Shelter (7 page)

“Why don't you go watch TV now?” Gillian says. “You can take the puzzle with you if you want.”

Ethan picks up the apple and walks into the living room, where the piece is sure to go missing.

“He watches too much TV,” Kyung says.

“It's fine every once in a while. We grew up with TV, and there's nothing wrong with us.”

Actually, Kyung grew up with tutors. Piano, French, swimming, golf. If he could afford it, Ethan would have tutors too.

“So what happened? Why are you home so early?”

“She'd already given her statement by the time I got there. Then she went to sleep, so I left.”

“But what about your dad?”

“What about him?”

“Well, how is he? Did he tell you what happened?”

“Why don't you ask Connie or Tim?” His irritation spikes when he mentions his in-laws, who have no right knowing more than he does, no right at all. “I got to the hospital five minutes before visiting hours started, and they were already there with the cop from yesterday. And that reverend from the church—he brought half the congregation with him.”

Gillian slides across the floor until she's sitting behind him. “I'm sorry about my dad,” she says, kneading the knots in his shoulders. “I'm sure he meant well. He probably thinks he can help. And you know Tim—wherever one goes, the other follows.”

She's always making excuses for them, trying so hard to smooth things over. Connie irritates her from time to time, but she adores him like a daughter should, bouncing back from their disagreements as if they never happened.

“I snapped at them a little. You know, for being there.”

The kneading stops. “What exactly did you say?”

“I told them to leave. Maybe I said get out.… I can't remember.”

“Kyung! Why would you do that? They were only trying to help.”

Of course, he thinks. She's always quick to take a side unless it's his. “Someone should have called me once she started giving her statement. It's not like I can ask her what happened. She's too embarrassed. The whole time I was there, she wouldn't even look at me.”

“So why don't you just call my dad and ask him what she said?”

“Call?”

He can't remember having more than a handful of phone conversations with Connie in the past five years. Most of them started and ended the same way.
No, Gillian's not home. Yes, I'll tell her to call back.
There was never any middle to them.

“I can't call after telling him to leave like that.”

“Then why don't you just ask Jin?”

Kyung shakes his head.

Gillian straddles him from behind, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as if she's expecting a piggyback ride. He's tempted to carry her up to their bed and close the door behind them, but to do that now would only invite a misunderstanding. She'll assume he wants sex, which is the furthest thing from his mind. The only thing he wants is to be quiet together, to feel the comfort of her presence, but not have to listen to her advice.

“So should we go to my dad's house, then? Maybe if Ethan and I are around, it won't be so awkward, and you're going to have to apologize eventually, right?”

Kyung doesn't think he owes Connie an apology. His father-in-law did something wrong—he even acknowledged it. They were intruding, he said. Intruders. He gets up from the floor, brushing off the flecks of dust and bread crumbs clinging to his pants.

“If you don't want to ask my dad, I still think you should try talking to yours. I mean, I know things have never been all that friendly between you two, but it's not like any of this was his fault. It might be nice for you to acknowledge that this happened to him too.”

On some level, Kyung knows she's right. He just can't bring himself to that place yet. In college, whenever one of his roommates said his mother was on the phone, he picked up the receiver slowly, expecting to hear that Jin had hit her again. By the time he was in grad school, the years had stretched out long enough so he could take a call without having to brace for the worst. Until yesterday, the beatings seemed like another lifetime ago. Not forgiven, but in the past. How quick he was to assume that Jin had hurt her. And now here he is, feeling the same terror clutching at his throat as if eighteen years haven't gone by, and there's nothing he can do to make it go away.

“How long will it take you and Ethan to get ready?”

Gillian shrugs. “Ten minutes.”

“Let's go to Connie's, then.”

It takes her half an hour to change Ethan's clothes, pack his lunch and toys and books, and find a clean shirt and jeans for herself. By the time they're all seated and strapped in the car, Kyung is having second thoughts. He drives slowly—obeying the speed limit, coming to a complete stop at the lights—things he never does. At the fork in the road that leads to the Flats, he turns left instead of right.

“What are you doing? This isn't the way.”

“I want to see something.”

She doesn't bother asking what because two turns later, it's obvious. He's driving up the hill toward the Heights again. As they near his parents' house, he sees neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, small packs of them huddled in conversation. With every passing block, he sees more. More people, more cars, more congestion. A block away from the house, there's nowhere left to park on the street. Every space is occupied by vans with satellite dishes on their roofs and logos painted on their doors. Channels 6, 11, 22, and 64. Two local papers, three radio channels, seven police cruisers.

“Kyung…,” Gillian says quietly. “I don't think we should be here right now.”

He looks in his rearview mirror. There's another van right behind him. “I can't back up.”

“So keep going. Just get us out of here.”

Kyung realizes that most of the people on the sidewalk aren't neighbors at all. They're reporters and cameramen. The slower he drives, the longer they look at him, their expressions curious, as if he's the quote or story they've been waiting for.

“This isn't right,” he says.

The front door to his parents' house has a strip of yellow hazard tape stretched across it on the diagonal. The driveway is blocked off with orange and white police barricades.

“Is Grandpa here?”

“No, honey. Grandpa's not here. We're going to see Grandpa now.” Gillian puts her hand on Kyung's leg. “Can we just go to my dad's now?”

“Aren't there supposed to be privacy laws for rape victims?”

“Please don't say that word. Not in the car.”

“But how did they get this address?”

“Kyung,
I don't know.
Just keep going.”

On the corner, his parents' next-door neighbors are talking to a reporter on camera. The elderly Steiners stand stoop-shouldered and frail, slight as scarecrows from a distance. Mr. Steiner has his arm wrapped around his wife. Both of them keep shaking their heads.

