Thick smoke fills the air, and we are stoned before we are halfway through. I am what my friends call a lightweight, and never really inhale more than two tokes at a sitting. The rest I fake, but I am playing tough so I can hang with Dad, and instead finish sucking back the entire joint with him.
“Oh shit”—pop—“a seed, look out!” We both giggle stupidly, snorting while holding our breath.
“Ah, I knew you were cool, Dawn, the minute I saw you,” Dad says with a half grin as his eyes glaze over.
“I knew you were cool too, Dad, as soon as you got out of the car,” I ramble, and my body gets heavier as my high kicks in.
“Groovy, man.” He nods and takes another long pull from the joint.
Damn, I am stoned. I have trouble holding my head up, and the air in the room makes a weird whirring noise in my ears, but I am determined to hang. I send a glazed look over toward Dad, who doesn’t look like he is feeling high at all and I worry that he will think I can’t handle my pot. My thoughts mellow, and I relax when he asks, “You got any tunes?” Relieved to break the silence, I pull out my favorite Led Zeppelin album, and we drift off on the band’s haunting version of “Stairway to Heaven.”
So pass the days with my father while he waits for Mom to initiate the divorce proceedings. Every day I roll Dad a joint before I go to school, and get stoned with him afterward. By the time Mom comes home from work, we make sure the house is aired out and everything is put back in its place. Mom does not approve, and if the house isn’t straightened up before she gets here, she will hit the roof, and neither of us wants that kind of interrogation. Dad and I are getting acquainted with each other, and pot is our median; it helps ease the tension of all the unanswered questions that lie between us. We crack jokes and listen to the latest Cheech & Chong record that leaves us rolling in tears of laughter. Man, this is far out! None of my friends can believe how cool he is, and they all want to come over to meet the dad who smokes pot with his daughter.
Slowly Dad begins to talk about where he has been all these years while we waited for him in Carol City. He unravels exotic stories of Bangkok, India, and Kathmandu that captivate me. He talks about backpacking his way through Asia “on a shoestring,” and the times he spent as a monk in northern Thailand, begging for alms every morning before sunrise with a shaved head and eyebrows. He tells me the story of being in Bangkok when Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin died. The Thais, he says, were so upset that they staged a mock funeral procession down Sukhumvit, a major road in the large, tangled city.
He speaks to me about Thai culture, making it very clear that I understand the head is the highest part of the body and it must be given absolute respect. The foot is without a doubt the lowest part of the body, and never, never should the foot come near the head in any way, at any time, ever. This is considered the greatest of insults, especially if done intentionally. He speaks Thai to me and teaches me the words I inquire about. “You got a good ear, Dawn,” he compliments, and I feel good about myself. Not once do I ask him why he didn’t come back to us or stay in touch instead of traveling the world. Not once do I hold him responsible for leading Grandma to believe he would come back before she died. He seems kicked back and mellow, and he gives the impression he has no responsibilities—and I don’t see it either.
But Dad has a few secrets. One in particular is a mysterious form of meditation he practices in the early morning hours. Daily he sends me to the local store to purchase candles, fresh flowers, and incense. He picks cumquats and limes from the backyard and takes them discreetly into the bedroom. On the dresser in Mom’s room, after she has left for work, Dad ritually positions a small box, then the candles, fruits, flowers, and incense we have gathered, in a specific pattern. Some of the time he places next to the box a small shot glass of whiskey or Scotch from the cabinets where Mom has stashed it away for special occasions. Dad is very protective of the contents of his little box, and he keeps its mystery hidden—so of course I am very, very curious.
I am not only curious; I am fascinated, but I get no response from Dad when I ask prying questions about his secret treasure. I keep my eyes on Dad, hoping some clue will be revealed, and on a morning after he has slipped into the bedroom for his “meditation,” I seize an opportunity to stand at the door. Pressing my face close to the threshold for what seems like over an hour, I strain to listen inside. I hear nothing for a long, tense time except my own slowed breathing. The smell of incense drifting up from the bottom of the door is the only evidence of any movement. Then something happens. I hear a muffled voice, low in tone and in a language I recently learned was Thai. It sounds like a kind of conversation. Is that two different voices? I wonder. I press harder into the door, my ear at the jamb, trying to hear more. Suddenly, the voices stop, and I am overcome with the distinct, uneasy feeling that it is known that I am listening. Scared of getting caught, I pull carefully back from the door and race into the living room. With my heart pounding, I pick up my macramé and shakily try to thread a bead. Dad emerges a few minutes later. He seems distressed, not like his usual mellow self. He says nothing that day or for the next several days, and I feel miserable. I don’t want to blow our newfound friendship, but I am driven and want to know what he is up to, so I wait it out.
To my relief, it takes only a few days before Dad opens the subject. “So… what did you hear, Dawn?” he asks matter-of-factly as he shuffles his deck of cards.
“What, when?” I put on my best blank look.
“You know!” His tone is sharp this time.
“A—a—at the door the other day?” I stammer. “It sounded like you were in there with someone; speaking Thai.”
He gives me a long, hard stare, scaring me even more, and then looks down into my eyes. “You can’t tell anyone!” he says seriously. “You have to promise!”
“I… I promise, Dad. What was it?”
Concern furrows his brow, and he repeats, “You understand? No one!”
“I promise!”
Dad seems satisfied, nods to himself, and slowly leans back into his chair. He takes a few moments, breathes in deep, and begins. “Several years ago, in Bangkok, I met a lady. Her name is Pen Ci. When my passport was stolen and I was thrown in jail, she helped get me out by bribing the police and the judge. After my papers were miraculously recovered”—Dad’s hand sweeps the air as if he is waving a magic wand—“she took me to the northern part of Thailand to live with her in her village.”
Her name is, I think, making a mental note of Dad’s curious use of the present tense.
Dad catches his breath and continues. “She’s considered a holy woman in her village, and she helped me out of a, well, er, a bad spot. We spent a lot of time together, and, uh, you know, we fell in love.” He keeps his gaze focused on the heavy red drapes, avoiding my shocked expression.
“What happened?” I press him.
“Well, that’s when I did the monk thing I told you about. To prove, you know, my love for her, I, um, had to become a Buddhist monk.” Dad begins to fidget. “I needed to respect their religion and gain merits with the Buddha. Eventually, we got married.”
“Got married!”
“Yeah, it’s not legal as far as the States are concerned, but it’s legal in Thailand,” he says, still averting my surprised gaze.