Lone Wolf Read online

  Say what you will about the Mafia, but it works because everyone has a specific role to play. They all do what they do for the greater good of the organization. They'd willingly die for each other.

  The other reason a wolf pack is like the Mafia?

  Because, for both groups, there is nothing more important than family.

  EDWARD

  You'd be surprised how easy it is to stand out in a city of nine million people. But then again, I'm a farang. You can see it in my unofficial teacher's uniform--shirt and tie--in my blond hair, which shines like a beacon in a sea of black.

  Today I have my small group of students working on conversational English. They've been paired, and they are going to present a conversation between a shopkeeper and a customer. "Do I have any volunteers?" I ask.

  Crickets.

  The Thai people are pathologically shy. Combine that with a reluctance to lose face by giving a wrong answer, and it makes for a painfully long class. Usually I ask the students to work on exercises in small groups, and then I move around and check their progress. But for days like today, when I'm grading on participation, speaking up in public is a necessary evil. "Jao," I say to a man in my class. "You own a pet store, and you want to convince Jaidee to buy a pet." I turn to a second man. "Jaidee, you do not want to buy that pet. Let's hear your conversation."

  They stand up, clutching their papers. "This dog is recommended," Jao begins.

  "I have one already," Jaidee replies.

  "Good job!" I encourage. "Jao, give him a reason why he should buy your dog."

  "This dog is alive," Jao adds.

  Jaidee shrugs. "Not everyone wants a pet that is alive."

  Well, not all days are successes.

  I collect the homework from the students before they file out of the classroom, suddenly animated and chattering in a language I am still learning after six years. Apsara, a grandmother of four, hands me her assignment: a persuasive essay. I look down at the title: "Eat Vegetarians for a Healthy Diet."

  "Sit on it, Ajarn Edward," Apsara says happily. Before coming to language school, she tried to learn English from watching Happy Days episodes. I don't have the heart to tell her that's not a respectful expression.

  I've been teaching English for six years now, in a language school that's in the center of the biggest mall I've ever seen in my life, about twenty minutes by taxi outside of Bangkok. I fell into the job by accident--after backpacking through Thailand and taking odd jobs to make enough baht to feed myself, I found myself tending bar at age eighteen, in Patpong. It was one of Thailand's famous ladyboy shows, with katoeys--transvestites who fooled even me--and I'd been trying to collect enough cash to leave the city. One of the other bartenders was an expat from Ireland, and he supplemented his income by teaching at the American Language Institute. They were always looking for qualified teachers, he said. When I told him I wasn't really qualified, he laughed. "You speak English, don't you?" he said.

  I make 45,000 baht teaching, now. I have my own apartment. I've had the obligatory flings with Thai natives and I've gone out drinking with other expats at Nana Plaza. And I've learned a lot. You don't touch anyone on the head because it's the highest part of the body--literally, and spiritually. You don't cross your legs on the skytrain because doing so exposes the sole of your shoe to the person sitting across from you--and the bottoms of your feet are literally and spiritually unclean. You might as well be giving the other person the finger. You don't shake hands, you wai--by putting your hands in front of you like you're praying, with the tips of your index fingers touching your nose. The higher the hands are, and the lower your bow, the more respect you're showing. A wai can be used for greeting, apology, gratitude.

  You've got to admire a culture that uses a single gesture to say both thank you and I'm sorry.

  Every time I start to get sick of living here, or get the feeling that nothing ever changes, I take a step back and remind myself that I'm just visiting. That Thai culture and beliefs have been around a lot longer than I have. That what one person sees as a difference of opinion can be, to the other person, a sign of great disrespect.

  I kind of wish I knew back then what I know now.

  There really isn't an easy way to get to Koh Chang. It's 315 kilometers by bus from Bangkok, and even after you get to Trat, in the eastern provinces, you have to take a songtaew to one of the three piers. Ao Thammachat is the best one--it only takes twenty minutes by ferry to reach the island. Lam Ngob is the worst--the fishing boats that have been converted into ferries can take over an hour to make the crossing.

  It may seem ridiculous to come all this distance when I only have two days off from the language institute, but it's worth it. Sometimes Bangkok is suffocating, and I need to hang out in a place that isn't wall-to-wall people. I chalk it up to my upbringing in a part of New England that is still two hours away from the nearest mall. After sleeping last night at a cheap guesthouse, I've spent this morning trying to find my way to Khlong Nueng, the tallest waterfall on the island. And now, just when I am sweating and thirsty and ready to quit, the biggest boulder I've ever seen blocks the path. Gritting my teeth, I get a foothold and begin to climb over it. My boots slip on the rock, and I scrape my knee, and I'm already worried about how I'm going to climb back over from the other side--but I won't let myself give up.

  With a grunt, I reach the top of the boulder and then slide down the far side. I land with a soft thud and glance up to see the most beautiful rush of water, frothing and sparkling and filling the ravine. I strip to my boxers and wade in, the clear pool lapping against my chest. I duck under the spray. Then I crawl out and lie on my back, letting the sun dry my skin.

  Since I've come to Thailand, I've had hundreds of moments like this, when I run across something so incredible that I want to show it to someone else. The problem is, when you make the choice to be a loner, you lose that privilege. So I do what I've done for the past six years: I take out my cell phone, and I snap a picture of the waterfall. I'm never in these pictures, needless to say. And I don't know who I'll ever show them to, given that I've had cartons of milk that have lasted longer than most of my relationships. But I keep that digital album anyway--from the first spirit house I saw in Thailand, intricate and laden with offerings, to the arrangement of wooden penises at the Chao Mae Tuptim Shrine, to the creepy conjoined babies floating in formaldehyde in the Forensic Science Museum near Wat Arun.

  I am holding the phone in my hand, looking at these pictures, when it starts to vibrate. I check the display to see who's calling--expecting a friend who wants to invite me out for a beer, or my boss at the institute asking me to cover for another teacher, or maybe the flight attendant I met last weekend at the Blue Ice Bar. It's always struck me as amusing that the cellular service in Nowhere, Thailand, is still better than in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

  Out of area.

  "Hello?" I hold the phone up to my ear.

  "Edward," my mother says. "You have to come home."

  It takes a full twenty-four hours to get back to the States and to rent a car (something I wasn't old enough to do when I left) and drive all the way to Beresford, NH. You'd think I'd be falling asleep, but I'm too nervous for that. In the first place, I haven't driven in six years, and that requires my full concentration. In the second place, I am replaying what I've already been told--by my mother, and by the neurosurgeon who did emergency surgery on my father.

  His truck crashed into a tree.

  He and Cara were found outside the vehicle.

  Cara shattered her shoulder.

  My father was unresponsive, with an enlarged right pupil. He wasn't breathing on his own very well. The EMTs called it a diffuse traumatic brain injury.

  My mother called me when I first landed. Cara was out of her surgery; she was on painkillers and sleeping. The police had come by to interview Cara, but my mother had sent them away. She had stayed at the hospital last night. Her voice sounded like a string that was fraying.