Shelter (33 page)

“She thought of this arrangement?”

Elinor hesitates. “Thought of it … no. But inspired it, certainly. Your mother had strong opinions about what made her comfortable, and she definitely had a sense for making others feel comfortable too. Just wait until you see the apartment.”

As they walk back outside and up the metal staircase, Elinor tells him there's no direct entrance from the apartment to the studio—a warning to keep out, he thinks. She also asks him to take off his shoes during business hours so her clients can't hear him walking around. And no loud music or television either, she adds gently. He mumbles in agreement, trying to keep track of her sudden list of rules.

“I hope you don't mind me saying all of this, but I'm not used to having anyone living up here. This space used to be a storage area. I was only willing to rent it to your mother because she needed a place to stay during the week.… Oh, and before I forget … Indian food.”

“What?”

“The ventilation in this building isn't terribly efficient, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't cook Indian food, or anything with a strong odor. I can't have my customers walking in and smelling curry.”

Kyung watches her unlock the door to the apartment. He'd gladly agree to almost anything if she'd just let him sleep. When they enter, his eyes go straight to the high ceiling, which is painted a stark shade of white. The storeroom is much bigger than he expected, and more finished too. All traces of its former use are gone now. Although there aren't any walls separating one room from another, each space is carefully contained by a large Oriental rug. There's a long, plush sofa in the living area, upholstered in a deep red shade of velvet, with careful rows of matching velvet-covered buttons lining the cushions. Kyung gently touches the chocolate-colored throw blanket draped over one of the arms, and the excess of it surprises him. Not only is the material cashmere; it's a quality of cashmere ten times thicker and softer than any sweater or scarf he's ever owned. He sits down on the end of the sofa, sinking into the perfect balance of feathers and foam, and takes in the rest of the room. Along the wall, two tall bookshelves have been meticulously arranged with books and antiques. The upper shelves feature old brass and copper trinkets, while the lower shelves house coffee table–sized books on architecture and design. Kyung gets up to examine the art hanging from the walls, all of which is framed in a similar style of ornate carved wood covered in gold leaf. He realizes that the choices his mother made for the houses in Marlboro and Orleans must have been a concession to Jin, who always preferred landscapes. Clearly, his mother preferred objects. Each framed piece is done in a different style but features a single image. A watercolor of a Victorian teacup. A charcoal rendering of a feather pen. An oil painting of a birdcage.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

“How long did it take you to decorate this place?”

“I didn't do any of it. This was all Mae.” She looks at him with a curious tilt of her head. “If you don't mind me saying, you seem to have a hard time believing how talented she was.”

He knows his mother had a good eye for things. But he didn't see this as a talent so much as a hobby. He never understood that she wanted a livelihood or was capable enough to have one.

“I know she was talented,” he says, because it kills him that he didn't.

Kyung moves into the bedroom area along the opposite wall. There's a sleigh bed with a pale gold duvet, which he assumes is real silk even before running his hand over the smooth, unwrinkled surface. The right corner has been turned over like a hotel maid's handiwork, and he's tempted to crawl under the inviting fold and pass out. Elinor joins him, drawing his attention to tall stacks of design magazines on the twin end tables, arranged according to the color of their spines. She straightens one, adjusting it no more than a few millimeters, and he recognizes the gesture, sees who his mother learned it from.

“You taught her a lot,” he says. “I can tell.”

“She taught me a lot too. I was so excited for her to get started here. She would have been a wonderful addition.” She clutches his shoulder, studying his face carefully. “I'm so sorry. I feel like I'm always saying the wrong thing in front of you.”

“No, no. It's not that. It's just kind of odd to imagine my mother—I don't know—working.”

“She was a very hard worker, Kyung. She ordered every piece of furniture in here. All the paint and lighting too. She also sourced the decorations and artwork, managed the crew. She did everything. And the fact that she did most of it over the phone—that was always the thing I found so impressive about her. She could be very commanding when she needed to be.” Elinor smiles. “Actually, you might think this is funny. The men we usually hire to paint, they were always talking about how Mrs. Cho wanted this and Mrs. Cho wanted that and Mrs. Cho wouldn't like it that way.… Oh, she used to get them so worked up! They were all completely terrified of her.”

Kyung is examining an old upright turntable in the corner. On the floor beside it is an antique leather suitcase filled with records by Johnny Mathis, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Platters. He shakes his head, wondering why he didn't hear her that day in the car, why he never truly listened when she spoke. All she wanted to do was tell him about her records.

“I hope you know—I wasn't suggesting that the painters didn't like your mother. It was just the opposite, really. They didn't want to disappoint her because they respected her so much.”

He understands that Elinor is gently trying to improve his memory of Mae, to convince him that she deserved more credit than he was ever willing to give. But the thought of grown men being terrified of her isn't funny. And although he's impressed by her work, he's also saddened by it. The apartment was clearly designed as a refuge, a place for Mae to stay during the week and be the person she wanted to be, a person he didn't know or pay any attention to. He imagines her walking upstairs after a long day's work, opening a bottle of wine, playing a record, and reading one of her books or magazines. She was planning a life for herself here, a small and quiet life, and Kyung wishes she'd had the chance to live it. He thinks she would have been happy for once.

“Did I say something to upset you?” Elinor asks.

“No, I think the drive just caught up with me.”

“Well, let me get out of your way, then.” She walks to the door and turns to say good-bye. “You're sure I haven't upset you?”

“No, not at all. It's nice to be here, to see what she could do.”

“All right, then. You get a good night's sleep. You look like you need it.”

