Cross Currents

by John Shors

  The pair twisted, and suddenly Niran was trapped underwater beneath her. Panicking, he grabbed her tank top and pulled himself up. The old fabric ripped, creating a hole from just below her collarbone to the middle of her belly. She yelled at him to let go, and he did, his smile and laughter gone. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said, lowering himself into the water. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t.”

  “You grabbed it!”

  “But you were drowning me!”

  Suchin looked back toward home, knowing that their mother would be upset. “She’s going to kill us.”

  “But it was an accident.”

  “So?”

  He finally sat up in the water. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “You think I do?”

  “What should we do?”

  Suchin started to yell at him, angry that she was always the one who had to find solutions, wishing as she sometimes did that she had an older sister instead of a little brother. “We need to get some money for a new shirt.”

  “How?”

  “Sell something to the tourists.”

  “Like a Frisbee?”

  “We don’t have a Frisbee, coconut brain, so how would we sell one?”

  “Oh. What about some rocks?”

  She threw up her hands. “Who’s going to buy rocks? You might. But you’re the only one.”

  He nodded, scratching at a mosquito bite on his leg. “We could sell them some drinks.”

  “No, but we can ask them to eat at our restaurant. See those foreigners down there? The ones who are scuba diving? Let’s tell them about the tuna Father speared today. It’s so big, and I bet they just saw some juicy ones swimming around. They’re probably hungry for tuna. Let’s say they can eat all they want for two hundred baht. If five or six of them come to our restaurant, Mother won’t be mad at us.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise that she’ll be mad if we don’t do anything. Is that good enough for you?”

  Standing up, he looked at the setting sun. “We’d better hurry.”

  “Here,” she replied, extending her hand. “I’ll do the talking. You just smile and be friendly. You’re good at that.”

  He nodded, taking a step toward the shore and then pausing. “Maybe we could find some flowers and some pretty shells. For her tables.”

  Suchin turned to him, smiling for the first time since her tank top ripped. “The sand must have fallen out of your head. What a great idea. She’s already got all her Christmas lights up. The prettier we can make her restaurant, the better. That way, when the tourists come for the tuna, they won’t believe how beautiful things are. They’ll be happy, and we’ll make a lot of money.”

  “And she won’t even care about your shirt.”

  “There’s my little brother. My little scientist. Now tell me, how many gills does a shark have?”

  “At least five on each side of its body.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’ll talk with the foreigners. You know where the pretty shells are. Find some. And remember those flowers we saw, on the trail to the lookout point?”

  “They were blue.”

  “Grab enough for each table and I’ll meet you back home. We’ll give her the shells and the flowers, and we’ll let her know about all the people who are coming to our restaurant. Then she’ll be happy.”

  “And busy.”

  Suchin smiled again. “Did you eat some of that seaweed and it made you smarter? Because you’re right—she’ll be so busy that she won’t even think about my ruined shirt.”

  Niran mused over where to find the best shells. They were usually on the other side of the island, on a small beach by the pier. Though he needed to hurry, he didn’t want to leave Suchin. He was happy to have made her smile. She was better than he was at so many things—at soccer, at English, and in school. He knew more about the ocean. But that was all.

  “I’ll eat some more seaweed tonight,” he said. “I promise.”

  She laughed. “Good. Eat it every day. Gobble it down like ice cream. Now go get those shells and flowers. I’ll do the rest.”

  Feeling light on his feet, he ran through the shallows, across the beach, toward the opposite side of the island. Soon he’d found his first shell. He thought about his mother as he searched, looking for beauty next to footprints, for treasures that so many people had walked past.

  AFTER THE SUN HAD DISAPPEARED, the bungalow felt like some sort of cocoon to Ryan. It was small and primitive, but also warm and comforting. A fan gyrated on the ceiling. A single naked lightbulb illuminated wooden walls and floorboards. A double bed occupied most of the available space, surrounded by a mosquito net that hung off to the side of the fan. The windblown net moved like the surface of the sea, full of restless waves.

  Lying on his back, Ryan studied the net as he and Brooke made love. He also watched her face and eyes, of course, but the net sometimes appeared to mimic the rise and fall of their bodies. The tropical heat seemed to intensify the friction between them, sweat coating their skin, dripping from their brows and chests. So much sweat should have made the experience even more intimate, but Ryan felt only the physical connection between them. He moved with her, shuddered with her, but mostly looked at the net, watching it ripple, wondering what it would be like to sleep under a net every night of his life. In some ways, he envied the Thais. From what he had observed, their roles seemed so clearly defined. The men fished and worked on their boats. The women cooked and watched the children. Ryan had never known what to do with Brooke. His father had always taken care of his mother, and Ryan had hoped to do the same with Brooke. She had wounds and he wanted to shelter her. But she’d never seemed interested in being sheltered.

