by James Zerndt
Hyo won’t stop. Moon can’t think. The crying is like a wrench being jammed into the gears of his mind. He knows he should get something for him, but what? Milk? No, he’s not supposed to be drinking milk. His wife doesn’t want him using the bottle anymore. Solids. What solids? He grabs a rice cracker from a bowl on the counter, offers it to Hyo. Hyo snatches it from his hand, splutters out one of the few words he knows.
“No, no, no, no...”
Hyo tosses the cracker on the floor.
It falls into the air vent.
The vent is made of wood, the pieces all interlocking together like a puzzle. It’s one of Hyo’s favorite things to play with. Take apart. Destroy. It’s a big NO. Moon and his wife are trying to teach him that. But it’s ridiculous since everything is quickly becoming a NO.
Moon goes for the couch. There’s a bottle hidden under the cushion. He takes a swallow. Then another. He’s already drunk. He knows that. But a little more drunk won’t matter.
Something about the hands of God...
His wife’s mother is asleep in the next room. Hyo’s hal-mu-nee helps sometimes, but she’s too old to do much. Hyo is just too fast for her. She never says anything, but Moon can tell she’s just as baffled by the baby as he is. There’s just something relentless about him, something...
Hyo’s stopped crying, stopped following Moon around. He’s on the floor with his hand groping through the wooden grate. He’s trying to get his rice cracker but not having much luck. He pulls the grate out of the floor. It’s taller than Hyo and weighs just about as much him.
Then the crying starts up again.
Moon goes to him, the crying sawing away at the insides of his skull. “No,” Moon tells him and tries to take the grate from him.
But it only makes Hyo cry louder.
“NO!” Moon tells him again, his voice growing louder.
Hyo doesn’t like this. He starts twisting and swinging the gate around. It hits Moon in the side of the face. It shocks Moon at first. Hyo’s hit him! And on purpose. Moon could tell by the defiant look on his face. It isn’t the first time Moon’s sensed that the baby hates him. It’s been going on for months and months. Crying whenever his mother hands him to Moon. And not just crying, screaming at the top of his lungs and not stopping until he hands him back.
It both saddened and angered Moon. He did his part after all. Changed the diapers. Bottle-fed him. Sang lullabies to him. Even made up silly songs to sing for him. He did all these things, but it never seemed to matter much. It was always like he was a stranger in his own house. Even his wife had become a stranger. Everything revolved around the baby. Everything. There was no time for them anymore. And when there was time, it was spent trying to catch up on sleep.
Misery. That was the only word for it. Moon had heard horror stories about having children, but he always thought people were overreacting. That other people were somehow weak, and that he could handle it.
He’d been wrong. Dead wrong.
Mon was slowly being dismantled, day by day, minute by minute, by a twenty-three-pound baby.
Something about judgment and God calling...
Hyo won’t stop crying. He wants his cracker. The crying is getting louder. More high-pitched. Moon can’t think. Everything is closing in around him. He can’t breathe. “Stop,” he says to Hyo. “Please just stop.”
But Hyo doesn’t stop. Hyo never stops. The tears keep coming. It’s amazing how many can pour out of such a tiny body. When Moon tries to take the grate from him, Hyo swings it away again.
Hyo’s face is red. It looks like it’s going to explode.
Moon can’t take it anymore. He buries his head in his hands, pulls at his hair. “Please stop, Hyo. Please stop crying.”
Moon cries. Sobs. His whole body convulsing.
His tears aren’t like Hyo’s though. Hyo’s seem to spill from the surface, while Moon’s are being dredged up from somewhere deep inside. From some place he didn’t know even existed.
“No,” Hyo says again.
Like he’s mocking Moon.
“No, no, no,” he chants.
It’s too much for Moon. He grabs Hyo’s arm, yanks him more violently than he intends to, and there’s a loud POP.
For about four seconds, everything goes frighteningly quiet. Something’s wrong.
