The Interpreter (20 page)
Authors: Suki Kim
Is Grace in some kind of debt? Is that why she has vanished? Selling off everything for cash is what people do when they are planning a drastic move—not a wedding. Last Friday, Grace called Detective Lester out of the blue. Later the same day, Grace showed up in Montauk looking for a boat. Then, on Sunday night, she called Ms. Goldman to say that she was getting married. On Monday, she failed to turn up at the accountant’s. If Grace had planned to take the money and run off somewhere with her new husband, why did she not follow it through with the accountant? Was the wedding a sudden decision? What is it that Ms. Goldman said?
A secret from everyone, more like eloping, because they wanted to do it quietly, especially with her parents gone.
A secret from everyone, more like eloping, because they wanted to do it quietly, especially with her parents gone.
“How much?” Suzy asks, reaching for the glass of water on the table.
“How much what?”
“How much a month ago?”
“A hundred grand. In one shot.”
Something must have happened to Grace a month ago. Something changed. The guy. But he didn’t sound as if he were in need of money.
“She won’t sell the house, though. That, she won’t touch.”
“Which house?”
“Your parents’ house, of course.”
“Grace never sold it?”
“She won’t even charge rent. Maria Sutpen lucked out. I need a friend like your sister!”
Maria Sutpen. Suzy has never heard of that name before, but, then again, she knows virtually nothing about Grace’s life.
“Maria’s totally useless for an emergency contact. I called like a hundred times this week, but she’s never in. I got so frustrated that I almost went there myself. After all, the house is not too far from mine.”
“You live in Woodside too?”
“No, in Jackson Heights. But it’s just a couple of stops on the Number 7.”
Jackson Heights. Woodside. The Queens neighborhoods where the Korean population makes up nearly 50 percent, where a woman named Maria Sutpen has taken over her parents’ house.
“How long have you lived in Jackson Heights?”
“Since I was seven; why?” the young woman asks, glancing at the waitress who is heading over with a tray.
“No, nothing, it’s just I’ve lived there too …” Suzy mumbles, studying the lipstick smudge on the rim of her glass. She lets a few minutes pass before asking, “So why are you telling me all this?”
“’Cause I’m an only child, I guess.” The young woman shrugs. “I don’t get it when sisters don’t talk to each other. I think that’s like way twisted.”
“So you thought to run down here and warn me about Grace’s financial problems? So that I might track her down and convince her to keep Mr. Bae managing her money?” Suzy says quietly, meeting the other’s eyes.
“No!” the young woman exclaims, her face turning bright pink.
“It’s okay, nothing wrong with trying to help your father, or
uncle, or whoever he might be for you. He seemed like he could use it,” Suzy says with a smile. “Honestly, though, I have no idea where she is. And you’re right, it’s really twisted that she won’t talk to me.”
uncle, or whoever he might be for you. He seemed like he could use it,” Suzy says with a smile. “Honestly, though, I have no idea where she is. And you’re right, it’s really twisted that she won’t talk to me.”
The younger woman looks sullen, pretending to be having difficulty splitting apart her wooden chopsticks.
“Listen, if you don’t hear from her by Thanksgiving, call me,” says Suzy, writing down her phone number on the girl’s napkin.
Give it a few days, she thinks. If Grace turns up to sign the papers, then all must be fine. If she doesn’t, Suzy will be notified. That is, unless Suzy finds Grace first. Then, rising from her seat, Suzy asks, “And one more thing, what’s the name of that famous pool hall in Jackson Heights? Used to be a big deal in the eighties. Is it still around?”
The young woman looks up, befuddled. “You mean East Billiards on Roosevelt Avenue? Sure, they reopened a couple of years ago. Why? You play pool?”
THERE IS NOTHING REMARKABLE about the brownstone at number 9. A two-story family home. The hexagonal living room protrudes with a fake-Victorian charm. Bright-pink lace hangs across each bay window. The only notable feature is the stoop. Seven steps in total, with newly painted railings. Shiny black layered with white stripes, like a zebra or a snake. It’s not a house but a zoo. A miniature animal-farm, right here in the heart of Queens.
