by Samuel Park
“I can assure you she’ll be treated very well at my parents’,” said Soo-Ja drily, unable to hide her contempt as she stared at him. “Since I’m sure you’re very concerned about your wife’s well-being.”
“Jae-Hwa, quit this nonsense and come over here,” said Chul-Moo, ignoring Soo-Ja.
Jae-Hwa shook her head defiantly. But she also began to hesitate as she knotted the edges of the comforter together, her clothes packed inside but almost too heavy for her to lift. Jae-Hwa rested her hands over the silk cover. She could see an area where the fabric had ripped, revealing the thick, curdled dust fibers that served as padding.
“Jae-Hwa!” Chul-Moo growled again, and Soo-Ja could see the fear rising in Jae-Hwa. His voice sounded like a lion’s, low and guttural. “Wherever you’re thinking of going, they’ll grow tired of you after a while, boring woman that you are who can’t cook, and then you’ll come back here on your knees, begging for me to take you back, and by then I’ll have had such a long rest, my hands will be ready for a spectacularly vicious beating. Better not leave at all and spread out the beating over time, so you can take it little by little instead of a big beating all at once.”
Soo-Ja was ready to tear the few remaining hairs out of his head. “Jae-Hwa deserves better than you. How can you speak to her like that?”
Chul-Moo got up from the mat and pointed a finger at her. “Be careful now. You may be a guest in my house, but guests in my house, they have no rights!”
“And what are you going to do? Are you going to hit me?” asked Soo-Ja as sharply as the edge of a knife, her voice rising with every syllable. “See what the police will say, you hitting another man’s wife!”
Chul-Moo hesitated, though the anger still gleamed in his eyes, and Soo-Ja could feel it sting her like a hot fork.
“Jae-Hwa, can’t you see your friend is envious of what you have?” asked Chul-Moo, sounding much more gentle now. “Yes, I may get angry with you sometimes, but what happens afterward? What happens after you stop crying and I comfort you? Nobody sees that part of things, when you open up to me like a happy flower and giggle. You can tell just by looking at your friend that she doesn’t get the same kind of love from her own husband. She doesn’t want you to be happy, so she comes here to meddle and take you away from the only man you have.”
Jae-Hwa, whose head had been bent down while her husband said this, finally looked up. She seemed wan, weightless, colorless. Soo-Ja knew what would happen if her friend stayed there. She would become one of those ghost women in the village with dead eyes and hunched shoulders.
“Jae-Hwa,” said Soo-Ja, holding her hand. “There is a better life for you. I can’t prove it, you just have to believe me. But there is a better life for you. Not everyone is mean. I’ve seen enough beauty and kindness in the world to know that not every man is awful to his wife. I believe there are good men out there. Please believe me when I say this.”
Soo-Ja watched Jae-Hwa drop her bundle, and she knew then that her friend wouldn’t be coming to her parents’ house with her. She had failed. She could see from the corners of her eyes Jae-Hwa’s husband’s quiet jubilation, along with a hint of fear, as if he knew how close he’d been to losing his wife that night. But such nuances didn’t matter. Jae-Hwa was staying, and that was the end of it. All Soo-Ja could do was pick up Hana, waiting at her parents’ house, and return home.
Soo-Ja held Jae-Hwa in her arms for one last time, and as their cheeks brushed past each other’s, she could feel the moistness under her own eyes. She wiped them quickly and then nodded, resigned to leaving Jae-Hwa behind. Why did she feel so much sadness for her, when her own life was in shambles, when she herself was not that much better off? Soo-Ja wondered.
Is that the real reason I wanted to save her? So that in saving her, I could see if I could save myself, too? And what did it mean, then, that I have failed?
Soo-Ja rose, her back aching a little from sitting on the floor so long. When she slid open the door and went over to the porch looking for her shoes, she was struck by the coldness of the air, lashing at her from all sides. She realized it was even later than she thought, and the feeling of being out at this hour made the whole moment feel oddly surreal, as if the real Soo-Ja were still sitting at home with Min’s parents, at the house in central Won-dae-don, while this other Soo-Ja wandered around aimlessly, knocking about from place to place.
