A Quiet Neighbor

by Harper Kim

  For my maternal grandfather, Won Bae Kim, the start of the Korean War didn’t deter him, but invigorated him. He felt a sudden surge of purpose and pride. As a young man of twenty-one and newly married, his idealistic views quickly vanished as the war made headway and left behind a devastated nation. What once was considered home became alien. He felt stripped of all the comforts that Pusan once provided him. Lost to the blood that forever stained his hands and the emptiness that damaged his heart, there was little to lift his spirits. The courage he once had evaporated and the heaviness he felt was for the family he left behind, for a woman he made his wife just a couple months before and a child she carried in her growing belly that he might never know: Halmoni and my mother, Min Ah.

  The land he once called home was gone. Sorrow lay in the wake of dust. And hope diminished in the fire and smoke with the cries of pain and death. So much death, regret, and uncertainty; there wasn’t much room for hope, for dreams of a future.

  Exhausted from a day that bore no end, Won Bae sat, haunted by the blood that stained his hands, brooding over a black and white photo of his beautiful wife exuding the glow of innocent desire and nervous excitement.

  In the photo, Halmoni was dressed in a simple cotton dress that billowed out front from her growing belly. Her dark hair was still cut short from school and framed her small, round face elegantly. Her dark eyes widened in surprise and the hesitant smile that played on her lips brought about an ache to his heart. The gold lotus necklace Won Bae gave her earlier that day was displayed adoringly around her neck. The necklace was to offer her a promise of safety, protection, and love.

  It seemed so long ago to him; that special day, her innocent face glowing from his gift, her touch, her smell, the simple words he so recklessly delivered and promised. The necklace was an heirloom passed down from his father’s mother, and signified his promise for family, health, and fortune.

  The photo, wrinkled from the many times he pulled it out from his blood-stained pocket, shook in his trembling hands. He stared so deeply and longingly, he didn’t realize he was being watched. His silent cry for help was what Sergeant Whimplestein heard when he exited the General’s tent.

  Gramps knelt beside him and offered a cigarette, a symbol of kinship that only men of war could understand. The picture Won Bae forced into Gramps’ hands was an honest exchange between soldier to soldier. In that moment, Gramps had promised to look after and take care of Won Bae’s family. No words were needed in the silent exchange. No comment could be made or conditions written. The meaning was clear and the request granted. There was something about Won Bae that spoke to Gramps and made their connection effortless. An innate kinship developed and from then on their fates were tied.

  When Won Bae died in late October—not during battle, but while trying to stop his brother, who was part of the ROK Police, from killing civilians on the assumption they were sympathetic to the communist party—Gramps took it upon himself to find the man’s wife and newborn child. He felt a growing need to protect them and honor the silent wishes of his fellow soldier. What he didn’t expect was to fall in love with Halmoni and to take on the role of husband and father.

  And just as easily as he took Halmoni and my mother in, he took me in.

  Before heading out, I finally begin talking to Gramps about the mindboggling case that has been keeping me up at night.

  “Sorry Gramps. The reason I haven’t come to visit you for a few days is the case I’m working on. I know it’s not an excuse, but I couldn’t face you. I felt guilty. I know I shouldn’t, but…well…Gramps…he’s back.”

  Chapter Three:

  Wednesday, December 28, 2011

  2:32 P.M.

  Loral Holmes:

  Light hail plinks on the muddy ground, leaving brown smears across my once stark white running shoes. Hail is the closest thing to snow you ever see in the mild climate of San Carlos. The air smells of dust, the rain unable to wash away the remnants of summer. Smoke from a nearby fireplace taints my lungs as I gulp in the cold air. I shiver from the biting wind, drawing the flaps of my black windbreaker in closer to my chest. With my head bent to protect my face from the brunt of Mother Nature’s attack, I continue down Golfcrest.

  Running harder now, houses pass in a cloak of fog and rain, until I hear a crunch and feel a sharp pain radiate along the inside of my right knee. The pain brings me sharply back to reality and holds me in place. I must have landed wrong. The scatter of marble sized hail should have warned me.