It’s been half an hour. Late Friday afternoon. No one’s home. The adults are at work; the children have gone out to play. This must be the high time for robbery. Where are those Asian gangs? They raid their own people, Detective Lester said. But no gang in sight, hardly anyone on the block. It is not such a terrible neighborhood. Not a bad corner on which to spend your final night.
The sky is turning charcoal gray now. The threat of an imminent shower. She has no umbrella, and it is really not appropriate
to get soaked on a stranger’s stoop. Her wait is numbered. It is good to have a limit. Otherwise, she might never walk away.
to get soaked on a stranger’s stoop. Her wait is numbered. It is good to have a limit. Otherwise, she might never walk away.
Across the street is a row of identical brownstones. She wonders if her parents knew any of the people there. Neighbors who saw them, who sat across the street while they ate, slept, worked. She wonders if any of them exchanged words on their final morning. Maybe someone’s car was parked in their driveway as her father was pulling out. Maybe a jogger waved at her mother walking out the front door. Maybe a newspaper delivery boy on a bicycle saw the light on in her parents’ bedroom and wondered who was getting up as early as he.
But no such evidence; it’s been five years. When they finally closed on the house, Suzy was long gone. Their first house in America. Their first home. The only evidence of home, although she’s never even seen it until now. From the outside, it appears no different from the countless apartments and brownstones in her childhood. A bit nicer, perhaps. A slightly better neighborhood. Woodside, not as bad as Jersey City or Jamaica. Never as bleak as the South Bronx, where her parents worked every day. Except the curtains are wrong. Mom would never have put up such pink frills across the window. Too happy. Too American. Maria Sutpen must be an all-American girl, one of the only whites on the block. A strange neighborhood for such a girl. A strange thing, to choose to be a minority. But, then again, a rent-free house does not come by every day. What does it mean that Grace just let her live here? What was their arrangement exactly? Has Grace always been so generous?
Grace never even let Suzy borrow her clothes when they were growing up. After all, they were only one year apart; it should have been natural for the sisters to share clothes. But Grace would not have it. She said that it creeped her out to see the same jacket, the same skirt on Suzy. Mom did not make it easier.
She would often buy the same clothes for both girls. The same V-neck sweater in different colors, the same Jordache jeans in different sizes. Everything seemed to have been found on a two-for-one sale rack. It never occurred to Suzy to make a fuss. In fact, she could not understand why Grace was so bothered. Sure, they resembled each other, in that general way siblings do, but Grace was the one everyone remembered. On Grace, even the drabbest Woolworth’s finds turned into one-of-a-kind. It was like watching Cinderella at a touch of the wand, and Suzy would not have dared to try on her glass slippers. Yet it was Grace who marked her territory with vicious insistence. It was Grace who could not seem to bear the thought of being Suzy’s other half. It was always Grace who pushed her away first. So Suzy was completely taken aback when Grace left her most of her wardrobe upon leaving for Smith. When Suzy asked why, she shrugged and said, “Doesn’t matter anymore.” Not an act of generosity, Suzy thought. The exact opposite. A silent declaration of the end of sisterhood. What Grace wanted was to leave everything behind, including her own clothes, including Suzy in those same clothes. Suzy is still not sure what made her retort so sharply, “’Cause you’re never coming back.” Grace was in the middle of packing, the suitcase wide open on the floor. She stopped trying to fit the huge volume of the
American Heritage Dictionary
in between the set of writing pads and looked across at her with what Suzy thought was almost concern. The coldness was gone too. Finally, she said, as if in apology, “Not if I can help it.”
