Bloody Seoul

by Sonia Patel

  “Good morning, Dad,” I say with a bow.

  He walks past me. “Good morning,” he says, slurring a little.

  I follow him. “Can I talk to you?”

  He shrugs as he goes to the kitchen and fixes himself a glass of water.

  I stand on the other side of the counter and draw my knife. It gleams like a dream. That’s because I just buffed it an hour ago. I trace my stars, my name. The last time, ever. Ever. I put the knife on the counter, push it towards him.

  Dad doesn’t seem to notice my monumental gesture. He’s busy reading the newspaper.

  “Dad.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’m grateful for this knife, but I don’t need it anymore.”

  He doesn’t say anything. He takes a sip of water, keeping his head in the paper.

  I try again. “I’m out of the school gang. And no TSP for me. You’re right about university. Oh, and I got accepted to one abroad, full scholarship.” I thought the TSP and university lines would grab his attention. They don’t. I thought he’d ask me where I got in. And for proof. He doesn’t.

  I uncross my fingers since I don’t need to tell the second lie about going to London.

  I stare at him, wondering if he’s really reading or if he’s just ignoring me, or both.

  “I don’t need to fight anymore, Dad,” I say. “Maybe this can be your spare knife?”

  “Maybe,” he says without looking up.

  “Well, ok, then,” I say. “I’ll be leaving for Baengnyeong tomorrow morning. You know I can’t stay with you…not after what you did to Mom.” Tears pool. Quick eye rub. I can’t believe I couldn’t say “since you killed Mom” like I’d practiced. It’s horrible even to imagine, and it seems I can’t even say the words. But not saying the words minimizes his brutality. I massage my temples because my brain hurts. I decide to abort that part of the mission and skip to the end, “Gonna live with Younger Uncle before leaving Seoul. He said he’s already spoken to you about it?”

  Younger Uncle and I decided that it would be safer to live with him on the island for a bit before going to “university.” That way, Dad wouldn’t suspect anything.

  Dad lifts his head and folds the newspaper nice and neat, glaring at me. “Why yes, he has spoken to me about that,” he says in a hostile voice. He flings the newspaper, it goes flying across the room. He glances at the knife. “How dare you? You selfish, thankless little shit!” He punches the counter. “How dare you and your younger uncle conspire against me.”

  Automatically, I cower and take a step back.

  “You’re just like your mother, aren’t you?”

  My head jerks up, and I jut my chin. “Better her than you,” I mutter under my breath.

  He charges around the counter and comes at me. “What did you say?”

  I hold his stare. “Better her than you.”

  He pokes his finger in my chest. Screams, “How dare you! How dare—”

  I interrupt his self-righteous speech with my own. I manage to cage my fear because, hey, I’m leaving anyway. “Dad, you’re the biggest bully. I mean you take bullying to another level. Friends, family, foe, anyone. Not only that, you’re a killer! You killed Mom! If I stay here with you, I might turn into you.” I step closer to him, disgust makes my body tremble.

  He doesn’t say a word.

  I shake my head, then in my best stone-cold voice I say, “I don’t want to be anything like you.” I stand straighter and cross my arms. I smile inside because I realize I’m a little taller than him. “I’m outta here.”

  “How dare you,” he says. He shoves me, then goes to punch me, but I grab his fist and twist his arm. He cries out. I twist a little more until he sinks to the ground. Before I know it, my knife isn’t on the counter, it’s at home in my hand, and I’ve got it pressed up against my dad’s neck. I squeeze the handle. My hand shakes. Sweat beads up on my forehead. A few drops fall on the hardwood floor.

  “Do it, Rocky!” he shouts, spraying me with his spit.

  I push the blade’s sharp edge into his skin and it makes a thin slice into his epidermis and dermis. Bright red line.

  “Do it!”

  Sweat and tears blind me. I blink fast and hard.

  “Do it! What are you waiting for?”

  I shake my head. “No,” I whisper. “I’m not like you.” I let go of the knife, and it lands with a clunk. I release his fist. I back away slowly.

  He wipes the blood off his neck, looks at it with curious eyes. Then he tastes it. He looks back at me, glowering with the wildest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  I turn around and head back to my room to pack.

