by Sonia Patel
She caught it and tucked it into her pocket. She looked away.
Then Dad yelled, “Good riddance to him forever!” He punched a hole in the drywall before he stormed off.
I pressed my hands over my ears. But I kept my eyes on Mom. Her shoulders were hunched, her lips clamped shut. Tears slid down her cheeks.
Older Uncle put his hands on my shoulders. “Well, Rocky…” he started, but my dad grabbed my hand. I looked up at him, my lips parted still. His expression scared me so I didn’t say a word.
“Let’s go,” Dad said.
The three of us marched into the warehouse. There were a bunch of young men already there, all dressed in the same classy black suits.
My fingers skimmed my band collar.
“Thirty new recruits,” Dad said.
He squeezed my hand as we walked. The men parted and formed two even lines. I wriggled my hand out of Dad’s and ran to the end of one line. Then I proceeded down the row with my head tilted back, inspecting each man’s eyes. When I got to the end of the row, I did the same for the opposite line.
The last man had muscles bursting out of his suit. He also had a glass eye. I stopped in front of him. I lifted my finger, I had to touch his hard eye. But then he drew back one side of his jacket. He motioned with his good eye to the top half of the gun that jutted out of his waistband.
I didn’t flinch, but I felt a patch of warm wetness in my pants. I hoped the man didn’t notice.
“Rocky!” Dad called.
I ran to him.
Dad held one of my little arms up and Older Uncle held the other. “Long live Three Star Pa!” they declared.
In the chorus of booming cheers that followed, I forgot I’d peed on myself. I let go of Older Uncle’s hand and tucked my thumb in my belt. I smiled inside.
But right now I’m frowning because those days of Dad including me in TSP business are long gone, and I don’t know exactly why.
No more time for frustrated regret because Dad’s back. He sits and scoots his chair forward. “The beer,” he says in delight. He takes a sip. “Ahh…”
Our food arrives, as does the extra gochujang and gimchi that I requested. The server sets our culinary works of art in front of us. I rub my palms together and smack my lips. My eyes feast on the edible rainbow. Green: cucumber, zucchini, spinach, crispy gim, and soy bean sprouts. Brown: mushrooms and thinly sliced beef. White: radish and rice. Yellow and white of a fried egg. Light brown sesame seeds sprinkled on top. I add the translucent yellow sesame oil. Then I heap on the rust red gochujang and more gimchi. “The most important things,” I say.
He leans in and whispers, “Just like your mother.” Then he grins, it’s a genuine grin.
I stare at him for a second, but then my growling stomach redirects me. I brandish my stainless steel spoon as if it’s my knife and plunge it into the stone pot, mix everything, three stirs at a time. The egg yolk oozes, coating all the other ingredients. That part never gets old. When Mom made bibimbap, she’d give me two fried eggs arranged in my bowl like two eyes.
“Make them cry,” she’d say, encouraging me to break the yolks.
One more look at the colorful swirl of rice, vegetables, and beef. Then I shovel an enormous bite into my mouth. I chew it slow. So delicious. No wonder it was Older Uncle’s favorite. Maybe it’s my favorite now too.
I raise my glass. “To Older Uncle,” I say. I look up and thump my chest over where my stars will be someday. A proper salute for a proper boss.
“Rocky…” Dad says, his voice and face suddenly stern.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “No gang stuff for you yet.”
I consider arguing but end up just crossing my fingers under the table because, um, yes, gang stuff for me now, thank you very much.
Dad raises his glass. I take care to keep mine a little lower.
“To my older brother. Happy birthday. Rest in peace,” he says.
We clink glasses. Dad looks around. “Oh…he loved this place,” he says. He takes a small bite, then lays his spoon down. He interlaces his fingers on the table and looks at me. “This one time, he ate two and a half stone pots. He had a big appetite. And a big heart.” He pauses. “Too big. Too kind sometimes,” he mumbles before going for another bite.
