A Step from Heaven (11 page)

“Just up that hill,” I say and point to a wide street lined with well-kept lawns and flowerbeds. “There's my house.” I nod my head at a two-story gray stucco bungalow on the corner. The heavy wooden front doors gleam under the entrance light.

“Well, here you go, Young,” Amanda's dad says as he eases the car in front of my pretend house.

“I'm really glad you got to come, Young,” Amanda says and bumps her shoulder against mine.

“Happy birthday, Amanda.” I give her a quick hug. I gather up my towel and goody bag, then lean forward to thank Amanda's parents. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. and Mrs. Doyle.”

Mrs. Doyle turns in her seat and reaches back to hold my hand. “No problem, Young. It was wonderful to have you at the party. Have a good night.”

“See ya at school on Monday, Young,” Amanda says.

“See ya,” I call back and get out of the car. I stand at the top of the driveway and wave, hoping Amanda and her parents will drive away. But the Doyles peer out at me from their windows, their various shades of blond hair gleaming under the small light inside their car. They are waiting for me to go inside, making sure I get in safely. Amanda waves to me. I wave back and turn around. After a deep breath and a wish with all of my body that no one is in the yard, I carefully lift the latch to the door in the tall wooden fence. Quietly I walk through and close the door behind me. The Doyles' car starts up. I wait in the strange darkness of my make-believe yard, listening for the silence that will allow me to escape to where I belong.

As I walk back down the hill, I notice that the air seems fresher up here. Like it is out in the country or something. Even the faint smell of fertilizer seems clean. The bright moonlight makes everything glow more fiercely. The lawns, mowed smooth and flat as a new-made bed, gleam a strange, poisonous green. I kneel down and run my fingers through the cool blades to make sure they really exist. I'm glad we buried Harry up here. I take a deep breath of air and hold it in my lungs for as long as I can.

In my neighborhood, instead of lawns there are fields of concrete and asphalt. It is rare to see grass, and even then it's usually dead. The crisscross metal fence around the apartment we rent sags in the middle from the weather, from the weight of too many kids leaning up against it, from the neglect of the owner. I walk up the oil-stained driveway and head inside.

Uhmma, I call out as I step through the front door, I am back.

Uhmma pokes her head out from the kitchen. She smiles, asking, Did you have a good time?

Yes.

Dinner will be ready in a few minutes. Your Apa should be home by then.

I nod and head to my room.

After the chatter of the Doyles, the quiet at the dinner table sounds strange to my ears. I eat my rice and wonder why my parents can't speak or joke with the ease of Mr. and Mrs. Doyle. Why can't Apa barbecue and ask Uhmma if she needs any help? Or Uhmma tease Apa and then lightly kiss him on the cheek to make sure he knows she was only kidding?

Apa picks up his beer, takes a long sip. He puts the beer back down, and without looking at Uhmma, says, Tomorrow I need the car.

Uhmma sips her tea. But Yuhboh, Uhmma says, tomorrow we have church. Do you need the car for a job?

Apa sighs angrily and says, You can miss church for one day. He shoves some rice into his mouth.

I listen to their conversation, keeping my head lowered, pretending to eat my food.

Uhmma asks carefully, If it is not for a job, could you not wait until after we get back?

Apa narrows his eyes and picks up some kimchee with his chopsticks. Before putting it in his mouth, he growls, What good is God going to do? Miss church.

Uhmma does not respond. She keeps her eyes on her tea.

Apa, I call out, suddenly remembering, I have chorus practice tomorrow.

Apa slowly chews his kimchee.

I cannot miss chorus practice because we are getting ready for the Easter pageant, I insist.

Be quiet and finish your rice, Apa says. He takes another long sip of his beer.

Before I can stop my tongue, I question Apa as though I'm in school or with Amanda. I ask, Why do you need the car?

The skin around Uhmma's eyes wrinkles in concern, her lips gather together in a knot. The slight shake of her head warns me to stop. But it is too late.

Apa grips his beer. His eyes narrow and a smooth, tight voice snakes out, It is always why with you. Stand up, Apa orders.

I slowly push back my chair and stand in my place by the table.

Come here, Apa says.

I take small, careful steps, avoiding any glances at Uhmma or Joon. I stop when I see Apa's gold-toe socks.