  I manage to limp toward a mature oak tree just off the beaten path. Leaning against the trunk, the dense canopy provides ample shelter from the brunt of the mild storm. Rubbing out the pain, I kneel forward. Bits of hail skim the branches and shatter into tiny pieces on the cracked pavement. Gasping for breath, I suck in the cool midday air and close my eyes. I curse my bad luck and wait for the pain to subside.

  The splashing of puddles startles me.

  “Loral, what happened? Are you okay?”

  Mike runs toward me, with water splashing at his feet, the length of his arm covering his head in a futile attempt for protection. I should’ve known he’d be here, waiting in the wings to save the day. It would have been a tad creepy if I weren’t desperate for help.

  Wincing, he kneels down before me, taking over the nursing duties so I can rest. Worry creases his brow as he gingerly rubs my knee in soothing strokes. He doesn’t seem to notice the hail and rain. The hail abates as water droplets tinker off the bill of his Padres baseball cap. I seem to be his only concern and focus. The attention makes me nervous and uncomfortable.

  “Mike? I thought you and your family left for Big Bear. I saw the car pull out early this morning. What are you still doing here?”

  Avoiding my question he says, “Here, let’s get you inside where it’s warm.”

  About to argue, the pain shoots through me and the need for warmth takes precedence. Leaning against his broad shoulders, Mike guides me inside.

  The warmth surrounds me like a thick blanket, the heat wrapping my drenched body in loving hugs. Water pools at my feet and I immediately think about his mother. Vivien would be mortified if she saw me standing there, dripping wet and destroying her spotless home.

  Mike must have felt me stiffen under his grasp, because he pulls away to look at me. As if reading my thoughts, he says, “Don’t worry, my parents are out.”

  I relax. Sinking in to the crevice of his shoulder, I bite back the desire to sigh. Mike is a symbol of comfort, nostalgia, and reliability from which I fight hard to distance myself. It isn’t fair to either of us to get too attached. Too needy. Too close. What I secretly want is for my stepfather to be what Mike is to me: someone to lean on. Am I just using Mike to fulfill a need? Probably. But I am starving and Mike is like a warm loaf of bread, golden and all too inviting.

  Mike leads me past the front door, piano foyer, and into the kitchen where I sit on one of the polished-oak chairs with its handmade pillow seats tied to each of the four sculpted legs. The house is immaculate, beautiful, and suspiciously quiet. The room smells like potpourri and the impressive grandfather clock standing against the wall separating the kitchen from the living room gongs the time. It is three o’clock.

  Gently Mike kneels and places an ice bag directly on the inside of my knee, which is already pink and swelling. Momentarily the pain increases before the internal heat succumbs to the cool numbness of the ice pack.

  “You need to be more careful,” Mike says soothingly. “Running alone is dangerous, and—”

  “Mike, cut the lecture. I’m not a kid. Besides, I just landed wrong.” Exasperated, all I want to do is to go home and immerse myself in a hot bubble bath.

  Scanning the quiet rooms, my spine tingles. The house is too quiet and still. The kitchen is spotless and normally there would be bread or muffins baking in the oven and a bowl of fresh fruit adorning the table. Today the oven stands cold and unused and the tabletops remain bare.

  “Mike? Where did your
parents go?”

  “Huh?” Bashfully, he looks up at me. He tosses his Padres baseball cap carelessly on the counter, where it will stay until the maid retrieves it. His blue eyes twinkle under his matted brown hair. “Oh, they’re probably out on the slopes right now.”

  “They went to Big Bear without you?” My voice heightens in panic.

  He shrugs. “Not like I’m a little kid. Besides, I told them I already made plans to go on a snowboarding trip with Rick and Steve. They didn’t argue. They’re trying hard to stand back while I grow up, you know, because I’m going off to college next year.”

  It is strange that I am worried about being alone with Mike. It isn’t like I feel threatened, more like vulnerable, intimate. “Oh, I didn’t know you guys were planning to go snowboarding. So the guys are going to pick you up soon?” I ask, hopeful.

