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Authors: Autumn Cornwell

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BOOK: Carpe Diem
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Cambodia
My Guardian
I
t was pitch-black when the plane landed in Siem Reap, Cambodia. There were no lights other than the tiny ones on the runway to guide the plane. I pulled on my backpack, slung a daypack over each shoulder, and headed down the aisle. Then panic set in. I froze. Took a series of deep breaths.
“Move along, little doggie, you're cloggin' the aisle.”
I whirled around.
Hanks, the Chinese Malay Cowboy!
Relief flooded me.
“You!”
“Howdy!”
“What are you doing here?”
Although Hanks was hatless, he still wore his standard Western shirt and jeans. And his sideburns were there in all their glory.
“Gerd thought I'd make a good guardian.”
“Guardian? You're my age!” My relief turned to indignation.
Hanks said, “Actually, I'm two whole years older than you, Spore. Makes a world of difference.”
So Hanks was babysitting me again.
“I've toured Angkor before. And I speak conversational Cambodian—my aunt's from Phnom Penh. So I'm darn qualified to be your
guardian.
”
Then it hit me: “I bet she missed the plane on purpose! This was all
planned
! And she says she doesn't plan!”
“Now why would she do that?”
But there was something odd in his voice.
“What about your internship?”
“Renjiro thought I deserved some time off for good behavior.”
Hanks pulled his cowboy hat out of an overhead compartment and plopped it on his head. Then he took my daypack and slung it over his shoulder and picked up a duffel bag—which was topped with a lasso. “Move along, move along.” He smiled at the flight attendant. “And I thought I wasn't gonna get in any herdin' practice.”
She just smiled blankly and
salaamed.
Why had Grandma asked
him
along? We didn't even know each other. And now we were supposed to be travel buddies? Wait, make that:
guardian
and
ward
?! What was she up to?
“I hope you have money,” I said.
 
We disembarked down a set of metal stairs. The heat and humidity assaulted us as we made our way across the tarmac into the airport, which resembled a set from a 1950s
movie—and was probably built in that era. Stoic custom officials wearing tan uniforms dotted with metals stamped our passports and checked our visas.
Then Hanks led me outside, where a bevy of taxi drivers—each of them nursing a stub of a cigarette—jockeyed for our business. He smoothly negotiated, and in a matter of minutes, we zoomed off into more darkness, the headlights weakly illuminating just two feet in front of us.
Barely visible Cambodians on bikes and motorcycles shared the road with us, casually moving out of the way as we chugged by. Brightly colored sarongs and rubber flip-flops seemed to be the common garb for both women and men. The town of Siem Reap itself was no brighter. Like Melaka, it had a river cutting through town, though this one was much narrower and flanked with benches. Electric lightbulbs shone weakly above café tables and reflected in the water. Backpackers roamed the streets with flashlights, navigating their way down the dirt roads and into the guesthouses and restaurants.
“Bet you could use some grub.” He handed me a package of peanuts.
“Okay. Just what's the deal with the cowboy act? Where did you learn your English?”
He shrugged. “In school, like everybody else.”
“But you talk like—”
“Uncle How.”
He flipped open a buckskin wallet and flashed a creased photo of a Malaysian guy wearing chaps over his jeans in
mid-flight off a bucking bronco. It was hard to tell what he looked like other than airborne.
“He was an engineer like my dad. Until he invented a new kind of wire bonder machine. With the money he made, he bought a cattle ranch in Little Creek, Wyoming. I've spent every summer with him. Picked up Little Creek–style twang from him—along with how to ride, shoe a horse, lasso, and chew.”
“Then why aren't you visiting him now? It's summer, or hadn't you noticed?”
“Man, someone's mighty testy … .” He shoved his wallet into his back pocket.
It was like he was half-putting on the cowpoke accent, but half-not. He really did have a slight drawl even when he wasn't “working it.” He was like some sort of weird Far East–Wild West hybrid.
But I'd much rather be with a weird hybrid than all alone.
 
