comforted her, soothing her pains, her memories. She began to tread water, looking for constellations, for ancient gods and goddesses who were shown to her when she was a little girl, when life had been simple and she could be carried away by the sight of bright figures on a dark page.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 20
the beauty of others
Lek followed Suchin and Niran to the soccer field he had built long ago, in what seemed another life. In that life he was young, he hadn’t hurt his hip, and his children didn’t exist yet. In some ways, this earlier life was easier—certainly less painful, and full of exuberance. But now he was aware of a deeper meaning each morning when he awoke and watched his sleeping children. Their dreams had become his dreams. He shared their joys and sorrows. He realized with greater and greater conviction that his children were his footprints, his legacy. And though he still thought about himself and his pain, more often than not he focused on Suchin and Niran. His children and Sarai were, by far, the most important pieces of his life. And as long as his children had better lives, had more opportunities than he did, he would be content when he eventually faced death.
Tossing their old, frayed soccer ball toward the field, Lek watched Suchin and Niran hurry after it. He smiled. Mornings like this, when the field was empty and the other children were getting ready for school, comprised some of his best memories. Several times a week he played soccer with Suchin and Niran, laughing, feeling the sand beneath his feet.
About to step onto the field, Lek noticed Patch carrying some bricks to the far end of the path. Lek called out quietly, motioning for Patch to join them, which he often did. He set down the bricks, waved, and jogged over.
“You sleep good?” Lek asked in halting English, watching the sweat roll down Patch’s face, wondering how long he’d already been working.
“Just fine, thanks.”
“Sheet okay?”
“I didn’t even notice it. Really, it isn’t a big deal.”
Lek smiled. “Maybe some soccer? Then work?”
“Sure. That sounds great.”
“That make children happy.”
Patch said good morning to Suchin and Niran in Thai, then jogged toward the center of the sandy field. As usual, the teams would be Lek and Patch against the children. Since Lek couldn’t run, he played goalie. Either of the children could do the same, depending on who was closest to the goal when Patch was threatening to score.
Suchin nudged Patch as Niran set the ball down. “I would be afraid to play your big brother. But not you.” She giggled, pushing him again. “Why did he get all the muscles in your family?”
“Why did you get all the sassiness in yours?”
“Sassiness?”
“It means that you can be naughty . . . in a silly sort of way.”
“You’re the naughty boy, Patch, to say such a thing. I am a sweet little girl. I was just thinking that maybe you need to lift some coconuts or something to get stronger. Maybe you could do some push-downs.”
“Push-ups. They’re called push-ups.”
“You need to do a lot of push-ups, I think. Maybe a thousand.”
“Thanks.”
“Want to hear a joke?”
“Sure.”
“Why do whales live in salt water?”
“Why?”
“Because pepper makes them sneeze.”
Patch smiled, shaking his head. “That’s a good one.”
Niran kicked the ball toward his father. “I’m playing,” he said, knowing that Suchin would tell Patch joke after joke unless the game began.
Patch pushed Suchin behind him and hurried to catch Niran, who had a good start. Though Niran wasn’t skilled at dribbling, Patch didn’t run his fastest, so Niran had a clear shot at the goal. The ball rose and ricocheted off Lek’s belly, prompting Suchin to laugh and Niran to gather the rebound with the side of his foot, and kick again, scoring this time.
“Goal!” he shouted, as his father pretended to angrily throw the ball toward the center of the field.
Niran laughed. “Did you use your real power?” he asked his father in Thai.
“Of course I did. Those were two strong kicks. But you won’t be so lucky next time.”
Smiling, Niran headed toward the middle of the field.
Lek watched Patch kick the ball toward the opposite goal. Suchin and Niran converged on him, pushing him, cheating in any way they could. As the children giggled and Patch tried to keep them at bay, Lek grinned, kneeling in front of his goal, the pain in his hip forgotten. Niran jumped onto Patch’s back, and Suchin turned around, heading toward her father, the ball bouncing back and forth between her feet. As he had with Niran, Lek let her score, diving toward the ball as it crossed the imaginary goal line. She shrieked and he tossed a handful of sand in her direction.
The game continued for another ten minutes, at which point Sarai called to the children. They hurried home, where they would rinse off and put on their school uniforms. Sarai and Achara would then accompany them to school—Achara in a sling on Sarai’s back, Suchin and Niran circumventing baggage carts and lost tourists.
After his children disappeared, Lek stood up, brushing sand from his knees. “Good kicking,” he said to Patch.
“Will they always beat us?” Patch asked, smiling.
“Yes, I think so.”
Patch put his hand on the goal’s bamboo frame. “Thanks for letting me play.”
“My children, they like you. I like you.”
“The feeling’s mutual.”
“What?”
“Oh. Sorry. I feel the same way.”
Lek noticed that Patch’s fingers were scratched, probably from laying so many bricks. “I never have foreign friend before,” he said. “It good for me.”
“It’s good for me too.”