She would often buy the same clothes for both girls. The same V-neck sweater in different colors, the same Jordache jeans in different sizes. Everything seemed to have been found on a two-for-one sale rack. It never occurred to Suzy to make a fuss. In fact, she could not understand why Grace was so bothered. Sure, they resembled each other, in that general way siblings do, but Grace was the one everyone remembered. On Grace, even the drabbest Woolworth’s finds turned into one-of-a-kind. It was like watching Cinderella at a touch of the wand, and Suzy would not have dared to try on her glass slippers. Yet it was Grace who marked her territory with vicious insistence. It was Grace who could not seem to bear the thought of being Suzy’s other half. It was always Grace who pushed her away first. So Suzy was completely taken aback when Grace left her most of her wardrobe upon leaving for Smith. When Suzy asked why, she shrugged and said, “Doesn’t matter anymore.” Not an act of generosity, Suzy thought. The exact opposite. A silent declaration of the end of sisterhood. What Grace wanted was to leave everything behind, including her own clothes, including Suzy in those same clothes. Suzy is still not sure what made her retort so sharply, “’Cause you’re never coming back.” Grace was in the middle of packing, the suitcase wide open on the floor. She stopped trying to fit the huge volume of the
American Heritage Dictionary
in between the set of writing pads and looked across at her with what Suzy thought was almost concern. The coldness was gone too. Finally, she said, as if in apology, “Not if I can help it.”
Grace had not spoken to the family for a few months by then. Not since the incident. No, not that Keller boy with whom she had once been found naked in the back of his father’s car. No, that had happened much earlier and was quickly forgotten once they moved away, soon after. Grace had come up
with some story about having been forced by the boy, which Suzy suspected was a lie. The possibility that Grace might have been violated drew the matter to a taboo. It might even have secured Dad’s trust, for he no longer seemed to suspect Grace. No, the real thing happened when they were living in Jackson Heights. Suzy never learned what actually triggered such an outburst of violence, but one night, Dad dragged Grace in through the front door, gripping her by the hair. Grace’s hair reached down to her waist then; she often wore it in two long braids, like a mean version of Pocahontas, as some girls at school said. But that day, she must have worn it loose, because Suzy can still remember the black silk fluttering through the air as Dad took out the scissors and slashed through it. It had all happened so quickly that neither Suzy nor Mom could stop him. They simply backed against the wall and watched in horror. Grace did not even flinch. When she finally spoke, her voice carried such rage that Suzy felt suddenly afraid. Dad had begun shouting how she was ruining her life, to which Grace shot back, “But you’ve already made sure of that.” Strangely enough, Dad said nothing in return; Mom looked away. Grace turned to leave when she caught her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was all red from Dad’s burning hands. Her hair was cropped so close to her head, like a boy’s. For a second, Suzy thought she glimpsed a glint of smile on her sister’s face. It was a fleeting gesture. A flash of something akin to resignation. But a smile nonetheless.
with some story about having been forced by the boy, which Suzy suspected was a lie. The possibility that Grace might have been violated drew the matter to a taboo. It might even have secured Dad’s trust, for he no longer seemed to suspect Grace. No, the real thing happened when they were living in Jackson Heights. Suzy never learned what actually triggered such an outburst of violence, but one night, Dad dragged Grace in through the front door, gripping her by the hair. Grace’s hair reached down to her waist then; she often wore it in two long braids, like a mean version of Pocahontas, as some girls at school said. But that day, she must have worn it loose, because Suzy can still remember the black silk fluttering through the air as Dad took out the scissors and slashed through it. It had all happened so quickly that neither Suzy nor Mom could stop him. They simply backed against the wall and watched in horror. Grace did not even flinch. When she finally spoke, her voice carried such rage that Suzy felt suddenly afraid. Dad had begun shouting how she was ruining her life, to which Grace shot back, “But you’ve already made sure of that.” Strangely enough, Dad said nothing in return; Mom looked away. Grace turned to leave when she caught her own reflection in the mirror. Her face was all red from Dad’s burning hands. Her hair was cropped so close to her head, like a boy’s. For a second, Suzy thought she glimpsed a glint of smile on her sister’s face. It was a fleeting gesture. A flash of something akin to resignation. But a smile nonetheless.