  She cried out, dropping onto his chest, their movements frenzied. He held her tight as desire tore away his thoughts, made him forget who he was. His body continued to rush forward, elevating him to a summit that he never wanted to descend. But descend he did, gasping, becoming aware of her weight, of the damp sheets. He kissed her, tasted salt on her lips, and she pushed her hair back and shifted to his side.

  They didn’t speak. The fan hummed, and creatures beeped and croaked outside. Ryan had never heard such sounds and wondered what could make them. Tropical frogs, perhaps? Some sort of strange birds? Whatever created the noises, he was comforted by the harmony of the night.

  Though he wanted to step outside and listen, he decided that since he was already sweaty, he might as well do a few push-ups first. After kissing Brooke again, he put on his boxers, slipped out from under the net, dropped face-first to the floor, and began to thrust himself up and down. He felt full of strength, buoyed by lovemaking, aware that it had the opposite effect on Brooke, but wanting to rid himself of the two beers he’d consumed at dinner. He had eaten too much as well—mounds of fried rice and slices of raw tuna. The restaurant had been abuzz with feasting tourists, the liveliness somehow contagious.

  “Why can’t you just lie here and listen?” Brooke asked, out of his sight.

  “I want to listen with you. Outside. But just let me do a few reps first.”

  She didn’t respond, and he continued with his push-ups. He did two sets of fifty. Then, dripping sweat, he changed into his swimsuit. “Let’s go,” he said, lifting the net for her.

  After putting on her bikini, she followed him outside, walking toward the shoreline. The sea was so warm she wondered if she’d stop sweating. Moving farther from the beach, she finally lay back in the water and, floating, studied the countless stars. They sparkled like diamonds and hinted of wealth, yet they were free for everyone to enjoy. Inland, the beat of techno music contrasted with the sounds of the jungle creatures. The smell of roasting seafood drifted over her. The water was so still that it was easy to float on her back, and she stretched her arms above her head, breathing deeply.

  “I’m sorry . . . about bailing on you today,” Ryan said, standing next to her, chest-deep in the water.

  “It’s all right.”

&nb
sp; “But, you know, you really need to support me with Patch. I didn’t bring you here to stand against me.”

  She kicked away from him. “You didn’t bring me anywhere. I brought myself.”

  “Wait. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “That’s exactly how you meant it.”

  He reached for her hand, holding it. “That came out wrong. Really wrong. And I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Sometimes you sound like you do,” she replied, letting him hold her even though she was tempted to swim away.

  “I don’t.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “So why . . . why do we do it?”

  She saw the lights of a plane heading east, toward the mainland. “Because . . . we both want more. We’re unfulfilled.”

  “What do you want? What can I give you that you don’t have?”

  The plane disappeared. “I don’t know,” she answered, still floating on her back. “But sometimes . . . sometimes I’m right next to you, but I feel like you’re a thousand miles away. And I don’t think that’s normal. It’s not good.”

  He lowered more of his body into the water. “I’m busy. I’m thinking about things. Like school. Like my future.”

  “See? You say ‘my future.’ Why don’t you say ‘our future’?”

  “That’s not—”

  She stood up, facing him. “But that’s it, Ryan. That’s totally it. You want to look after me. I know that. But at the end of the day, really, it’s all about you. It’s about what you want. You want to look after me, but you don’t consider my future. It’s like . . . if my plans line up with yours, great. But if they don’t, you’ll just go ahead by yourself. Follow your own agenda.”

  “Just because I work hard and want to succeed doesn’t mean that I’m some sort of selfish jackass.”

  She nodded, dropping lower into the water. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that. Of course you’re not. But you have your own way of doing things. Your own methodology. Just like with Patch. Have you really thought about the situation from his perspective? Have you? He’s scared. He doesn’t want to go to prison, and I don’t blame him. Why should he have to suffer so much for one idiotic mistake?”

  Ryan ran his hands through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck. “You shouldn’t have disagreed with me in public, in front of him.”

  “Why don’t you stop living in the eighteenth century? I’m not wearing a corset, am I?”

  “Brooke . . .”

  “I’m going to speak my mind. Every time. That’s who I am, and it’s not going to change.”

  “And you think it’s appropriate to speak your mind in front of him? In front of someone you barely know? You think that’s helpful to me? When I know him a million times better than you do?”

  At the far end of the beach, someone started a longboat’s engine. The low sound of the rumbling contraption carried over the water, mixing with the cacophony of island noises.

  “I love him, you know,” Ryan continued. “I worry about him all the time. I don’t want him to suffer in some crappy jail either. If I could get him safely out of here, I would. But I can’t.”

  “Would you get me out?”

  “Get you out? You wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “You don’t know that. What if I do something stupid? What if I do something like what Patch did? Would you turn me in, or would you risk everything to help me escape?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  She shook her head. “That’s the problem with us. Right there. Because I’d risk everything to help you. I would.”

  “I—”

  “And that doesn’t make me better than you. Not a bit. But it makes us different. And it puts space between us.”