“He used to bring me boxes of Pepero when you were working late. All different flavors. This one night he handed me a bag of all chocolate and said ‘Sorry, Rocky, I bought you ten but I ate five. Tell you what, I’ll read you three stories tonight to make up for my gluttony.’”
Dad laughs. He scrapes some of the crusty rice from the bottom and brings the crunchy goodness to his lips but stops short. He face becomes ashen. He sets his spoon in the pot. “I told him to slow down,” he says. His eyes are shiny. He opens his mouth to say something else, but nothing comes out except a long, slow breath. He closes his mouth and tries to smile.
Older Uncle died a month after the Pepero evening. “A massive heart attack,” is what the doctor told us when we got to the hospital.
It was a nightmare seeing Older Uncle in the state-of-the-art intensive care room. My larger than life Older Uncle looked so small in the bed. So fragile with all those machines and tubes. There was even one shoved in his mouth. His eyes were closed. He didn’t move or talk. When something beeped, I’d jump.
He died a half hour later. One continuous beeping sound. The scariest sound I’ve ever heard.
And though my heart didn’t stop working like his, it broke a little.
I miss him so much.
But at least I knew what happened to him. I saw it with my own eyes.
Mom on the other hand, she completely disappeared one day. Poof. Gone. Just like that, I didn’t ever see her again. I didn’t see what happened.
Then again, even when she was around sometimes I didn’t see what was happening. Like that day she ran inside their bedroom, crying, a desperate look on her face…
She slammed the door behind her. It almost hit my forehead because I was at her heels. I turned the knob. She’d locked it. I tested the knob again. It was still locked.
I pressed my ear to the door. She was bawling. I knocked hard and called her name.
Dad was gone, but Older Uncle was there.
He laid his hands on my shoulders, knelt down, his soft eyes peering into mine. “Come on, Rocky,” he said. “Let’s go. Mommy needs to rest.”
I didn’t budge. “But it’s not bedtime,” I protested showing him my watch.
Older Uncle half smiled. “I know, but sometimes grown-ups need to…”
“Need to what?”
He looked away and fiddled with his medallion.
“Need to what?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing.”
“But—” I began.
He stood up. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I read you a story?” He raised his eyebrows and held up a finger. “No! I’ve got a better idea. Let me tell you a wonderful tale.” He waved his hand with the tiger tat. “It’s about a tiger family deep in the jungle…”
My eyes followed the tiger tat I wished I had on my hand. But then I turned back to the door, back to my mom.
Older Uncle didn’t give up. “Do you think you have enough guts to hear it, Rocky?”
I looked over my shoulder at him, he was petting his tiger hand.
“Yes. Let’s go,” I said all boss-like. I marched to the living room. He was right behind me.
We sat side by side on the sofa. He cleared his throat and began. “There once was a tiger family…” I kept my eyes on his tiger tat and listened.
Many, many words later he tapped my shoulder. “Do you know what happened to the Mommy tiger next?”
I shook my head.
“She started eating more and more ginseng root. At first it made her strong. And the pain in her claws was gone. She felt invincible. She could finally growl back at the mean Daddy tiger. She could stand in front of their cub and protect him…”
> A loud scrape. I blink. Dad shovels crispy rice into his mouth.
Older Uncle had the best stories. I wonder if Younger Uncle used to tell me stories. I try to dig up some Younger Uncle recollections. Nothing, so I do some math. He was gone before I was six. Four? Five? Urgent questions about Younger Uncle stockpile in my head like grenades at a military base, and before I can stop myself I pick up a grenade, pull the pin, and toss. “Dad?” I ask.
“Yes?”
“Did Younger Uncle come here with you and Older Uncle before you banished him?”
My body stiffens as I brace for an epic Dad detonation.
Dad stays chill. He takes a slow bite. Sips. “Sure,” he says. “All the time.” He smirks. “Good times.” Then he chugs the rest of his beer, slams the glass when he’s done. He pushes his unfinished pot away and his chair back. “We’re done,” he says. He gets up and heads for the door.
