Shelter(55)

“So how are your parents doing? How are you?”

“We’re all right, considering.”

“Is there anything you need?”

What he needs is for Craig to leave. The area around his desk is tight enough without someone sitting on top of him like this. He turns on his monitor, hopeful that Craig will take the hint and go away.

“Thanks for asking, but I’m fine. I think I just need to—refocus.”

Craig reaches over and turns off the monitor just as the desktop pattern begins to appear. “Shouldn’t you be with your family right now? Whatever you’re working on can wait.”

Kyung blinks again, staring at the black screen. He can’t even remember what he was working on before all of this happened. “I probably have a thousand e-mails to catch up on.”

“Given the circumstances, I’m sure people will understand if they don’t hear from you for a while.”

“So everyone in the department knows?”

Craig nods. “I think so. But I haven’t made any announcements about it, if that’s what you’re asking. Obviously, I wouldn’t do that.”

As far as department chairs go, Craig is actually a good one. He’s honest and organized. He knows the names of everyone’s spouses and kids by heart. At five o’clock, he always encourages the workaholics to go home, have a life. If Gillian or his parents knew Craig better, they never would have left for the Cape without him. They would have realized that Craig Tunney doesn’t make irate phone calls demanding that his faculty do this or that.

Kyung reaches for his monitor again. “I’ve been gone too long. I can’t just leave.”

“Yes, you can. I’m telling you to. Think about it, Kyung. In five years, it’s not going to matter if you finish an article now or a month from now. But your family, the time you spend together this summer—that’s going to make a difference.”

Suddenly, the dread that Kyung felt while driving to campus, parking in front of the building, taking the elevator up to his office—all of it dissipates, replaced by an unfamiliar resolve to stay where he is. He understands what Craig is saying—agrees with it, even—but the weight of his responsibility keeps him anchored to his seat.

“What’s the matter? You don’t look well.”

“I don’t?”

“No, you’re really pale. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet. But I will, though.”

Craig taps him on the shoulder. “Come on. Get up.”

Kyung remains seated, not certain what would be worse—to refuse or to do as he’s told.

“Let’s go get some breakfast.”

“But—”

“If you come to the cafeteria and have breakfast with me, I’ll stop pestering you. I promise.”

It’s hard to be annoyed with Craig, who’s always been kind to him, perhaps even kinder than he should be. But as they walk across the quad, Kyung feels something bubbling up to the surface, prickly and hot under his skin. All he wants to do is be alone. He wishes everyone would let him.

“You didn’t miss anything while you were gone,” Craig says. He looks at Kyung sideways, as if to examine him without being noticed.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to—”

“I’m serious. You know how dead this place is during the summer. I mean, look at it.”

The steps to the Campus Center, which are usually teeming with students during the school year, are empty except for a pair of giant stone planters. Even the cafeteria is quiet enough to hear the clink of glasses and plates. Craig hands him a green plastic tray as they enter, and heads off toward the omelet line. Kyung looks around, worried that he might run into someone he knows, but the only other people in the cafeteria are wearing name tags. They look like conference attendees, not colleagues.

Kyung pays for his breakfast and finds a table in the corner, far from where anyone will hear them.

When Craig joins him, he looks down at Kyung’s tray, seemingly crestfallen. “That’s all you’re having?”

There’s a dried-out blueberry muffin, flecked with too much sugar, sitting on a square of wax paper. He doesn’t have any appetite for more. “I have coffee too.” He lifts his mug as if to prove it.

Craig’s tray is crowded with plates. An egg-white omelet, made to order. A side of fruit. Toast and yogurt and a carton of grapefruit juice with a red straw poking out of it. Kyung is equally disappointed by the size of Craig’s breakfast. They’ll be here all morning. Although small talk has always felt unnatural to him, he’s desperate to avoid where their conversation is headed next, so he picks a subject that Craig can discuss at length.

“How’s your wife? And the kids?”

“Oh, they’re all doing great.”

The Tunneys have twin girls—one now at Wesleyan, the other at Brown. Kyung met them years ago when they came to the office to borrow Craig’s car. Even as high school students, they struck him as exceptionally poised and polite. They shook hands and spoke with confidence and seemed to regard their father as a friend. If Craig had one bad habit, it was the way he wandered the halls, talking about his daughters’ accomplishments with anyone willing to listen. Whenever Kyung found himself on the receiving end of these conversations, he wondered what Craig and his wife had done to ensure that their children turned out so well. There were times when he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t figure out how to phrase the question. It felt like something he already should have known.