Soo-Ja had not walked very far when she heard her name being called. It felt unfamiliar to hear it like this, at night, in an anguished voice. She turned around and saw Jae-Hwa standing on the steps of her house. She stood as still as a pillar, like Lot’s wife, who’d dared to look back. She did not have her coat and seemed to shiver slightly.
“He won’t let me take my clothes with me,” Jae-Hwa finally said, the syllables seeming to escape from her lips one at a time. “He said it’s a waste of energy, since I’m coming back.”
Soo-Ja felt the relief lift her up, and she smiled, extending her hand to Jae-Hwa. Jae-Hwa hesitated, and then slowly began to walk toward her. When Jae-Hwa finally reached her, Soo-Ja took off her own coat and placed it over Jae-Hwa. It would still be a while before they got to Soo-Ja’s parents’ house.
Soo-Ja arrived home to find Min’s silhouette waiting by the door. It struck her then, how boyish and skinny he looked. If she wore a miniskirt and held her hair back with her signature headband, would she look like a teenager, too? Is that what they were, teenagers playing at being adults? Would one day someone—a real couple, wearing heavy coats and wool scarves—come by, thank them for taking care of their child, and haul away Hana and their clothes and marriage license, and would she and Min nod and leave that house and walk in separate directions, like contestants in some radio show who didn’t know each other? Would she be relieved and look back on the whole adventure with fondness, but enjoy her safe, welcome distance from it? Or would she find life without Min and her in-laws unbearably easy, meaningless almost, as her sacrifices had made it possible for her to appreciate the smallest of gifts—like the beloved quiet for a half hour or so in the morning before the house woke and the day lay rich with promise. Or the sight of Hana sleeping peacefully, or any one of a thousand surprises that shook the day—like being able to help a friend who weeps in your arms with gratitude, whispering, “A better life… Yes, a better life for me.”
“You were gone so long,” said Min. “What happened?”
“A lot,” Soo-Ja said simply, slipping past him like a draft of wind, with Hana sleeping in her arms.
“Did you talk to your father?”
It took her a second to realize what he meant. Of course, Father-in-law must have told Min about his plans. She wondered what Min’s reaction had been. She assumed he had simply gone along with his father’s wishes, as he always did.
“No, I didn’t,” said Soo-Ja curtly. “I didn’t ask for the loan. I didn’t get a chance to. And that’s for the best. I shouldn’t even have considered asking my father for more money.”
Min followed her into their room. He seemed lost in thought. Close like this, he looked different, thought Soo-Ja, wearing a blue sweater with a light yellow vest over it, and pants that ended slightly too short at the ankle, showing his long johns underneath.
“We have to pay back our creditors, Soo-Ja. The situation is very dire. If we don’t pay them back, they’ll take the factory from us,” he said.
Soo-Ja busied herself getting their mats and comforters ready for bed. She avoided Min’s eyes, but she could feel them on her skin, following her around.
“Your father would have plenty of money to pay those creditors if he didn’t mismanage the factory,” she said.
“Yes, my father is horrible and your father is perfect. Are we in a children’s playground? Don’t you get tired of playing this childish game? My father is your father now,” said Min, starting to pace.
“If the factory goes down, you can find a job somewhere else. I can go work in a store, or a restaurant, and ask my mother t
o watch Hana during the day,” Soo-Ja said matter-of-factly, brushing some stray fibers off a comforter.
“No, Soo-Ja. If we have to shut down the factory, things will be much more serious than my needing money or another job. Do you know what happens to men who default on their loans?” He paused, waiting to catch her gaze. “They go to jail.”
Soo-Ja took this in. “Your father’s been essentially stealing from others, to keep the factory operating. I know he never intended in good faith to pay anyone back.”
It was then that she saw a shadow fall over Min’s face, and she realized something was truly wrong. When he spoke, she could hear the fear in his voice. “Soo-Ja, last month, when the troubles got serious, my father changed the ownership of the factory… to me. If someone has to go to jail, it’s going to be me.”
Soo-Ja looked at Min, shocked. She thought she didn’t love him, but maybe she was wrong. How else to explain the punch in the gut she felt, the sudden overload of emotions grabbing at her? How could he do this to his own son? And why wasn’t Min fighting him, yelling at him? “Your father is a disgusting man.”
