Jimm Juree 01; Killed at the Whim of a Hat

animosity here and there? This is the first time in thirty-two years our father’s been of any value to you. I think he’d be pleased to hear he’d contributed something, don’t you? Stop right here!”
    “I…where?”
    “Here. By the handcart.”
    Arny pulled over and I opened the door.
    “Where are you going?” he asked.
    “Attacking from the rear.”
    I climbed out.
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Pull up noisily in front of the prayer hall, go inside…and pray.”
    “What for?”
    If this had been a Catholic church he could have asked for our normal service to be resumed: careers, social lives, respect, access to decent cheese, but Buddhist temples didn’t do wish lists.
    “Just fake it.”
    I closed the door quietly and ran behind a bush. From there I could see him pull away with a confused look on his face. I watched him drive over to the prayer hall and park the truck. Four laymen and two monks immediately stepped out of the side office and walked hurriedly toward him. They surrounded my brother like housecats round a rat. I have no idea what he said but I saw the truck door open, the men stand back, and Arny walk, shoulders hunched, into the prayer hall. A second later he reappeared, kicked off his sandals and went back in. Religion. It’s been a while.
    Most temples down here have their resident nun. Nuns in Thailand don’t get nearly the same respect as monks. They cook for and feed the dogs, clean, look after the garden…Wait. This all sounds familiar. No wonder they look so sallow, the lot of them. But it’s that unspoken animosity that makes them more likely to give up top secret information.
    I found my nun whitewashing a wall, half her head and one arm.
    “Would you like me to just pour the can over you? It’d be quicker,” I said.
    My nun smiled. She was in her sixties, I imagined, and she’d probably been a heartbreaker when she was younger. She wasn’t much taller than me but unless she had some spare brushes stuffed down her shirt she’d been much more generously endowed. An old monk draped in a robe was sitting on a step with his back to her. There were barely breathing dog carcasses littered all around like casualties of a major canine battle.
    “Some can whitewash,” she said. “Some can repair cars. Of the two, whitewashing is my strongest hand so I suggest you don’t let me anywhere near your engine.”
    I liked her. I suppose I could have thrashed around in the small-talk undergrowth for ten minutes and crept up on the subject, or I could just attack. I read her as more of the direct type.
    “I heard your abbot got killed,” I said.
    “You did?”
    She let the fat brush drop to her side where it put another coat on her already white sarong.
    “Yup.”
    She seemed to be waiting for something.
    “So, did he?” I asked.
    “Get killed?”
    “Yes.”
    “Should we ask him?”
    “I…?”
    The pretty nun turned to the old monk sitting on the step. He appeared to be composing a psalm in the air with his long fingers.
    “ Jow a wat ” she said, the formal address. “This young lady was wondering whether you’d been killed.”
    My facts were undoubtedly less than accurate. The abbot wheeled around to look at me. He was weather-beaten like the wreck of a small canoe. His ribcage was an old Chinese abacus whose beads had been long lost, his face a clumsily sketched grid of experiences with pockmarks. Life had apparently had a go at him but he seemed comfortable in his ravaged body.
    “No.” He smiled.
    “Well, you can’t win them all,” I said.
    “Hoping for a dead abbot, were you?” my nun asked, still smiling.
    “In a way, yes,” I confessed. “But I’m also very pleased to see that the good father is alive and well.”
    “And how would a death improve your quality of life, young lady?” asked the nun. “I watched you breach the security post and jump from a car and sneak up on us. So, I have to assume the news of a killing was important to you in some way.”
    You know they’re often characters with shady pasts of their own, no more free from sin than you or I, but there’s something about a figure wrapped in saffron or virgin white that makes you want to tell the truth. So we sat, the three of us, and I gave them the blog version of the saga of my current life. They smiled and nodded along the entire journey, apparently fascinated by my decline. And I arrived at the juncture at which I now stood. And there was an exchange between them.