  Ryan avoided her eyes, looking past their bungalow to the restaurant, which glowed from hundreds of holiday lights. During dinner he’d seen Patch help their hostess with a faulty strand of lights, seen how the children sought to gain his attention. “You make me sound so shallow,” he finally replied. “And that makes me sad.”

  “I don’t mean it that way. I wouldn’t be with you if I thought you were shallow.”

  “You’re not with me.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “You don’t know me as well as you think you do. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” He bit his lower lip. “If I’d been there . . . that night . . . I would have helped you.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “I would have. Just remember that.”

  She looked away, not wanting to talk about her past. “I think we want different things. Things maybe we can’t give to each other.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s no one’s fault. But that’s the way it is. Like it’s in our DNA.”

  He watched her, standing still, not two feet from him but seeming to fade away. He didn’t want her to go, but he didn’t really want her to stay either. In some ways she was right—he needed to walk his own path, to move toward a future of his own making. Only in such a place would he be happy, which would allow him to make his loved ones happy.

  Though he cared about Brooke, he knew with increasing certainty that he needed to let her go. He’d hoped that Thailand would bring them closer together, but he felt only farther removed from her. Their differences seemed to be heightened rather than diminished by the stress of Patch’s situation. At a time when they should be of one mind and purpose, they were drifting away from each other.

  “Do you think the stars feel far apart?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, they’re millions of miles apart, but if you look up . . . they seem right next to each other.”

  She gazed above. “I think they feel close together. I think they always have.”

  “Me too. Lucky, aren’t they?”

  “Definitely.”

  Nodding, he continued to study the sky, wondering if someday he might look upon himself and another woman and see such a beautiful proximity.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 21

  eyes of the island

  Aware that a full day lay ahead of him, Patch had awoken at dawn, hurried into the village, and sent his parents an email letting them know that everything was fine. Though his typing was rushed and peppered with mistakes, he had been as detailed as possible, telling them he’d gone swimming several times with Ryan and Brooke, and how they’d spoken about his options. He had tried to sound optimistic, though in the past few days confusion had seemed to be his most constant emotional companion.

  Now, as he sat beside the path and laid bricks, he thought about what Ryan had said. He wondered, as he had on many occasions, whether he ought to just give up and turn himself in. He had committed a crime, had hurt someone, and felt that a debt needed to be paid. If only he could talk with the police officer he’d punched, tell him about his guilt and regret and longing to make amends. He felt confident he’d be able to redeem himself to this man, if given the chance. He’d spend a month helping him work on his home, or assisting one of his family members with some sort of pressing problem, or doing whatever was needed. But, much to his dismay, such an opportunity wouldn’t come to him. His redemption, which would be gained through incarceration, would be a painful, dangerous, and humiliating affair.

  Smoothing out the sand with his trowel, Patch tried to quell his mounting anxiety as he prepared to position more bricks. As he had hundreds of times before, he wondered what a Thai prison would be like. He’d be alone and vulnerable. And while his status as an American might help him in some ways, it might also lead to jealousy among the other inmates. Maybe he’d be attacked. Maybe the police officer he’d injured would bribe someone to exact his revenge.

  Even if Patch was never hurt while in prison, he knew that he’d emerge a changed person. Living in a cage would cast a shadow within him, a shadow that would darken his spirit. Much of this darkness would stem from the embarrassment that he’d cause his par
ents. Their friends would whisper. The local newspaper would write a story. And his parents would wonder what they did wrong.

  Patch closed his eyes, silently assailing himself for his stupidity, for putting himself in such an appalling position. He set down a brick and squeezed his fists, wishing that he could reverse time, return to Bangkok, and follow a different path.

  “You sure you have enough bricks?”

  Patch looked up, surprised to see Ryan standing nearby. His older brother wore a swimsuit that appeared to have been starched, as well as a Hawaiian-style shirt. Ryan’s short, spiked hair was tousled and held in place with styling gel. His sunglasses were perched on top of his forehead. He held his iPod.

  “I don’t know,” Patch finally replied. “I think I have enough. I hope so.”

  Ryan could tell by the length and width of what remained to be covered with bricks that Patch needed more supplies. But he nodded. “What you’ve finished . . . it looks good. Really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I thought I’d go write Mom and Dad. Let them know what we’re up to.”

  “I just did.”

  “Oh. What’d you tell them?”

  Patch started working again. “Just that we’ve been talking. That it’s great to see you.”

  “You said that?”

  “Of course. It’s true.”

  Ryan handed Patch a brick, wondering if Brooke was still asleep, and if he should bring her a cup of coffee. She’d been up for much of the night, turning and twisting, sweating under the wobbly fan. He’d tried to talk with her, but clearly she was more interested in her own thoughts. And so he had slept.

  Setting the brick down, Patch looked up. “The children who live here don’t have much, but they’re happy.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “I was thinking about building them a tree house, next to their soccer field. There’s some sort of big old tree and it would be easy to build on.”

  Ryan thought about the tree house that he and Patch had built with their father. It still remained, twenty feet off the ground in an oak tree behind their childhood home. “You always liked our fort, didn’t you?”