Shelter (14 page)

“Sorry about that,” he says, not looking up.

Lentz gently kicks his foot to the side, discarding a piece of lettuce on his boot. “It's all right. Like your wife said, you're all on edge these days. You have every right to be.”

This wasn't what Kyung intended, not at all. He wanted to be assertive in front of his father; he wanted to prove that it was possible to disagree with his wife without feeling the need to beat her into submission. Instead, he's crouching at another man's feet.

“I should probably get going now,” Lentz says. “If you folks need anything, if you have any more questions…”

Kyung continues scooping handfuls of meat and cheese onto the platter until he realizes that no one is talking; no one is moving at all. He turns and finds Mae standing behind him with a towel draped over her shoulders and a head of dripping wet hair. She's dressed in the powder blue bathrobe that Gillian bought her, a cheap polyester one that zips all the way to the neck.

“What happened?” she asks.

Her face is even paler than usual. The skin hangs loosely from her chin. Mae has always been a petite woman—a hundred pounds wet, at best—but even the billowy, oversized robe can't disguise the fact that she looks thinner than before, almost skeletal.

“What happened?” she repeats.

“Nothing,” Gillian says. “I knocked a plate off the countertop.… I'm sorry if I disturbed you.”

Kyung can feel Lentz staring at him, but he doesn't contradict what she said. No one does, not even his father. Everyone defaults to the illusion that everything is fine, everything is normal.

“I got out of the shower and heard voices—I thought that was you. Hasn't anyone offered you coffee yet?” She leads Lentz to the table, frowning over her shoulder at Gillian. “Can you get him a cup?”

Coffee was always his mother's way of making people feel welcome. Regardless of who the visitors were or how long they planned to stay, she tried to turn it into something special, breaking out her nice china and cloth napkins and tins of cookies that she stockpiled just for guests. Being a good hostess mattered to her—she said it was a skill that girls didn't learn anymore. Perhaps that's why she looks so upset when Gillian puts a manure-colored mug on the table, a gag gift from an old roommate with the words
HOT AND STEAMY
written on it.

“You know what, Mrs. Cho? I think I've had enough coffee for the day.”

“So how do you take it? Milk or sugar? Or both?”

“Actually, ma'am, I was just leaving.”

“No, you sit. Sit.”

Lentz is one of them now—confused and bewildered by Mae's sudden appearance, her forceful hospitality. He lowers himself into a chair and nods.

“Just milk, please.”

Everyone watches as Gillian adds a slow trickle of milk, clinking a spoon around until the coffee turns to a bland, watered-down shade of beige. Lentz brings the mug to his lips, blowing on it before taking his first sip. No one knows what to say or do next, so they watch this too.

Ethan walks up to Mae, shaking his tasseled handlebars in the air to get her attention. “Thank you for my bike, Grandma. I named him Boomer.”

Mae stares at him blankly. Then she scans the parts scattered across the floor until she notices Jin sitting in the corner. She says you're welcome as she looks away, but the words sound more like a dismissal. Kyung spends so much time teaching Ethan his manners.
Please and thank you. May I and yes, ma'am.
Whenever Ethan remembers something without being reminded, Gillian lavishes him with praise. Clearly, he's grown accustomed to this reaction, because he waits for Mae to compliment him. When she doesn't, he lowers his handlebars and retreats to the corner with Jin. If Ethan is hurt by her lack of interest or affection, he doesn't show it, although Kyung feels the familiar sting for them both.

“It was nice of you to come over,” she says, sitting down beside Lentz at the table. “Do you have any news about my house?”

“Yes, ma'am. You and your husband are free to go back whenever you're ready.”

“Good, then. I want to go back today.”

Everyone looks at her. Even Lentz seems surprised.

“But we have you all set up here,” Gillian says.

“No, not to stay. I just want to start cleaning.”

Jin clears his throat. “Maybe it's a little too soon for that.”

“You don't have to come with me,” she says. Her tone is sharp, sharper than she usually takes with him. “I'm tired of lying around.”

“The department has a list of numbers, Mrs. Cho. Professional cleaners, I mean. It's going to be a lot of work for one person.”