“Go faster,” Gillian says. “Now
.
”

He takes the long way back to where they started and hits traffic downtown. Three different churches are all letting out at the same time. Kyung rolls down his window as the parishioners cross the street, oblivious to the line of cars stuck at the intersection. The women are wearing summery dresses, some with hats and jewelry. All of the men are in suits. The children look like the adults who brought them, neat and shined up and glad to see the sun. Kyung taps his horn meekly. The sound is loud enough to turn people's heads, but not long enough to make them walk any faster.

“Now you're in a hurry?” Gillian asks.

“I just want to get there.”

“Well, that's a first.”

Connie and Tim live in the Flats, a neighborhood near the river that was developed in the '50s. The lots are small, divided and subdivided into narrow rectangles, built up with sad little ranches and Capes. After Tim's divorce, he moved in with Connie to save money for a place of his own. That was nearly ten years ago. No one ever talks about it—how the arrangement was supposed to be temporary, but now has the look and feel of something permanent. The two-bedroom bungalow they share is too small for them both. Everything is big inside. Big furniture, big appliances, big men squeezing around each other in the narrow spaces in between.

As they step into the house, Kyung can't help but notice the television set—a seventy-inch monster connected to every possible electronic device. In front of it are two overstuffed reclining chairs with a cup holder in each armrest. This is where they usually find Connie and Tim spending their off-hours, watching baseball or the History Channel, but strangely, the screen is black now, and the chairs are empty. Another first.

“Anyone home?” Gillian calls out.

The toilet in the bathroom flushes, and Connie appears, struggling with the zipper on his pants. “Oh, I didn't hear you come in.”

Ethan runs straight for him, hugging his thick leg.

“You're like a boa constrictor, aren't you?”

“What's that?”

“It's a snake.” Connie picks him up, pinning his arms to his sides. “It's one of those snakes that squeezes the air out of you. Like this, see?”

Ethan lets out a squeal, and the look on his face—a pure, unwitting look of joy—this is what Kyung realizes he has to preserve, what he wasn't mindful of in the car. Four is too young an age to learn what people can do to each other.

Tim joins them, dressed in uniform but holding a can of beer. Gillian gives him a peck on the cheek. “Would you mind taking Ethan outside while Kyung and I talk to Dad?”

“I go on duty at noon, but I've got a little time.” He extends a gigantic hand, swallowing Ethan's small one in his. “You want to see the bird's nest in the backyard?”

“Are there eggs?”

Tim downs the rest of his can and crushes it as he leads Ethan away. “Maybe. Let's go see.”

Kyung is aware that Connie and Gillian are waiting for him to say something, but he's too distracted by his surroundings. There's an empty bag of potato chips on the matted brown carpet, an uncapped jar of salsa on the table, and dozens of old magazines on the coffee table, all coming loose from their bindings. The messiness of the room reminds him where Gillian gets her housekeeping habits. The McFaddens aren't poor anymore, not like they used to be, but they live as if their situation hasn't changed. With their salaries, Connie and Tim could easily afford to tear down the wood paneling, repaint the walls, buy some new furniture that actually fits. They could even hire a cleaning lady to pick up after them once or twice a week, but that's not the kind of people they are.

“Kyung wants to apologize for this morning,” Gillian finally says.

“Forget it.” Connie sits in his chair, pushing on the armrests until it reclines. “You want a seat?” He looks at Kyung and motions to the other chair.

The recliner sinks like a sponge when he lowers himself into the well-worn groove formed by Tim's ass. He's never sat in his chair before, never been invited to, but he recognizes the offer as a gesture.

“I was hoping to be there when my mother gave her statement.”

“You didn't miss much. Same story we heard from your dad last night, more or less.”

“Oh.” He glances at Gillian, not sure what to say or do next. He doesn't mind asking for her help, but it's still a stretch to ask for Connie's.

“Dad,” Gillian says, resting her hand on his shoulder. “Would you mind telling us what you do know?”

Connie shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “None of it's good.”

“We could have guessed that,” she says.

This is the problem with being in the dark. All he does is guess. Kyung keeps seeing the Perrys hitting his mother, violating her over and over again like a film reel set to loop. The truth might be worse than his imagination, but knowing what happened has to be better than this.

“I'd appreciate it…,” he says. “I'd appreciate it if you could just tell me what you heard, from my parents or Lentz or whoever. And don't leave out any details for my sake. Tell me like you'd tell someone you work with.”

“It's on the news. Have you noticed?”

“We just drove by the house. Reporters everywhere.”

“Any of them try calling you yet?”

Kyung shakes his head. “We're unlisted.”

“It's a big deal, a home invasion in this area. Thirty-three years I've been on the force, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“But what happened, exactly?” Gillian asks. “How did those men even get in the house?”

Tim streaks past the living room window with Ethan on his shoulders. They're both carrying oversized wands that release giant bubbles into the air. Kyung jumps out of his seat and stands in front of the window, wondering if Tim notices the tree branches, how their sharp tips hang just inches above Ethan's face. Ethan, however, doesn't seem to mind. His head is tipped back, and he's laughing at the crowd of neighborhood kids now gathered on the lawn. They're all jumping up and down, begging for a turn on Tim's shoulders, which makes Ethan laugh even harder. You can't catch us, he shouts. You can't catch us. Watching them, Kyung gets the sense that this scene has played out dozens, maybe even hundreds of times in the past. Connie carrying Tim as a boy, and now Tim carrying Ethan. It disturbs him, the fact that he has no memory of being the father or the son in such a happy moment.

“He's just having fun,” Gillian says. “Why don't you come back and listen now?”

Kyung returns to his seat, grateful to reach out and feel her fingers lace with his.

“Thursday,” Connie sighs. “It started on Thursday night. Your mom went for a walk a little after eight.”

“But she never goes out after dark.”

Connie shrugs. “Civil dusk.”