“I’d go to jail for him anyway,” said Min, full of bravado.
Soo-Ja dropped the comforters on the ground. “No, no, you can’t be defending him!”
“What he did makes perfect sense. I’m the oldest; so whatever is his, is mine, too. The good things and the bad.”
“But that’s not what he’s done,” Soo-Ja said, shaking her head. “Can’t you see what he’s done?”
“Yes, but I’m trying very hard not to see. He’s my father. I’d rather think what I think and be a fool, than be a man—”
“With a bastard for a father,” she said, cutting in.
They were standing face to face, Min fidgeting and Soo-Ja frozen, staring at him. Min did not jump to his father’s defense, and she could see how even he—the most devout of sons—would have trouble explaining this away to his own heart. Min’s father treated Min as if his life belonged to him, to be used or discarded as necessary. And Min never disputed this. She wondered if he, too, believed, deep down, that he was a mere appendage to his father, and his life worth only as much as was of service to the elder.
“Do you want me to ask my father for money?” asked Soo-Ja.
Min looked at her and she saw the hope dance across his eyes. But then only a few seconds later, she saw his pupils darken, and his jaw tighten a little. To her surprise, he shook his head, and in that moment, she saw the most extraordinary event in nature—that of a human being changing. She wondered if a few seconds was all it took to shake up one’s habits and impulses, unearth them like hardened soil, and replace them with the trickling drops of choice and whim, and all those things that made life unbearably complicated. She could see the strain in her husband, leaving behind one thought and reaching for a new one. She could see him become a different person—or try, at least, as he unstitched his father’s shadow from his back, and checked to see if his own could grow.
“I don’t want you to talk to your father,” said Min. “Before, I wanted you to. I waited for you all night to ask you if you had. But now I don’t want you to anymore. I can’t put you in that position. I can’t use you like that.”
Soo-Ja nodded, feeling waves of tenderness rush at her. “Maybe if you explained to a judge…”
“I can’t challenge my father’s decision. I don’t know how to explain, but… It would be disrespectful.” He looked at her to see if she understood, and she nodded. “See, he can’t know that I know what he’s doing. Because he would lose face. I would be making him look bad, and that would be worse than any jail time. I can’t do that to him.”
Soo-Ja wondered if Min secretly wanted her to speak to her father, but do so out of her own volition, and not at his request. She searched his face for signs of this, but found none, much to her relief. She couldn’t ask her father to do this for her. Father-in-law had lied; it wasn’t a small loan he wanted. As Min explained the details of the bankruptcy, she realized that Father-in-law wanted Soo-Ja’s own father to take up the burden of all the costs of his operations, paying a sum of money so big she was taken aback at first when Min told her.
That night as they lay on their own mats to sleep (though sleep would not come till much later), she felt for the first time that they were husband and wife. More so than the day of their wedding, or the night of their honeymoon, this was when it felt like they were truly spouses: they were on the same side; they shared a decision; they were in this as one. They had decided together not to speak to her father—not as a compromise but as an agreement—and the meaning of that weighed upon them both. In that moment, Min may have lost his freedom, but he earned her gratitude, and perhaps even her love; she could see the equation being one he could live with. Besides, he wasn’t in jail yet. All was not lost. They had watched enough movies to know rescue could come; it would be delayed just long enough for the hero and heroine to learn something about each other.
“So where were you tonight? What happened?” There was no recrimination in Min’s voice as he lay next to her.
Soo-Ja stared straight ahead, at the ceiling. If the roof blew away, she could see stars. “I went to help a friend. I tried to help her get out of a bad marriage.”
“What makes it a bad marriage?”
“Her husband isn’t nice to her. But she’s afraid to leave, so I tried to help her.”
“Do you think the husband knows she wants to leave?”
“I think husbands always know, don’t they? They know everything that is taking place,” said Soo-Ja.
“And wives, too? Do wives know what their husbands are thinking?”
“Yes, they do. They both know. But sometimes they choose not to say anything. Because they think things can change.”
“But they’re wrong?” asked Min. “Things can’t change?”
