Ki-jeong glowered coldly at Do-jun. He stared right back at her, not looking the slightest bit defeated. Was it the way he looked at her? Or was she once again just doing what someone expected of her? Ki-jeong entered the counselor’s office and locked the door behind her with a loud click. Do-jun slipped his legs off of the desk and sat up straight. Ki-jeong took off her slipper. It was the stolen slipper Do-jun had given her. She clutched it in her right hand and brought it down with all of her strength on the boy. Do-jun let out a yelp. He curled up like a bug to avoid the next blow. But the moment Ki-jeong stopped, he lifted his head and stared at her with eyes that seemed to flash and say, Go on, hit me again. She had no doubt that was what they said.
Later, she realized it. The part she’d failed to remember at the time. The truth was that the “learners” were not being shocked at all; they were only pretending to be in pain. The “learners” were all professional actors.
Do-jun had planned on getting hit. The principal had strictly banned corporal punishment, and Do-jun knew that the teachers all knew this. Do-jun’s probation would be lifted, and Ki-jeong would be punished instead. After all, the person who had pushed for a strong punishment was her and her alone.
8
As darkness spread and lights flickered on one after the other, the ruin of #157 revealed itself: the blown-out walls and incinerated kitchen, the half-obliterated armoire, the chest of drawers burnt beyond recognition, the caved-in living room ceiling, the melted lump of a cassette deck, the fallen kitchen counter, the dining table collapsed on its burnt legs, the sofa reduced to its metal frame and burnt springs.
The only undamaged thing visible from the living room were the trees in the yard. Flowers had come into full bloom in the blackened earth and endured a crestfallen spring before wilting. Now, tender green leaves sprouted in their place. The dried and yellowed petals lying on the ground were quiet proof of how much time had passed.
There should have been an out-of-style chandelier hanging from the ceiling, its dim light straining to escape a thick layer of dust. There should have been a sofa against the wall to the right, the leather worn and the yellow stuffing poking through. The wall to the left should have had a long console with a boxy television set sitting on top. Now it was all gone.
In contrast, Se-oh’s room was relatively unscathed. The ceramic angel music box was still in its usual spot on the bookshelf, unmarred by even the slightest trace of ash. The angel’s gray eyes cast a benevolent gaze on Se-oh. She turned it so it was facing away. Having her father look at her like that was enough.
If that person on the stretcher really was my father, Se-oh had thought upon arriving at the hospital, then at least he was able to move with each tilt of the stretcher. He could wave his hand to signal that he needed help, and groan to request medical attention.
Her father had lain in the hospital bed wrapped in bandages from head to toe. It had given her a sliver of hope that maybe this wasn’t really her father after all. The only proof that it was him was the name written on the chart at the foot of the bed.
Se-oh was summoned by the doctor as Su-chang Yun’s legal guardian. The doctor sounded impatient and unfriendly each time he spoke, and he used too much medical jargon, the vast majority of which she couldn’t understand. But she had no trouble understanding that her father was in critical condition, that treatment was difficult, and that he was very likely to die. Even without the doctor’s brusque explanation, the full-body bandages and the fleet of medical equipment attached to him left her in despair.
The hospital was hot, and the hospital room was even hotter, but Se-oh had kept her purple trench coat on and refused to sit down the whole time she was there, just in case her father opened his eyes and looked up at her. She wanted him to see her wearing the coat he’d bought for her. Based on what the doctor had said, the odds were high he would never get to see it for himself and, sure enough, that was what happened.
The first morning after his funeral was silent. There was no grunting as her father hoisted his dumbbells, no grumbling as he read the newspaper, no rattling of the pressure cooker valve to signal that the rice was done, none of his usual belches upon finishing his breakfast, and no audible gulps that followed when he noticed Se-oh’s frown and struggled to squelch any more burps from escaping. Her father feared Se-oh above all others. He wanted to stay on her good side. He loved her more than anyone.
