Shelter

by Jung Yun

  “Je-sus,” Tim says under his breath.

  “Mr. Cho?” Connie shouts. “Police.”

  The three of them push past Kyung, their need for a reason to enter apparently satisfied by the damage now in plain sight. He follows them in, careful to walk around the broken houseplants and figurines in the entryway, if only to examine how methodically his father destroyed all of the things his mother loved. Above the staircase is a long stretch of wall where the family photographs used to hang. Most of the frames have been thrown to the floor and stepped on. There’s glass everywhere; the photos have been torn into pieces like old receipts. Kyung stares at the ruined faces, the fragments of eyes and ears and lips pursed tight. The photos were originals, the only evidence left to document his childhood or birth. Gillian occasionally nagged him to get reprints, but he always assumed they’d be his to inherit one day. He can’t imagine a more intentional insult from his father than the black-and-white scraps scattered across the stairs, tossed like makeshift confetti.

  When he joins the others in the living room, the air smells thick with stale smoke. Connie is standing next to the bookcases, studying the damage as if searching for clues about the kind of family his daughter married into. A half-dozen empty liquor bottles are strewn around the room, and the paintings above the fireplace—paintings that Jin took such pride in collecting—are lying in the corner. The canvases have been kicked in, their peaceful seascapes damaged beyond repair.

  “Classy,” Tim says, picking up a crystal decanter filled with tobacco-colored liquid and floating stubs of cigars. “Your dad likes to drink, I’m guessing.”

  “No, not anymore. Not like he used to. The bar is just for guests.”

  “Looks to me like he went on a bender.” He puts the decanter down and motions toward an empty bottle of cognac on the end table.

  Tim’s explanation should make sense, but it doesn’t. Nothing in this room makes sense. The volume of chaos is too much for one person, especially a man pushing sixty.

  “Does it always get this crazy?” Lentz asks.

  “Never,” Kyung says, and this is the part that’s beginning to worry him. He knows his father is capable of hitting a woman. And taking a bat or a broom to his mother’s antiques, he can imagine this too. But what bothers Kyung is that his father isn’t the type of person to destroy his own things. The painting of Nauset Beach on Cape Cod—the one torn out of its frame and lying on the floor—it was one of Jin’s most prized possessions. He shakes his head, unable to sort through the mismatch between what he knows and what he sees.

  “I don’t think my father could have done all this,” he says quietly. “I think, maybe—they were robbed.”

  Connie is the first to pick up on the panic in Kyung’s voice, the first to understand they might not be alone. He lifts the back of his shirt and removes a gun from his waistband while Tim quickly does the same. For a moment, Lentz seems as startled as Kyung is to realize they’ve been wearing holsters under their clothes, but he follows their lead and draws his weapon. Connie puts a finger to his mouth and points three times—at the staircase, the hallway, and the front door. Suddenly, Kyung feels someone grabbing his shirt and pushing him toward the entryway against his will. With one quick shove, he lands against the porch rail, flung out into the daylight like a drunk at a bar. He turns to see Tim running up the stairs as the front door clicks shut.

  He wonders if he’s supposed to do something—use the radio in Lentz’s car to call for backup, or ask the neighbors to call 911. His only point of reference is movies, bad ones that frighten him nonetheless. He expects to hear gunfire or see a chase across the lawn, but minutes pass, and nothing happens. The neighborhood is the same rich kind of quiet it always is, punctuated by birdsong and little else. A woman jogs by with two children in a running stroller, the littler of whom offers Kyung a wave that he doesn’t return. Occasionally, a car drives by at a respectful, residential speed. The longer nothing happens, the more he begins to accept the possibility that everything is fine, or will be soon enough. The people responsible for the robbery are probably long gone by now, and his father probably went to the police station to report what they’d lost. He’s comforted by this theory, the safety of it, even though it doesn’t begin to explain what happened to his mother.