  Racking his fingers through his hair, he leans uncomfortably against the round oak table and grins. “Not exactly.” He glances down at the black and white tiled floor and blushes. “I fibbed. I was actually hoping to spend Winter Break with you.”

  Stifling a sigh, I calmly say, “Mike, I think you should—”

  “Wait. Hold that thought.” Quickly he disappears up the cascading flight of carpeted stairs, taking them two at a time. I sit, squirming in my seat as the condensation from the ice bag trickles haphazardly down my leg. I focus desperately on the cold, trying not to think about Mike’s intentions for missing his family’s yearly ski trip.

  Drawers are opening and closing upstairs. I can hear his footsteps thumping around the room above the kitchen, his room. Finally, the thumping stops. For a moment all is quiet except for the ticking of clocks around the house. The tinny, mechanical tick-tick-tick of the clock that hangs in the kitchen. The low, ponderous tock! tock! tock! of the grandfather clock down the hall. Tick. Tock. Tick. Ti-ock.

  Running down the stairs, Mike holds onto a small object in his right hand. He pants from the brief exertion; his bright blue eyes glisten wide, almost childlike. I smile. He looks happy. Stopping an inch away from me, he reveals the object. Coiled in his palm is a gold chain with a gaudy gold ring. A large peridot stone gleams in the center.

  I gawk. “Your class ring? Why…why are you holding it out like that?”

  “I want you to wear it.”

  “Why?”

  He frowns. “You’re my girlfriend. I want you to wear it. Isn’t that what girlfriends want to do?”

  I open my mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. What can I say? That I’m not normal. That I don’t want to wear a token around my neck like a dog collar. That I’m not girlfriend material.

  “Please…I know my mom’s been giving you a hard time but she’ll like you once she gets to know you better. That’s just how she is. Kind of overprotective and stuff. And I know we haven’t talked much about the future…it’s just that I was waiting to see which schools you got in to and where you were thinking about going. My parents want me to go to UCLA, but I don’t really have to…they’ll understand…eventually.”

  “Mike, stop kidding yourself. You have to go to UCLA. That’s all you’ve been talking about and you’ll make a great lawyer.”

  “Yeah? You think?” His face brightens like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time. I feel horrible, knowing I will someday be the cause of wiping that smile off his boyish face.

  “I know it.” I force a smile.

  “Good, because…well, I can’t ask you to follow me, but…I guess I am asking. You don’t have to say anything right now. I’m just asking you to think about it. You see, I’ve thought about it a lot. I can take care of you. We can get a tiny apartment off campus and you can write, run, look for a job, take a class, any class. You can do anything you want. You just have to be with me and I’ll take care of you. You know I’ll take care of you, right?”

  “Yes, I know.” I feign a smile. How can I tell him no? How can I tell him that his big heart and deep pockets aren’t enough to keep me? That I don’t want to end up like his mother, or for that matter, my mother. That being some kind of Stepford Wife is no way to live. But toying him around for a few years just to leave him one day is no better, because I know I’ll leave him. I know I’ll break his heart. How can I tell him that I already plan to leave him when the school year ends, leave everyone, and run away? How?

  At that moment, I can’t tell him. I know it is selfish, but I want to wait. Let him enjoy his childish dreams and idealist views a little longer. I convince myself it is the least I can do. So I nod, grab the class ring and gold chain, and clip it around my neck. At least I can do this much, play the part of the love-stricken girlfriend, until it is time to part ways. In my own twisted way I do love him, of course I love him, which is exactly the reason why I have to leave him.

  Neil Wilcox:

  3:30 P.M.

  Motionless, I stare out into my once pristine garden. What prompted me to stand here, I do not know. The hail pounds the ground with sharp condemning force, crusting the landscape with dime-sized icy pebbles. No smoker, yapping dog, or children screaming today. All are locked in the safety of their homes, behind closed doors and dark windows. Every television and computer in the neighboring units will surely be on, the sinks full of dirty dishes, laundry running, and phones in use. Utility bills will be higher this month. Mothers and fathers will be more irritable.

