PEN America Best Debut Short Stories 2017

by Kelly Link

  They stepped over the stream. They came to the meadow. The meadow was filled with yellow asphodel.

  My wife walked in the field. Four vultures flew in a circle. There was a breeze and the flowers swayed. Across the meadow there was a barn with no roof, and there was a burned-out school bus. He walked behind her. She stopped and she told him to turn around. She opened the backpack. She removed the knife.

  She leaned down and grasped the stem of a flower. The stalk was thick and hard as wood. She cut it. She cut two more. My wife sat down.

  We packed the tent and we reached the airport at sunset. I put her bags on the curb.

  “This is what it’s like to be married to a creative type,” she said. She smiled. A policewoman blew a whistle and waved at me. My wife picked up her bags and she kissed me. She smelled like the campfire.

  I fastened the seat belt. I phoned my manager and I said if he needed me to work the next day, I could.

  My wife spread the asphodels across her lap. He stood behind my wife and he stared at her pink T-shirt. He looked at the sweat on her neck.

  He took off his shirt. My wife turned her head and she looked at him. She smiled. She turned back and gazed across the field. He unbuttoned his shorts. She looked up at the vultures. He took off his tennis shoes. He took off his socks. The dry grass jabbed his feet and ankles. Rocks poked the soles of his feet.

  He unzipped his shorts. He pushed them and his boxers to his ankles. He stepped out of his shorts and boxers, and he put them on top of his tennis shoes. He bent down and put his T-shirt on top. He stared at my wife, and sweat rolled down his body.

  She said, “What are you doing?”

  He said, “I told you it would be hot as hell.”

  “Seriously. What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?”

  He put his hands on his hips. She stared at him. The sun was on his back. A breeze blew between his legs.

  She said he was naked and he was being bad. She asked what if someone saw.

  He told my wife, “Take off your clothes.”

  She said, “No.”

  He looked up, and the vultures flew in circles. He stepped over my wife’s legs. He straddled her legs and looked down on her. She tugged on her hair, and her hair fell down on her shoulders. She leaned back on her elbows.

  He told my wife to cut the pomegranate because he wanted it.

  She handed him half the fruit, and the juice ran down her arm. It dripped off her elbow. He scraped out the seeds with his fingers. The juice dripped off his wrists. It dripped on his foot. He handed her the seeds, and my wife ate them.

  He told my wife to take her clothes off.

  She looked up at him. She took off the T-shirt. She removed the black bra.

  He said there was not a soul in the meadow. He kneeled down. He removed the asphodels from her lap. He unsnapped her shorts. He slipped my wife’s feet out of her sandals. He kissed her toes. He unzipped her shorts. He kissed her stomach. She arched her back and he tugged on her shorts and her underpants. He tugged again. She wriggled. He put her sandals and T-shirt and bra and shorts and underpants in a pile. My wife was naked in the flowery field. He kissed my wife’s breasts. He moved his fingers up and down her legs. He pressed his thumb in her bellybutton. He spread out his hand and he stretched his little finger down between my wife’s legs.

  He said, “How far is it from there to there?”

  He pressed his body against my wife’s body. The sun was hot. She closed her eyes.

  He kissed her lips. He put his knee between her legs. There was a helicopter. He pushed his thigh against her. She opened her eyes. She put her hand to her forehead and shielded her eyes. Sweat dripped off his earlobe and it landed on her cheek. The sound of the helicopter blades got louder. The helicopter was yellow and it had the number 714 on the tail. She closed her eyes. She spread her legs. He stopped moving.

  “We can pretend we are dead,” he whispered.

  They lay still in the grass. The helicopter flew in circles. The thumping sound moved away. My wife opened her eyes. They laughed.

  He pressed his toes in the dry grass. She raised her knees. His toes dug down in the black dirt. His knees rubbed against the dry grass. The helicopter returned. My wife listened to it come closer. He rested his head on her shoulder.

  He said, “Why is there so much fucking air traffic?”