“When you help me, you let me help my wife. This very wonderful thing. My wife, she work so hard.”
“I know. I see her working hard every day.”
“Can I help you?” Lek asked, wondering, as he often did, what kind of trouble Patch faced.
“What?”
“You help me. Can I help you?”
“No, that’s okay. My brother’s here now. And he’s going to help me.”
“That good. Family always come first in Thailand. Always. Same in America?”
“Yeah. It’s the same.”
“Then America must be beautiful country.”
“It is.”
Lek picked up the ball and started to limp toward the bungalows, his hip hurting again. “Two days ago, what you say to those Italian boys?”
“I . . . I don’t remember, exactly. I just . . . I asked them to thank Sarai for the beer.”
Smiling, Lek slowed his already sluggish pace. “I see you talk with them. And later, I see them be nice to her. That make me happy.”
“Well, they should have thanked her
.”
“You stay here long time, Patch. Almost five months now?”
“Almost.”
“So, now you like part of my family. So if you have trouble, then that trouble, it become my trouble.”
“I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“No, I no mean it like that. I mean, if you have trouble, then I help you with trouble. You understand? You part of my family. So I help you with trouble, just like I help Suchin or Niran.”
Patch stopped, turning toward Lek. “You’d really help me?”
“Family, as I say before, most important thing in Thailand. So, yes, I help you. You let me know what you need, and I help you as best as possible.”
Still not moving, Patch watched Lek limp ahead, toward the restaurant. He moved so slowly, like some sort of crippled animal. Yet Lek was strong and noble, and Patch felt honored by what he had said. He’d never expected to become a part of any family beyond his own, and Lek’s words echoed in his mind.
At that moment, Patch realized that he’d do anything for Lek’s family. He’d protect them if they needed protecting. He’d listen to them if they needed to be heard. Forgetting his thoughts of escape or capture, he headed toward a pile of bricks, his battered fingers soon lifting and positioning, lifting and positioning.
As tourists started to head toward the beach, as music surged to life in a distant place, Patch continued to work, wanting to watch Lek walk upon the finished path, hoping it might help him walk easier.
AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER CHILDREN TO school, Sarai hurried back to Rainbow Resort and entered a small bungalow that contained her washing machine and supplies. Hanging from one wall were ropes, a fishing net, electrical cords, brooms, tools, and strands of holiday lights. Hoping there were no broken bulbs, Sarai carefully removed the holiday lights and carried them to her restaurant.
Seated at a bamboo table near the fish tank at the end of the bar, Yai held Achara and rubbed coconut oil into her skin. Achara was naked, her plump body glistening, her hair spiked upward from the oil. Yai’s wide face also shone, as did her hands and forearms. She sang softly as she rubbed Achara’s feet, working the oil between her toes.
“She’s going to drown in that,” Sarai said, setting the strands of lights on a table, stroking her daughter’s cheek.
“Have you seen her sweet little bottom? It’s as red as your peppers.”
“I’ve stopped eating them.”
“Her bottom needs to breathe. She’ll go naked until the rash is gone.”
Sarai nodded, whispering Achara’s name and apologizing for the rash. “I noticed it too late. I should have let her sleep naked.”
“Well, she’s naked now,” Yai replied, balancing Achara on her own thigh. “And what are you doing with those lights? How many headaches do they have to give your old mother before you do away with them?”
“The children like the Christmas decorations. And so do the tourists.”
“And what about me? Do my headaches count for nothing? Why would I want to see a thousand blinking lights?”
Sarai squeezed Achara’s fingers, then began untangling the strands. “I like them too. They make me happy.”
“Are you suddenly Christian?”
“I should have gotten these up earlier,” Sarai said, plugging a strand into a socket, smiling when all of the bulbs lit up. “I’ve never been so late. But with Lek slowing down, even with Patch’s help, there’s too much for me to do.”
“Maybe you should wrap that strand around your head. Pretend to be one of their angels. Then you’d really be in the Christmas spirit.”
Sarai began to coil the strand around a nearby post that supported the roof. “See? It’s already brightening things up.”
“You and your lights. And your candles. Don’t we already have enough light? The sun cooks me alive every day, and now I’ve got a thousand little suns in here. Why, sweet Buddha, why do you allow my daughter to torment me?”
“Buddha and Jesus weren’t so different, you know. Why shouldn’t we celebrate both?”
Achara began to fuss, and Yai cradled her so that she could blow on her sore bottom. “They’ll see us from space when you’re done. Is that what you want?”
“She’s tired. It’s time for her nap.”
“Mine too.”
“You’re so good at napping,” Sarai replied, picking up another strand and walking toward a nearby railing. “Too bad you can’t get paid for it. We’d be rich.”
“And what would you do with such wealth? Buy more Christmas lights? Light up the whole island?”
“Maybe. Just to work you into a sweat.”
“Sweet Buddha. My daughter has turned into a mosquito. All she wants to do is torment me. Please send a bat our way. A bat to gobble her up.”
