Cross Currents (6 page)

“Mother's waiting,” Lek interjected, stepping toward the game. Suchin passed the ball to one of her teammates, waved good-bye, and turned toward her father. Niran started to do the same but saw that a small hermit crab had wandered onto the field. He bent down, picked it up, and hurried toward the restaurant, placing the crab near the corner of the structure.

Lek complimented his children on the game, smiling as he followed them toward the kitchen. Set in the back of the restaurant, the kitchen was a cinder-block room about five paces long and three paces wide. Much of the room was dominated by full-length, stainless-steel countertops. Piles of diced onions, tomatoes, garlic cloves, lemongrass, mushrooms, and baby corn occupied one area, as did a mound of fresh shrimp, and a large barracuda that Lek and Niran had killed with their spear gun. In the back of the room, a four-burner gas stove held a wok and a large pot.

Sitting in the corner of the room was the children's grandmother, whom they called Yai. Achara, naked and wide-eyed, lay between Yai's thighs. Yai seemed as large as Achara appeared small. Dressed in a loose-fitting purple sarong and a white cotton blouse, Yai leaned back in her chair and smiled at the sight of Suchin and Niran. “Did you brush yourselves off?” she asked. “Your mother can't have two specks of sand in her kitchen. One might be fine, but definitely not two.”

Suchin glanced at her grandmother's wide and full face, surprised that her gray hair was peeking from beneath the red cloth that she liked to wrap around the top of her head. “I shook myself clean; I promise.”

“Like a dog after a bath?”

“I did.”

“And you, Niran?”

“What?”

“Did you do some good shaking?”

Niran had been thinking of a shark he'd seen when they were trying to find a tuna and, without answering his grandmother, stepped back outside and brushed the sand from his feet, knees, and elbows. He reentered the kitchen and saw that his mother was adding noodles, vegetables, and slices of pineapple to a longhandled wok, which sizzled above a strong fire. As he often did when in the kitchen with the women, Niran leaned against the far wall, watching. He would have been happy to slice up the barracuda or to help in some way, but no one cooked except his mother, which was how she liked it.

Bending over, Suchin picked up her baby sister, holding her casually, burping her without thought. Suchin's hands pressed against Achara's naked bottom and back, keeping Achara firmly positioned against her own belly and chest. She wished her father and brother had caught a tuna or a lobster, knowing that her mother would flavor their meal with pieces of the bony and bland barracuda.

“How was your day?” her mother asked, holding the handle of the sizzling wok, flipping the ingredients with a toss of her wrist.

“We sold fourteen drinks,” Suchin answered, continuing to pat her sister's back.

“I know. A very impressive number.”

Yai rose slowly from her chair, moving to a cutting board. “You've done well, Suchin. But I'll tell you what's even more impressive.”

“What?”

“Try watching your mother run around like a headless chicken all day. Now, that's impressive.”

Turning down the heat beneath the wok, Sarai rolled her eyes. “Impressive is how that body of yours continues to get bigger. Day after day after day.”

“I like being fat,” Yai replied. “It's my excuse for not working.”

“What was your excuse ten years ago?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“That's right. Watching you move so fast made me tired. Just like it does today.”

Sarai began to dish up plates of steaming food for her children. “I didn't know that someone could sit for so long. Doesn't your bottom hurt?”

“Oh, it's nothing that—”

“Or maybe that's why you like all that padding. So you can sit in comfort, no matter where you go.”

“Padding is good. Nothing wrong with having a built-in cushion.”

Suchin grinned as her mother and grandmother continued to tease each other, as they often did. She followed her mother out into the restaurant and sat down at a table in the corner. Niran sat across from her, the small hermit crab in his hands once again. He set the crab on the floor, aiming it toward the nearby railing and beach.

Dinner was vegetables, pineapple, and barracuda flavored with a sweet-and-sour sauce. A mound of steamed white rice also rose on the children's plates. Niran began to eat, pleased to see Patch in the opposite corner, waiting patiently for his food. Patch ate whatever the children ate—rarely shrimp or tuna, but plenty of delicious food. Niran smiled when Patch waved, then turned back to his food, wanting to finish it before the hermit crab escaped.

A few minutes passed and then a group of four Italian tourists walked to one of the low outdoor tables on the beach, dropping down on the colorful tapestry spread under the table, stretching out and talking loudly. Patch watched the young men with interest, as they had been renting two bungalows for several days now, and often were noisy and borderline obnoxious. He was amazed at how many Singha beers they could consume in a night, bottles gathering around them like spent artillery shells.

Sarai placed Patch's dinner in front of him, and he put his hands together, bowing slightly. He thanked her in Thai, adding in English that her meal looked delicious.

“I so excited for your path,” she answered, grinning, her English less refined than her children's.

“Thanks. I think it will be nice.”

“You are nice, Patch. Nicer than my food.”

“No way. Impossible.”

She laughed, stepping away from him and toward the Italians, who were calling out for more beer. Patch watched her hurry toward them, as if their order might disappear if her feet didn't move fast enough. He wondered what Niran and Suchin thought of their mother so quickly rushing to meet the needs of foreigners—probably nothing, having witnessed such scenes since birth.

Sarai took the order, then walked behind the bar and removed four oversize Singha bottles from an old-fashioned, tablelike refrigerator. Patch watched her, then picked up his spoon and began to eat. As usual, the food was fresh, light, and delicious. He'd smashed his thumb laying a brick, so using the spoon required patience. Eating slowly, he thought about what his brother might be doing in Bangkok. He had been surprised to learn that Ryan was planning to bring his girlfriend, Brooke, whom Patch didn't know. She'd met their parents only once.