Moon’s vision is blurry. From the crying. The drinking.
He wipes the tears away, sees Hyo staring back at him, his mouth open, his face nearly white. Then Moon sees it. Hyo’s arm through the grate.
It’s just hanging there. Limp.
Something isn’t right.
The rice cracker falls from Hyo’s hand, and the screaming begins. It’s different than Hyo’s normal cries. Louder. A hellish pitch to it that’s stabbing away at Moon’s heart over and over again.
Something about sinning...
He feels sick.
Oh, Jesus. What has he done?
Something about the devil laughing and opening his wings...
Moon picks Hyo up and heads for the car. He has to stop on the way to throw up over Hyo’s shoulder. He can hear Hyo’s hal-mu-nee screaming behind him, but Moon ignores her.
Hyo needs him now.
His boy finally needs him.
Yun-ji
Her father had been the catalyst. The reason why she drank the soju when Shaun offered it to her. It burned her throat, but even so, Yun-ji drank every time he passed the bottle to her. And soon the burning went down into her stomach.
Where it glowed.
Along with the hatred for her father.
While they were sitting on one of the park benches, Shaun complained about the constant whirring of the cicadas, so Yun-ji pulled one off a nearby tree and told him how she’d heard that people in Japan liked to eat them. When she raised it to her mouth, he looked both amazed and disgusted.
“If you eat that, I don’t know if I’ll be able to kiss you after.”
“Who said anything about kissing?”
Yun-ji laughed and gently placed the maemi back where she found it. “I have no intent of eating it.”
“But I have every intent of kissing you.”
It was a silly thing to say, but Yun-ji didn’t mind. It should have stopped there, but Yun-ji didn’t want to go back home. Didn’t want to see her mother. Or smell her father. So when Shaun said they should go back to his friend’s apartment for a nightcap, Yun-ji didn’t say no.
The apartment was empty, the friend out for a night of dancing in Seoul. She had been worried at first, about being alone with Shaun, but that all went away when he started showing her pictures of his family. He was from Iowa. She’d heard of it before. Fat, friendly people lived there. But Shaun’s family wasn’t fat. There was a picture of him standing between his mother and father, the three of them with their arms around each other. It was sweet. All of them smiling these big open smiles.
Yun-ji had a photo like that. It was taken when she was a little girl, with her grandfather and grandmother. They’d just gotten home from the parade. Her grandfather marched in it every year, to show his appreciation for the sacrifices made during the war. He never had an un-kind word to say about the Americans. He’d fought side-by-side with them, seen them die for their country. Yun-ji loved watching him get dressed up in his old uniform, the way the patches and pendants shone on his jacket, the proud look her grandmother would always beam at him.
She missed her grandfather and the stories he would tell about the old Korea. The Korea that didn’t have a big, ugly scar running across it. His face always lit up when he talked about his childhood and the games they would play, the simple pleasures they took from life. It had sounded magical to Yun-ji. And it must have been because her grandfather’s eyes would start to sparkle and dance as he looked off across the room into some invisible place only he could see.
But it never lasted long enough for Yun-ji. She wanted her grandfather to always be in that place, to be surrounded by family and all the good things
he spoke of, but the memories always seemed to slip away just as he started to get a hold of them. Then he would sigh and lower his head, his eyes misting over. “But that’s all gone now, Yun-ji. And I’m afraid I won’t live long enough to see this country whole again.”
Yun-ji handed the photos back to Shaun. “They look like nice people.”
“I miss them,” he said and carefully tucked the photos back into his wallet. “Especially my mom. My dad, too. But it’s different with my dad, you know.”
Yun-ji nodded. Yes, she knew.
