Suki Kim - The Interpreter

“But you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving…”

Jen is careful. In college, Suzy used to stay behind while everyone went home for Thanksgiving. Jen would come back after a week, grumbling about having gained five pounds. But things are different now. It is no longer a choice. There is no celebration, no family. Holidays always make people feel sorry for Suzy. Even Jen, who should know better.

“No, of course not. I just remembered, that’s all.”

“Come to Connecticut. I’m going to Colorado first with Stephen, which makes Mom and Dad furious. But with his insane schedule at the hospital, this is probably the only time I’ll get to meet all his family. So I promised Mom that I’ll fly back early and spend at least three days at home. So come. We can lie around the house and eat leftovers and play Monopoly. They always ask about you.”

Colorado with a boyfriend. Connecticut to see Mom and Dad. Suzy cannot help feeling a little envy. She has never had that. Not even when she had parents. Damian was not exactly a boyfriend, the same way Michael isn’t. Damian would never have brought her to his childhood home. Suzy was what he chose in order to run from all that, as she did him. The two of them together could never have built a family. How could they, when neither believed in it? But why? Where did her parents go wrong?

“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

They both know that Suzy won’t come. But it is nice to dream about it anyway. Sitting around the parents’ house eating leftovers. Doing nothing for three days except playing Monopoly with Mom and Dad. But in such a dream, the house is in Montauk, and everything appears the same—the pastel house, Mom’s brand-new Jeep, Dad’s fishing rods, the bag of Korean goodies Suzy has brought from the city—except for someone else, someone standing in the rain against the lighthouse, in so much November rain that for a second it looks as though the person is quietly weeping.

THE 41ST PRECINCT is located on the better part of Gun Hill Road. The sidewalk is freshly swept. No one honks as though his mother’s honor depends on it. No one fires a shot just for the hell of it. Even the boom-box blasters stay clear. Any half-brained crook knows better than to defile its sanctimonious ground. This is where the mayor’s fury takes out its revenge. This is where his soldiers plot out their games. This is where the NYPD rules.

Two officers are leaning against the patrol car smoking cigarettes when Suzy approaches the two-story concrete building. Across the trunk of the white car are the big blue letters of allegiance: Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect . One of the officers skims her over with a whistle, nudging the other with his elbow. They both appear to be about Suzy’s age, maybe even younger, the local boys who grew up watching way too many episodes of S.W.A.T., whose sweethearts must be waiting at home with a couple of toddlers.

“May we help you?” asks Whistle Boy. He is the joker, the one who is not ashamed to ogle any passerby in a skirt.

“Not really.” She is not up to this hide-and-seek right now. She is about to enter the station. Hardly any help necessary.

“C’mon. We can’t let a lady walk in by herself!” Whistle Boy won’t let go. He must be bored. This must be his off-time from ticketing double-parkers. Beneath the uniform and the badge, he is still a mere boy. The sweet dimples. The awkward crew cut. Suzy can’t help smiling a little.

“See, I made you laugh. You must let us escort you inside. Let me tell you, it’s a jungle in there! Ain’t I right, Bill?” He turns to his partner, who laughs along. Bill is the shy one, even handsome. A black man with a clean-shaven head. A set of twinkling brown eyes.

“Sorry. No escorting for me. But maybe you can tell me where I might find Detective Lester in the Homicide Unit.”

Then another set of whistles.

“Oh well, she’s here to see the boss!” shouts Whistle Boy, turning to Bill, who finally straightens up from the car and says, “Please excuse him; not all of us are like this jerk over here. Follow me inside. I’ll take you to Lester.”

Suzy is glad that it is the quiet one who is leading her inside. Before following Bill through the door, she turns around once as Whistle Boy hollers after her: “See, I knew it. The bastard always gets the girls!”

Once inside, she is led upstairs, away from the commotion of the general area. Detective Lester is being held up with a real head-case, Bill tells her, motioning her to wait in one of the wooden chairs in front of the door marked “Private.”

“A thirteen-year-old, just brought in for blowing some grandpa in the back of his Nissan for twenty bucks,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s the fifth time we’ve taken her off the street in the last six months. A kid hooker with her pimp daddy on crack. The city’s filled with them, and the juvenile agencies are way too swamped and fucked up, and the kid ends up back out on street in a matter of days. Except this time somebody’s popped her daddy.” He brings her a can of Coke from the vending machine. Too cold, it is the last thing she wants, but she takes it anyway.

The corridor is curiously designed so that the end appears interminably long, although the distance couldn’t be more than thirty yards. There are three rooms on each side of the corridor. Each room is marked “Private,” which must mean that inside is where serious questionings take place. She can hear nothing. No noise escapes. It is eerily silent, as if the entire building were soundproof, and bulletproof.

Two bullets total. Not one wasted. Not one straying off its course. Not one missing its target.

“So you here for a case?” Bill is making small talk. He seems reluctant to leave her, or perhaps he is not allowed to leave anyone unattended. After all, this is the inner world of the police station. It is probably not safe for her to be here alone. Who knows, one of those being questioned inside could set himself free and burst out the door. Imagine, to be held as a hostage while waiting for the Bronx detective who’s done nothing at all for the past five years.

“Yes, a case,” answers Suzy, taking a fuzzy sip from the can.

“Which one? Maybe I know something about it.” He is trying to be helpful. He is not being cocky, like most policemen she’s met before. But she knows that he could not possibly know anything. Five years ago, he must have only just finished the Police Academy.

“I doubt it. It’s an old case.” Suzy smiles, not wanting to sound dismissive.

“Unsolved, then. Parents?” he asks placidly. It is the first time, she thinks, someone has mentioned her parents’ death without the inevitable gulp of hesitation and stammer.

“Yes, both of them. How did you know?” She is surprised at the casualness with which she answers him.

“We get a hunch in our field. A smart-looking young woman like you showing up here in the middle of the day looking for Lester, it’s gotta be serious. Besides, you being Asian helps. Model citizens, hard workers, all that stuff is pretty much true, except for some of those punks out in Queens. You’ve got no business coming in here unless it’s family trouble. Parents most likely, since you don’t look married to me.”

His voice is soothing, she thinks. A young man of her age. No wedding ring. Polite, straightforward. She never talks to men like him. They remain out of her range, always. Something about them belongs in another world. Something about them suggests a home, a different kind of home from what she knows.

“I’m not trying to impress you, although maybe just a little. But the real clue is your face. I hope you don’t mind me saying this…” Bill takes a gulp from his can of Coke and says, “You’ve got the face of a mourner.”