THE SADNESS OF HALF A HOUSE

It 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.

So here she was, with her house and its garden out back. Ladarat was most proud of that garden. Ladarat had no aptitude for growing things, but somehow plants here seemed to thrive spontaneously. Some were native to Thailand, like the Siam tulips around the edges of the patio. Their pretty fluted stalks were just as nice this time of year, in the fall, when they weren’t crowned with a flower. There was silver-leafed ginger, too, with stripes down the middle of its leaves that seemed to her as if they were little ladders. There were impatiens by the score, flowering now in a pure white and a fluorescent yellow. And even though they never seemed to flower, the gordonia bushes with tough dark green waxy leaves hid the ugly concrete block wall at the back of the garden. And gold-leafed philodendron with delicate riffled edges popped up here and there according to a whim of their own.

Whenever she came out here—which was almost every day that it wasn’t raining—she thanked her good fortune that she was not in Bangkok. Indeed, she had been to that enormous city only twice, and that was more than enough. The first time was with Somboon, on their honeymoon. They’d taken a plane that landed in the enormous Suvarnabhumi Airport outside of the city. The flight was only forty-five minutes, but it took them at least that long again to make their way through the gleaming corridors of the airport, surrounded on every side by marble and stainless steel and glass. She felt as though she were walking through a very wealthy person’s endless bathroom. The second time was for a conference about palliative care, and she took the train—a much more pleasant and relaxed experience of travel altogether.

But when she was there… oh dear. So big, and so dirty. The air pollution alone was surely the same as smoking a pack of cigarettes every day. And not the major brand imported ones, or even the counterfeits like the gullible Mr. Fuller bought, but the rough filterless cigarettes that were imported illegally from Cambodia. After an hour outside, she felt as though she had a bronchial infection. How could people live in such a place? And why would they want to?

Perhaps it was just as well that there were people with such predispositions. What if every person in Bangkok decided he or she would much prefer the clear skies and cool nights of Chiang Mai? What if all eleven million inhabitants of that big, dirty city took the train north and descended on her little garden? That would not do. Much better that they like the crowded streets and the dirty air, so she could have her town just the way it had always been.

Here in Chiang Mai, she had her garden, and she could sit and hear nothing at all. Or perhaps only Maewfawbaahn mewing for attention, and the little red-breasted swallows creating a chorus of chirping from back among the dense gordonia leaves. And that’s what she was going to do right now.

Too tired to cook, she’d picked up some tom nam khon—spicy prawn soup with coconut milk—and glooai tawt—banana fritters—from Khun Duanphen, the Isaan lady who ran the stall at the corner. At least, tirednesss was her excuse. But honestly, Ladarat couldn’t cook. She never had been able to. Besides, Duanphen’s tom nam khon was about the best in Chiang Mai. And she didn’t make it very spicy like some of the other stalls did. Too much spice is as bad for you as not enough. So Ladarat put Maewfawbaahn’s canned food under the table and settled her slight frame onto one of the two delicate iron chairs that sat before the matching table.

Ladarat was always careful to alternate between the two chairs. There is nothing sadder, she always thought, for a person who lives alone, as when half a home becomes worn out while the other half stays fresh. It’s as if a person’s incomplete life were imprinted on the world. So everyone would know that she is just half a person.

She would not let that happen. Anyone looking at her small home would note that the chairs are evenly worn and the silverware is evenly tarnished, and even her bed is worn on both sides. That evenness was a comfort to her, although if pressed, she wouldn’t be able to explain why it should be so.

Right now, though, she didn’t have to explain anything to anyone. She was sitting on the patio in back of the house that she owned, watching the sky above her turn from a bright white to a deep blue with the rapidity and surety of a scene change in a play. There were things she needed to think about, and many things she needed to worry over. Such was life. But she put them all out of her mind for the moment.

It was at this time of day, though, that she missed Somboon most acutely. During the day there were distractions and work; now was the time that people should sit quietly with family and talk over their day. They should tell each other what had happened. And, she imagined, they should ask each other for advice. Sitting here with Maewfawbaahn was pleasant enough, and restful. Still, it was now more than ever that she felt as though she was missing something.

But perhaps that was one more thing to worry about. And so she put it out of her mind, setting it on a shelf for later. There would be plenty of time to think about her future. And, of course, to worry about the upcoming inspection. And, of course, the mystery man and the murderer and her own future as a detective. For now, she would sit here savoring the last bites of her glooai tawt, with Maewfawbaahn happily on her lap, listening to the swallows argue about whatever it is swallows argue about.