Jung Yun - Shelter

Kyung blinks again, staring at the black screen. He can’t even remember what he was working on before all of this happened. “I probably have a thousand e-mails to catch up on.”

“Given the circumstances, I’m sure people will understand if they don’t hear from you for a while.”

“So everyone in the department knows?”

Craig nods. “I think so. But I haven’t made any announcements about it, if that’s what you’re asking. Obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

As far as department chairs go, Craig is actually a good one. He’s honest and organized. He knows the names of everyone’s spouses and kids by heart. At five o’clock, he always encourages the workaholics to go home, have a life. If Gillian or his parents knew Craig better, they never would have left for the Cape without him. They would have realized that Craig Tunney doesn’t make irate phone calls demanding that his faculty do this or that.

Kyung reaches for his monitor again. “I’ve been gone too long. I can’t just leave.”

“Yes, you can. I’m telling you to. Think about it, Kyung. In five years, it’s not going to matter if you finish an article now or a month from now. But your family, the time you spend together this summer — that’s going to make a difference.”

Suddenly, the dread that Kyung felt while driving to campus, parking in front of the building, taking the elevator up to his office — all of it dissipates, replaced by an unfamiliar resolve to stay where he is. He understands what Craig is saying — agrees with it, even — but the weight of his responsibility keeps him anchored to his seat.

“What’s the matter? You don’t look well.”

“I don’t?”

“No, you’re really pale. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. But I will, though.”

Craig taps him on the shoulder. “Come on. Get up.”

Kyung remains seated, not certain what would be worse — to refuse or to do as he’s told.

“Let’s go get some breakfast.”

“But—”

“If you come to the cafeteria and have breakfast with me, I’ll stop pestering you. I promise.”

It’s hard to be annoyed with Craig, who’s always been kind to him, perhaps even kinder than he should be. But as they walk across the quad, Kyung feels something bubbling up to the surface, prickly and hot under his skin. All he wants to do is be alone. He wishes everyone would let him.

“You didn’t miss anything while you were gone,” Craig says. He looks at Kyung sideways, as if to examine him without being noticed.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to—”

“I’m serious. You know how dead this place is during the summer. I mean, look at it.”

The steps to the Campus Center, which are usually teeming with students during the school year, are empty except for a pair of giant stone planters. Even the cafeteria is quiet enough to hear the clink of glasses and plates. Craig hands him a green plastic tray as they enter, and heads off toward the omelet line. Kyung looks around, worried that he might run into someone he knows, but the only other people in the cafeteria are wearing name tags. They look like conference attendees, not colleagues.

Kyung pays for his breakfast and finds a table in the corner, far from where anyone will hear them.

When Craig joins him, he looks down at Kyung’s tray, seemingly crestfallen. “That’s all you’re having?”

There’s a dried-out blueberry muffin, flecked with too much sugar, sitting on a square of wax paper. He doesn’t have any appetite for more. “I have coffee too.” He lifts his mug as if to prove it.

Craig’s tray is crowded with plates. An egg-white omelet, made to order. A side of fruit. Toast and yogurt and a carton of grapefruit juice with a red straw poking out of it. Kyung is equally disappointed by the size of Craig’s breakfast. They’ll be here all morning. Although small talk has always felt unnatural to him, he’s desperate to avoid where their conversation is headed next, so he picks a subject that Craig can discuss at length.

“How’s your wife? And the kids?”

“Oh, they’re all doing great.”

The Tunneys have twin girls — one now at Wesleyan, the other at Brown. Kyung met them years ago when they came to the office to borrow Craig’s car. Even as high school students, they struck him as exceptionally poised and polite. They shook hands and spoke with confidence and seemed to regard their father as a friend. If Craig had one bad habit, it was the way he wandered the halls, talking about his daughters’ accomplishments with anyone willing to listen. Whenever Kyung found himself on the receiving end of these conversations, he wondered what Craig and his wife had done to ensure that their children turned out so well. There were times when he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t figure out how to phrase the question. It felt like something he already should have known.

“Lydia’s interning at the Federal Reserve in D.C. this summer, and Elizabeth is in Panama building ecohousing with a nonprofit.”

“Panama,” he repeats thoughtfully, for no other reason except to buy time. “Does she speak Spanish?”

“A couple of semesters’ worth. But she’s quick with languages. We sent her off to France a few summers ago, and she came back jabbering away like she was fluent.” Craig stops suddenly, as if he realizes what Kyung is trying to do. “But enough about the girls. Is there anything I can help you with, Kyung? Do you want to talk about taking a leave of absence next semester?”

The thought of a leave never occurred to him.

“It would have to be unpaid, unfortunately. A situation like this — it doesn’t really fit the university’s requirements for paid medical leave. But I’d be happy to arrange it if you’d like some more time at home.”

The idea floats past him like a balloon. Bright and buoyant for a moment, then gone with a prick of a pin. He couldn’t afford to take a leave even if he wanted to.

“Actually, I’m looking forward to teaching again. It’ll be good for me, I think.”

He pulls his muffin apart to avoid looking Craig in the eye. It crumbles into a pile of dry, dusty pieces that he pinches into his mouth. It alarms him that he can’t remember what classes he’s supposed to teach in the fall — Anatomy, Physiology, Cell Biology? Every semester just feels like a variation of the one that came before.

“Well, I’m here,” Craig says.

“Sorry?”

“I’m here if you need anything. Even if you change your mind and we have to make some last-minute adjustments, it’ll be fine. You just have to tell me what’s on your mind.”

Lately, Kyung has been thinking about Nat Perry, wondering where he is, what his life is like. He imagines him in some barren northern stretch of Canada, trying to reinvent himself. That’s what Kyung would do if he suddenly found himself on the run. Pick a place where no one would ever look for him. Start over. Do everything differently. The idea of California still tugs at him from time to time. During his senior year in college, he applied to the medical school at Irvine, which his advisors warned was a stretch. None of them knew what to say when he was accepted but chose not to go. Kyung couldn’t tell them why he needed to stay in Marlboro, the things that might happen if he went away. He convinced himself there would always be other opportunities to leave. At twenty-two, he didn’t have the foresight to understand how one decision could affect so many others. Now that he’s older and everything has settled into a just-tolerable state of atrophy, the options he once had — options that his young students still have — feel like they’ve passed him by.

“Are your parents back home, or are they staying with you?”