  He doesn’t follow.

  33.

  I stare at the nickel-silver keys in my hand. Two keys on the ring—my house key and my car key. I lay them on the console table as I sling my duffel bag over my shoulder. I step out of the penthouse into the quiet, low-lit hallway. I take one more look back inside, back at my life so far, then I lock the door from the inside and pull it shut behind me. I twist the knob to make sure it’s locked.

  It is.

  Locked for the first time.

  I start to walk, then pivot on my heels and go back to the door. I turn the knob. It’s still locked. I head out again. Stop again, go back to the door again. Check the knob. Of course, it’s still locked. I do an about-face and stride to the elevator, relieved that this time I make it.

  I arrive in the lobby and leave my bag with the doorman.

  Time to walk the streets of Seoul.

  One last time.

  But I won’t be alone.

  34.

  Dusk slips in. Seoul is teeming with people and cars. But we walk as if it’s only us. Braid. Patch. Strike. Me. Me and my boys, me and my brothers, side by side. Our footsteps echo because it’s only us. We don’t talk. Hand in our pockets, a little slouched: ex-mini gangsters trying to be good citizens.

  We’re all in sync. And, we don’t step on cracks because we really don’t want to break anyone’s back.

  We walk into Seoul’s belly. Soon the natural light drains, but the city plugs in and flickers in technicolor. It burns bright in neon yellows, greens, reds, blues, and purples.

  People hustle, stroll, and wander, but we walk. We pass by huge department stores, coffee shops, bars, and small restaurants that send forth the delicious scents of garlic and gimchi. There are fruit stands overflowing with giant grapes and ripe figs and street stalls selling knick knacks, watches, and cell phone cases.

  But we don’t stop. No jobs tonight. No more jobs for me. Ever.

  A fine mist covers my face. I look up, and drizzle mixed with a couple of thick drops splatters on my forehead, trickling into my eyes. The rain picks up until there’s a steady pitter patter on the streets and the sidewalks. Plinking on cars and signs. Umbrellas everywhere. Except over us. I count the red ones, stop when I get to seven. Lucky seven.

  I look down, taking care to avoid the tiny puddles.

  The rain stops. Umbrellas, lowered and folded, fall away like domino lines.

  We pass by an alley and glance sideways. Five thugs lurk in the shadows. They step forward. I immediately recognize their tacky pinstripe suits. Woo-jin’s mini SGP gang. Only he’s not with them. Still in juvie, I guess. His boys flex. Challenge us with hard, menacing looks.

  I don’t flinch. My boys don’t flinch.

  I ignore them. My boys ignore them.

  We walk and walk and walk. Until our next step would be into the Han. It stretches before us, like a long arm waiting to wrap around us.

  We squat at the water’s edge and light up. We smoke, staring at the gentle ripples glinting in the moonlight and city lights.

  I rest my arms on my knees and let my cig dangle from my fingers. “You know how to get to the island,” I say keeping my eyes on the river.

  Braid takes a draw, exhales. “Sure do.”

  Strike looks at Patch. “Remind me, no donuts on the ferry.”

  Patch nods.

/>   I reach into my jacket’s flap pocket and pull out a square envelope sealed with red wax. I hand it to Braid. “Please give this to Ha-na,” I say.

  He nods, takes it, and slips it into his inner pocket.

  “What is it?” Strike asks.

  Patch slaps the back of his head.

  “Ouch!” Strike cries. “What?” He rubs his head. “I’m just asking.”

  “It’s ok,” I tell Patch then look at Strike. “My apology letter,” I say.

  “Oh,” is all Strike says before giving me a half smile.

  I take a long drag. “No more bullying, anyone. And help Ha-na if she needs it,” I say even though we’ve all agreed on this already.

  “Of course, bo—,” Braid starts but then chuckles and shakes his head. “I mean, Rocky.”

  Patch and Strike nod.

  The Han is barely moving. I close my eyes, imagine…

  Mom’s sitting on the water’s edge. She picks up the bag of crystal and the pipe, her hands trembling. Tears spill down her cheeks, her makeup bleeds. Suddenly she looks up. “Rocky,” she says. “I didn’t see you there.” She drops her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave you.”

