Free The Train to Lo Wu by Jess Row Page A

squats next to him and begins scooping up the pills, pulling the cotton wadding out of the bottle and dropping it on the floor in his haste. Don’t say anything about this, he says, in a high, cracking whisper, his eyes locked on the floor. I ask you as a friend, OK? You never saw me here.
    All right, Lewis whispers.
    After Hae Wol has left, he stands there for a moment, shivering in the blast of cold air from the corridor. Then he pulls on his robes, hardly bothering to dry himself, and leaves, keeping his eyes focused on the floor.
    The next Monday they do not speak until they are almost finished loading the van.
    Tell me what you’re thinking, Hae Wol says finally. Are you angry? Are you shocked?
    Shocked? He smiles; he’s forgotten how conservative Joseph has always been, even a little naïve, by American standards. I’m surprised, he says. I take it those pills weren’t exactly given to you by prescription.
    Percocet, Hae Wol says. Painkillers. There’s a laywoman who gets them for me. Her husband is a doctor. I went to him when I sprained my ankle last fall, and then I couldn’t stop taking them. I just tell her,
I’m still having the pain.
Because I’m a monk, he won’t say anything.
    That isn’t your fault, Lewis says. You need to get treatment, that’s all.
    Hae Wol shakes his head. No, he says. The fourth precept says
no drinking, no intoxicants.
It doesn’t say
except when you really
need it.
A vow is only a vow if you keep it one hundred percent of the time. Not ninety-nine percent.
    Lewis swallows hard. Like marriage, he says. And yet, here we are.
    Hae Wol squints at him with a half-smile, as if it’s a joke he doesn’t quite understand; then he looks away and nods, and stoops down to lift another bag of rice. You’re right, he says, with a sharp, surprised laugh. Whip the horse, don’t whip the cart, right?
    So the question is, Lewis says, folding his arms to keep them from trembling, what will you do now, Sunim?
    What do you think I should do?
    Oh, no, Lewis says. Don’t ask me that. Who am I to give you advice?
    The monk sits down heavily on the bumper, holding out his hands to steady himself. His face is soft and slack, like a piece of rotting fruit.
Who else is there,
his body seems to say. And Lewis thinks,
what am I worth, after all, as a human being, if I can’t do
something for him right now?
    Give the pills to me, he hears himself saying.
    Hae Wol looks up, raising his eyebrows. Now? he says. I don’t have them. They’re in my room.
    You’re lying, Lewis says fiercely, his tongue scraping the dry roof of his mouth. He holds out his hand. You want my help? he says. This is the help you get. Give them to me
now
.
    Guilt flashes across the monk’s face, and he reaches into his pocket. Lewis reaches over and places his hand on the bottle; Hae Wol’s fingers tighten, and finally he has to pry it away. Quickly he unscrews the lid, spills the pills onto the gravel, and steps on them, grinding them into the stones.
    I can always get more, Hae Wol says unhappily. That doesn’t change anything.
    Listen, Lewis says. Can you get into the monastery office? Can you send a letter?
    Hae Wol shrugs, and nods reluctantly.
    I want you to send a letter to Melinda for me, Lewis says. Will you do that? And then you tell that woman that the pain has gone away and you don’t need any more pills.
    I can’t do that. The monk scratches slowly behind his ear, staring at the orange-stained pebbles around his feet. I don’t have the strength, he says tonelessly. It isn’t going to work.
    Do it anyway, Lewis says. Remember what you told me?
Don’t
know.
Just do it that way.
    Hae Wol begins to laugh, his shoulders trembling. You Americans, he says, you take everything so literally. You’re really going to force me to go through with this, aren’t you?
    Yes. Lewis forces himself to smile. You’re stuck with me.
    And what will you say in the letter?
    I’m going to tell her that it’s all right to fail,