I want to stay and gobble up the rest of my bibimbap. But I know better. I risk one more big bite, then rocket up and follow him.
Our server is clearing a table near the front. He looks up as we approach. His eyes get huge. “Excuse me,” he says, edging closer to my dad. He bows, then asks, “Was everything ok?”
I’m expecting my dad to pretty much ignore the server. Maybe a simple nod or wave of the hand.
But no.
My dad shoves the server.
The poor beanpole of a guy goes flying back into a wide support column.
Next thing I know, Dad’s in the server’s face. “The food was cold! Unacceptable!” he screams. “If that ever happens again…” My dad lets his voice trail off as he drags his finger across the server’s neck. Then he raises his fist and makes like he’s going to punch the guy in the face.
I push in between them, but my dad’s already lowered his fist. He looks back and forth between the server’s scared-shitless face and my confused one. A second later he starts cracking up. “The food was fine. I’m just messing with you,” he says.
The bug-eyed server manages to spurt a nervous chuckle.
Dad slaps the guy’s arm, a little too hard if you ask me, and then turns away. “Come on, Rocky,” he says. He heads to the exit.
I follow but look over my shoulder at the server. We exchange quick glances. I’m sorry, I know how you feel.
11.
I walk. Time evaporates like rain on hot summer asphalt. My polished shoes do what’s necessary—step over each crack.
The cracks get closer.
And closer.
Above, a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum arrangement lines the top of a huge gate.
Yellow.
Mom’s favorite color.
Yellow chrysanthemums, whatever may come.
My eyes feast on the brilliant lemon flowers. The gate’s charcoal gray-tiled roof slopes up at the corners. Clouds seem to shoot out of it, smearing the rich blue sky with almost vertical lines.
I look over my shoulder at the bustling city behind me. Then I turn around and breath in the ancient splendor of Namsangol Hanok Village. With my next step, shoulders slumped, hands in my pockets, I time travel to the Joseon era.
The courtyard commands a taller, prouder walk. I oblige.
Everything is softer. The pressed dirt path. The yellow green leaves on the persimmon trees. The red and green pavilion, a baby dragon sleeping next to a slow stream.
I walk the winding path. There are traditional houses on both sides. All the doors are open, inviting me in.
But I can’t stop. I can’t take a break. Things won’t be right.
I keep walking.
Large brown earthen pots lined up in…quick calculation…three rows of nine. Twenty-seven.
A light breeze nudges the little purple spring blossoms. They sway shyly on the tree branches that dangle over the onggi. Petals flit, littering the lids, the ground. A delicate, fragrant mess.
A heavier breeze follows. It pushes me, but my steps remain steady.
The cracks spread out again, pushing me out of the peaceful village. I slouch into modernity. I walk. Crowds. Chatter. Beeps. Brakes.
Pass by a bunch of backpacked kids. Nine.
They’re huddled together like a school of fish swimming home after Saturday school. They’re yapping away and giggling. Hopping on and off the sidewalk.
I slink by them. Weave between all the people. I’m in a bubble. Nothing can touch me.
I keep walking.
Minutes. Hours. I don’t know. I stop only when the Han spreads before me. Vast. Magnificent. Calm. Like an untouched refuge.
Home.
I ignore the people. The picnickers. The bikers. The strollers. They’re in some other parallel universe.
This is my world.
Deep breath.
I’m safe. I’m home.
But alone.
I spot an empty bench near the water’s edge. I sit, indulge in a smoke. I hold my cig at arm’s length and inspect the perfect thin barrel. I take a long drag, then try to exhale my doubts and fears. I tap the white rod three times, watching the ash sprinkle and float.
My cig and I enjoy the Han. The ripples are hypnotic. I lose count.
I crush my cigarette stub, then flick it.
I look around on my left and do a double take because there aren’t many guys with fully shaved heads and red pocket squares roaming around Seoul, let alone hanging out at the Han. But here’s one standing partially hidden behind a tourist couple.
