Jung Yun - Shelter

“Okay, so what’s next?” she asks.

He clears his throat so they’ll notice him.

Gillian spins around, startled by the noise. “Oh. You’re home already,” she says cautiously. “You weren’t gone very long.”

Kyung pours himself a cup of coffee. “I know.” He joins them on the floor, kicking off his shoes so he can sit cross-legged as they are, which seems to surprise her. He looks down at the half-assembled puzzle. It’s the same one Ethan always plays with, the fruit bowl.

“So was everything — okay over there?” Gillian asks.

“What’s this?” Kyung offers Ethan another piece.

“It’s an apple.”

“Do you like apples?”

Ethan nods. “And bananas too.”

“Show me which one’s the banana.”

They go on like this for several minutes until all of the smiling pieces of fruit are in their proper places. Kyung can feel Gillian watching him the entire time, but she should be happy, he thinks. This is exactly the kind of thing she says he needs to do more often. Play more, discipline less.

When Ethan finishes reciting the names of every fruit, he turns the puzzle tray over, and the wooden pieces fall out, clattering against the tile. “Again?” he asks hopefully.

Children have a strange tolerance for repetition. Ethan has been playing with the same tool belt and puzzle since April. He’s been demanding the same bedtime story since May. He doesn’t lack for toys or books — Gillian’s made sure of that — but he acts like the others don’t exist. This is the pattern as Kyung has come to understand it: months of Ethan fixating on one thing until he moves on to something else, something equally mind numbing, and then the pattern begins again.

“Why don’t you go watch TV now?” Gillian says. “You can take the puzzle with you if you want.”

Ethan picks up the apple and walks into the living room, where the piece is sure to go missing.

“He watches too much TV,” Kyung says.

“It’s fine every once in a while. We grew up with TV, and there’s nothing wrong with us.”

Actually, Kyung grew up with tutors. Piano, French, swimming, golf. If he could afford it, Ethan would have tutors too.

“So what happened? Why are you home so early?”

“She’d already given her statement by the time I got there. Then she went to sleep, so I left.”

“But what about your dad?”

“What about him?”

“Well, how is he? Did he tell you what happened?”

“Why don’t you ask Connie or Tim?” His irritation spikes when he mentions his in-laws, who have no right knowing more than he does, no right at all. “I got to the hospital five minutes before visiting hours started, and they were already there with the cop from yesterday. And that reverend from the church — he brought half the congregation with him.”

Gillian slides across the floor until she’s sitting behind him. “I’m sorry about my dad,” she says, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “I’m sure he meant well. He probably thinks he can help. And you know Tim — wherever one goes, the other follows.”

She’s always making excuses for them, trying so hard to smooth things over. Connie irritates her from time to time, but she adores him like a daughter should, bouncing back from their disagreements as if they never happened.

“I snapped at them a little. You know, for being there.”

The kneading stops. “What exactly did you say?”

“I told them to leave. Maybe I said get out.… I can’t remember.”

“Kyung! Why would you do that? They were only trying to help.”

Of course, he thinks. She’s always quick to take a side unless it’s his. “Someone should have called me once she started giving her statement. It’s not like I can ask her what happened. She’s too embarrassed. The whole time I was there, she wouldn’t even look at me.”

“So why don’t you just call my dad and ask him what she said?”

“Call?”

He can’t remember having more than a handful of phone conversations with Connie in the past five years. Most of them started and ended the same way. No, Gillian’s not home. Yes, I’ll tell her to call back. There was never any middle to them.

“I can’t call after telling him to leave like that.”

“Then why don’t you just ask Jin?”

Kyung shakes his head.

Gillian straddles him from behind, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as if she’s expecting a piggyback ride. He’s tempted to carry her up to their bed and close the door behind them, but to do that now would only invite a misunderstanding. She’ll assume he wants sex, which is the furthest thing from his mind. The only thing he wants is to be quiet together, to feel the comfort of her presence, but not have to listen to her advice.

“So should we go to my dad’s house, then? Maybe if Ethan and I are around, it won’t be so awkward, and you’re going to have to apologize eventually, right?”

Kyung doesn’t think he owes Connie an apology. His father-in-law did something wrong — he even acknowledged it. They were intruding, he said. Intruders. He gets up from the floor, brushing off the flecks of dust and bread crumbs clinging to his pants.

“If you don’t want to ask my dad, I still think you should try talking to yours. I mean, I know things have never been all that friendly between you two, but it’s not like any of this was his fault. It might be nice for you to acknowledge that this happened to him too.”

On some level, Kyung knows she’s right. He just can’t bring himself to that place yet. In college, whenever one of his roommates said his mother was on the phone, he picked up the receiver slowly, expecting to hear that Jin had hit her again. By the time he was in grad school, the years had stretched out long enough so he could take a call without having to brace for the worst. Until yesterday, the beatings seemed like another lifetime ago. Not forgiven, but in the past. How quick he was to assume that Jin had hurt her. And now here he is, feeling the same terror clutching at his throat as if eighteen years haven’t gone by, and there’s nothing he can do to make it go away.

“How long will it take you and Ethan to get ready?”

Gillian shrugs. “Ten minutes.”

“Let’s go to Connie’s, then.”

It takes her half an hour to change Ethan’s clothes, pack his lunch and toys and books, and find a clean shirt and jeans for herself. By the time they’re all seated and strapped in the car, Kyung is having second thoughts. He drives slowly — obeying the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at the lights — things he never does. At the fork in the road that leads to the Flats, he turns left instead of right.

“What are you doing? This isn’t the way.”

“I want to see something.”

She doesn’t bother asking what because two turns later, it’s obvious. He’s driving up the hill toward the Heights again. As they near his parents’ house, he sees neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, small packs of them huddled in conversation. With every passing block, he sees more. More people, more cars, more congestion. A block away from the house, there’s nowhere left to park on the street. Every space is occupied by vans with satellite dishes on their roofs and logos painted on their doors. Channels 6, 11, 22, and 64. Two local papers, three radio channels, seven police cruisers.

“Kyung…,” Gillian says quietly. “I don’t think we should be here right now.”

He looks in his rearview mirror. There’s another van right behind him. “I can’t back up.”

“So keep going. Just get us out of here.”

Kyung realizes that most of the people on the sidewalk aren’t neighbors at all. They’re reporters and cameramen. The slower he drives, the longer they look at him, their expressions curious, as if he’s the quote or story they’ve been waiting for.