No matter how she looked back at them now, Se-oh knew that those mornings and nights, days and nights, nights and nights filled with those sounds had been monotonous and dull. And yet, those same sounds struck her now as beautiful. The clanking of dumbbells, the crackling of pork on the grill, even her father’s belches. Se-oh, pour me some water. Se-oh, let’s eat. Se-oh, let’s clean. Se-oh, aren’t you going to watch TV? Se-oh, open the window. Se-oh, let’s fold the laundry. Those short, simple sentences had become the most beautiful in the world.
Those sounds and sentences were lost to her now. His unconditional love, his wordless yet tender gaze, his steely look of fatherly responsibility. All gone. They were each different, but to her they were all synonyms for a father. The life filled with such things had moved on. It had become one she could only miss.
As the days spent alone increased and the night chill subsided, she began thinking about her father less. Except, of course, when she saw the purple trench coat hanging on the wall like a framed picture, or when she passed a man on the street who was of similar age as her father, or when she woke in the morning to the absence of dumbbells, or when she went to bed at night without saying good night, or when she smelled pork marinated in gochujang, or when she saw a large dog, or when she saw the scuffed, round toes of shoes in the street, or when she dropped by the burned remains of #157. In other words, other than most of the time, she did not think of him.
She was doing relatively okay. It bewildered her at times that she could go on living after losing her father and her home. While staying in the hospital with her bandaged father, she had still gotten hungry at mealtimes. She had eaten in the hospital cafeteria every day. At first it had felt like she was just stuffing herself without even tasting the food. But when she began to realize that the food itself simply had no flavor, she resented her intestines for their powers of rapid digestion. Sometimes, she took breaks from sitting beside her father to watch TV in the waiting room only to catch herself laughing at whatever was on. When an elderly woman watching the same show asked, “What did they just say?” Se-oh had repeated the line back to her.
She tried to stay in the house at first. She slept on a thick blanket that she spread on a piece of plywood but was shocked to discover that it hurt her back and left her unable to sleep. Even at a time like that, her body could still register discomfort. In the morning, her face was black with ash that had fallen from the ceiling. She washed her face thoroughly with cold water and put on a thick layer of moisturizing cream. It helped to calm her anger and her sadness, albeit temporarily.
Se-oh sat on the waterlogged floor and stared at the blackened sofa. She pictured her father’s final moments. Sitting quietly on the sofa, his face stoic, waiting too long for someone to come, until he was unable to get himself to safety. Debating whether to call for help, only to give up and tell himself that it would make no difference. Watching as the house turned black and fell around him, as he thought about his daughter.
Who had put him through that? She thought about the faceless voice she’d sometimes heard outside the front door. The man who had threatened her father, made him feel his life was worthless, made him fear life, pushed him further into debt, and drove him to walk into the arms of death.
Now, with everything gone, she wasn’t sure why she kept thinking about the debt collector or why it felt so important to find out who he was. Clueless as to his identity, she thought about him through the cold, dark nights that had grown so familiar. She thought about him in dreams that unspooled with no end. She thought about him night after night spent lying on th
e floor. She thought about him as the pea-green shoots on the tree branches turned to deep green leaves. She thought about how he had pressured her father and threatened him and terrorized him and turned everything to ruin.
Daytime Se-oh regarded those nighttime thoughts as wrong. Even with everything so unclear, that at least she was sure of. Nighttime Se-oh was stupid. So stupid that she tried to rest her crude, worthless heart on the things she’d lost.
Daytime Se-oh thought her nighttime self was awful. But she soon realized something. The only worthwhile part of her life was the time that she’d spent at home with her father.
Daytime Se-oh, to say nothing of nighttime Se-oh, knew just how stupid and awful she was. Did that man know he was no better? Or had he looked down on her father as worthless without realizing he was worthless, too? The thought of it made her so angry that it brought tears to her eyes. Her rage was indescribable. The reason for it was simple. She had nothing left in this world to love.