  I walk over, sit next to her.

  She drapes her arm on my shoulders. “I love you more than anything, my sweet boy,” she whispers, then kisses my forehead. “I’m so sorry,” she says. She takes a second to dump the crystal in the Han, then hands me the baggie and pipe. “Toss these in the trash can over there, will you?” she asks, pointing.

  I jump up and do it. Then I sit back down next to her. She’s still crying softly. I wipe her tears with my handkerchief.

  “My willow tree,” she says. She smiles. “I was going to make one for you next. For when you grew into a young man.”

  “I am a young man, Mom.”

  She leans back to look me up and down. “So you are. And such a handsome one.” She holds my face in her hands. “I love you more than anything, young man,” she says.

  “I know, Mom. I love you, too.”

  “Do you forgive me?”

  I nod.

  “Will you come to see me soon?”

  The river sloshes against the bank.

  I open my eyes. My hand is on my chest and my heart beats calmly inside. Maybe my mom’s always been in here.

  She strokes my cheek. “Will you?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  I look at my boys, press my hand a little harder. My boys, my brothers, are in here too.

  “Hey,” I say to them. “I’ve got another secret.”

  They turn to me, move closer.

  “The island isn’t my final destination.”

  Wonder pulls apart their eyelids.

  I look over my shoulders. All clear. I lean in and whisper my truth. All of it.

  36.

  I’m walking in a field of bright yellow flowers. It’s a floral jungle, so different from the concrete one I’m used to. I stop for a second to cradle a flower. This flower breathes too, in its own way—without lungs and without a bloodstream. I rub a leaf just under it, in awe that the little green oval can do that plus turn what I breathe out into oxygen.

  A breeze skims along the flowers. They rustle cordially, letting me eavesdrop on their musings. I put my hands out wide in front of me, my fingers grazing the delicate petals. I close my eyes. Far away, Pavarotti sings the highest tenor notes. His voice trickles down from the sky like a sweet rain.

  I open my eyes. There are five clouds in the bold blue sky. Perfectly imperfect.

  My destination is the only willow tree on Baengnyeong. I found it last week when Younger Uncle and I were driving back from Kongdol Beach. We’d spent some hours wading on large submerged rocks, fishing. We caught enough for a hearty dinner. Halfway home we passed by this sea of yellow (on the island that’s in the Yellow Sea!). All I saw was the green of rounded, drooping branches that I wanted to come back to.

  When I reach the willow, I lean my back against its trunk. Its bark, like a tight bundle of thick ropes, massages me. It’s a safe place, a refuge. I sit beneath it and pull out my Dunhill tin. It creaks the same as always when I open it. My parent’s wedding photo greets me the same as always. I pluck out a cig, light up, and take slow draws. I give myself plenty of time to enjoy my smoke. It’s going to be my last one, ever.

  When I’m done, I crush the burning end on the ground and stick the butt in my pocket. There are twenty-three cigarettes left in the tin. I grab a sharp spade from my back pocket and dig a small hole at the base of the willow, piling the damp dirt neatly. I take a deep breath of the fresh soil smell. It cleanses the smokey residue from my lungs. I place my Dunhill tin—my mom’s Dunhill tin—in the hole. I smile inside. Then I fill the hole.

  Younger Uncle suggested I call Mom. But I thought, what’s another week? I’ve waited this long. Talking to Mom over the phone doesn’t seem right.

  But I can talk to her here.

  I pat the soil mound until it’s flat. I dust my hands on my shorts before I press them together in prayer, my head bowed. “Mom, how are you? I’m good. It’s been great living with Younger Uncle. He’s awesome. He’s made this simple life for himself on this beautiful island, and I like it. I think you’d like it, too.” I take out my handkerchief, hold it over my head, and trace the stitched willow. “I keep this with me always. It’s how I keep you close.” I press the handkerchief to my chest, to my heart. Then I put it back in my pocket.