“No, that's fine. I'd rather do it myself.”

Kyung thinks this is a terrible idea, possibly weeks or even months premature. Although he's relieved to see Mae out of bed and determined to do something—anything—he doesn't understand why she wants to clean her house. He worries that she hasn't thought through how it might feel to return, to revisit the rooms where things happened. He doesn't want her to go there alone.

“If you're sure you want to do this today, I'll drive you,” he says. “I can help too.”

Mae seems irritated by his offer, but they both know she has no choice. Her ankle is still too bruised to attempt the long walk again, and she never learned how to drive.

She turns to Lentz and smiles at him almost sweetly. “Why don't you let me make you some lunch before you go?”

“Lunch?” Lentz seems terrified by this. “Oh, no. You don't have to do that.”

“But you must be hungry.”

He's about to decline again, but Mae is already on her feet. She hobbles past Gillian and scans the ingredients spread out on the counter, frowning at the disarray. Then she takes over the kitchen like it's her own, opening drawers until she finds a knife to spread the mustard with, opening the refrigerator to search for another head of lettuce. Occasionally, she asks Lentz a question—Ham or turkey? Cheddar or Swiss?—but not once does she ask why he really came to visit, what news he has to report about the case. Kyung feels like he's watching her have a nervous breakdown. The others seem to think the same. Gillian nudges him in the ribs. He looks at her, not sure what she expects him to say.

“So maybe…,” he guesses, “maybe you should have something to eat too?”

“I'm not hungry.”

Mae is searching through a tall cabinet. When she reaches up to grab a box of plastic wrap, the sleeve of her robe falls, revealing a forearm that looks like a branch, ready to snap in half. Gillian has been leaving trays of food outside her door—breakfast, lunch, and dinner—but all the plates keep coming back untouched. As he stares at Mae's wrist, it occurs to him that maybe she wasn't eating at the hospital either.

“There's a lot of work to do at the other house,” he says gently. “It's probably a good idea if you eat something before we go, even something small.”

“Listen to the boy,” Jin says. “Eat something.”

It's been years since his father referred to him as “boy.” Instantly, he dislikes it, but his annoyance is quickly eclipsed by Mae's reply.

“Can't you hear?” she shouts. “I—don't—want—to.” Her tone is so cold, the expression on her face so withering; every carefully enunciated word hangs in the air, suspended in ice. Kyung can't remember a time—not once in thirty-six years—when Mae talked back to Jin, much less raised her voice at him. The old Mae would never dare. His parents continue staring at each other, staring right through each other until their silence begins to feel dangerous. Kyung can't believe that his father is the first to look away.

Mae sets a plate down in front of Lentz. “Here you go,” she says, her voice now quiet and composed.

The overstuffed sandwich has been hermetically sealed in plastic wrap. Beside it are a pickle, a handful of potato chips, and three miniature candy bars. On top of the plate is another tight layer of plastic, which keeps everything in place—the sandwich at noon, the pickle at three, the chips and candy at six and nine, a red plaid napkin underneath.

Lentz doesn't know what to make of this arrangement. It's probably more than he expected, and clearly more bizarre. Kyung is accustomed to Mae overdoing things—the plate resembles the lunches she used to pack for him in grade school until he begged her to stop—but seeing a stranger react to her domestic excess is embarrassing. It looks crazy because it is.

“Oh, well … Thank you. I didn't mean for you to go to so much trouble.”

“It wasn't any trouble. I was happy to.”

Mae volunteers to walk Lentz out. Kyung follows close behind, listening to their conversation. In the doorway, they shake hands, and Mae pats Lentz on the shoulder over and over again like a puppy or a child. Thank you, she says. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Lentz seems embarrassed by her gratitude, aware on some level that he hasn't done anything to earn it. As he walks to his car, he stares at his neatly arranged plate of food as if its contents might be tainted.

Kyung shuts the door as soon as he drives off. “What was all that about?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Why were you thanking him like that?”

“I didn't think I'd be able to go back to my house for weeks.”

“I'm talking about the”—he hesitates to use the word—“investigation,” which might remind her of the events that need investigating. “I'm not talking about the house.”