Chul-moo? What’s he doing—
Before I finish deducing, a child wails on my right.
A little girl, cheeks slick with tears, is pointing at the river. “My ball! My ball!” she screams in between sobs. Her parents are running down the path. They catch up to her.
“What happened?” her father asks.
“Are you ok?” the mother wants to know.
The little girl rubs a sleeve across her nose. “The river took my ball!” She starts bawling again, really loud.
Her parents sink down to her eye level.
“It’s ok, we’ll get you a new one,” her father reassures, stroking her head.
“But that’s the one Su-bin gave me,” she blubbers.
The little girl suddenly stops crying. Her jaw drops, and her eyes get big. Then she smiles.
I look where she’s looking, and my heart stops for a second.
It’s Ha-na.
What’s she doing here?
My hand drifts toward my knife but stops when I see what it is that she’s doing—lying prone on the sidewalk, stretching her arm over the water. Seven seconds later she gets up, holding a bright pink rubber ball. She digs in her pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. She carefully dries the ball, then walks toward the little girl.
The girl runs toward Ha-na.
They meet in the middle.
Ha-na squats down and gives the girl the ball and a close-mouthed smile.
The girl hugs the ball. “Thank you,” she says with a slight bow. She looks at Ha-na and grins so big I can see that her two front teeth are missing.
The parents catch up again.
Ha-na stands, bows.
“Thank you,” the father says.
“So kind of you,” the mother says.
“No problem. You’re welcome,” Ha-na says with another bow.
The girl pats her ball, whispering something to it. Then she looks at Ha-na and flashes another grateful smile.
Ha-na watches the family walk away. The little girl turns around and holds her ball up to kiss it. She waves at Ha-na.
Ha-na waves back. After the family disappears, she hugs herself. She turns around and goes to her gleaming white blanket that’s spread out on the grassy area. Her things are neatly laid out to hold down the corners—a sketchbook and pencils, a water bottle, a lunch box, and a thick book. She sits cross-legged and picks up the book. She takes one last look at the river before burying her head in its pages.
My skin prickles. I rub the sleeves of my suit to make it stop, but
it doesn’t. I try picking. Once, twice, three times. To no avail. I pick faster. There’s no crystal in my body, but I’m picking…
Suddenly the itchy tingling is gone. I drop my hands.
But then my mind starts picking at itself…
How could I ever?
12.
“Line up!” Braid shouts.
There’s a plink plink of water somewhere in the abandoned building.
“What are you waiting for?” he growls.
The five junior boys fall into place, hunched over like guilty convicts brought before a judge, knowing that they are about to receive the harshest sentence. Resigned to the fact that it very well could be the death penalty.
I smile inside. I have no intention of killing you morons, but I’m not about to give that away. Guess what, imbeciles? Time to sweat it out…
Patch and Strike flank the line while I lean against one of the cracked support columns off to the side and smoke.
Braid paces all furious in front of the juniors like he’s amping up for battle. “You had a week!” he cries. He stops and faces them. “And none of you delivered? It was only two hundred thousand won each!” He lets out a loud, frustrated breath and drops his head. Shakes it. “This is bad. So, so bad,” he whispers.
And you are good. So, so good, at this, Braid. Just like how my dad says In-su is so good at his TSP duties. I take a long draw on my cig, let the smoke seep into my lungs. The apple doesn’t fall far from tree. Braid’s parents died when he was five, so his tree has been In-su ever since.
Braid jerks his head up and yells at the top of his lungs, “Which one of you will take the beating for the rest?”
Furtive glances. Nervous shifting. A trembling hand goes up.
“You? Pock Face?” Braid yells. He scoffs, then glares at the shaky junior. “Are you ready to die for these losers?” he asks, drawing a line over the other four.
Pock Face doesn’t open his mouth, he only wobbles like he has no bones.
“Stand here,” Braid orders pointing next to himself.
Pock Face hesitates.
