Shelter(37)

“What’s all this for?”

“Insurance claim,” she says, not looking up from her work.

He picks up a small crystal bowl that’s much heavier than it appears and carefully sets it back down. “But don’t they just need a list of everything that has to be replaced?”

“I can’t tell them what’s missing until I figure out what I still have.”

“Oh.”

Mae’s tastes are expensive; they always have been. Perhaps the only good thing about being married to Jin all these years was that he could afford her. Their settlement is sure to be considerable. Between the art and everything else, Kyung would venture to guess a hundred, a hundred and fifty thousand at least. It’s strange to think that the money his parents will recoup from their losses alone would change his life for the better—not fix it entirely, but enough.

“What about the photos and broken stuff? What should I do with all of it?”

“Put the valuables somewhere out of the way so I can look at them,” she says. “The photos I don’t need anymore.”

He didn’t expect her to dismiss the pictures so quickly. Many of them are sixty or seventy years old—vintage sepia-toned originals of relatives who passed away long before he was born. It’s sensible of her to let them go. Sensible, but still surprising.

“I’m done with the living room now. Do you want me to start on the second floor?”

“No.” She pauses. “That can wait until later.”

He’s grateful for this response. He isn’t ready to see the master bedroom yet; he’d prefer never to set foot in that room again. He waits for Mae to give him another task. When she doesn’t, he makes up his own, sweeping some broken glass beside the china cabinet.

“Can you not do that here?” she asks.

“What would you like me to do instead?”

“I don’t care. Just do it somewhere else.”

Kyung clenches the broom handle and walks away, digging his fingernails into his palm. When he returns to the living room, he stops in front of the window, startled by the sound of footsteps and a man’s hushed whisper outside. He pushes back a corner of the curtain and sees two shadows cast long and diagonal against the porch. He runs to the entryway and lifts the broom like a bat, lowering his voice to a menacing baritone.

“Who is it?” he shouts. “What do you want?”

The person on the other side of the door knocks timidly—three quick raps followed by a meek “Hello?” He puts the broom down, embarrassed to realize that the landscapers have arrived, but when he opens the door to greet them, he finds his parents’ elderly neighbors standing on the porch instead. Mrs. Steiner is holding a large glass tray covered with tinfoil.

“Lasagna,” she says abruptly, thrusting the tray at Kyung’s chest. “It needs an hour at 425.”

“Oh … well, thank you.” He doesn’t know what to do next—leave it at that and send them away, or invite them in.

“How are your parents?” Mr. Steiner asks, peering inside.

Kyung remembers them from the news, shaking their heads and mumbling about what a good neighborhood they lived in, how people were supposed to be safe in the Heights. He wishes they hadn’t spoken to a reporter, but he can’t blame them for what they said. It was exactly what everyone else in town was already thinking. The Steiners own the biggest house on the street, a massive Victorian painted in various shades of purple, which would be hideous if not for the fact that it was done very well. He’s not sure if Mr. Steiner is retired now or still runs his chain of sporting goods stores, but judging from the giant canary-colored diamond on his wife’s finger, it hardly matters.

“My parents are doing better, thank you. They’re staying with me for a while. My mother and I just dropped by to do a little cleaning.…”

The Steiners are no longer listening to him. Their attention has drifted over his shoulder to Mae, who’s fixing her hair as she joins them in the entryway.

“Carol, Mort, hello. Why don’t you come in?”

She sounds remarkably, unnaturally cheerful again, the same way she did with Lentz. He doesn’t know why she feels the need to do this now. She can’t possibly think anyone expects it of her.

The Steiners take a few steps inside, but both of them are tentative, as if the air just beyond the threshold is toxic. Carol’s milky blue eyes wander over the broken pieces of furniture and trash bags propped up in the corner. She looks frightened. Kyung thinks it’s lucky she didn’t arrive a few hours earlier.

“We noticed a car in the driveway, so we thought we’d stop by,” Mort says.

“And I made you a lasagna.”

Mae takes Carol by the arm and leads her into the living room. “Thank you so much. Do you want to sit down and have some coffee? It’s—it’s messy in here. I’m sorry about that.”

The difference in her tone is noticeable, so much kinder than the way she spoke to Kyung only minutes before.

“Here.” She flips over a badly stained sofa cushion. “Why don’t you sit down?”

“No, no. Don’t go to any trouble, Mae. Carol and I just wanted to drop off some food. We’ll let you get back to your work now.”

“Oh, wait. Don’t go just yet. I actually have something for you.”