“Well, I like him.”

“I can tell, but what does liking him have to do with anything?”

Mae turns toward the stairs, using the banister to pull herself up a step at a time. “He was nice to me that day…”

She leaves the sentence unfinished, but Kyung feels the unspoken like a blow to the chest.
He was nice to me that day—not like you
.

*   *   *

Kyung and his parents immigrated to the States when he was four. Jin had just finished his Ph.D., graduating with honors at the top of his class. His tenure-track job offer from an American research university made him the pride and envy of his classmates, who threw him a going-away party that seemed lavish for the times. Kyung still remembers the cake, a tall white one that tilted off to the side, and a gift of three new suitcases, all in matching green plaid. Life seemed very big to him back then. A big party, a big trip, a big plane taking them away, carrying their plaid suitcases in its underbelly.

Neither Kyung nor Mae spoke any English when they arrived in the States, so they relied on Jin to translate everything they didn't understand. One day, the elderly Russian woman in the apartment next door gave them a flyer for a free ESL class at the library. Good for wife and boy, she explained. At first, Kyung didn't mind being in the same class as his mother. They always went to the library early, weaving their serpentine trail through the shelves and imagining out loud what it would be like to read so many books. She was hopeful then; they both were, but their enthusiasm soon faded when it became obvious that Kyung was learning faster than she was. Jin berated her for this, shouting when she couldn't remember the words for things like “breakfast” or “laundry” and telling her he regretted marrying someone so dumb. Every night, Jin quizzed them at dinner, pounding his fist on the table if one of them—usually Mae—answered incorrectly. The look on her face when he screamed at her—such a helpless, terrified expression—this is what Kyung tries to remember whenever she needs a ride. He forces himself to, if only to stifle his annoyance that she never learned to drive, never learned how to do much of anything.

As he turns into the Heights, he glances at Mae, who's sitting quietly in the passenger seat with her hands folded in her lap. She didn't seem the least bit interested in conversation when they got in the car, but now he realizes she's been watching him, studying him the entire time.

“Is something wrong? Am I driving too fast?”

She shakes her head. “It's stupid.”

“What is?”

“I can never go anywhere by myself.”

Kyung understands that his mother wants to be alone, to lock herself inside her house just as she did in his. She has no idea how difficult it's going to be to return. Even he feels uneasy about crossing the threshold again.

“I'll stay out of your way. Just tell me what to do.”

Mae looks out the window, leaning her head against the glass, but barely a minute passes and he can feel her watching him again.

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks.

“I'm just curious.”

“About driving? I've offered to teach you. I still can, if you want.”

“It's too late.”

“No, it's not. I bet you'd learn really—”

She shoos him off, irritated.

It's sad that she thinks this way, but this has always been her problem. She never believed she was capable of anything. Jin made sure of that early on. Now isn't the time to convince her otherwise. She'll accuse him of not wanting to drive her around, which was always his motive for offering to teach her in the past.

Kyung slows down as he approaches the house, spooked by its eerie calm, even in broad daylight. The neighbors and reporters who filled the sidewalks the last time he drove by have all dispersed. But a scrap of forgotten yellow tape flutters from the front door, and the curtains are still drawn.

He parks in the driveway and turns to her, lowering his voice as if the house can overhear them. “You really don't have to do this right now. We can go back home if you've changed your mind.”

Mae takes his cell phone from the dashboard and gets out of the car, slamming her door shut. He assumes she heard him, but she clearly doesn't care. She's too busy punching a number into his phone, squinting at the tiny buttons on the keypad. Kyung shakes his head, aware that they're falling back into the same old pattern again, the one in which he pities her and tries to help, and she treats him badly because she hates herself for needing him. It's impossible to be near someone like this, someone who brings out the best and worst in him, who punishes his attempts to be kind. Gillian says that rudeness is a weak person's idea of strength, a line she probably read on a bumper sticker or a box of tea. If she were here, she'd encourage him to try to be nice, even if Mae doesn't deserve it, even if trying makes him feel like the child he used to be, always pushed away for offering his mother a hug.