The taxi pulled up to our guesthouse, the sign proclaiming: PRETTY TREE GUESTHOUSE. “Accordin' to Gerd, it's the best deal in Siem Reap for anyone travelin' under twenty dollars a day,” said Hanks.
“I bet she didn't make reservations.”
Pretty Tree Guesthouse was a large central bungalow encircled by six smaller bungalows, painted light green and peach, and each one with an upstairs room and a downstairs room, making twelve rooms in all. Hanks entered the largest bungalow, which was a combined check-in, lobby,
lounge, and dining room. A drowsy clerk who had been reclining on a mat lethargically stood up, smoothing his rumpled black hair.
A few minutes later, Hanks had a key in hand. “Grab your gear and follow me,
ward.
”
He headed over to the picturesque Bungalow #4, surrounded by banyan trees and overlooking a small lily pond. The sounds of cicadas filled the night air. He led the way up the stairs to the top room, which sported the usual teak floors, white linen curtains, white linen sheets, and mosquito netting over each twin bed. But this one had a panoramic black-and-white photo of the ruins of Angkor on the wall and a lotus blossom floating in a stone bowl.
Hanks tossed his duffel onto the nearest bed.
“Ah. So this room is yours,” I said. “Thanks for letting me drag this stuff all the way upstairs.” I picked up my daypack and backpack and turned to go back down.
“Ours.”
“Hanks, I'm tired. Just tell me which room you want.”
“This is all they got. What we get for comin' at the height of the tourist season without reservations. Least it's a whole lot better than the last time I was here. So packed, I ended up sleepin' in a hammock by the river.” He took out a plastic Ziploc bag that held toiletries. “So if I were you, I'd choose the room. The hammock gets really old after a while. Major rope keister. And all those mosquitoes. Take it from me, malaria's no fun. Neither is dengue fever.”
Malaria!? Dengue fever!? Did I take my malaria pill today?
He headed into the bathroom, leaving me standing motionless in the doorway.
But even more scary: sleep in the same room as a boy? Alone? Me? Who'd never, ever even been on a date with a boy and now was expected to share the same bedroom with one? In beds a mere four feet apart and no partition?
What choice did I have? It was 10:30 p.m. already—in a Third World country, no less. This was all Grandma Gerd's fault!
I walked into the room, dropped all my packs on the floor with a thud, and flopped onto the other bed.
And what about the whole sharing-the-bathroom/ getting-ready-for-bed thing?
What if he snored? What if
I
snored?
Bunkin' with a Cowboy
F
rom the bathroom came the sounds of brushing teeth, gargling, and showering—and humming. The tune sounded vaguely familiar. Oh. Right. “Home, Home on the Range.”
Hanks walked out of the bathroom wearing cut-off jeans and a white T-shirt—and still wearing his boots. Water dripped from his black hair, down his nougat skin.
Didn't I read somewhere that cowboys slept with their boots on?
“It's all yours, Spore.” He was now meticulously wiping off his black boots with a hand towel.
I took out my toiletries, then carefully relocked every lock on my backpack.
He laughed. “What? Don't ya trust me?”
“After what's happened to me, I trust
nobody.
”
I entered the bathroom, then stopped short. “Where's the toilet?”
Hanks sauntered back in and pointed to a porcelain sink set into the floor. “Right where I left it.”
“That's a toilet?”
“Squat toilet. You mean you've never used one?”
The smirk on his face was too much.
“Of course I have. Now may I have some privacy?”
“Be my guest.”
I made sure to lock the door behind him.
This
was a toilet? The white porcelain formed a shallow oblong, thicker on the sides with a sort of grid etched in it. Strange. How could it be even remotely comfortable? Next to it sat a large red bucket of water with a plastic green bowl floating in it.
I wished I hadn't skipped the section on hygiene in my guidebooks.
You must adapt, Vassar.
I removed my Traveler's Friend Hygienic Seat from its sanitation case, inflated it, and laid it on the opening. Then I pulled down my pants and sat way down—and almost slid in!
“Aaah!”
“Need some help?” He didn't bother to hide the amusement in his voice.
I ignored him.
This was not conducive to peaceful urination. I tried again—how absurd I must look sitting on the ground with my knees up to my chin.
After I finished, I folded up my Hygienic Seat and stuck it back into the sanitation case. There was no flusher. My sea of yellow just pooled in the shallow toilet. How embarrassing. Oh, well.
“Did everything come out all right?” he called.
“It's the most uncomfortable toilet I've ever sat on.”
What was that strange wheezing?
“You're supposed to
squat over
it, not
sit on
it. Didn't you notice the grid marks? The porcelain bit is for yer feet, not yer seat.”
“There's absolutely no way that—”
“Next time, relax into a squat and let yer keister hang to your heels … . It all comes out easy as pie.”
Was this just one big practical joke?
“And did ya pour a bowl of water in there to flush it down?”
