Murder at the House of Rooster Happiness (6 page)

She smiled again, weakly. If she were Thai, this would be the same
yim soo
smile that the young nurse had displayed just a few minutes ago. The smile of helplessness. It’s also a way of saying: “I don’t find this funny, and in fact it’s very painful, but I’m smiling so at least you can smile, too.”

That the
yim soo
smile seemed to be exclusive to women was part of its tragedy, and its effectiveness. One felt compelled to smile in sympathy. Especially if one was a woman, too.

But she couldn’t explain that to Mrs. Fuller, any more than she could tell her, honestly and directly, that her son was going to die. Instead, Ladarat simply nodded, wondering that it was the man who left, and the women who stayed behind, willing to hear whatever news needed to be heard. Of course, it stands to reason that the women are stronger in these matters than the men. She saw this in Chicago, too. Perhaps it was true everywhere.

Mrs. Fuller gestured to the little circle of chairs just inside the door and pushed Kate’s wheelchair over to join the circle.

They all sat and everyone looked at Ladarat.

“How much,” she began, “do you know about what has happened to Mr. Fuller?”

That was how one started a conversation of this sort. Professor Dalrymple was clear on this point. “First you must always find out what the patient and family know. You cannot guess what is in their heads, or in their hearts. You must ask.”

“Please,” Kate said, “call him Andrew.”

Ladarat nodded.

“How much do you know about what has happened to Andrew?” she asked. “About his condition?”

“We know,” Kate said slowly, “that he was badly injured. In his head, I mean. And… a spine fracture.”

“And… that he hasn’t shown any sign of brain function,” Mrs. Fuller added. “Yet.”

It was uncanny how they finished each other’s sentences. Indeed, looking at them side by side, they shared a fresh, wide-eyed openness that made them seem like they could be mother and daughter.

“But there’s still hope, isn’t there?” Kate asked.

Ladarat translated that for the director, certain he’d understood, but at least she could give him some time to think.

He seemed ready to reply directly to Kate but then thought better of it. Instead, he turned to Ladarat.

“It has been forty-eight hours,” he said in Thai. “It’s very unlikely that he’ll show any improvement if he hasn’t already.”

“But not impossible?”

Kate and Mrs. Fuller were watching this dialogue with increasing concern.

“No,” he admitted slowly. “Not impossible. The chances of recovery decrease the longer he remains unconscious. So every day like this his chances are worse.”

“So you wouldn’t say that right now, today, he has no chance of recovery?”

He shrugged, then shook his head. “No, it’s too soon to say that absolutely.”

“Then how long, do you think? It would help if we could give them some time, so they can prepare.”

The two women turned to the director. No doubt they were becoming increasingly confused. It was a simple question, they were thinking. Kate had simply asked whether there was hope.

It would certainly be a simple question in America. Any American doctor would have said of course. Of course there’s hope. There’s always hope. We’ll just wait and see. We’ll take one thing at a time. And one day at a time. Yet this Thai doctor and nurse were taking what felt like hours to answer a question that shouldn’t take more than a few seconds. What is wrong with them?

And poor Khun Suphit was probably equally confused by the twists and turns their brief conversation was taking. Normally, with a Thai family, he would simply say that there was nothing more that he could do. But not with this family. No. They wanted information. They wanted… possibilities. And of course they wanted hope.

Instead, he offered them a smile that meant, among other things, “Things are very grim, and Andrew will never wake up. I’m so sorry for your loss.” At least, that’s what Ladarat saw. Who knew what the Americans perceived?

Then he said, in broken English: “Things are not good. Not good at all. But to be sure, we wait three more days. No improvement… then no hope.” And he smiled.

It was odd how, in that second, the two women seemed to respond so differently. Kate nodded and smiled, as if her beloved Andrew had just gotten a reprieve. But Mrs. Fuller seemed already to be thinking ahead to the next conversation they’d be having in three days’ time, and fearing the worst. She looked down and reached for the pack of cigarettes that her husband had left, then withdrew her hand as if she’d thought better of it. But for a moment, her arm outstretched and caught between two impulses, she had a confused look on her face. It was almost as if she’d forgotten who she was, and where she was.

But she came to her senses quickly enough. Putting on a brave face for the both of them, she said that she’d share what they’d discussed with her husband. And she picked up the pack of counterfeit cigarettes and shook it gently, as if it were somehow his representative in this little meeting.

Ladarat stood to leave and the director followed her. But Mrs. Fuller had one more question for them as she walked them to the door. It was plainly something she was reluctant to bring up, judging from her glances at Kate, who stayed behind in her wheelchair.

“You know we have the utmost respect for the medical system in Thailand,” she began. She waved her arm at the hospital room and the view out of the oversize windows, as if that were an eloquent statement about the quality of a country’s health care. “We know that Kate and Andrew have only gotten the best of care, and we mean no disrespect to… to the doctor.” Here she smiled and nodded toward the director. “But my husband… well… he will want to be sure that everything possible is being done, and…”

“And you want a second opinion? A doctor from the U.S.?” Ladarat suggested.

Mrs. Fuller nodded sheepishly. “I think that would help him. Especially if… well… if Andrew doesn’t improve. Roger will want to know that we did everything we could.”

Ladarat nodded and translated, nervous about how that request would be received. In Thai culture, it would be difficult indeed to ask for such a thing without it being perceived as a slight. And indeed, the director frowned for a second, but just a second. Likely Mrs. Fuller didn’t even notice.

Then he nodded and smiled at Kate and Mrs. Fuller. “Of course, I understand,” he said in English. “If you give the name of the doctor, and e-mail, we can send all records. And translation.”

