Jung Yun - Shelter

“No, it’s not like that. I went to the Irish one, the pub. You can ask the lady inside if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t care if you went to a titty bar. But if you want to see girls, you can find better places than these shitholes. Next time, you should hit up that big one on Route 5, next to the old airport.”

Kyung’s head is pounding. He needs a bathroom and a glass of water; he needs to stop thinking about Tim sitting in a strip club, slipping dollar bills into a woman’s G-string. Drunk or not, he’s still sober enough to understand that topics like this are off-limits with his brother-in-law. He and Tim aren’t friends. They certainly aren’t buddies. Even if Tim wanted that kind of relationship, Kyung isn’t the type. Being an acquaintance, a roommate, a colleague — all of that was easy enough, but real friendships always seemed like too much work to him, too primed for disappointment.

“I don’t go to strip clubs.”

“Oh, sure.”

“It’s true. I’m married.”

“I was married once too. I know how it is.”

A car drives toward them, shining its headlights on their faces. Kyung crouches down in his seat to avoid being seen.

“I told the other officer to call Connie.”

“He’s not on duty tonight. He’s on a date.” Tim chuckles, as if the thought of his father taking a woman to dinner or a movie amuses him. It’s odd, at the very least. Connie’s been a widower for almost twenty years. This is the first Kyung has ever heard of his dating.

“So he doesn’t know what happened yet?”

“Nope.”

“And Gillian?”

“Nope.”

Arnie staggers out of MacLarens, held upright by his friend. They weave along the sidewalk together, going who knows where. When they turn the corner and there’s no more sideshow left to watch, Kyung realizes he has to do it. He has to ask, even though he already knows the answer.

“Are you planning to tell them?”

“What do you think?”

He thinks Tim is Connie’s son, and Connie has never liked him, not even a little, so there’s no use asking him to keep quiet. Everything about this experience has been humiliating enough. He doesn’t need to add begging to the list.

“I’m fine to drive now, if you’re willing to let me go.”

Tim nods slowly, stretching out the moment for everything it’s worth. “I’ll follow you,” he says. “Just to make sure you get home safe.”

* * *

Gillian has a temper that flares from time to time, but rarely, and never without good reason. Since Kyung is almost always the reason, he’s learned how to defuse an argument by simply apologizing before it starts. Because she doesn’t like conflict any more than he does, this is usually enough to move on. Tonight, however, he thinks it might help to acknowledge that some of his choices this evening — most of them, actually — were neither considerate nor smart. Never mind that his stomach was empty when he started drinking or that he was sleeping it off in the car when the cop woke him up. Never mind the circumstances of the past few days or anything else that might sound like an excuse. Gillian is quick to confuse explanations for defensiveness, which is the oxygen that keeps everything burning.

He expects to find her waiting up for him, but when he turns into his driveway, the house is completely dark. It’s late, he realizes — too late for a man with a wife and child to come home like this, reeking of alcohol as if he’s been dunked in a barrel. Tim doesn’t pull in behind him, but Kyung feels no sense of reprieve as the cruiser disappears down the street. By morning, Gillian will know everything.

At the side door, he takes off his shoes and creeps through the house, seeking out what he needs in the order he needs it most: bathroom, water, aspirin, food. Every door and floorboard seems to creak louder than usual. The flush of the toilet sounds like a hurricane. In the kitchen, he finds a crusty pot and some dirty bowls in the dishwasher. It looks like they had spaghetti while he was out. He confirms that they left none for him, so he raids the cabinets for his dinner, starting with an expensive-looking box of crackers that he eats by the handful. Then he moves on to the fridge, cutting off oversized chunks of cheese and pâté with a knife. These pricey foods aren’t meant for him, and he knows it, but he continues eating to settle his stomach.

Half a box of crackers and a block of cheese later, Kyung hears footsteps on the staircase and a flick of a light switch down the hall. Gillian walks into the kitchen, pulling on a furry yellow bathrobe over her nightgown. Her hair is lopsided, as if she’s been sleeping — bees’ nest on the right, flat and matted on the left — but she doesn’t look surprised to see him hovering over the island, demolishing a sixteen-dollar wedge of pâté.

“I just got off the phone with Tim.”

“He called you from his car?” Kyung should have known. Tim was probably excited to tell her, like it was the best thing to happen to him all year.

“So you ran off to drink tonight.”

She says this in the form of a statement, not a question, so he doesn’t respond. Instead, he leans against a cabinet — head down, eyes to the floor, ready. Gillian circles the island and brushes the crumbs off his shirt.

“Look at you. You’re a mess.”

Bits of cheese and pâté and crackers fall to the floor, snowing against the redbrick tile. He brings his fist to his mouth, trying to hold back a burp, but it’s too late. The air smells like meat and milk, laced with something bitter.

“Damn it, Kyung.” She covers her nose.

“Sorry…” He’s about to continue so she understands the apology wasn’t for the burp alone, but then he burps again.

She moves to the other side of the room, arms crossed, eyes hooded over with a frown. There are times when sorry alone won’t save him, when his behavior has to be dissected and discussed before anything resembling forgiveness can occur. It’s always the wait that he finds unsettling, that moment right before she opens her mouth when he can see it all building up inside. Gillian doesn’t hide anything from him; she says she shouldn’t have to.

“There are so many things I want to say to you right now—”

He raises his hand in the air to stop her. “Can I make a request?”

It was a bad impulse — they both know he’s lost the right to ask for anything.

“What?”

“Can you please not yell? I don’t want my father to wake up and hear us fighting.” He doesn’t bother to explain that his head feels like it’s being crushed, trapped between the metal plates of a vise. This is probably the least of her concerns.

Gillian crosses her arms tighter, holding herself in. “You know what? I’m not going to say anything right now. I’m just going to let you do the talking.”

He hates it when she does this. It’s the same as asking, What do you have to say for yourself? but without the motherly tone. He thinks for a second, making a careful list of everything she might be upset about.

“I’m sorry for leaving without an explanation and not answering my phone.… I’m sorry for going out for a drink … and I’m sorry for getting pulled over by that cop and asking him to call your dad.”

Her expression doesn’t change after his string of apologies. It probably sounded too much like a recitation. Gillian believes that people can say sorry but not sound sorry. The difference matters to her.

“And?”

“And…” He realizes that Tim must have mentioned the topless bars. His brother-in-law is truly a shit. “And I swear I didn’t go to a strip club tonight. I was at the pub across the street. I even told Tim to go over there and talk to the bartender if he didn’t believe me.”