Kyung crawls into bed as soon as Elinor closes the door. It's a luxurious combination—the clean silky sheets, soft down pillows, and firm king-sized mattress. It's a far better setup than he's used to, better than a five-star hotel, he suspects. He turns over onto his back and notices the painting attached to the ceiling, directly over his head. There's a woman sitting on the grass, staring at some hills in the distance. The style of it doesn't quite fit with anything else in the apartment, but it's peaceful, the mix of blues and greens and grays, the content expression on the woman's face. He can see why Mae chose it as the last thing she wanted to look at before closing her eyes.

His own eyes begin to blink, heavy and sore, so he sits up, not wanting to fall asleep before calling Gillian. Being in the apartment inspires him, energizing him in a way that California didn't. If a person like Mae could finally change her life, he has no excuse not to do something about his own. The cell phone in his pocket is dead, so he reaches over and picks up the cordless on the nightstand. The line rings much longer than it usually does. He realizes he's not entirely sure what time it is, other than night.

“Hello?”

“Hi. It's me.”

“What number are you calling from?” Gillian sounds irritated to hear from him.

“I'm staying at a place in Connecticut. It doesn't matter.… Anyway, would it be okay if I stopped by in the morning? I didn't get a chance to talk to Ethan before I left.”

She pauses much longer than she should. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

“Why? Is he sick?”

“No.”

“Is he upset I'm not there?”

“No, he's fine with it.”

Kyung's hurt, but not surprised by this, which Gillian seems to understand.

“I didn't mean it like that. He just thinks you're off somewhere for work. I haven't really explained everything yet.”

“Would it be all right if I came by, then? I think there are certain things he should probably hear from me.”

He can almost picture her right now, cradling the phone under her ear and biting her lower lip.

“If you're worried about what I'm going to say to him, you're welcome to join us. I figure we're going to have to work out some sort of—accommodation, right? Maybe it'd be nice for Ethan to hear what's going on from both of us.”

It bothers him to think that Gillian might not trust him to be alone with their son, but his invitation is sincere. He wouldn't mind if she was there. She deserved to see him try for a change.

“So…?”

“Kyung, it's really not the best time.…”

Again with the long pause, he thinks. She's not making this easy for him, but he reminds himself that people don't switch on and off like machines. He's given her no reason to respond differently.

“Well, how about in the afternoon, then? Would that be better than the morning? Maybe we can take Ethan to the park for a while. He likes it there—”

“No, Kyung. Stop talking about the park. It's not that. It's … They asked me not to tell you yet.”

“Who asked you? Tell me what?”

She covers the receiver with her hand, but he can still hear her moving around in the kitchen. There's a clank of something that sounds like a pot, and then the hollow thud of a cabinet door. “Shit,” he thinks she says.

“Hello?” he calls out. “Are you there, Gillian? Tell me what?”

She clears her throat as she uncovers the phone. “I think you have a right to know, Kyung. They found him today.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“That man—Perry? Nat Perry? The police brought him in a few hours ago. He's at the station in Marlboro.”

 

NINE

He doesn't stop to think who “they” are until a few hours later.
They
asked her not to tell him yet. But when he pulls up in front of the station, he knows immediately. The three of them are waiting outside the main entrance. He sees Connie first, and then the huge outline of Tim. The third man is the detective from the funeral. Smiley, Smalley—he can't remember and doesn't care. Kyung walks toward them, not certain how to get past a barricade of men who clearly want to keep him out. He's no match for any of them, not on a good day and definitely not now.

“Jesus. You look like hell,” Tim says.

“When's the last time you slept?” Connie asks.

“I'm not sure.”

He wonders if his in-laws know they're not going to be in-laws anymore. The relief, the satisfaction they must feel. It's what they wanted all along. He expects to be told to leave, but no one says a word. They just keep staring at him, as if their silence alone will turn him back. Kyung looks at the cigarette butts on the sidewalk and grass. He tries to count them but keeps losing track. The spike of adrenaline that got him here is down to almost nothing now, and his mind is too scattered to connect one thought with the next. How does he get past them? How does he make them understand how much he needs to?

“I'm not sure if you remember me, sir. I'm Detective Smalley. We met a few days ago?”

The detective's breath stinks of rotten eggs, but Kyung shakes his outstretched hand anyway. “Where did you find him?”

“He was holed up with a girl the entire time. Never even left town.”

“But the car—Lentz said you found it near Canada.”

“Why don't we go upstairs and talk? You look like you could use a cup of coffee or something.”

Kyung glances at Connie and Tim, but neither of them do anything to prevent him from entering. Connie even opens the door and waves them all inside. They walk past the front desk, where the receptionist is sitting behind a wall of glass, yawning as she flips through a magazine. When she notices Connie and the detective, she pushes the magazine off to the side and covers it with an envelope. The four of them stop in front of the elevators where a large white plaque announces that visitors to the upper floors are required to sign in. Tim presses the
UP
button impatiently.

“Sir, do you know where your father is?” the detective asks.

“He's not here already?”

“No. I called him after the arrest and he agreed to come by to make the ID, but he never showed up.”

Kyung responds without thinking. “He's afraid, probably.”

“Afraid?”

“To see him again. I think most people would be.”

Detective Smalley doesn't look like the type to be afraid of anything, actually. He's old, but fit, with thick forearms and shoulders so broad, they almost look padded. Kyung notices a scratch above his left eye, bandaged but still bleeding through the gauze.

“Did he put up a fight?”

“They always put up a fight,” Tim says.

The elevator door opens onto a vestibule painted in a strange, medicinal shade of pink. Kyung grips the handrail as the car jerks its way up to the third floor, spitting them out into a narrow corridor. The station feels like a rabbit warren—big, but more broken up than he ever would have guessed from the street. The building is on his route to the grocery store. He never thought he'd have a reason to go inside, and a part of him still can't believe that he is.