They were sitting in the kitchen and, above the stove, taped to one of the cabinets, was a calendar with a photo of a tiger for June. It was the symbol for a unified Korea. Her grandfather always believed there were Siberian tigers living in the Demilitarized Zone between the North and South. He would make trips up into the high country, looking for evidence, even up until his last days. He told her once that it wasn’t just about the tigers, that it was about hopes and dreams. He would show her pictures he’d taken of giant paw prints in the dirt or tree trunks clawed to shreds. “Who else could have done something like this?” he would ask Yun-ji with a smile playing on his weathered lips. “A Siberian rabbit?”
Shaun poured more soju into the coffee mug they were drinking from, passed it to Yun-ji. “You okay?”
She hesitated, took another drink for courage, and then pointed to the calendar and began to explain her grandfather’s theory. As she talked, she watched Shaun’s face and the way his eyes never looked away.
“I used to have dreams about living in the DMZ after he tell me these stories. I was always alone. Well, except for the tigers. They were my only friend.” When Shaun didn’t say anything, Yun-ji reached for the coffee cup. “It is silly, I know.”
“No, not at all. Your grandfather seems like a real special guy.” Shaun took the cup back when Yun-ji offered it to him, took a deep swallow. “I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, but I have a buddy who does night patrols along the DMZ. He said sometimes in the middle of the night they hear explosions. I guess they still have tons of old land mines everywhere up there, and every now and then one of them gets triggered accidentally. Usually by deer, they think. I hope it wasn’t any of your grandfather’s tigers. That would be a shame.”
The thought made Yun-ji shudder, but she smiled, deciding it was best not to discuss it anymore. It didn’t seem right somehow. “Do you, um, work by the DMZ too?”
“No, no. I’m not so lucky as that. Most of my work is done on the base. Kind of boring stuff if you want to know the truth.” He paused, leaned forward a little. “How about your father. Does he like Americans?”
Her father was the last thing Yun-ji wanted to think about. He blamed the Americans for everything wrong in Korea. He always said that the war was between the Soviets and the United States and that they just used their country as a battlefield.
Yun-ji took another sip. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
“Okay by me.” Shaun stood from the table. “We don’t have to talk at all if you don’t want.” He walked to the kitchen counter, turned a small radio on. “Do people in Korea dance?”
Yun-ji felt light-headed. Was this why her father drank? To feel blurry? Were his wife and daughter that unbearable? K-pop music was playing. It sounded fast and silly to Yun-ji, but she slow-danced around the kitchen with Shaun anyway. It was nice. His arms felt solid and warm around her. She leaned her head against him and could feel the beating of his heart.
“This is going to sound like a line, but I don’t mean it to. I like you, Yun-ji. I mean, I know we don’t know each other all that well yet or anything, but I really do like you.”
Yun-ji felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. Probably her mother. Or Soo. Not tonight, she thought. Not a chance.
“I like you, too. You are not like I thought.”
“And what did you think?”
Yun-ji’s father used to tell stories about his time in the ROK and how they’d make fun of the Americans behind their backs. Go home, Megook. And take your war with you.
“I don’t know,” Yun-ji said and looked up at him. When he kissed her, it felt different than any other kiss she’d had before. Like it was her first real kiss. Her phone buzzed in her pocket again. This time Yun-ji turned it off, and, when Shaun gently pulled her toward the bedroom, she let him.
Who was the nun-in-training now?
When she got home early in the morning, her mother was still waiting up for her. But, instead of yelling at her like Yun-ji expected, her mother sat her down and made her watch the news.
Two girls had been run over by a U.S. tank.
When it was over, Yun-ji ran to the bathroom and threw up.
Billie
Everything looked different in the light of day.
The restaurants seemed less imposing without all the blinking lights and hardly anybody was out. Which made me want to stop everywhere along our way to school and investigate. The trash people leave out here: tables and chairs, a couch, this cool poster with a rooster on it, a set of perfectly good dishes. I’m totally nabbing the rooster and dishes later.
Joe found a coffee vending machine on the sidewalk. Like not outside of a store or anything, just sort of hanging out on its own. Joe dropped in a few coins, then started randomly punching buttons and out popped a little paper cup of steaming coffee. With cream. Or milk. We weren’t sure. But, whatever it was, it was good.