It had to have been only one thing. Boys. Dad must have found Grace with one of her leather-clad boys. He must finally have stumbled upon the truth. He must have dragged her out of wherever with the fury of a father betrayed. On the surface, Grace had the markings of the perfect daughter. She had just been named the valedictorian. She was off to college on full
scholarship. Even Dad was left with not many grounds on which to vent his anger. So he did one thing that defied all words. He took away her hair. Her iridescently black, luscious, seventeen-year-old hair.
scholarship. Even Dad was left with not many grounds on which to vent his anger. So he did one thing that defied all words. He took away her hair. Her iridescently black, luscious, seventeen-year-old hair.
Grace never sneaked out afterward. A point had been made, it seemed. What that point was, Suzy never knew. Suzy never asked what really happened that night. It is hard to fathom now why she didn’t. Ironically, Grace looked even more radiant with her newly cropped hair. A girl monk. An odd transformation. She would sometimes brush her fingers across her bare neck while reading. She seemed freer somehow. She seemed ready now to go out into the world. Dad had done her a favor. For whatever it was worth, she managed to fool him until the end.
Later, when Suzy heard about Grace taking on the job as an ESL teacher, she recalled the rage in Grace’s voice on that night many years ago. English as a second language. Fort Lee High School, whose student body was over 30 percent Korean. Exactly what Dad would have despised. The pursuit of English. The job of rescuing kids whose Korean language got them nowhere. The mission of spreading English into all those newly arrived Korean minds. Grace was still trekking their parents’ wishes, but in the opposite way, in the only way that would hurt them. Only Suzy knew this, of course. Only Suzy could tell that Grace was not okay. Only Suzy suspected that whatever Grace sought in Jesus had nothing to do with God.
No one would have guessed that Grace would go off to a New England college only to get hooked on the Bible. The whole thing seemed strange, almost spiteful. Yet church was what Grace chose, with shockingly fervent enthusiasm. Jesus Christ—the impostor whom Dad had always rejected as the antithesis of everything Korean, the source of what threatened to destroy Korea’s five-thousand-year-old history, the Western conspiracy
to colonize Asia and its Buddha and Confucius. Grace picked Jesus, while Suzy threw herself at Damian, the white man, the older married man, the one she was not supposed to love. But Suzy had assumed that Grace would be smarter. She had always believed that Grace would be freer of their parents.
to colonize Asia and its Buddha and Confucius. Grace picked Jesus, while Suzy threw herself at Damian, the white man, the older married man, the one she was not supposed to love. But Suzy had assumed that Grace would be smarter. She had always believed that Grace would be freer of their parents.
During one Christmas break, Grace came home and read the Bible for four straight days. It was the first time Suzy had seen her since they both went off to college. Suzy assumed that Grace’s Bible-reading was for a paper she had to write. After all, Grace’s major was religion. The only time Grace left the house was to attend Christmas Eve services. Dad didn’t mind, surprisingly. He even suggested that Suzy go as well. He said that, now that they were both of age, college girls, a church was as good a place as any for finding decent Korean boys. He believed that most Koreans, like him, attended church for convenience, for getting work tips or finding someone to marry. He told Mom to iron the finest silk dresses for both girls, which were not only too fancy but also inappropriate for December. But Grace obliged without as much as a grumble. When they arrived at the Union Pacific Church on Queens Boulevard, Grace reached over and held Suzy’s hand, which surprised Suzy. Through the entire service, Grace sat staring elsewhere. She did not seem to be listening to the sermon or the chorus of hymns. Suzy noticed that at one point, while the pastor was speaking, Grace ripped a page from the Bible and folded it over the gum she was chewing. It seemed almost purposeful, as if she wanted Suzy to witness her, as if she wanted to tell Suzy something. Suzy could not take her eyes off the Bible with the missing page, which Grace put back neatly on the shelf as the service came to an end.
