Shelter(9)

“What were they in prison for?”

Lentz doesn’t respond.

“Come on. I’ve been here for hours and no one will tell me anything. I can’t even get in to see my mother.”

The population of the hospital’s waiting room has tripled since Kyung returned from his parents’ house. The police are everywhere. Some are in uniform, but most are off duty, wearing their shields around their necks like oversized pendants. The crime rate in Marlboro is low, almost nonexistent. Occasionally, a car goes missing or some college students throw a party that gets out of hand, but what happened to his parents is different, a fact that everyone in the room seems to understand. Kyung wouldn’t mind being surrounded by the police if they were actually being helpful, but none of them appear to be doing anything, not even Connie, who keeps moving around from person to person, talking to everyone but clearly avoiding him.

Lentz leans in and motions toward the picture of the first man. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “This one’s been in and out for drug possession, breaking and entering, and robbery. His older brother here, Nathan, his sheet is about twice as long. Assault with a deadly weapon, robbery, armed robbery … He was in Walpole for six years and then jumped parole back in February. We were lucky the state police had an APB out for him.”

Kyung studies the photos again. Dell and Nathan Perry. White trash names if he ever heard them, probably from some country backwater down South. He doesn’t understand how they ended up in Marlboro, in a neighborhood so wealthy that driving an older-model car feels like a crime.

“What was this one on parole for?”

Lentz pretends not to hear the question.

“What was he on parole for?” Kyung repeats, loud enough to turn heads this time.

“It was rape, okay? Jesus, be quiet.” Lentz collects his photos and walks away, disappearing down the corridor.

Kyung knew the answer before he heard it. He knew the minute he saw Marina leaving the house. As she walked down the front steps, the wind lifted a corner of the bedsheet and he caught a glimpse of her bare skin. There were rope burns around her ankles. He could guess what the ropes were for. Marina is young and pretty—a nice Bosnian girl with a figure that’s hard not to notice. Usually, she cleans for his parents on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’s Saturday now. He wonders how long they were trapped in that house together, and his chest begins to tighten. He wants to know what they did to his mother. He does, but he doesn’t.

Across the room, Gillian appears, her long red hair looking even wilder than usual. She seems harried, as if she sped the entire way and left the headlights on in the parking lot. She tries to squeeze into the waiting area, but three officers form a wall to block her from entering. Before Kyung can get up, his father-in-law pushes the men aside and leads her through the crowd, depositing her in the empty seat next to Kyung.

“Where’s the kid?” Connie asks.

“I finally got a neighbor to watch him.” She takes Kyung’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “Tim told me everything on the phone. I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be here right now, Gilly. Neither of you, really. Maybe you should both head home for the night.”

“Dad,” Gillian snaps. “We’ll decide whether to stay or go.”

Kyung has seen this a thousand times. Connie pushing, Gillian pushing back. Tim could never get away with it, but Gillian always does, probably because she’s a girl, the baby of the family. Connie returns to a huddle of older officers, most of whom are standing with their arms crossed or their hands in their pockets as if they’re waiting for something. Waiting for what? he wonders.

“Who’s looking after Ethan?”

“Marianne.”

He pictures all the women in their neighborhood, unable to match the name with a face. “Which one is she?”

“Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. What do you need right now?”

A gun comes to mind, not that he’d know what to do with it. “I couldn’t even tell you.”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, rubbing circles into his back.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. He told her to stay home with Ethan, but now that she’s sitting beside him, Kyung doesn’t mind. Gillian knows he’s not a talker; he never has been. She doesn’t press him for details or ask any unnecessary questions. She just reaches into her book bag and hands him a bottle of water. Then she opens one for herself. He wonders if she’ll offer him a cookie or granola bar next because this is who she is now, the type of woman who carries snacks in her bag. They sit like this for several minutes, looking around the room but not speaking to each other. Kyung studies the elderly couple wedged in the corner, shaded by the canopy of a potted palm. The husband is dressed in pajamas and a robe, sucking oxygen from a portable tank while his wife flips through a Reader’s Digest. No one has spoken to them since they checked in. The construction worker too. He’s been waiting even longer, holding a melting bag of ice against his bloody thumb.

In high school, Kyung spent most of his spare time in hospitals, doing internships or community service. He liked watching the doctors race through the halls, so competent and professional, motivated by purpose. It never occurred to him that he’d be anything other than a doctor when he grew up, an idea he was quickly disabused of after dropping out of med school. Now hospitals make him nervous. He dislikes their antiseptic smell and sickly desert color palettes. And the whispering—so much whispering—like the walls will collapse if the sound level rises above a murmur. Occasionally, Kyung overhears something about the mayor or next year’s union contract. But mostly, the conversation is about his parents—what happened, what the cops think happened, what will probably happen next. He learns that Jin has multiple broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a concussion. Marina is in surgery—for what, he doesn’t know. The cops refer to the men who did this as animals and degenerates. They say the dead guy is lucky that he’s dead. Only once does he hear any mention of his mother. That poor f*cking woman, someone says, which sends Kyung’s eyes straight to the ceiling, to an old water stain blooming on the paint. It feels like the roof is about to fall on top of him.