“I think if both people try…”
Min was silent for a moment, and she could hear his chest heaving. Finally, when he spoke, his words landed as quietly as a single drop of dew on a leaf. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he did not need to say anything more.
She realized, much to her surprise, that she had already forgiven him.
chapter seven
By December of that year, Soo-Ja had a new president, a new constitution, and a missing husband. The police had come by several times by then, and each time they told them Min had fled to Japan, and they had no contact with him. The officers, of course, did not believe them, and searched the house every time. Flashlights made circles in the kitchen furnace, and turned visible the excrement in the outhouse. Gloved hands dug through the armoires in every room, clothes flying in the air like grasshoppers. Standing behind them with her hands locked, Soo-Ja imagined Min as an invisible man, rushing from room to room, only steps ahead of the investigators, in narrow misses. She rooted for him, though she knew, of course, exactly where he was: hiding with a relative in the port town of Pusan, in case he had to hop into a boat and flee, in fact, to Japan. Soo-Ja had offered to go with him, but Min insisted that he hide alone—it would be easier, he said, though she suspected he simply did not want to inconvenience his parents by depriving them of their daughter-in-law.
Over time, Soo-Ja grew tired of the police’s constant visits, as if they were mad guests who liked to play at scavenger hunts, undoing the stone paths she had so painstakingly arranged, or stepping on floors wearing shoes, much to her horror. Her fear of them quickly became annoyance, especially one time when the lead officer (a new one, when the case was reassigned) dared to reach for Hana, and asked her if she had seen her daddy. She thought it was cruel to ask a three-year-old that, though later she wondered if she’d been simply covering up for her own guilt at seeing Hana deprived of her father.
Soo-Ja didn’t know exactly where Min was, though one of his letters mentioned a house with a thatched roof, slightly belowground, in a remote village, and that to get there one had to cross a potato field, some rice paddies, and a riv
er. He was terribly bored, he said, unable to work or leave the house. There was no radio there, and the only time he saw someone was once or twice a week when his old uncle would come by with pots full of watery rice and a little banchan: cubed turnips laced with grains of sand, and pickled cabbage more sour than spicy. She felt like writing back, Can’t they boil an egg for you? Or kill a chicken? Soo-Ja wondered if this was any better than jail, but as she lay in bed alone at night, thinking about it, she figured it was. At least he could breathe in some fresh air, and watch the sun rise and fall. And she knew Min was safe. Her only worry for the moment was that Min would alienate his uncle. She could see the uncle start out feeling sorry or protective of Min, but then growing tired of him. Maybe the uncle would not come by as often, or not be as nice to Min, frustrating and frustrated as he was, living the life of a dog tied to a post.
Around Christmas, Soo-Ja decided she should visit Min. It had been almost two months, and Soo-Ja felt that it would be safe. She wanted to check on his state, and to have him see Hana, as she knew the separation was tough on both of them. How do you explain to a three-year-old that the police are after her father, and he has to hide for the time being? Soo-Ja knew how much Hana wanted to sit on her father’s familiar lap, and how much Min wanted to kiss his daughter’s cheeks, turning her upside down and making her giggle.
When Soo-Ja told Father-in-law of her plans, he nodded and said that he would come, too, along with Mother-in-law and the others, as if this were someone’s strange idea of a family vacation. Soo-Ja told him she should go on her own, and this was just so Hana could see her father. But Father-in-law looked terribly hurt, and said he missed Min much more than Hana missed her daddy. Soo-Ja at first couldn’t believe he was comparing his feelings to those of a toddler, but finally she relented, amazed that he’d already forgotten the very reason Min had to hide in the first place. Father-in-law felt no guilt for sacrificing his son, nor—her second hope—any gratitude toward him. She wondered if he wrestled with those demons on his own, in the dark, until she figured that was wishful thinking on her part. Regret and pangs of conscience are feelings we assign to others to make the world seem a little more fair, to even things out a little and provide consolation. In reality, those who do wrong to us never think about us as much as we think about them, and that is the ultimate irony: their deeds live inside us, festering, while they live out in the world, plucking peaches off trees, biting juicily into them, their minds on things lovely and sweet.
