Almond(12)

One day a lady who ran a kids’ book club in the neighborhood came in. She used to chat with Granny sometimes.

“I see you’re helping out during your vacation. Where’s your grandma?”

“She’s dead.”

She gaped at me, then knitted her brows in a heavy frown. “I know kids your age can joke around, but this is simply not acceptable. Your grandma would be so hurt to hear that.”

“She’s really dead.”

“Really?” She raised her voice, folding her arms. “Then tell me, when and how did she die?”

“She was stabbed, on Christmas Eve.”

“Oh my god.” She covered her mouth. “It’s that massacre from the news. Oh mercy . . .” She crossed herself and turned to leave in a hurry. As if to avoid catching something contagious from me.

“Excuse me.” I stopped her. “You didn’t pay.”

She flushed.

After she left, I thought for a while about what Mom would’ve wanted me to say in that situation. The lady’s expression made it clear that I’d done something wrong. But I had no idea what my mistake was or how to undo it. Maybe I should’ve said Granny was out of town traveling. Actually, no, the lady would’ve kept asking me questions because she liked to mind everybody’s business. Or maybe I shouldn’t have taken her money. But then that would’ve made no sense. I remembered the saying “Silence is golden,” and decided to stick to it. Don’t respond to most questions. But then, what would count as “most” was confusing, too.

A book came to mind, one that Granny, who had rarely read anything except store signs, happened to read and love. Short Stories of Hyun Jingeon. I had managed to find the chapbook edition printed in 1986 that sold for 2,500 won. Her favorite story from the collection was “Proctor B and the Love Letters.”

In the story, Proctor B secretly reads her students’ love letters at night, acting out both the boy’s and the girl’s parts like a one-person play. Three of her female students spot her, and each reacts differently. One sneers at her ridiculous monologue, one trembles with fear at her crazy performance, and one cries with sympathy at her longing for love.

At the time, I told my mom that the story contradicted her lesson, in which there was only one right answer for each situation, but I thought this kind of ending wasn’t too bad. It seemed to mean that there was more than one answer to everything. Maybe I didn’t need to stick to hard-and-fast rules of dialogue or behavior. Since everyone was different, my “odd reactions” could be normal to some people.

Mom was flustered when I said this to her. She thought for a long time before finally coming up with an answer. She said the third student had the correct reaction because the answer usually came in last and the story ended with her crying.

“But there’s also a form of writing that starts with the topic sentence. The first student could be correct.”

Mom scratched her head. Not giving in, I asked, “Would you have cried if you saw Proctor B’s one-man play?”

“Your mother can sleep through anything,” Granny butted in. “She’d be one of the extras playing the sleeping students.”

I could almost hear Granny chuckling right next to me.

*

A dark shadow suddenly fell over the book. I looked up to see a familiar middle-aged man standing in front of me. But then he was gone. He’d left a note on the counter. It read, “Come up to the second floor.”





21


The bookstore was on the first floor of a low two-story building. On the second floor was a bakery, which was unusual. It had no real name, just a sign that simply read, “Bread.” The first time Granny saw the sign, she said, “The bread here doesn’t look tasty,” though I had no idea how she’d deduced that just by looking at the sign.

The bakery sold only streusel bread, milk bread, and cream bread. It even closed at 4 p.m. on the dot. But still, it was always crowded with people, the line often stretching all the way down to the first floor. Customers at the end of the line would even browse in our bookstore.

Mom used to buy bread there sometimes. The bakery’s plastic bag read, “Shim Jaeyoung Bakery.” Shim Jaeyoung was the bakery owner, but Mom called him Dr. Shim. After Granny had a bite, she no longer complained about it not looking tasty. For me, it was just okay. It was like any other food.

But this was my first time inside the bakery.

Dr. Shim handed me a piece of cream bread. I took a bite, and thick, canary-yellow cream oozed out. He was in his early fifties, but his snow-white hair made him look almost sixty.

“How does it taste?”

“It tastes . . . like something.”

“That’s good, better than nothing,” he chuckled.

“Do you work here alone?” I asked, looking around. The place had no real interior structure. With a partition dividing an open space in the middle, there was nothing but a counter, a display stand, and a table on one side, and the baking area presumably on the other side.

“Yes, I am the owner and the only employee. It’s easier that way. It certainly doesn’t need more and it’s pretty manageable, too.” His answer was longer than necessary.

“And why did you want to see me?”

Dr. Shim poured milk into my cup. “I’m very sorry for what you went through. I’ve been thinking for a while about how I can help you in some way.”