mad in pursuit
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LENORE The first time I saw Jack he was drunk, sitting at a table for one in a monsoon-damp bar across from the bus station in Mae Sot. The slanting light of sunset lit the raindrops on the metal tabletop and gave the whiskey in his half-empty bottle an amber glow. His eyes were fixed on the bus station entrance. His face wore a look I’d seen too often that summer – the ache for missing loved ones, the terrible mystery of their absence butting up against the terrible knowledge that they were gone forever. But I saw the look more often in the delicate features of women in the camps. Odd to see the look in a man, an Anglo man. I was touched. Maybe I was simply tired of desperate women, tired of Asians, tired of men who always wore the frown of being in charge. “Need a smoke?” I offered him my rumpled pack of Marlboros. His eyes darted to my hand, then back to the bus station. “No, thanks.” “Buses stop at six, you know. Bad roads and bandits.” With a whispery curse he checked his watch, then reached with studied concentration for his bottle. “Let me do that.” I refilled his shot glass, then scraped a chair along the worn linoleum to join him. “Hope you’re not driving home from here.” He stared at me, his eyes ocean green and just as deep. I waited for the curious once-over, the rude question, or the inevitable wisecrack, but his eyes stayed riveted to mine. “Do I know you?” “I should think you’d remember, if you did.” There were precious few four-foot-six Ethiopian matrons running around in the border towns of Thailand. He bowed his head slightly and clasped both hands around mine. “Thank you,” he said as he. His grip was strong, at an angle that tugged at my arthritic elbow but I couldn’t pull away from those eyes. “Thank you for coming.” Of course, he’s mistaken me for someone, I thought, or the booze has him addled. And yet, at the moment, I wanted to be whoever he was so grateful to see. “Your lover...” I ventured, “not where you expected?” He released her hand and sat back, with another glance toward the station. “Emma – she had a room here at the First Hotel. Rented it by the month to keep all her video equipment. Did editing there a couple times a week. She’s gone. Equipment’s gone.” He pulled a tiny yellow Post-It from his shirt pocket and rubbed it between his fingers. “I was working up in the hills, managing an archeological site. She showed up there a couple months ago. A grad student. Taping oral histories…” He heaved a great sigh and pasted the Post-It onto the wet surface in front of her. “Fast forward to this morning.” Jack, it said in minuscule black letters, don’t be mad. Better to make a clean break of it. Emma. That was all. The ink bled and faded to a gray blur on the yellow square. “What can I do to help?” His gaze turned downward and his finger connected dots of rain on the metal tabletop. “Looks like she did quite a bit of entertaining over the past month. My credit card is maxed out and she had most of my cash. The dig is over. I thought we were going to–” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I didn’t make any plans.” A look at his watch. “Gotta make some phone calls, line some work before it’s too late.” “How about if I stay here and keep watch for her?” His eyes widened – he looked ten years old. “You’d do that?” “I’m a good watcher, Jack.” “She’s unmistakable: tall, really tall. And very blond.” He reached under his chair for a worn canvas daypack. On the woven strap, in large block letters, was the name Jack Scanlan. “I’m hoping she might still be around town. She likes her whiskey so she might show up here.” “I’ll offer her a shot when she does.” |