Se-oh packed the items that remained at #157 in a cardboard box. Her father’s shoes with the rounded toes. It was fortunate they’d survived. His clothes were useless. The moment she laundered them, they would lose his scent and shape. But his shoes held the memory of his feet. She packed the reading glasses he had worn whenever he read the newspaper or checked his credit card statements. They were half-melted in their case. She packed her father’s dental floss and his special toothpaste for treating his gums. She packed the music box and the letters and the few books that had survived the flood of fire hoses. Anything at least partially intact was added until the box was full.
She was taking a last look around when she spotted something sticking out from under the scorched cupboard. A claw hammer. The head was about the size of her fist, one end snub-nosed and the other curving into two broad forks. It appeared to have survived the fire by hiding under the cupboard. The end of the handle was charred, but once the ash was brushed off, it was still serviceable. The wooden handle felt agreeably warm. Perhaps in some deep, fathomless core, an ember was still burning. In stark contrast to the handle’s warmth, the steel head was cold.
She squeezed the hammer tight. Her father had used it to hang the calendar on the wall. He had also used it the first time Se-oh brought home an award. He’d framed the award and hung it next to the calendar using that hammer. If she had managed to graduate, he probably would have used it again to hang a photo of her in cap and gown.
The air felt like rain. A damp breeze stirred the ashes. She carried the box out of the house and slowly turned to look back at it. This place contained the past. All of which had burned. The many days of the future that had not yet come were here also. They, too, had burned.
This parting was not particularly painful. The burned and blackened things and the smell, as if the fire were still burning, overwhelmed Se-oh’s memories. It made it easy for her to brush off the compassion, honor, generosity, and other high-minded ideas that had dwelled in that house. She sensed that the days of disappointment and suffering and anger, followed by feeling nothing at all, only to once again be brought to the verge of tears, would go on and on. They would parade by, numberless and identical. The future was a dark corridor. And though she would grope her way through it, the door at the end would be locked tight.
Se-oh carried her heavy box into that dark corridor. The alleyways that she’d always taken before were as dark and narrow and silent as her future. It felt heartless. There’d been quiet nights before. Nights when no children cried next door, when the noises of everyday life did not come from the crowded flats across the street. Late nights when no dogs barked or cars drove past or televisions blared. The silence now was thicker and denser than those nights.
While staying alone at #157, Se-oh had taken care to enter without anyone seeing her, to pass the nights with no light, to leave before it grew bright, and to return after it was dark. She did not cross paths with anyone. She’d been sure that none of her neighbors knew she was staying there.
But the silence now told her she’d been mistaken. It was a determined silence. It left her feeling convinced that they’d known all along that #157 was occupied. After all, no one had used it as their garbage dump. They’d collected the mail and stacked it neatly inside the entryway. They’d placed rocks on top to keep it from blowing away and covered it to keep the rain off. There weren’t even any signs of children having snuck in to play in the door-less, wall-less house.
That thought made Se-oh stop and look back. She’d been accepting of everything while packing up their belongings, but standing there in the narrow alleyway, receiving her neighbors’ silent send-off, she suddenly felt staggered by it all.
The night was moving slowly. Se-oh resumed walking. Soon she was at the end of the alley. She put down the box and sat next to the sleeping dog to stroke its head. The dog woke and looked up at her sweetly.
When she stood and picked up the box again, she realized it wasn’t that heavy after all. She felt like she was finally grown. It wasn’t until much later when she looked back that she realized it wasn’t she who had grown that night. It was the anger pent up inside her, which had sprouted big and tall. But even knowing that didn’t change her belief that she’d become an adult that night.
9
The principal sat at his desk, the look on his face saying he was sick of doing paperwork. But to Ki-jeong’s surprise, there was no Do-jun posing contritely, his head hanging low in pretend shame, nor even one of his parents rushing into the office to plead with them to go easy on him or simply to make her life hell. How strange—for those who’d given her so much trouble to be so quiet now.