“Of course I did.”
Then, as quietly as I could, I poured a bowlful of water into the toilet.
I could still hear him chuckling.
Embarrassed, I changed into a T-shirt and shorts. There was no way I was wearing my pajamas in front of
him.
My nighttime routine took a good hour, so by the time I finished, Hanks was already asleep. He was in bed, and the lights were off. His boots stood at attention at the foot of his bed.
Good. I could crawl into bed without his prying eyes.
The crisp white sheets felt cool to my skin, a nice contrast to the heat of the room. I pulled the mosquito netting down around me. Above my head, two geckos (
chincha
in Cambodia) ran across the ceiling, dodging the creaking fan. Soon I could hear their clicking sounds from the corner.
Chincha
—their name sounded like the noise they made.
Should I wear my eye mask and earplugs? Or would it behoove me to be extra alert?
“So, why did your parents name you Vassar?” Hanks's voice was even more gravelly when he was sleepy.
Great. Small talk before bed. But I removed my retainer. “I'm named after a quality women's college.”
“Lemme guess, your brothers are Princeton, Harvard, and Yale?”
“Very funny. I don't have any brothers or sisters.”
“Do you like being an only child?”
His question triggered a memory from ten years earlier. Dad had been coaching me how to set the table in two minutes flat. When I asked him why I didn't have any brothers and sisters, he said, “We prefer having just one little girl, Vassar. Because you know what the perfect geometric shape is?” He positioned the three knives.
“The triangle?”
“Exactly. You, Mom, and I—we three create the perfect family shape. After all, we don't want to be”—he added another knife—“
square,
now do we?” And we both had a hearty chuckle.
“Hey. I said: ‘Do you like being an only child?'” Hanks sat up on one elbow. Without my glasses he was just a shadowy form through the gauze of the netting.
“I like it. What about you? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Mom said that once she had a son, her work was done. You know, the whole Chinese thing.”
Okay.
“Do you haveag …”
Stop! He'll think you're interested!
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on, spit it out. What were you going to ask?”
“I forgot.”
“If I had a girlfriend?”
Mortification!
“Isn't that right?” I could tell he was smirking.
“No! I was just wondering if you had a
g
-alloping horse. I was wondering if you had a
horse
you could ride for practice and … and all that.”
Swift, Vassar. Real smooth.
“Don't gotta horse. And don't gotta girl. My last one dumped me four months ago. Said my chops itched. What about you? Do you have a dude?”
“No, I don't have a
dude.
I have a boyfriend. His name's John Pepper.” I wouldn't let him get the better of me.
“Really now.”
Was that amusement in his voice? “John and I happen to be very serious.”
“Meaning you two might just think about goin' out on a date one of these days?”
“Excuse me?”
“Gerd mentioned you'd never even been on a date. So in the States they put the cart before the horse, do they?”
“Good night.”
He laughed.
I reached for my earplugs and eye mask.
“Just how many boyfriends have you had, Vassar?”
I didn't answer.
“Vassar?” His voice was softer, huskier.
I feigned a gentle snore. He laughed again, then turned over. Soon the sounds of deep breathing came from his bed.
And now I was wide awake. I needed a distraction.
I opened my new red notebook where I'd written down the words—longhand.
Bubble. Birth. Too young. Rubber ball. Dying. Egg.
“Watcha doin'?” asked Hanks.
Why couldn't this guy just sleep?
I was about to tell him to mind his own business—then paused. Maybe Hanks knew something. After all, even though he was annoying, he wasn't stupid. I gave him the full story of the blackmail as succinctly as I could.
“Hmm … Were your parents hippies?”
I laughed.
“Too bad. It coulda been something about drugs. Like they got caught with marijuana sewn into their bell-bottoms and did prison time.”
The mental picture of Dad and Mom in bell-bottoms was so absurd, I laughed even harder.
“Or maybe they're wanted for tax evasion.”
I bristled. “My parents are the most honest, upstanding people alive.”
“Whoa, there. Just makin' suggestions.”
“Actually, you can help by telling me everything you know about Grandma Gerd. Every single detail. For example,
how and when did you meet her? At MCT? Did you ever take one of her ESL classes? Have you ever heard her say anything odd or mysterious? Would your dad be familiar with her story? What about Renjiro? Have you ever discussed—”
Gentle snores filled the room once again.
Thanks for nothing.
Well, I guess I could work on my chapter.
 
Sarah was shocked to find herself sharing a room with Wayne. Highly inappropriate. Even if she did find him strangely attractive—
 
I stopped and put the notebook on my bedside table. I'd wait until I had a good night's sleep, because right now I obviously wasn't thinking too clearly.
BOOK: Carpe Diem
2.01Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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