  “Guess what, Mom? I’m not fighting anymore. I feel pretty good these days. It’s kind of strange.” I exhale a long, slow breath before I continue. “I heard a Christian minister at the gas station the other day. He was talking to one of his parishioners, he quoted a verse from the the Bible. ‘Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.’ Well, I’m not Christian or anything, but I think the truth about you and Dad has set me free. I know you didn’t want to leave me. I know you really loved me. Love me.” I pause to rub my eyes. “I love you too. I promise no more fighting. No more being mean. I will make you proud. I don’t know if I’ll be a surgeon…maybe…but whatever I do, I will make you proud.” I smile. “Dad doesn’t like that I’m here, but I don’t care. Maybe someday he and I will sign our own peace treaty, but for now we’re like North and South Korea—we’ve got an armistice agreement. No hostilities. We’re not supposed to anyway.” Another pause. “That’s good, right? Oh and don’t worry, I haven’t been lonely. Because besides Younger Uncle, I’m still in touch with my boys. Friends for life, brothers for life.” I kiss my palm and pat the burial site. “I better get going. I miss you, Mom. I love you. I can’t wait to see you soon.”

  I stand. I walk, no slouching.

  37.

  “Woah! What’re you doing, Rocky?” Strike yells from the backseat of Younger Uncle’s beat-up car. “We’re going to sink!”

  I sly smile to myself as I swerve onto the sand, stepping on the gas a little and taking a quick look in the rearview mirror. Strike smacks his palm against his forehead. Patch’s eye is the size of one of the clams I dug up on this very beach yesterday, and that’s big. I look at Braid who’s sitting next to me. He’s gripping the armrest so tight that the veins on the back of his hand are bulging.

  My boys surprised me this morning. They showed up at Younger Uncle’s doorstep with wide grins, intoxicating glee, and casual clothing.

  “We were going to rent a car,” Braid said, smoothing the wrinkles on his t-shirt. “That’s what I wanted to do, but these bozos—”

  “Yeah, us bozos,” Strike interrupted, “we thought, why not make you pick our asses up at the dock?”

  Patch rolled his eye, shook his head, then smiled.

  Braid spoke up. “Luckily, the guy at the car rental—your younger uncle’s friend, remember?—offered to drop us off.”

  “Come on in, bozos,” I said. As soon as I shut the door, torrential rain decided we needed a little more indoor catch up time. When the weather finally cleared up an
hour ago, we exploded out of the house ready to enjoy the sun.

  “Relax, guys,” I say. “This is Sagot Beach, a very special beach. The sand is packed so hard that people drive on it all the time. Even tour buses.” I hold up a finger. “Think of me as your tour guide.”

  “I don’t know…” Strike begins.

  I make my voice all professional and say, “Gentlemen, this beautiful beach was even used as a landing strip for airplanes during the Korean War.”

  “You can’t get away from war stuff here, can you?” Braid asks, letting go of the armrest.

  I shake my head. “Not really.” I drive a little further and park. “Let’s walk?”

  Strikes looks left, then right. “Yes, please!”

  We hop out and stroll on the sand toward the golden setting sun.

  Braid looks back and down, inspecting the sand for imprints of his steps, or rather the lack of imprints. “It’s like a hard cement sidewalk,” he says.

  I nod. We walk further. The Yellow Sea laps at nature’s sidewalk, leaving behind a shiny surface. The sun rays bounce off of it and blind us. I slip on my Ray-Bans, the boys use their hands as visors.

  “Hey,” I say, “thanks for coming.”

  Patch pats my shoulder and smiles big.

  “Just so you know, this isn’t goodbye or anything,” Strike says. “I’ve always wanted to go to L.A. I mean it is the City of Angels. Hot angels.”

  Braid shakes his head. “Do you ever think about anything besides girls?”

  “Nope,” he says.

  Braid scoffs, then looks at me. “But seriously, Rocky,” he says. “We’ll visit you, for sure. Maybe we should take a road trip to New York City or something.”

  “Sounds good.” I’m glad I’m wearing my shades because I’m pretty sure my eyes are glistening. That’s what a sudden layer of I-miss-my-brothers-already will do. I blink hard so there’s no leakage. Then I say, “I can’t believe you guys will get to meet my mom.”

  A round of nods.

  We walk in the quiet loveliness of the deserted beach.

  Braid speaks up. “I gave the envelope to Ha-na yesterday,” he says.