You,
Apa shouts and hits the side of my head with his knuckles,
will never question me.

Arrows of pain shoot through my head, making me squint. Find a corner of the carpet. Concentrate. Float away.

Apa yells, Asking for an explanation! Always getting your own way! You have been running around with that American girl for too long. You are not allowed to see her anymore. She is a bad influence.

I can't see Amanda? My only friend. The only person who lets me ask questions and be someone other than a good Korean daughter. The thought of not seeing Amanda makes me so angry I can barely hold on to my corner of the carpet.

You are becoming too American. That girl is worthless, Apa says.

No, I argue quietly. She is not.

Slam
.

The carpet feels soft and cool against my throbbing cheek. I clutch the strands.

Do not get up, Apa says, standing over me. Do not get up until you know how to be a Korean girl again.

The voices start early Saturday morning. Gomo's and Uncle Tim's voices are quiet and soft. Uhmma's cry rises high, then dips down fast when someone says, Shhhh. The only voice missing is Apa's. Where is he, I wonder and press my ear to my bedroom door, afraid to peek out. I can hear Gomo saying sharp and fast, I am ashamed of you.

Uhmma whimpers, Aigoo. Aigoo cham-neh. Yuhboh, how could you do this? How could you?

Uncle Tim says, Do not worry. Do not worry.

I picture Uncle Tim patting Uhmma on the back, his shoulders drooping forward so he won't seem so tall.

It is his first offense, Uncle Tim says. Do not worry. I will find you a good lawyer.

This is the first and last time, Gomo says quickly, her voice cracking from the effort of keeping her tone at a whisper. What an embarrassment you have become.

Uhmma cries louder, How could this have happened? Aigoo.

You must change, Gomo says. What kind of example are you setting for your children? Getting arrested for drunk driving. You are acting like a common hoodlum.

“Honey, that's enough,” Uncle Tim says.

“I help him enough,” Gomo says.

“Come on. Let him get some rest.”

Gomo announces, We are leaving. Tomorrow, Byung Ho, we will have a long talk.

I can't hear Apa's answer if he spoke at all. The front door clicks shut and then I hear footsteps rustle to Uhmma and Apa's bedroom door.

The clatter of Uhmma in the kitchen finally draws me out of my room. I walk into the hallway and see Uhmma standing at her usual spot in front of the stove. The only sign of Apa is the closed bedroom door.

As we are eating breakfast, Uhmma warns Joon and me to remain quiet today, maybe go to the park so Apa can rest. There is no mention of why Apa is home this morning. I wonder if he will lose his cleaning job like some of the gardening jobs. While I clear the breakfast dishes, Uhmma takes her Bible down from a shelf and opens it to a certain page. She counts out the money she has managed to save for emergencies. I watch her but don't ask any questions. After she leaves for the restaurant, I walk quietly around the house looking for anything to prove that the distant voices, which seem more and more like a dream, were real.

The next morning Apa comes out of the bedroom for the first time since he came home yesterday morning. Uhmma, Joon, and I are eating breakfast before going to church. Apa picks up the Korean newspaper and sits down on the couch. A dark shadow covers his upper lip, and his sweat suit is rumpled. The phone rings. Uhmma stands to pick it up.

Good morning, Gomo, Uhmma says. Yes, he is out of bed.

Apa lowers his paper and squints narrowly at Uhmma.

You are coming over, Gomo?

Wait, Apa says and glances over at Joon and me. Tell her I am getting ready for church.

Joon bumps my arm with his elbow. I keep staring at my rice.

Gomo, Uhmma says after a pause, Young Ju's Apa is getting ready for church right now. Yes, I agree. Church will be good for him.

Apa raises his newspaper and begins to read again.

Yes, he will call you when we come home. Good-bye. Uhmma hangs up but remains standing with her hand over the phone. Uhmma looks over at Apa. Do not make me a liar, Yuhboh.

Apa does not put down the paper.

I will not lie for you. I will call Gomo back. I will tell her.

Apa throws down his paper with an angry hiss and walks back to the bedroom.

Uhmma drives to church. Apa sits in the passenger seat, shaven and clean, wearing a white shirt and the only tie he owns, the one he wore on the plane from Korea. The red diagonal strips are thick as a barbershop's pole. Apa's hair is wet and slicked down, his cowlick forced to lie still. Apa stares straight out the window the entire way.

