Jung Yun - Shelter

He wonders if he’s supposed to do something — use the radio in Lentz’s car to call for backup, or ask the neighbors to call 911. His only point of reference is movies, bad ones that frighten him nonetheless. He expects to hear gunfire or see a chase across the lawn, but minutes pass, and nothing happens. The neighborhood is the same rich kind of quiet it always is, punctuated by birdsong and little else. A woman jogs by with two children in a running stroller, the littler of whom offers Kyung a wave that he doesn’t return. Occasionally, a car drives by at a respectful, residential speed. The longer nothing happens, the more he begins to accept the possibility that everything is fine, or will be soon enough. The people responsible for the robbery are probably long gone by now, and his father probably went to the police station to report what they’d lost. He’s comforted by this theory, the safety of it, even though it doesn’t begin to explain what happened to his mother.

Kyung circles the porch, looking into windows that offer no view of the rooms inside. He should have known something was wrong when he saw the drapes. Mae’s only hobby is making the house look nice. Her philosophy is to let the neighbors see. All her work over the years — the antiques and art and books arranged just so — he can’t believe how much of it has been destroyed. Something about the damage almost seems personal, as if the people who robbed them knew exactly what his mother valued most.

As he walks around to the front of the house, the door opens and Tim appears with Marina, his parents’ housekeeper. She’s the last person he expected to see, wrapped from head to toe in a bedsheet, clutching the ends together with her fists. The flowery green print is thin, thin enough to notice that she’s naked underneath. Kyung understands what this means. Two naked women, both brutalized. Marina’s left eye is swollen shut and the bridge of her nose is as thick as a pipe. Her long brown hair is ratty, electrified. He’s about to say something to her — what, he doesn’t know — but Tim locks his jaw and shakes his head violently. Not now. Marina passes Kyung without saying a word, her expression glassy, stunned by the light. Jin follows a few steps behind, supported by Lentz, who struggles to stay upright under his weight.

Kyung isn’t prepared for the sight of his father so bloodied. He’s imagined it a thousand times — the twin black eyes, the split lip, the bruises turning an angry shade of purple — but not like this.

“What happened? How did this happen to you?”

“My glasses,” Jin says, pulling on the hem of Kyung’s shirt. “I can’t see.”

“Later. Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t see.”

He wants his father to stop touching him and answer the question, but Jin keeps reaching for him in a panic. “All right. All right. I’ll get them for you. Where are they?”

“In the bathroom upstairs. I have extras.”

Kyung turns toward the door and runs into Connie, who sends him backwards with a shove to the chest.

“Where the hell are you going?”

“He said he left his glasses in the house.”

“I’ll send someone in to get them later.”

“But he can’t see.”

Connie pushes him again, harder this time. “Forget the glasses. There’s a body in there.”

* * *

The name of the deceased is Lyndell Perry. “Dell” for short. Lentz removes two photographs of him from an envelope and hands them to Kyung. The first is a mug shot, faxed by the Georgia state correctional system. The second is a photo snapped in his parents’ bathroom, where Lentz says he died of an overdose, probably heroin or meth. Kyung studies the pictures carefully, certain that he’s never seen the man before, but not certain if he’s looking at the same man. The Dell Perry pictured in the mug shot is young and vaguely handsome, with short black hair, pale eyes, and cheekbones that slice toward his temples. The hollowed-out man sitting on the toilet, leaning against the wall with a belt cinched around his arm — he looks like someone else.

“You sure?” Lentz asks. “You’ve never seen him before?”

Kyung shakes his head.

“Maybe he did odd jobs for your parents? Painting, maybe? Or moving some furniture around?”

“I don’t think so. My mother uses a decorator for things like that.”

“Then what about this guy?”

Lentz hands him another mug shot, this one taken by the State of North Carolina. The man in the photo appears to be a relative of the first. He has the same face, but older and thicker, with less hair and more neck.

“I’ve never seen him either. Why are you asking?”

“They work together sometimes. They’re brothers, actually, but this kind of robbery — it’s more along the lines of the older brother’s MO.”

“What were they in prison for?”

Lentz doesn’t respond.

“Come on. I’ve been here for hours and no one will tell me anything. I can’t even get in to see my mother.”

The population of the hospital’s waiting room has tripled since Kyung returned from his parents’ house. The police are everywhere. Some are in uniform, but most are off duty, wearing their shields around their necks like oversized pendants. The crime rate in Marlboro is low, almost nonexistent. Occasionally, a car goes missing or some college students throw a party that gets out of hand, but what happened to his parents is different, a fact that everyone in the room seems to understand. Kyung wouldn’t mind being surrounded by the police if they were actually being helpful, but none of them appear to be doing anything, not even Connie, who keeps moving around from person to person, talking to everyone but clearly avoiding him.

Lentz leans in and motions toward the picture of the first man. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “This one’s been in and out for drug possession, breaking and entering, and robbery. His older brother here, Nathan, his sheet is about twice as long. Assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, armed robbery … He was in Walpole for six years and then jumped parole back in February. We were lucky the state police had an APB out for him.”

Kyung studies the photos again. Dell and Nathan Perry. White trash names if he ever heard them, probably from some country backwater down South. He doesn’t understand how they ended up in Marlboro, in a neighborhood so wealthy that driving an older-model car feels like a crime.

“What was this one on parole for?”

Lentz pretends not to hear the question.

“What was he on parole for?” Kyung repeats, loud enough to turn heads this time.

“It was rape, okay? Jesus, be quiet.” Lentz collects his photos and walks away, disappearing down the corridor.

Kyung knew the answer before he heard it. He knew the minute he saw Marina leaving the house. As she walked down the front steps, the wind lifted a corner of the bedsheet and he caught a glimpse of her bare skin. There were rope burns around her ankles. He could guess what the ropes were for. Marina is young and pretty — a nice Bosnian girl with a figure that’s hard not to notice. Usually, she cleans for his parents on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’s Saturday now. He wonders how long they were trapped in that house together, and his chest begins to tighten. He wants to know what they did to his mother. He does, but he doesn’t.

Across the room, Gillian appears, her long red hair looking even wilder than usual. She seems harried, as if she sped the entire way and left the headlights on in the parking lot. She tries to squeeze into the waiting area, but three officers form a wall to block her from entering. Before Kyung can get up, his father-in-law pushes the men aside and leads her through the crowd, depositing her in the empty seat next to Kyung.