Jung Yun - Shelter

There were two tellers working at the window when Jin approached — one that he vaguely recognized, and another with the word TRAINEE printed on her name tag. They exchanged a short greeting as Jin slid his card across the counter and asked for five thousand dollars in cash. The older woman guided the younger one through the transaction, pointing at things on the computer. Jin wanted them to look at him and see the panic on his face, but neither of them did. All they cared about was the list of steps on the screen — do this, then that; check off this line and then the other. It took only a few minutes for the trainee to process his request, count out the money in neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and send him away with a thick envelope. Jin considered running for it — Nat didn’t have the gun — but he worried what they would do to Mae if he didn’t come back.

In the car, Nat counted out the money, smiling as he fanned the new bills against his thumb, admiring their crispness, their smell. It occurred to Jin that this was all their lives were worth. Five thousand dollars, money that would probably be gone in a few days, spent on drugs and alcohol and who knew what else. He didn’t remember driving home or walking inside or sitting down in the kitchen so Nat could tie him up again. All of these things happened — they must have happened — but everything after the bank was a blur to him. The only thing Jin remembered for certain was the scream he heard when Nat went upstairs.

Mae’s memory of the events began to break down at about the same time. She remembered Nat kicking open the bedroom door, smiling as he waved a thick envelope in the air. She remembered him going into the bathroom to look for Dell and screaming when he found him. And she remembered the look on his face when he climbed on top of her, all veins and rage and sweat as he wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed until she could no longer see. Lentz kept asking questions about what happened afterward, trying to estimate how many hours Nathan Perry had been on the run, but she couldn’t answer any of them. She had no idea how long she’d blacked out, or how she managed to free herself from her bindings, or what time it was when she left the house. The only thing she could add to her account was that she thought she was dead. All that time, wandering through the woods in the dark and the cold, she thought she was dead and God had finally sent her to hell.

Kyung spends all of Tuesday morning cleaning out the guest room. He washes the sheets and blankets, dusts the furniture, and empties the closets and drawers, which are filled with baby clothes and books. Afterward, he goes downstairs, polishing and vacuuming every surface, attacking one room before moving on to the next. By the time Gillian and Ethan return from the store, everything gleams and smells of soap and bleach. At first, she doesn’t notice the difference. She’s too busy unloading the groceries — twelve full bags that she piles on the countertop. The sight of so much food would usually worry him, but she did exactly what he’d asked — fill the refrigerator with things that his father might eat. Gillian removes the receipt from her purse and gently lays it on the table. When she leaves the room, he picks up the snakelike coil of paper and follows the trail of numbers all the way down to the end. The groceries cost $238, which she charged to one of their credit cards. Kyung tries not to think about it. This is something for another day.

His parents are tidy people, his father in particular, so Kyung wants everything — his house, his family, himself — to look just right. He shaves with a razor instead of his usual electric, and irons a clean button-down shirt and slacks. Gillian brings him two sundresses, holding them up on their hangers as if she wants him to vote. It’s rare for her to do this — usually, she’s the one who picks out their clothes — so he appreciates the gesture. She understands how important this is to him. He hesitates to tell her that neither outfit is quite correct. The white one is strapless; the red one, too red. Perhaps she could find something else, something more conservative? he asks. She nods and kisses him on the cheek, placing her hand on his chest. She seems sad for him when she feels his heartbeat, which is racing even though he’s standing still.

They leave the house looking like they’re headed to a photo studio — mother, father, and child all dressed up for their family portrait. Kyung suggests not wearing seat belts because they’ll wrinkle their clothes. Gillian looks at him like he’s crazy. Before she has a chance to tell him so, he says she’s right, she’s right. No need to get carried away. His cheeks burn as he reaches for his belt and inserts the clip into the buckle. Thirty-six years old, and he’s still behaving like a child, trying so hard to please someone whose standards have always been too high. Kyung glances at the clock on the dashboard to confirm what he already knows. Since Ethan was born, they’re never on time for anything. The doctor said he was planning to release Jin at three. It’s almost three now. He passes two cars and runs a yellow light, gunning his engine, which sounds like a rocket hurtling into space.

Gillian braces herself against the armrest and door. “We can’t pick him up from the hospital if we’re dead,” she says lightly. This is her way of telling him she feels unsafe. She wants to nag without sounding like one.

“Should we review?” he asks.

“You think I won’t remember?”

“I just want to make sure.”

She looks out her window. “Go ahead, then.”

Kyung runs through the list of things that Gillian should and shouldn’t do in front of his father: Never interrupt. Serve the men first. Always place one hand under the other wrist when giving something to an elder. Don’t talk about money. Discipline the boy in private.… He pauses, wondering if he left something out.

“Attend to him,” she says. “Offer to refill his drink and clear his plate before he has to ask.”

“Right.”

The list is a strange combination of precaution and tradition, things that usually help a visit go well. He accepts it, begrudgingly, as a necessary form of insurance. Like most Koreans of a certain age, his father has no filter. When Jin sees something he doesn’t like, something he doesn’t consider respectful, he’s quick to comment on it, which gets under Kyung’s skin and stays there for days. It’s better to be vigilant and give him nothing to criticize. Gillian is almost always good-natured about playing her part, despite the fact that the list dictates how a Korean wife is expected to behave. There aren’t any rules or expectations for the Irish. His parents assume she knows nothing and seem pleasantly surprised when she does. Over time, she’s earned their favor this way. Kyung would stop short of saying they like her, but they no longer actively dislike her, which is more than he could have hoped for in the beginning.

“I’m sorry if this is annoying you. I’m just nervous, that’s all.”

“But you’re acting like I’m the only reason you and your parents get into it so often. You have your own list of things to worry about.”

“You’re right,” he says. Right again.

At the hospital, the visitors’ lot is full, so Kyung leaves the car in an emergency lane and runs inside, jangling all the coins and keys in his pockets. His father and Reverend Sung are sitting in the waiting room together. Of course, he thinks. The reverend is here again. The nurses probably assume he’s a relative.

Jin is hunched over in a chair, wearing a thin white T-shirt, baggy drawstring pants, and a pair of slippers — all hospital issue. He seems tired and irritated. The bruises on his face look worse than they did the day before. They’re Technicolor now. Purple and blue, yellow and red.