The principal was short but solidly built, his movements somehow heavy-looking, as if he were carrying a stack of bricks on each shoulder. He sighed frequently. It was the same no matter what he was doing—whether delivering a formal address or scolding teachers or bestowing certificates of merit on students up on stage. Ki-jeong wondered if he knew this about himself.
“Still busy with grading?” the principal asked abruptly, without inviting Ki-jeong to sit down first. He didn’t look like he was expecting an actual response.
Ki-jeong shifted from foot to foot and said no.
“That’s good.”
The principal stood up from his desk and walked over to the sofa, gesturing for Ki-jeong to sit with him. The sofa was large and plush; if you weren’t careful, you could end up looking too comfortable sitting on it. Ki-jeong perched right on the edge and wondered what could possibly be good about not being busy.
The principal stared at her for a moment without saying anything. Ki-jeong kept quiet, too. She was always at a loss for what to say whenever she found herself alone with the principal. He was always so silent and would merely stare at her, as if waiting for her to say something first. Then he’d let out another sigh. When she finally did manage to drag something out of her mouth, he never paid attention, forcing her to repeat the same words over and over. Then he’d point out the mistakes in what she’d said or respond as if she hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. Talking to him always left her feeling deflated.
A chorus of laughter arose from a group of children cleaning up the flowerbed outside the window. One of them said something loudly, and a volley of noise followed. The principal’s office grew chillier and more uncomfortable. He started to get up from the couch. Ki-jeong assumed he was going to close the window, so she jumped up first and closed it for him. He let out a small sigh.
When she sat back down, the principal slid an envelope toward her. He said nothing, but his demeanor demanded that she take a good look at it.
Inside were two sheets of paper. One contained a list of items that could be purchased at a stationery store or grocery store. Ki-jeong immediately guessed what it was and confirmed her guess when she saw the word “slippers” included there. The other was a doctor’s certificate showing that Do-jun had been hospitalized. Ki-jeong had to hold back her nausea when she saw it.
The principal muttered something that Ki-jeong couldn’t quite make out. But despite his slurring of the words “bribery” and “assault,” she got the gist of it.
He pointed to her slippers and said, “I presume those are the offending objects?” He followed with another sigh. She wasn’t sure if the offense referred to the fact that the slippers were stolen goods or that she’d hit a child with them. The principal said nothing more but simply gazed at Ki-jeong for a moment longer and returned to his desk.
Ki-jeong stayed put on the sofa. It wasn’t fair. She wished she could get her thoughts in order and argue with him. He kept on sighing and sniffing through what sounded like a congested nose. He didn’t tell her to leave, and she made no move to do so.
The minutes ticked by. The principal picked up his phone. After a moment, he said, “Yes, it’s me. Could you come here? It’s regarding the substitute homeroom teacher for Room 6.” Finally, Ki-jeong stood and slowly shuffled out of the office, letting the stolen slippers that Do-jun had given her drag across the floor.
As soon as she stepped into the teachers’ lounge, a group of teachers who’d been huddled together and talking went silent all at once and hurried back to their seats. Clearly, word had gotten out. Ki-jeong’s hands shook; she tried to pull her bag out from under her desk but dropped it instead. Trig picked up the items strewn across the floor. Ki-jeong tried to smile at him.
Failure. Her face was too frozen in place to smile. Any thought she’d had of playing it cool flew out the window, along with her determination to show that she could handle anything, even an injustice like this.
Trig stared at her as he handed her things back. If the guidance counselor and the closed-circuit camera that recorded everything were what had revealed that she’d mercilessly beat a student, then was Trig the one who had told everyone she’d been taking bribes from Do-jun? Hadn’t she wanted to show off to her fellow teachers, to brag about how popular she was among the students while sharing with them the gifts Do-jun had given her? Maybe Trig had caught on to her vanity.
The Law of Lines Page 5