Shelter (10 page)

“Pull into that lot over there,” Jin says.

“What's the matter? Are you sick?”

“No. I need some clothes. Mine are at the other house.”

“You want to buy them here?”

“Yes, here is fine.”

He turns into the parking lot of a strip mall anchored in the middle by a giant Walmart. Kyung wonders if he should offer to drive somewhere else, somewhere more to his father's tastes, but Jin is already getting out of the car, wincing as he stretches his leg to meet the pavement. By the time Kyung jumps out and runs to the passenger side to help, Jin and Ethan are already walking toward the entrance. Kyung and Gillian follow as the doors slide open and an elderly greeter croaks an unfortunate hello.

“It's kind of cute, isn't it?” Gillian asks, pointing at the two of them holding hands. “Ethan seems to like spending time with him.”

Kyung nods, but he's disoriented by the strangeness of it all. This isn't the kind of place he ever imagined visiting with his father. He considers Walmart a dirty little secret, a store he frequents more often than he'd like. It's cheap and depressing and sad, but cheap trumps everything these days. Kyung is no longer bothered by the poor people wandering through the aisles, the train wrecks from the Flats with their faded tattoos and unhappy, juice- and ketchup-stained children. He's more disturbed by the people who look like him—clean and well kempt, dressed in clothes that clearly weren't purchased here. He wonders if they shop at Walmart because they're cheap, or because they're struggling to make ends meet. He hates the fact that he and Gillian fall into the second category. Despite all appearances, they have more in common with the poor people than with the rich ones.

In the clothing section, Jin picks out two pairs of gray sweatpants, two short-sleeved shirts, a package of underwear, and a package of socks. He places these items in a little blue basket that Ethan carries for him. The clothes are so different from what he usually wears, but Kyung assumes these choices are about comfort, not style. It occurs to him that he'll have to help Jin change. With the sling, it won't be easy to do by himself. On their way to the checkout line, Gillian suggests picking up toiletries. A toothbrush, a razor, some deodorant and soap. The basket becomes too heavy for Ethan to carry, so Gillian takes it under her arm, plucking things from the shelves as Jin points to them. Jin buys more than he probably needs, but Kyung understands why. His parents' house is a crime scene. Eventually, the police will take the tape off the doors and allow them to return, but it doesn't mean they'll want to. He's discussed this with Gillian, who doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the possibility that his parents will be living with them for a while. She's remarkable sometimes. She never balks at doing the right thing when it comes to family, hers or his. If the situation had been reversed and it was Connie who needed their help, he doesn't think he'd give in so easily. The thought of this makes him feel grateful, but guilty, so he squeezes her hand.

“What was that for?”

He shakes his head and lets go.

At the checkout line, Jin pats down his pants. “I don't have my wallet,” he says. “That's at the other house too.”

“Oh. Well…” Kyung tries not to look panicked as he takes out his own. He fans through his credit cards, trying to remember which ones aren't maxed out or past due. He slides a Visa across the counter, but Gillian clears her throat loudly. Her eyebrows are arched high, frozen mid-forehead like a clown. He takes the card back, realizing that she probably charged the groceries on it.

“Airline miles,” he says weakly. “Maybe I'll use one that gives me airline miles.”

The cashier shrugs, dubious, as if she's heard it all before. Kyung hands her a card from the bottom of his stack, hopeful that it's on the bottom because he hasn't used it recently. Then he watches her scan the items, counting the number of beeps as he waits for the total.

“What's that thing?” he asks, pointing at the last item in the basket, a toy caterpillar with body parts that fit together like blocks.

“It's for the boy,” Jin says. “For helping me.”

Ethan doesn't need another toy. He doesn't even like blocks. Kyung wonders if he asked for it, although it hardly matters how the thing ended up in the basket. He can't refuse now. He nods and the cashier scans the caterpillar and swipes his card through the machine. His chest tightens at the thought of being declined while his father looks on—he'll never recover from the shame. He keeps his eyes glued to the box, the little white one next to the register that reads
PROCESSING
in red letters.
Processing, processing, processing.
It's taking longer than usual, which means something bad is about to happen. Kyung fans through his cards again, not certain which one to use when the first is declined. He doesn't think he has room left on any of them.

