"You'll take care of them. I'll help you take care of them."
She turns to face him. "We have ten dollars left," she says. Her voice is so low he has to strain to hear it. "Miaow is hungry. My little sister up north is hungry. Who gets the ten dollars?"
Rafferty pushes the table so hard it slides away from him. "We're never going to be down to ten dollars, Rose. You can't take an insurance policy against the entire future."
"I would send the money to my sister," Rose says. "Without a minute's thought. Is this a problem?"
After a moment too long for Rafferty to measure it, he says, "Yes."
"Well, that's what you would be getting, Poke. You would be getting my damage, my mama and papa, and my brothers and sisters, too. You would be getting my priorities. And I would be getting the knowledge that I might harm you, and even Miaow."
"How much harm would you do to Miaow if you left?"
She shakes her head, and for a second he thinks he misunderstood something she said. "I'm not talking about leaving. You said you wanted to marry me. That's different than playing house. That's joining souls, Poke. The threads they'll tie around our heads will join my soul to yours. I do you the honor of taking that seriously." She holds up a hand, palm out, to stop him from replying. "Don't you think this is difficult for me? Don't you think it would be easier for me to pretend that none of this matters? I could just say yes, Poke, and bring you into a world you'd never understand. You wouldn't even know who was sleeping next to you. Most girls who came out of the bars would say yes in the amount of time it would take their hearts to beat. And then they'd clean out your bank account and leave you in the middle of the night, and I know lots of girls who would think I'm crazy for not doing that."
"They're not you."
"No, they're not. But what they would have done to you might be better for you than marrying me."
He leans back, suddenly aware that he looks like someone who is about to spring. "I'm listening to you. I'm trying to understand what you're saying. Do I get to talk?"
She gives him a half smile. "I've never known you not to."
"Okay." He folds his hands, looking desperately for the words. "So here's me. I'm not the greatest bargain in the world. I've spent most of my life looking for something easy, something that might be fun for an hour or an evening. I've been the guy in the hotel room, remember? Ask Fon. I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of much I've done. I've wasted a lot of my life." He grabs a breath. "This life anyway." Rose lowers her head to hide another smile. "Maybe the best thing I can say about myself is that I try not to hurt other people. I don't always succeed, but I try."
"That counts." Rose has leaned against the edge of the desk, her back straight. Holding her left shoulder with her right hand. To Rafferty it looks like a defense.
"And you…well, you're one of the best people I've ever met. You're good and generous and truthful and beautiful. I could look at you for the rest of my life without my eyes getting tired. Maybe you're right, maybe I don't see most of what you see. Maybe I'm lost, maybe I'm sleepwalking. Maybe you could wake me up."
Rose draws a long breath and blows it out, turning slowly to the glass doors. She could be counting the lights in the windows. "A while ago, you said 'I can try,'" she says. She looks back to him. "I can try, too."
"I promise to keep my eyes open. I promise to listen. I promise not to think I can make everything right by fixing your intake valve or something. But I don't promise not to try to make things right. That's part of the way I love you."
Rose brings both hands to her mouth. The gesture stops him.
"I haven't said I love you," Rose says. "I should have said that first. I do love you. I love you enough to try to do this right or not do it at all."
"We can try," Rafferty says. "We can try together." For the first time, he feels confident enough to stand.
"There's one more thing," Rose says. "And, Poke? I don't expect us to solve all these things tonight. But I want it all said. I don't want to leave anything under-what is it you say? — under the couch."
"Under the rug." He is aching to hold her.
"All right, under the rug." She brings her hands together in front of her, loosely folded. "I'm someone who is changing her life. I'm the person, the only person, who takes care of my family. I'm someone who has been used and lied to, and lied to again, for years. I've met the experts."
"I know."
She holds up both hands. "Right now, Poke, I'm balanced on top of a high wall. If I walk exactly right, I'll be fine. If I take a wrong step, I'll fall. What happens to me is not important, but what happens to my family if I fall is very important. But, Poke? You're balanced on top of a wall, too. I don't want to be…to be what you trip over."
"I'll walk carefully. And I'll look out for you, too."
"Then listen to me now. I won't talk about this again." Her eyes close slowly, and when she reopens them, she is looking at a spot on the floor, midway between them. "I danced on that stage a long time. There were a lot of men, hundreds of men. To them I was Number 57." She brings her eyes up. "Your wife. Number 57."
"My wife. Rose."
"We'll meet them," she says. "They're everywhere in Bangkok." She extends a hand, mimicking an introduction. "'This is my wife, Number 57.'" She widens her eyes in mock surprise. "'Oh, I see. You've already met.' It'll be you and Fon all over again, except that the girl will be me. Your wife."
"Do you honestly think I'd feel that way?"
"Or suppose Number 58 comes along."
"That's not going to happen."
"No," she says, pulling her hair back again. "It probably won't. You're an honorable man."
"Then is that it?"
She sighs. "Poor baby," she says. "That's it. But promise me you'll think about it, Poke. About all of it."
"Fine, but I'm going to ask you to think about something, too."
"What?"
"Miaow."
She puts long fingers to her eyes and rubs them gently. Without looking at him, she says, "I think about Miaow all the time. Almost as much as I think about you."
"I know you do."
She gives him the smile that starts with her eyes, slowly finds its way to the corners of her mouth, and always makes his legs wobble. "You know what I think about, do you? Then what am I thinking right now?"
He grins back at her. "You're thinking about kissing me."
"You are paying attention. How about it?"
"A kiss is a viable option," he says in English. He takes a step toward her.
The telephone rings.
"Wait a minute," Rafferty says to the phone without picking it up. He wraps his arms around her, feels the long, strong back, the deeply rounded gully of her spine. She tilts her head, and their lips meet. The tip of her tongue traces the shape of his lips and then darts into his mouth. He tastes her sweetness and breathes in the faint fragrance of her skin. Her cheeks are dusted with baby powder.
She steps back, her face flushed. "You'd better get that now, or you won't get it at all."
Rafferty picks up the phone. In the background he hears a shrieking that sounds like a thousand rusty hinges, like a convention of crows, like nothing human.
"You must come," says Pak. "You must come this minute."
30
He can hear her screams even while he is talking with the guard at the gate. Pak meets him halfway up the drive, dripping sweat, with panic widening his eyes. They head toward the house at a run.
"What is it?"
"She will tell you." Pak is out of breath. He has to fight to get the words out. The back of his jacket is soaked with perspiration.