And only 500 won. Which, I think, is about 50 cents.
I was so in love with the dumb coffee machine, and so proud of Joe for managing the feat, that I almost didn’t notice what was across the street from us. There it stood, just two blocks from our apartment. The big numbers 7 and 11 stretching across the front in hideous green, red, and orange.
Like a banner announcing the end of the world.
Somebody, somewhere is laughing at me.
This much I’m certain of.
So, of course, we went in. Much to my relief, though, everything in the 7-11 was Korean. There was milk. But at least it was Korean milk. Yay! There were Snicker bars, but the writing (on one side anyway) was in Korean.
We left without buying anything since we only had a few minutes to find the school, but I have a feeling we’ll be back. We walked another block, and, just as the school started coming into view, somebody rollerbladed past us. It was just about the last thing I expected to see. Well, besides a 7-11 I guess.
The guy whirled around on one blade using his back foot like a rudder. It was the same guy from the dinner last night. The one that kept staring at me. But I felt so completely lost, so unsure of the very ground beneath me, that he seemed like some kind of superhero to me right then.
Well, a nerdy superhero. If they have those.
“How was the flight?” he asked, speaking mainly to Joe.
“Long,” Joe said, forever the chatterbox.
“I remember mine. They had me start the same afternoon. But don’t worry, you get used to it. You’ll see.”
With that he spun around, legs pumping, nerd-cape flapping in the wind.
“He didn’t even tell us his name,” I said, trying to sound like those people at the end of Lone Ranger episodes.
Joe just shrugged.
We trudged ahead, managing to make it to the school on time, the wonderful T.G.I.F. sign looming over us as we entered the lower level. It was quiet, nobody around, so we decided to take the elevator up to the third floor rather than the stairs.
Joe grabbed my hand.
It was sweet.
Like, hold on, here we go. Sometimes he can be so perfect.
Then I started to notice something. It sounded like a jumbo jet was passing overhead. Only it was all muted. Like the jet was passing through a giant pillow. I squeezed Joe’s hand. The elevator stopped with a ding, and a computer-animated voice said, “Sam hamnida.”
Joe leaned over, whispered, “That means run while you still can in Korean.”
I did
n’t smile.
I was too nervous. Petrified, more like.
As soon as they laid eyes on us they were going to know Joe and I didn’t belong here, that we never went to college, that the only thing I really knew how to do was write bad poetry.
The doors opened and the sound of the jet magnified to sonic boom. Only the sound didn’t stop. It was like one long bomb exploding. I got an instant hangover. In front of us, teeming around the lobby waiting to go inside, were approximately one billion screaming Korean kids. And the adults watching them didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary going on.
Must be a parent thing.
Or they were all secretly wearing earplugs.
The doors of the school opened just as we stepped out of the elevator, and, there, behind a twenty-foot long reception desk, sat three beautiful Korean women.
And I don’t mean these women were pretty.
Or cute.
They were beautiful.
Think Korean Barbies.
And Joe was grinning from ear to ear.
Great. Just great.
Moon
Like she’s letting Hyo walk off a cliff.
That’s how his wife looks every time Moon picks him up.
“Do you think Korea will win the match,” Moon asks as they walk toward the park. “It’s a pretty important one from what I understand.”
Hyo doesn’t respond. He only speaks a word here or there.
His wife thinks he might be autistic.
Moon, of course, has another theory.
As a baby, Hyo used to talk constantly. It was all gibberish, but he would always gesture grandly when he babbled.
Like he was explaining the universe to Moon.
“Do you like Ahn-jung-wan? I bet he’s your favorite.”
Hyo nods his head slightly. It’s something.
It shocks Moon every time just how different Hyo looks now. Like what Moon always imagined him to be. Like a kid. Like a real kid.