Shelter

by Jung Yun

  “How did all those people in the waiting room find out what happened?”

  “I called the reverend last night.”

  “But if you’re so worried about putting this behind her, then why did you tell anyone? Now everybody at your church is going to know.”

  Jin shakes his head. “There are different kinds of forgetting.”

  Kyung wonders if his father still has a concussion, if he thinks he’s making sense when he really isn’t. He looks him over, stopping when he notices a small gold crucifix that someone—the reverend, probably—pinned to his sling.

  “Stop staring at me,” Jin says.

  “I’m not staring.”

  But he is. Kyung turns and scans a nearby bulletin board. The only poster he can see clearly is for a needle-exchange program. IF YOU SHARE YOUR DRUGS, DON’T SHARE YOUR BLOOD, it warns in bright gold letters. The other posters are too small or far away to read, so he watches a pair of nurses walk through the corridor, wheeling equipment that rattles and scrapes across the floor.

  “I’m fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.” Sarcasm doesn’t sound right coming from Jin’s mouth. When his words hit the air, they turn into acid.

  “I can see that already.”

  What Kyung actually sees is his father looking old for the first time in his life. Gone are the expensive clothes—the precisely ironed dress shirts and hundred-dollar ties—against the backdrop of his enormous house and office. With the fluorescent lights bearing down on him, turning his skin a bluish shade of gray, Jin appears to have aged a decade overnight. Looking at him now, no one would ever guess what he used to be capable of.

  “Not once,” Jin says, shaking his head.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Not once did I think you’d save us.”

  “Save you? How could I save you when I didn’t even know what was happening?”

  “That’s the point.”

  There’s a familiar thread of insult woven into all of this, but Kyung refuses to have the same argument again. He’s not a good son; he knows this already. But he’s the best possible version of the son they raised him to be. Present, but not adoring. Helpful, but not generous. Obligated and nothing more.

  “Where’s your doctor? The Indian one? I want to talk to him.”

  “He came by earlier this morning before his shift ended.”

  Kyung is upset with himself for arriving late and frustrated that everyone else forgot him. He lowers his voice to a sharp whisper. “The next time Mom talks to a doctor or a policeman or anyone else, I want to be here. Do you understand? I want you to call me immediately.”

  “So now you actually want me to call.”

  “I should be here when they question her.”

  “You never wanted to be around us before.”

  “Things are different now.”

  “This,” Jin almost shouts, “this is not the reason why things should be different.”

  The sudden change in volume sends Kyung back a step. Before he has a chance to respond, a young, ponytailed doctor approaches them, tilting her head to the side like a little girl. She seems tentative, as if she overheard their argument and doesn’t know if she should interrupt.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cho? I’m Dr. Keller. Could I talk to you for a few minutes about Miss Jancic?”

  It takes Kyung a moment to realize that he’s not the Mr. Cho she’s addressing. “Why? He’s not family.”

  “We couldn’t track down any relatives, so we requested her records from school. She listed Mr. Cho as her emergency contact. And you are?”

  “His son.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she says, although she’s already looking away by the time she says it. “Would you mind coming with me, sir? I have a room around the corner where we can talk.”

  Dr. Keller rests her hand in the hollow of Jin’s back, gently steering him down the hall. Jin doesn’t bother to say good-bye or even cast a passing glance in Kyung’s direction. He just leaves him there, frozen like a pedestrian in the middle of the street while everyone else speeds past.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” Kyung calls out.

  But Jin is already rounding the corner, playing deaf or dumb to the question.

  * * *

  Gillian and Ethan are doing a puzzle on the kitchen floor when he returns home from the hospital. It’s not where he expected to find them, still dressed in their pajamas with mugs of orange juice at their feet. He was hoping to slip in the side door unnoticed, but the longer he watches them, the less he wants to hide. Seeing them like this reminds him of his mother, how they’d sit on the floor when he was little, coloring on the backs of paper bags. It was a rare activity, reserved for days when Kyung was too sick to go to school, but too bored to stay in bed. The cold ceramic tiles felt good against his feverish skin, so he and Mae would sit for hours, sharing fat, waxy crayons from a communal bucket placed between them. Sometimes, if the mood was just right, he’d ask her to draw an animal or insect so he could color it in. But trees, he learned, were her specialty. Tall oaks and pines and willows like the ones in their yard. All he had to do was point at one and watch as she sketched out a knotty trunk or feathered out some branches and filled them with leaves.

  “So what are these called?” Gillian asks. In her hand is an oversized puzzle piece shaped like a bunch of grapes.

  “Raisins,” Ethan says.

  “Almost. Do you remember what I told you about raisins? What were they before they sat in the sun?”

  Ethan looks out the window, as if he might find the answer in space. “Grapes?”

  “That’s right. And which do you like better? Raisins or grapes?”

  “Raisins are like grapes that died.”