“Sign here,” she says, tearing off the receipt and putting a copy in front of him.

Kyung stares at the slip of paper as if he doesn't believe her. Then he scribbles his name so no one will notice how badly his hand is shaking. His signature—a zigzagged line that looks like he was testing the pen for ink—doesn't even resemble the one on the back of his card.

“Thank you,” he says. He knows the cashier had nothing to do with the purchase getting approved, but he thanks her as if she did.

As they walk back to the car, he and Gillian exchange a look, one that's becoming all too familiar lately. A ninety-dollar purchase at Walmart shouldn't terrorize them like this. Kyung makes a decent salary at the university. He has a goddamn Ph.D. But their mistakes are finally catching up with them. Their house payment is a nightmare. His student loans too. They've refinanced their mortgage, borrowed from their credit cards, and transferred their balances over and over again—all in the name of staying current on their bills, but they can't keep up with this shell game much longer.

“Can I have my bug now, please?” Ethan asks.

Kyung digs into one of the plastic bags and hands it to him.

“Thank you.”

Gillian smiles as she watches Ethan examine his new toy, confirming what he's always known about her. She's quicker to recover than he is; she's always been the more resilient of the two. Kyung's moist hand is still wrapped around his wallet like it's a brick he's about to throw. In a few years' time, Ethan will be old enough to understand their situation, to feel the same shame and worry and weight that he does. Kyung stops short in the middle of the parking lot and swoops the boy up in his arms, hugging him much harder than he should.

“Daaaaaaaad,” Ethan protests.

Four is a kind age, he thinks. Four is wonderful and clueless.

When they return home, Kyung leads his father upstairs to the guest room. The back of the house is in the shade now, and the space almost seems barren in the dim light. He's embarrassed by the stained blue carpet, the absence of anything resembling comfort or style. The only personal items on display are the alarm clock and two remote controls on the end table. It's a far cry from the antique-filled rooms in his parents' house, but it's clean. At the very least, it looks like they made an effort to receive him.

“Will you be comfortable here?”

Jin sits down on the edge of the bed, testing the springs. “I'd like to lie down now,” he says, not answering the question.

“So do you want—do you want me to help you change clothes?”

They regard each other carefully, both seemingly aware of the problem. In order to help, Kyung would have to touch him, and Jin would have to let him, something they no longer do by choice.

“I'm fine in what I'm wearing. I just want to lie down.”

“Well, let me help you unpack first.” He puts Jin's new clothes in an empty drawer and places the toiletries on a shelf in the adjoining bathroom. The unpacking takes all of thirty seconds, hardly enough time to prepare for the apology he knows he should give.

Ethan runs into the room, picking up a remote control as he climbs into bed.

“Your grandfather needs to rest now,” Kyung says. “Why don't you go play somewhere else?”

“It's fine. It's fine. Leave the boy here.”

Ethan turns on the TV and leans against the headboard, stretching out his legs. Jin slowly does the same.

“Is there anything special you want for dinner?”

Jin shakes his head. “I'm not hungry.”

“How about some juice or milk? Or maybe coffee?”

“Not now.”

“A glass of water?”

“No, I just want to rest.”

Kyung leans against the doorframe. It's obvious that his father wants him to leave, but there's still too much that he needs to say. If he doesn't say it now, he worries he never will. He glances at Ethan, wishing he'd go downstairs. It's hard enough to know where to begin.

“We have cable here. No premium channels, but…”

He pauses as Ethan curls up in the crook of Jin's good arm. The two of them look comfortable together, lost in their noisy cartoon while the television glows blue against their faces. This wasn't what Kyung's childhood was like at all. His father didn't have time for television. He didn't have the patience either, but it was better that way. He was always someone to be avoided. The sight of Jin and Ethan sitting together makes him both bitter and hopeful. It's too late for Kyung to have this kind of relationship with his father, but maybe his son will.