  He stopped moving and he closed his eyes. My wife closed her eyes. They listened to it go away. They did not move. He and my wife pretended together that they were dead.

  He dug his toes in the dirt. He clutched clumps of grass. The grass tore. He grabbed onto more grass. He growled and my wife smiled. He looked at my wife’s face. She turned her face to one side. She was smiling. She looked at a praying mantis. She stared at the asphodels. They swayed in the breeze. In the asphodel meadow my wife was naked, and she was with him, and she was perfectly happy.

  ______________

  Jim Cole is a writer in Northern California with a rhetoric degree from University of California Berkeley and an MFA from the University of San Francisco, where his work was nominated for the AWP Intro Journals Project. He lives in the town of Duncans Mills, on the Russian River.

  Editor’s Note

  We’ve all heard the adage that there’s only two types of stories: a stranger comes to town, or man goes on a journey. In its own way, “Solee” by Crystal Hana Kim does both of these. A handsome stranger arrives at the home of Solee and her family; the way he treats the oldest daughter of the house, on the verge of her own womanhood, sets Solee on a voyage of self-discovery. One traveler moves through physical space, while the other departs on a journey of emotional growth—I was impressed by how Crystal handled both so deftly.

  “Solee” also resonated with me as a reader of Southern literature. We have many aspects of the traditional Southern story: the small, isolated town; the precocious girl making her way in the world; the wondrous walks through the forest—there’s even a swimming hole and a charming cur. These tropes are transposed onto an entirely different environment, that of rural Korea. In that way, the story does a lot to demonstrate the scope of what we do at The Southern Review—from our foundations in Southern letters, we’ve expanded our reach to celebrate a world of literature—and every so often, that world proves itself to be a small enough place that even a small town, halfway around the planet, looks familiar.

  Now in our ninth decade, The Southern Review has built relationships with more than 3,000 writers. It would be easy enough for us, as editors, to rely on those proven contributors to fill every issue. But finding stories like “Solee” in the mail—Crystal actually mailed in this piece, manila envelope and all—keeps me excited for the new.

  Emily Nemens, coeditor

  The Southern Review

  Solee

  Crystal Hana Kim

  I count the stray dog’s ribs on my way to school. Five bones protrude, like the rounded claw of a Dokkaebi clutching his club. Last month, there were six showing through the skin of his belly. I am happy. I am fattening him up after all.

  He walks alongside me every day, and at the school yard entrance I give him a treat. He is so hungry he leaves a puddle of drool in my palm. But today he is frightened by a thunderclap rumbling through the air.

  A man on a motorcycle. Wheels licking up bursts of dust. He waves and smiles. I am the only one on the road.

  As he disappears, I wave back.

  I hear laughter before I take off my shoes. Daddy and Mommy in the kitchen, singing with the girls.

  “Why is everyone so happy?” I ask.

  “Come say hello to your uncle.” Daddy hugs me with his good arm. He is in a rare light mood; alcohol already swims in his mouth.

  With Jieun and Mila and Mommy is the man from the morning. There is dust on his face and his skin is dark, like the farme
rs in the fields.

  “Kyunghwan, meet Solee. She’s my oldest and smartest, like a boy.”

  I tug down my short hair. I hate it when Daddy calls me a boy. “You’re the man on the motorcycle,” I say.

  “You’re the girl who feeds the starving dog.” He laughs. Everyone laughs.

  Daddy tells me to go bow to him properly, but I stick my head into Mommy’s soft stomach. She holds me, brushing my hair and letting my embarrassment drain out.

  “Say hello like this!” Jieun stands on her chair, leans over Mila, and kisses the man on the cheek. Everyone laughs again.

  He hugs me as though we know each other. His cheek is softer than Daddy’s, and his breath smells like tea, even though they are all drinking makgeolli. “Hello, Miss Solee,” he says.

  They get drunk as if we girls are invisible. It’s nice. Once, on Jieun’s third birthday, Mommy and Daddy drank so much at dinner they stumbled out of the restaurant. They left us at the table, our hands sticky from rice cakes and sugar tea. In the doorway, they kissed. I hope they will do that again.