  The neighbors are squirreled away. You can’t see them, but you can still hear them through the common walls. One neighbor is watching war movies hooked up to a booming surround sound entertainment system, which periodically shakes the walls and rattles the windows. Another has a kid who is practicing Farashaka on his trombone in watery, nauseous warbles and short, fart-like staccato.

  Next thing I know, I am sitting alone in the dark, unaware that the temperature is well below fifty degrees, festering in only my sweat-stained undershirt and boxers.

  Porcelain vases filled with shriveled flowers and stagnant stale water are placed haphazardly around the living room and kitchen. Frames are flipped around so only the cardboard backs can be seen. Dirty plates, utensils, and cups are stockpiled in and around the stainless sink while dead stagnant air surrounds me. Mold spores and sourness penetrate the carpet and walls. Wearing week-old boxers probably doesn’t help.

  I used to look at myself in the mirror; I don’t do that anymore. Sometime during the past few months, my mound of dusty brown hair turned a stringy gray. My hazel eyes are fogged in a creamy daze under puffy red-rimmed lids and droop despairingly against my weathered face. The little pot belly I once proudly sported is now shriveled flat like a deflated balloon. Oh yeah, I look good.

  On the table are sympathy cards half-opened and half-sealed in their colorful envelopes filled with half-hearted words of condolence. Burial service pamphlets with their witty words and flashy pictures of gleaming caskets priced above a grand each are tossed on the ground. Scattered newspaper clippings of the unfortunate event that transpired on the night of Halloween are intermingled with bills and used wads of soggy tissue.

  Most of the clippings are tiny, one paragraph articles positioned between stories that reported on acid-laced candy and teenagers running amuck. A meager attempt at chronicling the importance of my wife. The articles are distant, unemotional, and flat. The journalists seemed to spend all their time and research crafting the prose of adjacent Halloween-themed articles, informing readers how much candy was sold, how many homes got egged, how many pumpkins were smashed, how many bags of flaming dog poop were left on unsuspecting doorsteps.

  In none of those articles that briefly mentioned Elizabeth’s death, did they depict the type of woman she was. And in my mind, jamming her obituary next to an article discussing flaming dog poop was tactless. Heartless. God dammit! They did not do her justice.

  Elizabeth was a loving wife who paid her taxes long before the April 15th deadline. She also went to work as a dental hygienist every day, meaning that she cleaned people’s dirty unkempt teeth, possibly saving hu
ndreds (if not thousands) from years of liquid meals and gruel. On top of being employed and not being a drain on the economy, she walked daily, recycled, didn’t smoke or drink—except for the occasional glass of red wine before bed—never got so much as a speeding ticket. And on the day of her death she got a total of three measly paragraphs divided between three different newspapers. Is that fair?

  Not even a picture was printed, although five were provided. My favorite picture is the one I took of her about five years ago. She was crouched over her prized flower bed, sun streaming through the laced purple openings from the swaying peppermint tree, the breeze blowing back her soft brown hair, and the slight exertion painting her cheeks pink. She looked radiant and the world wasn’t going to get a chance to see it, not even in black and white.

  I stare over at Mr. Dimples. The black pug huddles in his bed in the corner of the kitchen, softly wheezing in sadness. Mr. Dimples hasn’t moved from his position except to slurp some water and take a leak. Watching Mr. Dimples, sadness floods my veins and subsides into hollow emptiness.

  I am like a piece of driftwood, floating in the ocean, eventually tossed and destroyed by the chopping waves, numbly waiting out my fate until it is time for pieces of me to sink to the bottom.

  I, now, more than ever, cherish the fact we didn’t have any kids. I would have to suck it up and put on a happy clown face. I would have to look after them, or worse, they would be looking after me, strangling me with their pity looks and overprotective suggestions. I would have to move in with one of them or be put in a home. I would never be able to mourn my loss in peace.