  Kyung circles the porch, looking into windows that offer no view of the rooms inside. He should have known something was wrong when he saw the drapes. Mae’s only hobby is making the house look nice. Her philosophy is to let the neighbors see. All her work over the years—the antiques and art and books arranged just so—he can’t believe how much of it has been destroyed. Something about the damage almost seems personal, as if the people who robbed them knew exactly what his mother valued most.

  As he walks around to the front of the house, the door opens and Tim appears with Marina, his parents’ housekeeper. She’s the last person he expected to see, wrapped from head to toe in a bedsheet, clutching the ends together with her fists. The flowery green print is thin, thin enough to notice that she’s naked underneath. Kyung understands what this means. Two naked women, both brutalized. Marina’s left eye is swollen shut and the bridge of her nose is as thick as a pipe. Her long brown hair is ratty, electrified. He’s about to say something to her—what, he doesn’t know—but Tim locks his jaw and shakes his head violently. Not now. Marina passes Kyung without saying a word, her expression glassy, stunned by the light. Jin follows a few steps behind, supported by Lentz, who struggles to stay upright under his weight.

  Kyung isn’t prepared for the sight of his father so bloodied. He’s imagined it a thousand times—the twin black eyes, the split lip, the bruises turning an angry shade of purple—but not like this.

  “What happened? How did this happen to you?”

  “My glasses,” Jin says, pulling on the hem of Kyung’s shirt. “I can’t see.”

  “Later. Tell me what happened.”

  “I can’t see.”

  He wants his father to stop touching him and answer the question, but Jin keeps reaching for him in a panic. “All right. All right. I’ll get them for you. Where are they?”

  “In the bathroom upstairs. I have extras.”

  Kyung turns toward the door and runs into Connie, who sends him backwards with a shove to the chest.

  “Where the hell are you going?”

  “He said he left his glasses in the house.”

  “I’ll send someone in to get them later.”

  “But he can’t see.”

  Connie pushes him again, harder this time. “Forget the glasses. There’s a body in there.”

  * * *

  The name of the deceased is Lyndell Perry. “Dell” for short. Lentz removes two photographs of him from an envelope and hands them to Kyung. The first is a mug shot, faxed by the Georgia state correctional system. The second is a photo snapped in his parents’ bathroom, where Lentz says he died of an overdose, probably heroin or meth. Kyung studies the pictures carefully, certain that he’s never seen the man before, but not certain if he’s looking at the same man. The Dell Perry pictured in the mug shot is young and vaguely handsome, with short black hair, pale eyes, and cheekbones that slice toward his temples. The hollowed-out man sitting on the toilet, leaning against the wall with a belt cinched around his arm—he looks like someone else.

  “You sure?” Lentz asks. “You’ve never seen him before?”

  Kyung shakes his head.

  “Maybe he did odd jobs for your parents? Painting, maybe? Or moving some furniture around?”

  “I don’t think so. My mother uses a decorator for things like that.”

  “Then what about this guy?”

  Lentz hands him another mug shot, this one taken by the State of North Carolina. The man in the photo appears to be a relative of the first. He has the same face, but older and thicker, with less hair and more neck.

  “I’ve never seen him either. Why are you asking?”

  “They work together sometimes. They’re
brothers, actually, but this kind of robbery—it’s more along the lines of the older brother’s MO.”

  “What were they in prison for?”

  Lentz doesn’t respond.

  “Come on. I’ve been here for hours and no one will tell me anything. I can’t even get in to see my mother.”

  The population of the hospital’s waiting room has tripled since Kyung returned from his parents’ house. The police are everywhere. Some are in uniform, but most are off duty, wearing their shields around their necks like oversized pendants. The crime rate in Marlboro is low, almost nonexistent. Occasionally, a car goes missing or some college students throw a party that gets out of hand, but what happened to his parents is different, a fact that everyone in the room seems to understand. Kyung wouldn’t mind being surrounded by the police if they were actually being helpful, but none of them appear to be doing anything, not even Connie, who keeps moving around from person to person, talking to everyone but clearly avoiding him.