“That other remote control over there is for the air conditioner. Are you warm? Should I turn it on for you?”

“No,”
Jin barks. “How many times do I have to say it?
No.
Just leave me alone.”

Ethan sits up, startled by the change in volume. He looks like he's about to cry. Kyung wants to get him out of the room, but he can't. His arms and legs are locked, paralyzed by the sound of his father's raised voice. Whatever words of apology he intended to say recede inside him, canceled out by a swell of anger that he doesn't want his child to see. Jin pulls Ethan back by the shoulder and slowly, cautiously, the boy settles into his former position, his eyes darting from the screen to the door. Kyung and Jin exchange a look, the kind that men give each other when they expect the other to stand down, and
there,
right there—Kyung sees it. Something black and familiar that reminds him who his father really is.

*   *   *

The twenty-dollar bill is for emergencies. He keeps it in his wallet, folded tightly into a square, hidden behind a stack of old photographs and receipts. He can't remember how long it's been there, but he knows what it's for. Things of an urgent, unexpected nature—a category to which alcohol doesn't belong. Tonight, however, is an exception. Tonight, he considers it necessary. Urgent, even, in its own way. The question is: Where? Twenty dollars hardly buys anything these days. He needs to find a dive, a real one, the kind of place where a twenty can still get him good and drunk. Kyung makes one left turn after another, tracing the town's grid to its outermost edges. The cell phone on his dashboard keeps blinking, the red light angry and insistent. He's only been gone for an hour, but Gillian has already left five messages. When it rings again, he turns it off and decides to tell her he misplaced it. Kyung has a habit of forgetting where he left his phone, something they've argued about in the past. She says he should be more careful with it in case she needs to reach him, but he's willing to risk an argument later rather than explain why he had to leave now.

Just past the veterans' hospital, Kyung pulls over at an intersection where there's a bar on each corner. One is closed, the metal window gates shuttered for the night. Two others appear to be topless bars. The fourth, MacLarens, has a long green sign above the entrance with faded shamrocks that anchor each end like quotation marks.
FINE IRISH PUB
, the sign says, although the cracked front window appears to be held together by nothing more than duct tape and hope. When he opens the door, he's relieved to find it nearly deserted. The only other customers are two old men playing keno beside the jukebox, staring at numbers as they tumble across a screen. Their table is full of empty beer glasses and scraps of crumpled paper—litter from their previous games. Kyung sits down at the far end of the bar, keeping his head down as he orders a whiskey on the rocks.

“Kind?” a woman asks.

“Kind, what?”

“What kind of
whiskey
?”

Her tone is impatient; her accent, crude and South Boston. Kyung looks up, momentarily stunned silent by the woman's wrinkled appearance, badly camouflaged under layers of girlish frost. Frosted hair, frosted eyes, frosted lips.

“Cheapest you have.” He tries to unfold the embarrassing origami of his money before she has a chance to see. “How much is that, by the way?”

“Four-fifty.” She pours him the equivalent of a double from a plastic bottle of Black Velvet, forgetting the ice—a mistake he doesn't bother to correct.

“You all right?”

Kyung drinks slowly, not certain why a stranger would ask. What about him makes her think he's not?

“I'm just tired.” He rubs his eyes as proof.

“That oughta help,” she says, motioning toward the whiskey.

She looks at him as if she expects their conversation to continue, but Kyung can't think of anything else to say. The standard questions—
How's business? How are you doing?
—seem useless. The bar is nearly empty and she works there for a living, so he already knows the answers. Besides, he doesn't have the energy for a stranger right now. He spent his entire day preparing for Jin's arrival, hoping that his efforts might be appreciated, or even just acknowledged. Instead, his father talked down to him in his own house, in front of his own child, when all he was trying to do was be kind. Kyung knows he was pushing too hard, asking one question after the next when Jin clearly wanted to be left alone. But the role of doting Korean son doesn't come naturally to him. He's still figuring out how to try. They'll never get through this if Jin doesn't try too.