Though Patch was a year younger than Ryan, he had more experience with women, was more interested in them. Sports and academics had always come first for Ryan, while women often seemed an afterthought. Patch saw the world from the opposite perspective. To him, relationships were his prize possessions, and forming them was his chief aim in life. Good grades, career success, and other such achievements were of secondary importance.

One of the Italians belched, and Patch glanced in the group's direction. The sand near their table was already littered with beer bottles. To the west, the setting sun illuminated the bay with the colors of a campfire. The bay was almost empty. Most travelers had left the beach, though a few still swam and tossed a Frisbee.

The beauty surrounding him made Patch think about the inside of a jail cell. He'd waste away in such a place. Though Ryan would certainly be able to endure a year in a Thai prison, Patch knew that he couldn't. The loneliness of such an existence would suffocate him, as would the knowledge of the humiliation that he'd brought upon his family. Better to roll the dice and gamble on a voyage to India, as outlandish as it seemed. It would be far better for his parents if he stowed away on a ship for a few weeks than if the local newspaper wrote stories about his imprisonment in Thailand.

The Italians called again to Sarai, who appeared in less than a minute. Patch saw her quickly assess the mess that her guests had created. The turquoise tapestry, which he knew she had carefully washed and ironed, was covered with sand. The flowers she'd set in a small vase had been dumped out so that the vase could accommodate cigarette butts.

Patch saw Sarai smile and nod, and he was suddenly aware of her predicament, of how she wouldn't want her children to see drunk tourists or her efforts to set a pretty table defiled. Yet she had to please her guests, regardless of her dignity.

After finishing his meal, Patch said good night to Suchin and Niran. He left the indoor part of the restaurant and walked toward the beach, kneeling on the sand when he arrived at the Italians' table. “Hi,” he said, his hands on his thighs.

The smallest of the foursome, who had curly, shoulder-length black hair, nodded. “Hello.”

“Do you mind if I have a smoke?”

The Italian pulled a cigarette from a pack, passing it and a lighter to Patch. “Enjoy.”

Patch lit the cigarette, pretending to smoke. “Thanks a lot.”

“Okay.”

After starting to rise, Patch paused. “Would you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“The woman who keeps bringing you beer. Her name is Sarai. Could you thank her next time? She works really hard. And it would be nice if you thanked her.”

The Italians looked at one another. Their smiles faded, and their bottles remained on the table. Patch thought that they might stand to argue with him. His heartbeat quickened. His cigarette trembled. But instead of rising, a large, bearded Italian nodded. “You are the one who was working on . . . the path?” he asked, his English slow and tentative.

“Yeah. That's me.”

“You work for her?”

“Just a few odd jobs.”

The stranger took a deep drag on his cigarette. “We will thank her.”

Patch nodded. “Enjoy your night.”

Grunting, the Italian turned away. Still pretending to smoke, Patch started to walk to the beach but remembered the children. Glancing at his cigarette, he headed back into the restaurant and approached their table. He smiled, leaning toward them. “I don't smoke,” he whispered. “But I had to pretend for a bit. Okay?”

Suchin moved closer to him. “Why are you pretending?”

“I . . . I had to make some friends.”

“With those boys?”

“That's right. So don't ever smoke, all right?”

Niran pushed his empty plate aside. “Can you swim with us tomorrow?”

“Sure. Maybe before my brother gets here.”

“Will you introduce us to him?” Suchin asked.

“Of course.”

“Good. We want to meet your big brother.”

Patch smiled. “You do? Why?”

“Because he's part of your family,” she replied, toying with one of her earrings. “He's part of you.”

“And we like you,” Niran added.

Suchin let go of her earring. “Want to hear a joke?”

“Sure.”

“It's a long one.”

“I like your long ones.”

“A young turtle was at the bottom of a tall tree. He was tired. So tired. But he took a deep breath and started to climb. About an hour later, he reached a high branch and crawled along to the end. He turned and spread all four flippers and jumped off the branch.” Suchin paused, pretending to be a leaping turtle. “After landing at the bottom in a pile of soft sand, he shook himself off, crawled back to the bottom of the tree, took another deep breath, and started to climb. Watching him from the end of another branch were a mother and father bird. The mother bird then turned to the father bird and whispered, ‘Maybe it's time we told him that he's adopted.' ”

Patch laughed with the children, having heard many of Suchin's jokes, and always happy to do so. He complimented her, glancing across the bay. The sun had just set, and the water was awash with color. “How about a quick swim right now? Want to ask your mother?”

Niran hurried from the table. Suchin took Patch's cigarette and stubbed it out on her plate. “Don't let my mother see you with that. Even though you're my American brother, she'd still be angry at you. And believe me, you'd rather have a hive of bees angry at you.”

“I believe you.”

Suchin picked apart the cigarette butt, then put the remnants on her plate and covered them with some sweet-and-sour sauce. She took Patch's hand, squeezing it tight. “Let's see what she told Niran. I hope she said yes.”

“Me too, Suchin. Me too.”

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19

Though it was only midmorning, heat and humidity seemed to rise from the bay as if it were a giant pot of simmering water. The tide was out, revealing a four- or five-city-blocksize expanse of wet sand and a collection of small pools. The water in the bay was so shallow that the tide dramatically changed the look and feel of the beach. When the tide was in, the white sand met the turquoise water in a long curving line, creating an image of a crescent moon against a blue sky. When the tide was out, the beach was much less defined, stretching westward into the damp remnants of the sea's retreat.