On the way home, Grace remained quiet. She looked sad, Suzy thought. And thin. She had never looked thinner. Her eating habit must have gotten worse at Smith. With her bob that
came down half an inch below her ear, which accentuated her sharp cheekbones, and her pale face even paler against her dark-red lips, she looked intensely angular, and yet somehow hauntingly elegant. Then, as they were nearing the house, Grace turned to Suzy and said in a clear, bright voice, “One day, if you find yourself alone, will you remember that I am too? Because you and I, we’re like twins.”
came down half an inch below her ear, which accentuated her sharp cheekbones, and her pale face even paler against her dark-red lips, she looked intensely angular, and yet somehow hauntingly elegant. Then, as they were nearing the house, Grace turned to Suzy and said in a clear, bright voice, “One day, if you find yourself alone, will you remember that I am too? Because you and I, we’re like twins.”
That was it. Grace never opened up to her again. But for the first time in years, they had held hands like sisters. Grace seemed almost concerned for Suzy, almost afraid. What did she mean? Why twins? Could that be why she hadn’t been able to stand Suzy all along? Because Suzy was the most exact reminder of home? The next time she saw Grace was at the funeral, and it was clear that nothing would ever bring them together again. Or at least that was what Grace indicated.
Strange that all of this should come rushing right now, here on the stoop of Maria Sutpen’s house, the last place her parents had called home. Still no Grace, no parents. So many afternoons, she had sat like this alone waiting for them. She would be done with homework by then. She knew no one in the neighborhood, always the new girl on the block. Sometimes she wished that she were an avid reader like her sister. She wished her parents would buy a new TV to replace the one with the constant buzzing noise. Even the chores would be done in no time. She was a master at rinsing rice. She’d learned how to vacuum the entire floor in less than ten minutes. Still no one came home. It would be hours before anyone came home. She was good at waiting. She was the obedient one. She stood and watched as Grace’s hair fell to the ground. She played mute while Grace became the designated interpreter. She hid in a corner while Grace got thinner and thinner. She never even wandered off until later, much later, when she could no longer stay.
Looking around, she finds it odd that the block should be so empty, even for a Friday afternoon. The whole world seems to have disappeared to give her this time, to leave her just once more with her parents.
Five years, it has taken her five years to bring herself here. After the funeral, after their ashes were scattered across the Atlantic, Suzy kept imagining her parents’ last home. But she could never picture them in such a cookie-cutter brownstone in Woodside. No Flushing, no Jersey City, never the Bronx. In her dream, she wanted to get them out of those immigrant neighborhoods. In her dream, she wanted to rewind their immigrant trekking. So she made up their pastel Montauk house. A shiny Jeep rather than the used Oldsmobile. Sunbathing and fishing instead of peeling-cutting-stocking fruit. TV before bed, like all other aging couples.
Nightline, Late Night,
the
Tonight Show.
Thanksgiving dinners. A game of Monopoly. For years, she has stayed away from this house. She has been afraid of shattering their last chance for life.
Nightline, Late Night,
the
Tonight Show.
Thanksgiving dinners. A game of Monopoly. For years, she has stayed away from this house. She has been afraid of shattering their last chance for life.
But a dream remains a dream always. Nothing alters the fact that she never got to see them again. She never held Mom’s hands and asked why irises brought a smile to her face. She never let Dad explain what made him leave Korea, why he was so tortured by his old country. She never begged them for time, just a little more time to understand. She never told them that she had to run because she could not see ahead as long as they were there. She could not embrace this place called America while they never forgot to remind her what was not Korea. She could not make sense of her American college, American friends, American lovers, while her parents toiled away twelve hours a day, seven days a week at their Bronx store. She could not become American as long as she remained their daughter.
She betrayed them, so she might live.
She betrayed them, so she might live.
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