Cross Currents (22 page)

“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

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 she 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.”

“What else? She gave me this incredible massage for almost nothing. Should I bring her something?”

“No, that's too much. Too fast. In Bangkok, that might work. But here, the women are more traditional. They move a lot slower.”

Ryan cracked his knuckles, a nervous habit he'd had since childhood. “So what should I do?”

“Well, it's raining out. It's a great day for a long massage. Just go back. Spend a couple of hours with her and see if she still makes you laugh.”

“And nothing else?”

“Anything else would be too much. At least for now.” Patch spun the football again. “Why her? Why do you want to hurry back to her?”

Ryan remembered how Dao had looked after him, taking his clothes, folding them neatly. He'd always tried to shelter women, to watch over them, to think about their needs. But he'd never had a girlfriend take his shirt and fold it as if it were wrapping paper. He'd never felt a woman's fingers in the small of his back, kneading a knot of muscle until it loosened. He thought about telling Patch these things but guessed that his little brother would look at him the way Brooke did—as if he were too old-fashioned to live in this century.

“I just like how she made me feel,” Ryan finally replied.

Patch nodded. “I understand.”

“You do?”

“Just go back there, after breakfast. Be sure to wipe the sand from your feet, to make her job easier. If she's as beautiful as you say, she's probably had a hundred
farang
—I mean foreigners—tell her the same thing. So don't get stuck on that. Tell her something else.”

“Like what?”

“Ask about her family, her brothers and sisters. Thais love to talk about their families. Ask how to thank her in Thai. How you should address her mother, if you met her on a path. Things like that.”

Ryan smiled, reaching for the football, pulling it from Patch's hands. “You sure you want to tell me all your tricks?”

“Oh, I'll keep a few to myself. Don't worry.”

“Like you did in high school?”

“I told you everything in high school. Besides, it sounds like you don't need any help with her.”

“You're not going to steal her, are you? If she gets wind of you, I won't have a chance.”

“Don't say that.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance and the grin faded from Ryan's face. “It's complicated, isn't it?”

“What?”

“Life.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“For you it's not? Even with all that's going on?”

Patch turned his face upward, letting the raindrops find him. “I just don't want regrets. When I'm old. I think about that. How I'll be dying in bed someday, and I don't want to look back at my life and feel regret. That'd be the worst. To know that you could have had something incredible and that you screwed it all up.”

“So sneaking out of Thailand—you don't think you'd regret that?”

“If I had turned myself in, you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be asking me about some pretty girl.”

“Dao. Her name is Dao.”

Patch took the football back. “Why'd you bring this all the way from home?”

“Because . . . I knew we'd fight. And I wanted to do something with you other than fight.”

Stepping back, Patch lobbed the football to Ryan, who caught it with one hand. “Always the show-off,” Patch said, grinning, still backpedaling. “All right, Mr. Montana. Show me what you can do.”

Ryan laughed, threw the ball high, and watched Patch catch it and run backward. The distance between the brothers increased. The warm rain continued to fall, leaving dimples in the sand. The football sailed and dropped in great arcs, spinning as it flew, connecting the two boys as it always had, a relic of good, sweet days long since past. Days gone, but hardly forgotten.