  Kyung admires Gillian’s way with Ethan. She’s always sharing little facts with him, always ready with a smile or a laugh or a question. Her instincts with the boy are so much better than his own. Four years in, and parenthood still feels like a heavy new coat, one that he hoped to grow into but hasn’t quite yet. Earlier that week, the three of them made pizza together, an activity she’d read about in a magazine article and taped to the fridge. BUDGET-FRIENDLY FAMILY NIGHTS. Every time Ethan did something—sprinkle a handful of cheese or make a face with slices of pepperoni—she complimented him. When they finished, the pizza looked awful. Lumpy and burnt and glistening with grease. Still, Gillian kept saying “good job” over and over again, elbowing Kyung in the ribs until he finally said it too. He finds himself doing this more often now—saying what he knows a good parent should—but he worries that it doesn’t come more naturally.

  “Okay, so what’s next?” she asks.

  He clears his throat so they’ll notice him.

  Gillian spins around, startled by the noise. “Oh. You’re home already,” she says cautiously. “You weren’t gone very long.”

  Kyung pours himself a cup of coffee. “I know.” He joins them on the floor, kicking off his shoes so he can sit cross-legged as they are, which seems to surprise her. He looks down at the half-assembled puzzle. It’s the same one Ethan always plays with, the fruit bowl.

  “So was everything—okay over there?” Gillian asks.

  “What’s this?” Kyung offers Ethan another piece.

  “It’s an apple.”

  “Do you like apples?”

  Ethan nods. “And bananas too.”

  “Show me which one’s the banana.”

  They go on like this for several minutes until all of the smiling pieces of fruit are in their proper places. Kyung can feel Gillian watching him the entire time, but she should be happy, he thinks. This is exactly the kind of thing she says he needs to do more often. Play more, discipline less.

  When Ethan finishes reciting the names of every fruit, he turns the puzzle tray over, and the wooden pieces fall out, clattering against the tile. “Again?” he asks hopefully.

  Children have a strange tolerance for repetition. Ethan has been playing with the same tool belt and puzzle
since April. He’s been demanding the same bedtime story since May. He doesn’t lack for toys or books—Gillian’s made sure of that—but he acts like the others don’t exist. This is the pattern as Kyung has come to understand it: months of Ethan fixating on one thing until he moves on to something else, something equally mind numbing, and then the pattern begins again.

  “Why don’t you go watch TV now?” Gillian says. “You can take the puzzle with you if you want.”

  Ethan picks up the apple and walks into the living room, where the piece is sure to go missing.

  “He watches too much TV,” Kyung says.

  “It’s fine every once in a while. We grew up with TV, and there’s nothing wrong with us.”

  Actually, Kyung grew up with tutors. Piano, French, swimming, golf. If he could afford it, Ethan would have tutors too.

  “So what happened? Why are you home so early?”

  “She’d already given her statement by the time I got there. Then she went to sleep, so I left.”

  “But what about your dad?”

  “What about him?”

  “Well, how is he? Did he tell you what happened?”

  “Why don’t you ask Connie or Tim?” His irritation spikes when he mentions his in-laws, who have no right knowing more than he does, no right at all. “I got to the hospital five minutes before visiting hours started, and they were already there with the cop from yesterday. And that reverend from the church—he brought half the congregation with him.”

  Gillian slides across the floor until she’s sitting behind him. “I’m sorry about my dad,” she says, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “I’m sure he meant well. He probably thinks he can help. And you know Tim—wherever one goes, the other follows.”

  She’s always making excuses for them, trying so hard to smooth things over. Connie irritates her from time to time, but she adores him like a daughter should, bouncing back from their disagreements as if they never happened.

  “I snapped at them a little. You know, for being there.”

  The kneading stops. “What exactly did you say?”

  “I told them to leave. Maybe I said get out.… I can’t remember.”

  “Kyung! Why would you do that? They were only trying to help.”

  Of course, he thinks. She’s always quick to take a side unless it’s his. “Someone should have called me once she started giving her statement. It’s not like I can ask her what happened. She’s too embarrassed. The whole time I was there, she wouldn’t even look at me.”

  “So why don’t you just call my dad and ask him what she said?”

  “Call?”

  He can’t remember having more than a handful of phone conversations with Connie in the past five years. Most of them started and ended the same way. No, Gillian’s not home. Yes, I’ll tell her to call back. There was never any middle to them.

  “I can’t call after telling him to leave like that.”

  “Then why don’t you just ask Jin?”

  Kyung shakes his head.

  Gillian straddles him from behind, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as if she’s expecting a piggyback ride. He’s tempted to carry her up to their bed and close the door behind them, but to do that now would only invite a misunderstanding. She’ll assume he wants sex, which is the furthest thing from his mind. The only thing he wants is to be quiet together, to feel the comfort of her presence, but not have to listen to her advice.

  “So should we go to my dad’s house, then? Maybe if Ethan and I are around, it won’t be so awkward, and you’re going to have to apologize eventually, right?”

  Kyung doesn’t think he owes Connie an apology. His father-in-law did something wrong—he even acknowledged it. They were intruding, he said. Intruders. He gets up from the floor, brushing off the flecks of dust and bread crumbs clinging to his pants.

  “If you don’t want to ask my dad, I still think you should try talking to yours. I mean, I know things have never been all that friendly between you two, but it’s not like any of this was his fault. It might be nice for you to acknowledge that this happened to him too.”

