Jung Yun - Shelter

Kyung gets out of his chair as Jin reaches for his leg. He stands in front of the fireplace, his hands shaking as he scans the objects on the mantel. There was once a globe on the left, a heavy marble globe attached to an iron pedestal. He studied it so often as a teenager that he eventually forgot to look for it, assuming his weapon of choice would be there when the time finally came. He didn’t notice it was gone until now, replaced by an antique clock.

“Please make it stop.”

In the mirror above the mantel, he sees Jin kneeling on the rug behind him, still begging to be hit. Kyung sizes up the clock, estimating the weight of its metal guts and case. As he reaches for it, he imagines what it would feel like to release all of his rage at once. It would only take one swing, one perfect swing, to end this. He inches his fingers closer, steeling himself to do what he came here to do, what his father keeps screaming at him to do. But as he touches the edge of the clock, he hears it again. The crack of the jar as it lands on the back of Connie’s head. He flinches at the sound of it, like the sharp thwack of a bat connecting with a ball. The act of raising a hand to someone, it’s the worst thing Kyung has ever done, the worst thing he’s ever felt. And the power that surged through him in that moment — it made him feel like he had some semblance of control, but it lasted no longer than an instant before he lost it again. What if he hits his father and the rage inside him doesn’t go away? Or what if it does go, only to be replaced by something else he can’t live with?

“Why are you just standing there?” Jin shouts, hitting himself again. “This is what you want to do, so just do it already.”

He came here because of a promise, a choice to make good on a promise that altered the entire trajectory of his life. But not once did Kyung stop to think about his life in the seconds and hours, the days and years afterward. All of that comes rushing at him now. With both of his parents gone, he knows he’ll inherit their hopelessness, the same hopelessness that sent his mother headfirst into a tree, that has his father kneeling on the floor, begging for his own life to end. He’ll never experience another moment in which change seems possible. He’ll never have a reason to believe in his capacity to be better than what he is. Kyung looks at the mantel again, and he understands there’s a different choice to be made. Pick up the clock, and he’ll never escape this darkness. Leave it, and he still has a chance.

“Stop standing there. Do something.”

Jin’s reflection in the mirror is tortured. His skin is crimson; his expression, pitiful. It’s all lines and creases and pain, such pain, the volume of which Kyung never saw until now. Jin held on to it for so long, hiding it under his wealth, feeding it with success and status and possessions, all the things Kyung wanted for himself. Kyung assumed they’d make him happy; he assumed they made Jin happy. But the happiest he ever saw his father was when he was with Ethan, someone who never knew him as he was before, who simply accepted the person he was trying to be. Jin wasn’t acting then, he thinks. He was just being kind to Ethan, returning the very thing that everyone else had denied him. Kyung steps back from the mantel, aware that inflicting more pain won’t lessen his own. It didn’t work for his father. It won’t work for him.

“I’m not going to hit you.”

He sits down on the edge of the rug and brings his knees to his chest. He’s tired again, so incredibly tired. The exhaustion catches up with him, settling deep into the hollows of his bones. He turns his head from side to side, listening to the gristly crack and pop of his neck. Jin studies him carefully, confused perhaps by his posture. He remains on his knees, hesitant and watchful, as if he expects Kyung to change his mind. When he doesn’t, Jin lowers himself to the floor. They sit across from each other without speaking, their hands idle and limp.

“I see it too,” Kyung finally says.

“What?”

“I see what they did to her. And then I see what you did to her, and what she did to me.” He pauses. “I don’t know how to make it stop either.”

Jin stares at him, his eyes clouding over and filling with tears. He seems wounded, unable to stay upright. When he lies on his side, curled up like a ball on the rug, the tears slide down his face in long, diagonal streaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Kyung stares back, startled by the words despite how quietly they were spoken.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

He doesn’t say what he’s sorry for, but Kyung can tell from the look on Jin’s face, from the way he keeps repeating himself, that the apology is an accumulation for all the things they haven’t been able to forget. On and on, he goes. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — so many times that it’s impossible not to hear. Kyung considers telling him that everything will be all right as Connie did, but instead, he simply listens, trying to accept the unfamiliar for what it is. Minutes pass, and Jin begins to slur his words, softer and slower until he lets out a faint whistle, drifting off into a steady rhythm of sleep.

Kyung watches him, desperate to rest as he does, to be peaceful for the first time in so long. He crawls toward the center of the rug and lies down on his side, carefully fitting his body against the inner curve of his father’s. He adjusts himself until they fit like puzzle pieces, pressed together with his head in the crook of Jin’s arm. Slowly, he releases his weight, letting all of his muscles go slack. Outside, the sun is starting to rise above the trees, casting a single warm strip of light on the floor beneath the window. Every time Kyung looks at it, he thinks it’s getting closer. If they wait here long enough, morning will finally reach them.

After years of writing this work of fiction, it seems only fitting to end it with a few pages of truth. And the truth is, I’ve been incredibly fortunate, and I didn’t get here alone.

The M.F.A. program at the University of Massachusetts Amherst reoriented my life in ways that I couldn’t fully imagine when I first decided to apply. I’m grateful to my former classmates and the dedicated faculty — Noy Holland, Valerie Martin, Sam Michel, and Sabina Murray — whose many lessons continue to serve me well.

Brian Baldi, Chip Brantley, Deborah Carlin, Laura Dickerman, Elizabeth Hughey, Cecily Iddings, Valerie Martin, and Boomer Pinches took time out of their busy lives to read earlier versions of this manuscript and provide much-needed feedback. They were the best possible readers anyone could ever ask for — generous, clear-eyed, and unflinchingly honest.

Paul LeClerc and Marshall Rose hired me at the New York Public Library, the place where my childhood love of writing reignited. Mary Deane Sorcinelli created the rare kind of work — life balance that allowed me to pursue other passions outside of the office. Mira Bartók served as a constant source of encouragement. And the Massachusetts Cultural Council provided the gift of financial support and recognition at a time when I needed it most.

My devoted agent, Jennifer Gates, and her colleagues at Zachary Shuster Harmsworth, particularly Lane Zachary and Esmond Harmsworth, believed in the story I wanted to tell. I will forever be grateful to Jen for opening the door, and to Elizabeth Bruce, my wonderful editor at Picador, for ushering me in. The thoughtfulness and care that Elizabeth, Jen, and their colleagues invested in my work far surpassed every reasonable hope or expectation, and this book has safely reached your hands because of their collective efforts.

Last, but not least, thank you to the Yuns, the Andersons, and my extended family of friends for the constancy of their love and support over the years. I am especially thankful to my husband, Joel Anderson, to whom this book is dedicated. In addition to being the very first reader of these pages, Joel believed when I didn’t, pushed when I couldn’t, and never let me forget that this was a story that deserved to be told.