Sarai laughed, wrapping the strand around the railing, thankful that its lights also worked. “You’ll see. The lights will bring us more customers. They always do.”
“Just watching you work makes my back ache. How did I ever raise such a daughter? It’s like you have eight arms. Do you have to always move so fast? If I wanted to watch an octopus, I’d have Niran catch one for his tank.”
“Maybe if you moved at all, I wouldn’t have to.”
Yai frowned, still blowing on Achara’s diaper rash. “Moving is for the young. Old things always stay put. Did you ever see a rock move? Or a hill?”
“The ocean moves. And it’s even older than you. At least by a day or two.”
“Oh, Buddha, why give me such a daughter? How did I offend you? Forgive me, please. Have mercy.”
“Why don’t you go nap? She’s getting fussier.”
“She wants to defend me,” Yai said, standing up with a grunt. “She’s had enough of your foul behavior. If only she could speak. She’d save me. I know she would.”
Sarai stepped toward her mother, kissing Achara on the brow. “You’ll love my lights,” she whispered. “Just wait until tonight. You’ll see them and smile.”
Yai rolled her eyes. “I’m going to tie you up with them next year.”
“Sleep well, Mother. Thanks for soothing her rash.”
“She’s a beautiful girl.”
“She is.”
“Are you sure she’s yours? There must have been a mix-up.”
Sarai tried to suppress her smile, picking up another strand, moving to a different railing. She turned, watching her mother walk away, wishing that they had more time to talk, that there weren’t so many things to do. In a life comprising seemingly countless uncertainties, her mother was like a song that Sarai had sung since birth. She could hum this song when she was tired. She could sing it when her spirits were low.
Wanting to make her restaurant as beautiful as possible, Sarai continued to work, uncoiling strands of lights, wrapping them around posts and railings and beams. That night, she thought, her restaurant would shine, casting light on her customers and her loved ones, letting them all sing their own little songs and celebrate their blessings.
PATCH LED RYAN AND BROOKE toward the longboat, watching miniature crabs scurry ahead. The crabs reminded him of running, of darting through Bangkok’s alleys as strangers pursued him. Sweat beaded on his back, and the pace of his breathing quickened. He saw himself in a crowded jail surrounded by hostile eyes, powerless to do anything but hope. Suddenly he felt hot and almost claustrophobic. Everything seemed too close to him, too ominous.
A ship, he thought. I have to find a ship.
As usual, Patch was dressed like a Thai in an old swimsuit, a frayed blue T-shirt, sandals, and a baseball cap. He didn’t own sunglasses. Ryan had on the latest styles and brands—a checkered Billabong swimsuit and a tan Tommy Bahama shirt that identified him as a tourist. Instead of a cap, he wore aviator sunglasses. His face shone with sunscreen. His shirtsleeves were short enough that tattoos could be seen on each of his formidable biceps. The tattoos were of Chinese characters. One meant “dreams,” and the other “resolve.”
Patch remembere
d how Ryan had gotten the tattoos, seemingly in an effort to fit in with the teammates of his high school football team, most of whom had them. Though Patch had never liked Ryan’s tattoos, he’d never told him as much. He didn’t think Ryan cared for them either.
Holding Ryan’s hand, Brooke appeared to try to slow him down. Her legs were covered by a multicolored sarong she’d purchased that morning, which was wrapped around her hips, hiding the bottom half of her violet bikini. Her pink Race for the Cure baseball cap shaded her face, though she also wore oversize tortoiseshell sunglasses.
When Patch had met Brooke and Ryan a short time earlier, he had forced himself to pretend that so much of her body wasn’t revealed. That her full breasts hadn’t drawn his gaze. That her bare belly and arms and shoulders went almost unnoticed. He had concentrated on her face, his eyes locked on hers whenever she spoke, but otherwise settled on his brother.
Patch knew that Ryan wanted to talk privately, so he had asked Lek if he could borrow the longboat, which Lek mainly used to take tourists on sightseeing forays to nearby islands and reefs. Lek had shown Patch how to operate the boat, and occasionally he assumed Lek’s place on expeditions, navigating the azure waters, talking to tourists, and wondering if such a boat could survive an extended journey at sea.
The sand was already hot, and Patch stepped into the shallows. Lek’s boat resembled most of the other vessels on the island. About thirty feet long, it was made of wood and featured an upturned bow. A curved beam jutted several feet from the front of the bow and was wrapped with leis of plastic flowers. Blue, white, and red ribbons—the colors of the Thai flag, and each as wide as a hand—had been tied around the beam and fell almost to the water. On the side of the boat, someone had written Rainbow Resort in white paint. Above the lettering and gunwale, a blue canopy, wrapped around a rusty steel frame, cast a large shadow. An open engine featured a long driveshaft that could be swung to and fro over the water by a steering pole. This design allowed the two-bladed propeller to be positioned on the surface of the sea or just below it, enabling the boat to be driven in shallow water.