Jung Yun - Shelter

“This would have been Mae’s area for meeting clients.”

She sweeps her hand over the space with a flourish, seemingly happy to show it off. He tries to imagine his mother sitting there among the throw pillows, talking with people she didn’t know, selling them things they probably didn’t need.

“So … what do you think?”

Elinor leans against a sofa, which looks like the one he slept on at the beach house. He takes in his surroundings as appreciatively as he can, trying not to think about the last time he slept.

“You don’t have desks?”

“No, not anymore. Actually, most of this setup is new. It was your mother’s idea. She said she always liked sitting with me in her house, looking at things together instead of sitting across from each other at a table. It’s much more personal and relaxed this way, don’t you think? Like chatting about design with a friend instead of someone you’re doing business with.”

“She thought of this arrangement?”

Elinor hesitates. “Thought of it … no. But inspired it, certainly. Your mother had strong opinions about what made her comfortable, and she definitely had a sense for making others feel comfortable too. Just wait until you see the apartment.”

As they walk back outside and up the metal staircase, Elinor tells him there’s no direct entrance from the apartment to the studio — a warning to keep out, he thinks. She also asks him to take off his shoes during business hours so her clients can’t hear him walking around. And no loud music or television either, she adds gently. He mumbles in agreement, trying to keep track of her sudden list of rules.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying all of this, but I’m not used to having anyone living up here. This space used to be a storage area. I was only willing to rent it to your mother because she needed a place to stay during the week.… Oh, and before I forget … Indian food.”

“What?”

“The ventilation in this building isn’t terribly efficient, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t cook Indian food, or anything with a strong odor. I can’t have my customers walking in and smelling curry.”

Kyung watches her unlock the door to the apartment. He’d gladly agree to almost anything if she’d just let him sleep. When they enter, his eyes go straight to the high ceiling, which is painted a stark shade of white. The storeroom is much bigger than he expected, and more finished too. All traces of its former use are gone now. Although there aren’t any walls separating one room from another, each space is carefully contained by a large Oriental rug. There’s a long, plush sofa in the living area, upholstered in a deep red shade of velvet, with careful rows of matching velvet-covered buttons lining the cushions. Kyung gently touches the chocolate-colored throw blanket draped over one of the arms, and the excess of it surprises him. Not only is the material cashmere; it’s a quality of cashmere ten times thicker and softer than any sweater or scarf he’s ever owned. He sits down on the end of the sofa, sinking into the perfect balance of feathers and foam, and takes in the rest of the room. Along the wall, two tall bookshelves have been meticulously arranged with books and antiques. The upper shelves feature old brass and copper trinkets, while the lower shelves house coffee table — sized books on architecture and design. Kyung gets up to examine the art hanging from the walls, all of which is framed in a similar style of ornate carved wood covered in gold leaf. He realizes that the choices his mother made for the houses in Marlboro and Orleans must have been a concession to Jin, who always preferred landscapes. Clearly, his mother preferred objects. Each framed piece is done in a different style but features a single image. A watercolor of a Victorian teacup. A charcoal rendering of a feather pen. An oil painting of a birdcage.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“How long did it take you to decorate this place?”

“I didn’t do any of it. This was all Mae.” She looks at him with a curious tilt of her head. “If you don’t mind me saying, you seem to have a hard time believing how talented she was.”

He knows his mother had a good eye for things. But he didn’t see this as a talent so much as a hobby. He never understood that she wanted a livelihood or was capable enough to have one.

“I know she was talented,” he says, because it kills him that he didn’t.

Kyung moves into the bedroom area along the opposite wall. There’s a sleigh bed with a pale gold duvet, which he assumes is real silk even before running his hand over the smooth, unwrinkled surface. The right corner has been turned over like a hotel maid’s handiwork, and he’s tempted to crawl under the inviting fold and pass out. Elinor joins him, drawing his attention to tall stacks of design magazines on the twin end tables, arranged according to the color of their spines. She straightens one, adjusting it no more than a few millimeters, and he recognizes the gesture, sees who his mother learned it from.

“You taught her a lot,” he says. “I can tell.”

“She taught me a lot too. I was so excited for her to get started here. She would have been a wonderful addition.” She clutches his shoulder, studying his face carefully. “I’m so sorry. I feel like I’m always saying the wrong thing in front of you.”

“No, no. It’s not that. It’s just kind of odd to imagine my mother — I don’t know — working.”

“She was a very hard worker, Kyung. She ordered every piece of furniture in here. All the paint and lighting too. She also sourced the decorations and artwork, managed the crew. She did everything. And the fact that she did most of it over the phone — that was always the thing I found so impressive about her. She could be very commanding when she needed to be.” Elinor smiles. “Actually, you might think this is funny. The men we usually hire to paint, they were always talking about how Mrs. Cho wanted this and Mrs. Cho wanted that and Mrs. Cho wouldn’t like it that way.… Oh, she used to get them so worked up! They were all completely terrified of her.”

Kyung is examining an old upright turntable in the corner. On the floor beside it is an antique leather suitcase filled with records by Johnny Mathis, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Platters. He shakes his head, wondering why he didn’t hear her that day in the car, why he never truly listened when she spoke. All she wanted to do was tell him about her records.

“I hope you know — I wasn’t suggesting that the painters didn’t like your mother. It was just the opposite, really. They didn’t want to disappoint her because they respected her so much.”

He understands that Elinor is gently trying to improve his memory of Mae, to convince him that she deserved more credit than he was ever willing to give. But the thought of grown men being terrified of her isn’t funny. And although he’s impressed by her work, he’s also saddened by it. The apartment was clearly designed as a refuge, a place for Mae to stay during the week and be the person she wanted to be, a person he didn’t know or pay any attention to. He imagines her walking upstairs after a long day’s work, opening a bottle of wine, playing a record, and reading one of her books or magazines. She was planning a life for herself here, a small and quiet life, and Kyung wishes she’d had the chance to live it. He thinks she would have been happy for once.

“Did I say something to upset you?” Elinor asks.

“No, I think the drive just caught up with me.”

“Well, let me get out of your way, then.” She walks to the door and turns to say good-bye. “You’re sure I haven’t upset you?”

“No, not at all. It’s nice to be here, to see what she could do.”