Jung Yun - Shelter

“All right, then. You get a good night’s sleep. You look like you need it.”

Kyung crawls into bed as soon as Elinor closes the door. It’s a luxurious combination — the clean silky sheets, soft down pillows, and firm king-sized mattress. It’s a far better setup than he’s used to, better than a five-star hotel, he suspects. He turns over onto his back and notices the painting attached to the ceiling, directly over his head. There’s a woman sitting on the grass, staring at some hills in the distance. The style of it doesn’t quite fit with anything else in the apartment, but it’s peaceful, the mix of blues and greens and grays, the content expression on the woman’s face. He can see why Mae chose it as the last thing she wanted to look at before closing her eyes.

His own eyes begin to blink, heavy and sore, so he sits up, not wanting to fall asleep before calling Gillian. Being in the apartment inspires him, energizing him in a way that California didn’t. If a person like Mae could finally change her life, he has no excuse not to do something about his own. The cell phone in his pocket is dead, so he reaches over and picks up the cordless on the nightstand. The line rings much longer than it usually does. He realizes he’s not entirely sure what time it is, other than night.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“What number are you calling from?” Gillian sounds irritated to hear from him.

“I’m staying at a place in Connecticut. It doesn’t matter.… Anyway, would it be okay if I stopped by in the morning? I didn’t get a chance to talk to Ethan before I left.”

She pauses much longer than she should. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

“Why? Is he sick?”

“No.”

“Is he upset I’m not there?”

“No, he’s fine with it.”

Kyung’s hurt, but not surprised by this, which Gillian seems to understand.

“I didn’t mean it like that. He just thinks you’re off somewhere for work. I haven’t really explained everything yet.”

“Would it be all right if I came by, then? I think there are certain things he should probably hear from me.”

He can almost picture her right now, cradling the phone under her ear and biting her lower lip.

“If you’re worried about what I’m going to say to him, you’re welcome to join us. I figure we’re going to have to work out some sort of — accommodation, right? Maybe it’d be nice for Ethan to hear what’s going on from both of us.”

It bothers him to think that Gillian might not trust him to be alone with their son, but his invitation is sincere. He wouldn’t mind if she was there. She deserved to see him try for a change.

“So…?”

“Kyung, it’s really not the best time.…”

Again with the long pause, he thinks. She’s not making this easy for him, but he reminds himself that people don’t switch on and off like machines. He’s given her no reason to respond differently.

“Well, how about in the afternoon, then? Would that be better than the morning? Maybe we can take Ethan to the park for a while. He likes it there—”

“No, Kyung. Stop talking about the park. It’s not that. It’s … They asked me not to tell you yet.”

“Who asked you? Tell me what?”

She covers the receiver with her hand, but he can still hear her moving around in the kitchen. There’s a clank of something that sounds like a pot, and then the hollow thud of a cabinet door. “Shit,” he thinks she says.

“Hello?” he calls out. “Are you there, Gillian? Tell me what?”

She clears her throat as she uncovers the phone. “I think you have a right to know, Kyung. They found him today.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“That man — Perry? Nat Perry? The police brought him in a few hours ago. He’s at the station in Marlboro.”

He doesn’t stop to think who “they” are until a few hours later. They asked her not to tell him yet. But when he pulls up in front of the station, he knows immediately. The three of them are waiting outside the main entrance. He sees Connie first, and then the huge outline of Tim. The third man is the detective from the funeral. Smiley, Smalley — he can’t remember and doesn’t care. Kyung walks toward them, not certain how to get past a barricade of men who clearly want to keep him out. He’s no match for any of them, not on a good day and definitely not now.

“Jesus. You look like hell,” Tim says.

“When’s the last time you slept?” Connie asks.

“I’m not sure.”

He wonders if his in-laws know they’re not going to be in-laws anymore. The relief, the satisfaction they must feel. It’s what they wanted all along. He expects to be told to leave, but no one says a word. They just keep staring at him, as if their silence alone will turn him back. Kyung looks at the cigarette butts on the sidewalk and grass. He tries to count them but keeps losing track. The spike of adrenaline that got him here is down to almost nothing now, and his mind is too scattered to connect one thought with the next. How does he get past them? How does he make them understand how much he needs to?

“I’m not sure if you remember me, sir. I’m Detective Smalley. We met a few days ago?”

The detective’s breath stinks of rotten eggs, but Kyung shakes his outstretched hand anyway. “Where did you find him?”

“He was holed up with a girl the entire time. Never even left town.”

“But the car — Lentz said you found it near Canada.”

“Why don’t we go upstairs and talk? You look like you could use a cup of coffee or something.”

Kyung glances at Connie and Tim, but neither of them do anything to prevent him from entering. Connie even opens the door and waves them all inside. They walk past the front desk, where the receptionist is sitting behind a wall of glass, yawning as she flips through a magazine. When she notices Connie and the detective, she pushes the magazine off to the side and covers it with an envelope. The four of them stop in front of the elevators where a large white plaque announces that visitors to the upper floors are required to sign in. Tim presses the UP button impatiently.

“Sir, do you know where your father is?” the detective asks.

“He’s not here already?”

“No. I called him after the arrest and he agreed to come by to make the ID, but he never showed up.”

Kyung responds without thinking. “He’s afraid, probably.”

“Afraid?”

“To see him again. I think most people would be.”

Detective Smalley doesn’t look like the type to be afraid of anything, actually. He’s old, but fit, with thick forearms and shoulders so broad, they almost look padded. Kyung notices a scratch above his left eye, bandaged but still bleeding through the gauze.

“Did he put up a fight?”

“They always put up a fight,” Tim says.

The elevator door opens onto a vestibule painted in a strange, medicinal shade of pink. Kyung grips the handrail as the car jerks its way up to the third floor, spitting them out into a narrow corridor. The station feels like a rabbit warren — big, but more broken up than he ever would have guessed from the street. The building is on his route to the grocery store. He never thought he’d have a reason to go inside, and a part of him still can’t believe that he is.

“Why didn’t you want Gillian to tell me you found him?” he asks Connie.

“Because it wasn’t worth bringing you in yet. The guy was out of his mind.”

“On drugs?”

“At some point, probably. But we were more worried about the booze. He said he’d been drinking for two days straight. We’ve had him in a cell sobering up ever since he came in.”