  On some level, Kyung knows she’s right. He just can’t bring himself to that place yet. In college, whenever one of his roommates said his mother was on the phone, he picked up the receiver slowly, expecting to hear that Jin had hit her again. By the time he was in grad school, the years had stretched out long enough so he could take a call without having to brace for the worst. Until yesterday, the beatings seemed like another lifetime ago. Not forgiven, but in the past. How quick he was to assume that Jin had hurt her. And now here he is, feeling the same terror clutching at his throat as if eighteen years haven’t gone by, and there’s nothing he can do to make it go away.

  “How long will it take you and Ethan to get ready?”

  Gillian shrugs. “Ten minutes.”

  “Let’s go to Connie’s, then.”

  It takes her half an hour to change Ethan’s clothes, pack his lunch and toys and books, and find a clean shirt and jeans for herself. By the time they’re all seated and strapped in the car, Kyung is having second thoughts. He drives slowly—obeying the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at the lights—things he never does. At the fork in the road that leads to the Flats, he turns left instead of right.

  “What are you doing? This isn’t the way.”

  “I want to see something.”

  She doesn’t bother asking what because two turns later, it’s obvious. He’s driving up the hill toward the Heights again. As they near his parents’ house, he sees neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, small packs of them huddled in conversation. With every passing block, he sees more. More people, more cars, more congestion. A block away from the house, there’s nowhere left to park on the street. Every space is occupied by vans with satellite dishes on their roofs and logos painted on their doors. Channels 6, 11, 22, and 64. Two local papers, three radio channels, seven police cruisers.

  “Kyung…,” Gillian says quietly. “I don’t think we should be here right now.”

  He looks in his rearview mirror. There’s another van right behind him. “I can’t back up.”

  “So keep going. Just get us out of here.”

  Kyung realizes that most of the people on the sidewalk aren’t neighbors at all. They’re reporters and cameramen. The slower he drives, the longer they look at him, their expressions curious, as if he’s the quote or story they’ve been waiting for.

  “This isn’t right,” he says.

  The front door to his parents’ house has a strip of yellow hazard tape stretched across it on the diagonal. The driveway is blocked off with orange and white police barricades.

  “Is Grandpa here?”

  “No, honey. Grandpa’s not here. We’re going to see Grandpa now.” Gillian puts her hand on Kyung’s leg. “Can we just go to my dad’s now?”

  “Aren’t there supposed to be privacy laws for rape victims?”

  “Please don’t say that word. Not in the car.”

  “But how did they get this address?”

  “Kyung, I don’t know. Just keep going.”

  On the corner, his parents’ next-door neighbors are talking to a reporter on camera. The elderly Steiners stand stoop-shouldered and frail, slight as scarecrows from a distance. Mr. Steiner has his arm wrapped around his wife. Both of them keep shaking their heads.

  “Go faster,” Gillian says. “Now.”

  He takes the long way back to where they started and hits traffic downtown. Three different churches are all letting out at the same time. Kyung rolls down his window as the parishioners cross the street, oblivious to the line of cars stuck at the intersection. The women are wearing summery dresses, some with hats and jewelry. All of the men are in suits. The children look like the adults who brought them, neat and shined up and glad to see the sun. Kyung taps his horn meekly. The sound is loud enough to turn people’s heads, but not long enough to make them walk any faster.

  “Now you’re in a hurry?”
Gillian asks.

  “I just want to get there.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  Connie and Tim live in the Flats, a neighborhood near the river that was developed in the ’50s. The lots are small, divided and subdivided into narrow rectangles, built up with sad little ranches and Capes. After Tim’s divorce, he moved in with Connie to save money for a place of his own. That was nearly ten years ago. No one ever talks about it—how the arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but now has the look and feel of something permanent. The two-bedroom bungalow they share is too small for them both. Everything is big inside. Big furniture, big appliances, big men squeezing around each other in the narrow spaces in between.

  As they step into the house, Kyung can’t help but notice the television set—a seventy-inch monster connected to every possible electronic device. In front of it are two overstuffed reclining chairs with a cup holder in each armrest. This is where they usually find Connie and Tim spending their off-hours, watching baseball or the History Channel, but strangely, the screen is black now, and the chairs are empty. Another first.

  “Anyone home?” Gillian calls out.

  The toilet in the bathroom flushes, and Connie appears, struggling with the zipper on his pants. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Ethan runs straight for him, hugging his thick leg.

  “You’re like a boa constrictor, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a snake.” Connie picks him up, pinning his arms to his sides. “It’s one of those snakes that squeezes the air out of you. Like this, see?”

  Ethan lets out a squeal, and the look on his face—a pure, unwitting look of joy—this is what Kyung realizes he has to preserve, what he wasn’t mindful of in the car. Four is too young an age to learn what people can do to each other.

  Tim joins them, dressed in uniform but holding a can of beer. Gillian gives him a peck on the cheek. “Would you mind taking Ethan outside while Kyung and I talk to Dad?”

  “I go on duty at noon, but I’ve got a little time.” He extends a gigantic hand, swallowing Ethan’s small one in his. “You want to see the bird’s nest in the backyard?”