  Lentz leans in and motions toward the picture of the first man. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “This one’s been in and out for drug possession, breaking and entering, and robbery. His older brother here, Nathan, his sheet is about twice as long. Assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, armed robbery … He was in Walpole for six years and then jumped parole back in February. We were lucky the state police had an APB out for him.”

  Kyung studies the photos again. Dell and Nathan Perry. White trash names if he ever heard them, probably from some country backwater down South. He doesn’t understand how they ended up in Marlboro, in a neighborhood so wealthy that driving an older-model car feels like a crime.

  “What was this one on parole for?”

  Lentz pretends not to hear the question.

  “What was he on parole for?” Kyung repeats, loud enough to turn heads this time.

  “It was rape, okay? Jesus, be quiet.” Lentz collects his photos and walks away, disappearing down the corridor.

  Kyung knew the answer before he heard it. He knew the minute he saw Marina leaving the house. As she walked down the front steps, the wind lifted a corner of the bedsheet and he caught a glimpse of her bare skin. There were rope burns around her ankles. He could guess what the ropes were for. Marina is young and pretty—a nice Bosnian girl with a figure that’s hard not to notice. Usually, she cleans for his parents on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’s Saturday now. He wonders how long they were trapped in that house together, and his chest begins to tighten. He wants to know what they did to his mother. He does, but he doesn’t.

  Across the room, Gillian appears, her long red hair looking even wilder than usual. She seems harried, as if she sped the entire way and left the headlights on in the parking lot. She tries to squeeze into the waiting area, but three officers form a wall to block her from entering. Before Kyung can get up, his father-in-law pushes the men aside and leads her through the crowd, depositing her in the empty seat next to Kyung.

  “Where’s the kid?” Connie asks.

  “I finally got a neighbor to watch him.” She takes Kyung’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Tim told me everything on the phone. I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “You shouldn’t be here right now, Gilly. Neither of you, really. Maybe you should both head home for the night.”

  “Dad,” Gillian snaps. “We’ll decide whether to stay or go.”

  Kyung has seen this a thousand times. Connie pushing, Gillian pushing back. Tim could never get away with it, but Gillian always does, probably because she’s a girl, the baby of the family. Connie returns to a huddle of older officers, most of whom are standing with their arms crossed or their hands in their pockets as if they’re waiting for something. Waiting for what? he wonders.

  “Who’s looking after Ethan?”

  “Marianne.”

  He pictures all the women in their neighborhood, unable to match the name with a face. “Which one is she?”

  “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. What do you need right now?”

  A gun comes to mind, not that he’d know what to do with it. “I couldn’t even tell you.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, rubbing circles into his back.

  She wasn’t supposed to be here. He told her to stay home with Ethan, but now that she’s sitting beside him, Kyung doesn’t mind. Gillian knows he’s not a talker; he never has been. She doesn’t press him for details or ask any unnecessary questions. She just reaches into her book bag and hands him a bottle of water. Then she opens one for herself. He wonders if she’ll offer him a cookie or granola bar next because this is who she is now, the type of woman who carries snacks in her bag. They sit like this for several minutes, looking around the room but not speaking to each other. Kyung studies the elderly couple wedged in the corner, shaded by the canopy of a potted palm. The husband is dressed in pajamas and a robe, sucking oxygen from a portable tank while his wife flips through a Reader’s Digest. No one has spoken to them since they checked in. The construction worker too. He’s been waiting even longer, holding a melting bag of ice against his bloody thumb.