He offered them both a
wai
, which Mrs. Fuller and then Kate returned. A moment later they were in the hallway.

“That went better than I expected,” the director said thoughtfully.

“It was because the man, Mr. Fuller, was not there. That made it easier,” Ladarat said.

The director nodded. “You think he didn’t want to hear bad news?”

Ladarat agreed that was part of it. But more likely he didn’t trust himself to be tough in the face of bad news. And, too, she wondered whether maybe he knew somehow that the conversation would be more productive if he wasn’t there. That more questions would get asked and answered if he was absent.

The director stopped next to the elevators, waiting as Ladarat pressed the button to take her back to her basement office. Unlike the director, she couldn’t count on the world around her being inspired to come to her aid when she needed it. She would probably have to wait for this elevator for a long, long time.

“There is one other thing I would appreciate your help with,” he said slowly. “I hesitate to ask, because it has nothing to do with ethics. But…”

“Yes, Khun?”

“Do you remember that man who was here as we passed through earlier? The one who needs a place to stay?”

Ladarat nodded.

“You are very good at talking to people,” he said. “They… trust you.”

“You are most kind.” Oh dear. There was nothing more dangerous than Thai flattery. Because surely that was flattery. She was not “very good” at anything related to people. And no one trusted her, with the possible exception of her cat. What was the director up to?

“So I wondered if perhaps you could try to talk with him. Maybe you could try to find out why he’s here?”

Oh dear.

“But surely he has a good reason to be here? He would not come to a hospital unless he were visiting a family member or a close friend.”

“Well, you see, there’s the fact that he has no shoes…”

Ladarat waited.

“And with the inspection coming, you know… What would it look like to have him here?”

What would the good Professor Dalrymple do? Sometimes Ladarat thought that everything she herself had accomplished, and indeed most of the decisions she made, could be credited directly to the good professor’s book. But just this once, Ladarat didn’t need to think about that for more than a moment. The good Professor Dalrymple would try to help. That was a nurse’s duty, whatever the problem.

“Of course,” she said finally. “I will try to speak with him.”

The director smiled, relieved. “Thank you, Khun.” He gave her a
wai
, a little lower and more formal than he would usually have. She returned it, and they went their separate ways. He no doubt thinking about his patients and she thinking about how she was going to solve the mystery of the waiting farmer.

THE SADNESS OF HALF A HOUSE

I
t was past seven o’clock that evening when Ladarat finally arrived home, and she guided her pale yellow VW Beetle into the driveway of her little townhouse. She was exhausted, and barely had the energy to drive, but she was willing to believe that the Beetle knew its way back and forth to work by now. She’d had it for sixteen years, ever since she and Somboon had bought it as a second car shortly after they were married. When he died, she’d sold their main car, preferring to keep the Beetle. He’d loved to take long trips in their BMW, driving into the hills or east through the plains and farms of Isaan, but on her own, Ladarat never went far. And for going back and forth to work, the little Beetle was perfectly adequate.

She pulled herself out of the car, closing the door gently behind her. As usual, she didn’t bother to lock the doors. This was Chiang Mai, after all, not Bangkok. They didn’t really have crime here.

That thought, barely formed, made her pause on the little walkway that led up to her solid wooden door. No crime? But wasn’t she in the process of investigating a murder? Well, a possible murder. Just possible.

And that was still all it was, wasn’t it? She hadn’t even made any progress that afternoon. She just plodded from one meeting to another throughout the morning and spent most of the afternoon wading through piles of guidelines, making certain that they were up to date in preparation for the Royal Inspection on Monday. The hospital inspectors always looked for those dates, she knew. One guideline that was past its expiration date, and they took one point off. One whole point! And if one was behind, then others might be, too.

So she’d spent the afternoon in the company of guidelines that covered every aspect of the hospital’s daily life. Guidelines for when the signs should be updated, when employees should wash their hands, and where patients were allowed to smoke. Ladarat even discovered a guideline for the creation and modification of guidelines. That, at least, made her laugh out loud. Simply get rid of that one, and all of the others would be impossible to find fault with.

True, she didn’t find any problems. That, at least, made her feel a bit better. But still, it had been exhausting and she was glad to be home.

As Ladarat turned the key in the look, she heard her alarm system, her watchcat, who protected the house during the day.

That’s how she thought of him. Literally, in Thai:
maewfawbaahn
. (
Maew
is “cat”;
faw
is “watch over”;
baahn
is “house.”)
Maewfawbaahn
means “catwatchhouse,” or watchcat. Actually his name was Whiskey, because of his golden fur. But he seemed to appreciate the title and the prestige it conferred. He was a very honorable cat.

Her little home wasn’t much to brag about, but she loved it nonetheless. It was a townhouse built in the old Lanna style, with wide-board teak floors, exposed beams, and white plaster walls. There was a small living room and kitchen on the first floor, and a small bedroom, study, and bathroom on the second. That was all. It was to be a starter house for her and Somboon, but they never… started. So sixteen years later, twelve years since he died, here she was, still.

For some time, in the back of her mind, there had lurked the vague notion that she might perhaps… remarry someday. Nothing more than a general idea. Certainly nothing that had taken shape.

Nor would it ever take shape. Statistically speaking, Ladarat knew that she would never remarry. Most people marry once, do they not? And they call themselves fortunate to do so. Perhaps a select few are fortunate enough—and attractive enough—to find love twice. But surely they were in the minority.

And did she have attributes that would justify her place in that fortunate minority? She most certainly did not. She was neither pretty nor intelligent, nor was she a good cook. In short, she possessed none of those qualities that might lead her to think she could find love a second time.