Shelter

by Jung Yun

  “If you think too much, you won’t ever accomplish anything.”

  Had the words been phrased differently—a little kinder, a little earlier in life—they could have formed the basis for something meaningful passed down from father to son. But said in this moment, they don’t resemble advice so much as judgment.

  “It’s crazy to sell your house so she can decorate a new one. The market—you’re going to get killed.” Kyung regrets his choice of words, but his other option—you’re going to take a beating—is no better than the first. “You’re not going to get what that place is worth, not even close.”

  “I don’t have to worry about things like that anymore.”

  It’s hard to tell whether Jin is bragging or simply being objective about his wealth. But either way, he’s earned the right not to worry, to do something foolish because he wants to and can.

  “It’s your decision, I guess.” Kyung pulls the covers over Ethan. “You should take those off now.”

  “Take what off?”

  He motions toward Jin’s glasses. “You’ll break them.”

  “I can’t sleep without them anymore.”

  Kyung nods, aware on some level that sharing a bed with Ethan, feeling the boy’s warm breath and small hands against his skin, probably helps his father feel safe. But their closeness has the opposite effect on him. “Tomorrow,” he says.

  “You’ll call the realtor for me tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. Tomorrow, you have to let him sleep in his own bed.”

  * * *

  Gertie is clearly pleased with the house when she pulls into the driveway. She bounds out of her car like a Labrador and starts taking pictures of the exterior, something she never bothered to do at Kyung and Gillian’s. Instead of the conservative black pantsuit he saw her wearing last, she’s dressed in a T-shirt and shorts with a sweater wrapped around her waist, and her hair is tied back into a stubby ponytail that looks like a paintbrush.

  “Morning,” she calls out. “What a gorgeous home your parents have. Absolutely beautiful.”

  He’s standing on the front steps waiting for her, but she continues to click away with her camera, assuming what hasn’t been agreed to yet—that the listing is hers to sell. Kyung is content to wait and stare at the sky, which is cloudless and blue, still like water. He doesn’t remember when the seasons changed and spring finally turned into summer.

  “Sorry about the workout clothes,” she says sheepishly. “I’d just finished with my trainer when you called.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” he says, bracing himself for her furious handshake as she joins him on the steps.

  He didn’t expect her to be available the same day he called, but he could sense something change in her voice as he gave her the details. A property in the Heights seemed to interest her. The address did too. Is it one of those houses at the very top of the hill? she asked. And as soon as he confirmed it: yes, of course, she said. How soon could he meet her there?

  Gertie snaps a photo of the garage and two more of the lawn. “Nice landscaping,” she says. “But I can see why your parents want to sell, given their situation.”

  He glances at her, confused by her cheerful tone.

  “It’s a lot of upkeep,” she continues. “Way too much for an older couple.”

  Gertie doesn’t seem to understand what happened here, but Kyung isn’t sure if he’s obligated to tell her, if a crime is something he has to disclose, like a leaky roof or a bad furnace. He holds the front door open and follows her into the entryway, which has been cleared of its rubble, leaving only a tall bronze coatrack and a matching umbrella stand.

  Gertie runs her hand along the polished wood banister. “Stunning,” she says. “The details are in pristine condition.”

  Her enthusiasm for his parents’ house is so different from her reaction to his own, which in retrospect was largely disinterested and diagnostic. Having never seen this house before, Gertie doesn’t understand all of the things that are wrong with it. And she misses the clues—the stains on the drapes that the dry cleaner couldn’t remove, the faint discolorations on the walls where so many paintings used to hang, but no longer do.

  “Did your parents restore everything themselves, or was the work already done when they got here?”

  The house had been built in the 1800s. The previous owners bought it as a wreck and spent nearly ten years on renovations, only to run out of money as the end was in sight. Jin quickly stepped in and bought the house, the furniture, and anything else the couple was willing to sell—even their massive boat, which had only touched water twice since changing hands. He was pleased with himself for finding such a bargain, which never sat right with Kyung. He often wondered what had happened to the couple and where they ended up.

  “All the big projects were done before my parents bought it,” he says. “Mostly, my mother just focused on the decorating.”

  They move into the living room, where Gertie examines a lamp with a base made of dark blue crystal. It was once part of a set, but its broken twin had to be swept out with the trash, lampshade and all.

  “She has an amazing eye for period pieces. Nothing in this room seems out of place.”

  Kyung feels like a goldfish in a pot, slowly being boiled to death as the water temperature rises. His palms are sweaty; the collar of his shirt is too tight. Gertie keeps walking past the vague outlines on the walls where things used to hang. She notices only the ornate built-in bookshelves, not the gaps left behind by the books that were destroyed. She admires the high-back sofas upholstered in pale beige silk, but has no idea about the stains and tears on the undersides of their cushions.