At church, Pastor Kim is speaking with another family, but when he sees Uhmma walk in with Apa, his chin lifts. He bows quickly to the other family and hurries over to us.

Ahn-young-ha-say-yo, Mr. Park, he says, bowing and shaking Apa's hand. We are very happy to have you with us today. Your wife has become a most valued member of our congregation. And your children are so nice.

Apa nods, but his eyes shift around the room, flitting from person to person, family to family. Uhmma keeps her head bowed, hands folded together. Joon hops from foot to foot, impatient to
run off down the hall toward the Sunday school room where he knows that some of his friends are already playing a game of Sorry before Mr. Shin's sermon. I stand next to Uhmma, my hands folded, and wait to be excused.

Pastor Kim turns to us. He gives Joon a pat on the shoulder and says, My goodness, Joon, how you are growing. You are almost as tall as I am.

Joon shoves his hands into his pocket. Uhmma nudges him and Joon answers, Yes.

Pastor Kim smiles and gestures as though announcing me on stage. He tells my parents, Young Ju is looking very grown up. More and more like a demure young lady.

My toes curl inside my shoes at the mention of becoming a young lady. My shoulders hunch slightly forward to cover any signs of my developing young-lady body.

Apa stands through all of this, his back stiff, a layer of sweat already glistening on his upper lip.

Pastor Kim continues, Your wife has been—

Apa interrupts before Pastor Kim can finish with his compliments. Thank you for your words, he says abruptly and leads Uhmma away to the back row of chairs. Pastor Kim remains in his spot, a confused look on his face.

Joon immediately takes off for the Sunday school room. I follow slowly behind him after one last backward glance at Uhmma and Apa. They sit side by side in the last row. Uhmma has not sat in the back since the first day we came to church. Usually she sits in the front. Apa's cowlick is at last awake. He tries to smooth it down. Uhmma discreetly wets her fingers with some spit and
reaches up, pressing the lock of hair back down. It stays in place. At least for now.

After the service while Uhmma helps set out doughnuts and coffee, Apa stands in the corner of the fellowship hall, away from everyone else, smoking a cigarette. When it looks as though someone might approach him, Apa slyly moves away to another corner of the room, pretends to become interested in his crumpled program.

On the drive home, Uhmma talks about how Pastor Kim wants her to join the chorus, they need more sopranos. Uhmma asks Apa if he liked the sermon. Apa remains silent. Uhmma grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter, the outlines of her knuckles growing sharp. Joon looks out of his window and I look out of mine. We all stay silent for the rest of the ride home.

Apa yanks off his tie as soon as we step inside the house and starts down the hallway for the bedroom. Uhmma calls to his retreating back, Yuhboh, remember to call Gomo.

Apa slams the bedroom door behind him.

Uhmma sighs and sits down on the couch, absent-mindedly tucking in the corners of the yellow sheet that covers the cushions. She takes off her high heels and rubs her ankles while staring out the front window.

Young Ju and Joon Ho, Uhmma calls, find something to eat. I am too tired to cook.

Joon and I search the cupboards for a snack.

Apa walks out of the bedroom changed into jeans and an old button-down shirt. He heads for the front door.

Yuhboh, wait. Uhmma stands up. Where are you going? You are not allowed to drive.

I do not care. I have had enough punishment for today, Apa says without turning around.

Yuhboh, please, you might get caught. Please, Uhmma begs, reaching for his arm. When will you be back? What if the lawyer calls?

Apa jerks his arm away from Uhmma and leaves. He does not return for three days. Uhmma does not sleep, circles of worry rimming her eyes. Waiting.

The bleachers of the gymnasium are filled with parents. Some fathers wear suits and ties, having come right from work. Others wear dark pants and short-sleeved shirts with collars and miniature alligators, tigers, or men riding horses embroidered on their breast pocket. Most of the mothers have dresses on and their faces are glossy with makeup. It's strange to see the gym filled with parents instead of kids running around in their gray and purple P.E. uniforms. But the awards ceremony needed a big place. There's just enough room for all the parents who have students in honors classes. If they gave awards to people in the regular classes, the gym wouldn't hold everyone. They would need a whole football field for all those parents. And the parents would not be dressed in such nice clothes.