Shelter(24)

“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.