  In high school, Kyung spent most of his spare time in hospitals, doing internships or community service. He liked watching the doctors race through the halls, so competent and professional, motivated by purpose. It never occurred to him that he’d be anything other than a doctor when he grew up, an idea he was quickly disabused of after dropping out of med school. Now hospitals make him nervous. He dislikes their antiseptic smell and sickly desert color palettes. And the whispering—so much whispering—like the walls will collapse if the sound level rises above a murmur. Occasionally, Kyung overhears something about the mayor or next year’s union contract. But mostly, the conversation is about his parents—what happened, what the cops think happened, what will probably happen next. He learns that Jin has multiple broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion. Marina is in surgery—for what, he doesn’t know. The cops refer to the men who did this as animals and degenerates. They say the dead guy is lucky that he’s dead. Only once does he hear any mention of his mother. That poor fucking woman, someone says, which sends Kyung’s eyes straight to the ceiling, to an old water stain blooming on the paint. It feels like the roof is about to fall on top of him.

  When Gillian finishes her water, she removes a textbook from her bag, a huge brick of a book called Educational Psychology. A fringe of Post-its lines the pages she marked—so thick and colorful, it seems like she marked everything. He’s surprised that she brought it, but she brings it everywhere these days, squeezing in a few pages of reading whenever she can. Gillian is studying for her master’s degree in school counseling, usually a class or two every semester. The plan is for her to go back to work when Ethan starts kindergarten, to finally start making some money like she used to. Kyung covers his eyes, overwhelmed by the thought of ever having a plan again. It feels like they’ll never leave this waiting room. For the rest of their lives, they’ll always be here.

  “What’s the matter? Do you not want me to read right now?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I never told you.” He wonders if this will be enough, if the nature of his sin is so obvious that she won’t need more than this to understand.

  “We don’t have to talk about that right now.” She closes her book anyway. “It makes sense, though.”

  “What does?”

  Gillian shrugs. “I thought it was kind of strange—how you never wanted to spend time with your parents. And then when we had to, you’d get so stressed out.” She stares at her book, running her hand over the shiny cover. “Some school counselor I’m going to be. I had no idea your dad used to hit you.”

  Kyung jerks his head at her. “I didn’t say he hit me.”

  “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t have to—”

  “No. Listen. He never hit me, not even once. He only hit my mother.”

  “But that’s not common. You know that, right?” Gillia
n shakes her head. “I’m sorry. Let’s, let’s just talk about this when you’re ready.”

  Kyung doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready. He wants to discuss it now, and then never again. “My father didn’t hit me. It probably would have been better if he did.”

  “That’s awful. Why would you even say that?”

  Because it’s worse to listen to someone in pain, he thinks. Because hearing a beating and not being able to do anything about it are their own form of punishment. This is the truthful answer, the one Kyung knows he should give, but he doesn’t like the damage it implies.

  “I always thought that if my mother didn’t do certain things, if she behaved better, like me, then he wouldn’t have a reason to.” He glances at Gillian, at the perfect O her mouth makes when she doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t think that now. I used to, though.”

  Gillian sits back in her seat, leaning her head against the wall. He can see the wheels spinning, the way she’s reconciling everything she knew about him with what she knows now. There was a reason why he didn’t want a big wedding, why he hates family gatherings, why he threatened to move when his parents bought a house so close to their own. He’s tempted to tell her not to apply her little textbook lessons to him, but her arguments would probably make more sense than his denials. He waits for her to continue where they left off. Instead, she places her hand on top of his, not quite holding it, just resting it there as she would on a table or chair.

  “What?” he asks. “I know you want to say something, so just say it.”

  “I guess I don’t understand, then. Your mom—the way you’re kind of mean to her sometimes.”

  Kyung pulls his hand away. “Just shut up, Gillian.”

  He’s never dismissed her like this before, not even as a joke. She isn’t the kind of woman to take that from anyone, which is what he liked about her in the beginning, what he likes about her still. He waits for a response, but the longer nothing happens, the more he begins to accept the fact that she’s given him a bye. When she opens her book again, he sits back in his seat, not certain if he feels terrible or relieved.