  It’s early when I wake up. I lie still, letting the cool of the floor collect inside me. It’s my job to make tea in the morning. Jieun and Mila sleep with open mouths. I imagine dropping seeds down their throats, so the kernels will settle in their bellies and grow. Pear blossoms flowing out between their lips, crawling up the walls of the room. I could puppet them around by their stalks, have them get the tea.

  I’m not the only one awake. Uncle is seated at the table with a book. Washed and brushed, he doesn’t look like a farmer anymore. I stare at my feet. I am wearing my nightclothes decorated with small frogs. They are too short in the sleeves and at the ankles.

  “Morning, Solee.”

  “Morning, Uncle.”

  “That makes me feel old. Do I look like an old man to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Call me Kyunghwan.” He points to the tea he has already made. The napkins are folded into flowers and tucked underneath each cup.

  “I need to bring these to my parents,” I say.

  “They’ll wake up soon. They can get their own tea. Come, sit.” He nods at the seat across from him. He gives me an American cookie. It is rectangular and beige and patterned with small, square indents. The sweetness makes the back of my ears hurt. I decide he is a nice man after all.

  “What are your plans for today, Miss Solee?”

  “I have school, and then I come home and help Mommy.”

  “Jisoo says you could go to college. What subjects do you like?”

  “Math is easy. Composition, because we get to write stories. Science, because we learn about animals and plants.”

  Kyunghwan quizzes me with addition and subtraction problems. I start to boast that I even know multiplication, but I stop. Mommy says girls should show their smarts, but no one likes a bragger. That’s the reason the other school kids are not nice to me.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  I want to say something clever. “Dokkaebi.”

  Kyunghwan smiles. “Those gremlins gave me nightmares when I was your age.” He tells me stories of Dokkaebis playing pranks on children and old men. He is a good storyteller, using his hands and baring his teeth in suspenseful moments. Soon it is seven o’clock. “I have to get dressed for school,” I say.

  “I’m going hiking this afternoon. Do you want to come along?” He nods, as if I have already said yes. “We’ll buy you some sturdy shoes.”

  “Bye, Kyunghwan,” I say, waving and bowing at the same time.

  I’m glad Jieun and Mila are still too young to make tea.

  Teacher Han raps my knuckles twice during mathematics. He tells me to pay attention. This afternoon, I will walk up a mountain with Kyunghwan. I play with my hair, brushing it down with my fingers. I wish Mommy hadn’t cut it short. Kyunghwan likes long hair. Last night during dinner, his eyes spiraled as Mommy twirled a long, loose strand.

  After school, I play gonggi stones with my classmates and wait. Chunja is the best, throwing and catching quickly. She has her own set of stones, and they are smooth from all her hours of practice. I’m in the middle of catching the stones with the back of my hand when the talking starts.

  “Look!”

  “Who is he?”

  “He looks like a movie star.”

  “Someone’s daddy?”

  “He’s handsome,” Chunja says.

  The boys stare, too, pointing at his hairy legs and the big lump at his throat.

  He calls my name, waving brown shoes. I drop the gonggi stones into Chunja’s hand, smiling at her surprise.

  

  We arrive at Gasan. Even before we start climbing, there are large stains underneath Kyunghwan’s arms and around his neck. When the boys at school sweat, we make fun of them. But on him, it looks different.

  “Movie star,” I whisper, hoping he will hear me.

  He names flowers and trees. I try to remember them all, but the words bleed together.

  “You see this?” Kyunghwan points to a strange little plant with nubs that curl inward, like a ram’s horns. “It’s Haemi’s favorite side dish. Gosari. Wouldn’t it be nice if we picked some for her?” He sets his hand on my head.

  “My favorite side dish is fried eggs rolled up,” I say.

  “Well, if you help me with this, I’ll make my most delicious eggs especially for you. All right?”

