Kristopher Jansma - Why We Came to the City

She politely stirred her soup, watching the fish swirl around in their lava sea. “I spent a little time near Rochester, actually. On this farm just outside New Hope?”

“New Hope! Christ, what were you doing out there?”

There was a quick volley of Korean as, Irene gathered, Mrs. Cho reprimanded her oldest son for taking her Lord’s name in vain. Mr. Cho said nothing but gestured emphatically to the painting of Jesus. Charles raised his hands again in defense against the barrage of strange words, fired at him like pleasant bullets.

“My stars,” Charles corrected himself in a genteel falsetto, “whatever were you doing on a farm outside of New Hope?”

“Farming?” Irene grinned, despite the faint but blinding halo that was forming around the chandelier above the table.

“William said you were an artist of some sort?” Kyung-Soon piped sharply.

William explained, “Irene’s a bit of a Jack-of-all-trades.”

“A Jane-of-all-trades,” she offered, and was met with a rapid-fire exchange in Korean.

Irene couldn’t tell what they were saying, but brotherly teasing was the same in any language. Mrs. Cho’s mouth opened, and she began to smack her fork in the direction of her two sons, trying to get them to behave.

“What’s going on?” Irene whispered to Emily, who was scribbling with crayons.

Charlotte whispered, “Daddy says you are Uncle William’s girlfriend.”

Irene raised her hand to her mouth playfully. “Uh-oh!”

Emily began to giggle but still wouldn’t look at Irene directly. In her coloring book was a blue Santa with a golden hat. The rest of the family was still arguing, and Irene was trying to remain composed as best she could. Outside, the wind was picking up, and the girls watched eagerly as fresh snow began to fall. A few flakes at first, and then great curtains of white.

“Have you been good? Have you asked Santa Claus for anything?”

Charlotte immediately began to tick off a grand list of the things she’d requested of Harabeoji Santa in exchange for her sterling behavior: several dolls of very specific brand and style, nail polish like her mother’s, a big-girl bicycle, skis, an elephant (of what size, she didn’t explain), and a dress like Jill in her homeroom had. The list went on and on, and Irene pretended to be very interested as she ate her soup and watched Emily shading delicately in her coloring book. She sang softly to the crayons as she plucked them from the flimsy box and inserted lilac trees and ghosts into a sleepy, snowy town of Bethlehem.

“Could I?” Irene said slowly, taking a red crayon out of the box. Emily studied her with eyes like her grandmother’s, penetrating and large. Then she allowed Irene to shade in a small barn on the edge of town. It was only when she looked up and noticed William staring at her that Irene began to feel dizzy again.

“Are you okay?” he mouthed, not subtly.

She waved, even as she felt the room lurch a few degrees clockwise and back again.

“I call a cheek!” Charles shouted eagerly.

Irene looked over in time to see that Mr. Cho was carving up the gigantic snapper and passing portions out to his sons.

William protested. “The cheek’s the best part! Irene should get one — she’s a guest!”

“She’s your girlfriend. Give her yours.”

They began to bicker again in Korean, and Irene graciously accepted the delicate cheek meat that Mr. Cho placed on her plate.

It was only then that Irene noticed Mrs. Cho was leaning over the carved fish, rolling her ringed fingers lightly over the bony carcass, and singing something. “What is she doing?” she asked Emily breathlessly.

“She’s a witch,” Emily whispered, the first words she’d spoken aloud all night.

Irene was about to say that it wasn’t nice to say such things about one’s grandmother, when Mrs. Cho ran the tip of her knife along the scaled, pink face of the fish and, with a gasping sound, plunged her fingertip into the small gap behind its eyeball and popped it out.

Irene lost her balance, just for an instant, but that was all it took. She felt her whole stomach heave inside her, a ship tossed in a tempest of bile. The pink, glassy fish eye rolled an inch or two like a wobbling marble, leaving a translucent trail behind it. Irene tried to clamp her mouth shut. She felt something rising inside her, boiling against gravity, up her esophagus. She grabbed her napkin and held it to her lips, her throat flexing and seizing.

Charlotte shrieked, “Groooooossssssss!”

Irene was able to keep herself from vomiting all over the table, catching a little with the napkin and choking the rest hotly back. William was shouting at his mother, who was still singing and going for the other eye now. Charles and Kyung-Soon were shouting at Charlotte. Even Mr. Cho was barking something, apparently back at the sympathetic Christ above his head. Irene felt Emily’s small hand squeezing on her wrist, not in panic but in comfort. She had a look, as if Irene were her doll and Emily meant to drag her to the other room to safety. But Irene couldn’t keep her eyes off the fish, from Mrs. Cho’s knife as it fumbled at the edge of the other pink eye. The tip of the knife again slipped into the space between ball and fish skull, and with a squishy pop , the second eye was loose and everyone was silent.

Calmly, Mrs. Cho plucked the two eyeballs off the tablecloth and placed them onto a small white side plate. She looked up at Irene and politely offered her the plate. Irene took a deep breath, feeling a bit steadier as she stared down at the plate’s two gelatinous passengers.

“Eat these,” she urged kindly. Then, as if confused that Irene didn’t understand, Mrs. Cho added, “They’ll make your eye better.”

Irene covered the spot under her eye and looked over at William with no small amount of horror.

William, speechless, just waved his hand at his mother to put the plate down.

“Ew. Total VOM !” Charlotte snapped. “That’s like the grossest thing ever.”

“They’re considered a delicacy,” Charles said, trying to lighten the moment.

Irene knew she was a guest in the home of another, but surely this was something beyond grace. And why exactly was she wasting so much time and energy trying to be gracious anyway? She was exhausted. She could feel wet splotches on her red dress, where drips of vomit had gotten past the napkin. Now she would have to spend the whole ride home marked with stains. What had she done to deserve this? This, which was the cure? What had she done, even, to deserve the disease? So why was she sorry? She should be alone in her apartment with no tree and no fireplace and no presents and no family. She was full of poison. She wanted to be quarantined, sent to Siberia, put out on an ice floe. She’d stayed too long in the city. She’d forgotten to keep running, and now Death had caught up to her. Now He stared at her, from the surface of a porcelain plate, through these two roseate eyes.

Irene reached out and plucked the fish eyes off the plate. She held them in the open palm of her hand like a pair of dice. Then she popped them both into her mouth and bit down against their jellied circumference. A bursting of fishy goop clung to the back of her tongue. Charlotte screeched again, and William stared in horror. For a moment, Irene thought she might throw up again, but something about Mrs. Cho’s gaze kept her stomach still. Just then she felt a small hand, Emily’s, patting the belly of Irene’s dress. There, there, she seemed to be saying. Isn’t that better?

• • •

The storm outside was far too heavy for anyone to leave that night, so William set Irene up on the pullout couch in the study. They waited until the girls had placed a bowl of black bean noodles on the edge of the fireplace for Harabeoji Santa, and then when they were safely asleep, Charles helped William build a fire in the fireplace. William apologized for the five hundredth time since dinner. Irene was back to acting normally, back to pretending that everything was “Fine! Absolutely fine!” but William knew better. He could see the panic behind her eyes, even after his mother brought down some old clothes for her to change into.