  I nod. He opens his canvas bag, making room in the middle. We search for Mommy’s favorite plant. I pluck one and stare. It looks as if a fuzzy caterpillar is curling up on my palm, ready for sleep. I will not eat any of them, I decide.

  As we collect, he explains that these are babies, that when they mature the leaves uncurl and bloom. When we have a big enough pile, we take a break. He lies down with his hands clasped behind his head, maybe drying his armpits. I copy him. He explains how we will dry the baby plants in the sun, dust them lightly with salt and oil, and then fry them over a fire.

  “How did you know it was her favorite?”

  “Haemi and I were friends. A long time ago. I introduced her to my cousin, Jisoo. And that’s how you and your sisters got to be here.”

  It’s funny how he calls them by their first names. I roll over. I pick a dandelion and blow white fluff at him. “Do you have any children?”

  “I wish I could have daughters as lovely as you girls. I missed my chance. Now I’m old and ugly.”

  “I think you’re handsome,” I say. I turn my head to his chest, so he can’t see my face.

  We head to the backyard and Kyunghwan finds the right spot for the gosari. Out of reach of the roof’s and the tree’s shadows, where the sun heats the ground all day. The back of my neck prickles, and I don’t want to watch these plants shrivel up any longer. I kick at a mud clump while Kyunghwan works. He is spreading them out to make sure they dry evenly.

  “I’m tired,” I say. Dokkaebi is circling the tree and I whistle him over.

  “We’re almost done.”

  Dokkaebi snuffles his head into my hands.

  “No food for you,” I say. I break a dirt clump over his back, mixing brown into his yellow fur. “I’m tired,” I say again. I know I’m whining, but I can’t help it.

  Kyunghwan looks up. “I’m sorry. I should have brought you home earlier.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. It is the color of boiled spinach. He dips it in a bucket of water and washes my face. From forehead to nose to chin. He is not tickling me, but it feels like he is.

  He wraps the kerchief around my neck, and a trickle of water drips down to my belly. I follow the stain with my finger. “I want my special eggs now.”

  “Go inside and let Haemi know we’re home. I’ll finish here, then I’ll cook you up something delicious. You can keep the handkerchief for being such a good partner today.”


  I run into the house with my head raised, so everyone can see what Kyunghwan has given me to keep. “Look!”

  “My wood nymph.” Mommy kisses me. “How was your hike with Uncle?”

  “He picked some baby plants for you. He said they’re your favorite and that you like to eat them with your mouth wide open. Like this.” I copy Kyunghwan’s chewing, smacking my tongue against the roof of my mouth.

  Before I can start describing the peak and my new brown shoes and the eggs that I will get to eat, her eyes close.

  “Mommy?” I shake her, trying to bring her back to me. She does this sometimes. “Kyunghwan is waiting for you.”

  She smiles slowly, like a goddess returning to her human body. She squeezes my hand. “Watch the girls while I talk to your uncle.” Raking her fingers through her curls, she walks out.

  It has become a game between the two of us. I get up earlier each day, but Kyunghwan always wins. He sits in the kitchen with the hot tea ready. As we wait for the others to wake up, we talk.

  Jieun and Mila come next, always running to him with their orange blanket dragging behind them, like an open dress. He pulls them onto his lap and feeds them spoonfuls of tea. I want him to feed me too, but he winks and I straighten up. He thinks of me as a grown-up.

  At night, though, when everyone has gone to bed, I imagine him hugging me. I want to see him, and when I sneak into the hallway no one stops me. No three-legged crow guarding the door from intruders, as Mommy tells us on nights full of shouts and stomps.

  At his door I bend down, dusting my ear against the crack to listen for his breathing. I have to lie as still as possible, but then I hear it. The in and out of Kyunghwan asleep.

  It is Kyunghwan’s ninth day here and Daddy is in a good mood again. It is a Saturday, a no-school day for me, and Daddy is eating breakfast with us.

  “Listen,” he says. “When Kyunghwan and I were boys, he found a secret pond.”