  “Forced-air heat?” she asks, studying the antlerlike shadow of a chandelier.

  He’d forgotten about the list in his pocket that his father wrote out for him. He unfolds the sheet of paper and scans Jin’s shaky penmanship. “Yes. Forced air,” he says, and because the information is right there in front of him, he adds: “Three zones. And central air too.”

  “My goodness.”

  Gertie has wandered into the dining room, where she’s opened the built-in china cabinet in the corner. He doesn’t know whether her remark was about the heating system, or the number of place settings behind the door—enough to feed twenty-four. Each plate and bowl, saucer and cup is rimmed in gold. Real gold, Kyung recalls Mae once saying. Not the cheap plated kind.

  “So if your parents are selling, I assume you’re not planning to rent out your house anymore?”

  “No, they’ll be staying with us for a while until they find something else.”

  She looks at him over her shoulder, radiating her best attempt at warmth. “I hope you’ll pass on my name if they need a realtor.”

  Kyung isn’t sure if he’s impressed by her frankness, or repulsed by it. “Do you sell a lot of houses in this price range?”

  “What was that?” Gertie leans toward him.

  It’s an odd reaction, he thinks. They’re standing less than three feet away from each other. He didn’t whisper the question; she could hear him just fine.

  “How many houses have you sold in this price range?”

  Gertie smiles and shakes her finger, pretending to admonish him. “I haven’t even told you how I’d price this house yet,” she says in a grating singsong.

  “I know, but—”

  “I’ve been the top seller in the area for the past eight years, and I’ve already cleared three million in sales since January.”

  “Yes, but that’s not really what I’m asking.” He doesn’t understand why she’s avoiding his question, but it’s obvious that she is. “If we can agree that this place is worth at least a million—”

  Gertie looks down at her hands as if she’s counting on them. “Two.”

  “Two what? This house is worth two?”

  “No, I’ve sold two houses in this price range,” she says briskly. “But you have to understand, property in the upper Heights
rarely comes up for sale, especially in this economy. You won’t find anyone in the area who sells more than I do.”

  Something in her voice crosses the line between eager and desperate, a lapse she seems to regret. She’s flustered all of a sudden, fiddling with the settings on the camera hanging from her neck. Until now, Kyung didn’t understand what Gertie, with her barrage of colorful billboards and bus ads, probably knew the second she pulled into the driveway—this house is out of her league. She’s like the Costco of realtors. She makes her money by selling in volume.

  “I’m still not sure my parents are actually going to sell. I feel like this is something they could change their minds about at any time.”

  She lowers her camera, drawing her lips into a thin smile. “Of course. It’s a very big decision. But we might as well finish looking around since I’m here. Can I see the upstairs now?”

  Kyung leads her through the kitchen and up the old servants’ staircase, ducking to avoid the low, angled ceiling as they wind their way to the second floor. He opens the doors for Gertie in the order they pass them—study, guest room, guest room, bathroom—unintentionally saving the master bedroom for the end of their tour. Mae cleaned this room herself, rejecting his repeated offers to help. Although he didn’t understand her insistence, he was almost grateful for it. He’d never seen where his parents slept before the attack, and he had no desire to see it afterward. He pushes the door open and stands by to let Gertie pass. The bedroom is large and square, sparsely decorated compared to the rest of the house. The air is musty, but light streams in through the lace-covered windows, brightening the pale green walls, which makes the room seem less forbidding than he imagined it. He steps inside, relieved to find everything neat and clean, absent of any reminders of what happened here.

  “This is a big master bedroom,” Gertie says. “It’s not common for a house this age.”

  “I think it used to be two rooms once.”

  “But your parents sleep in twin beds. If they do decide to sell, you might want to consider moving these out and getting a cheap king-size one instead.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just a generational thing. Younger buyers have to imagine themselves actually living here. They’re not going to be able to with these.”

  The matching twin beds are made of dark black wood, each with a four-poster frame. Gertie runs her hand down the length of a post, leading Kyung’s eyes to a cluster of scratches near the mattress before she moves on to the adjoining bathroom.

  “Any idea when the plumbing was last updated?” Her voice echoes off the cavernous tile walls.

  The information is right there on his sheet of paper, but Kyung can’t read it out loud. He’s petrified, shaking as if the temperature has just plummeted. He sees the room as it was that day, with Marina tied to one bed and Mae on the other. He sees their hands gripping the posts, their fingernails turning white and digging into the wood, clawing at it like animals when Nat Perry climbs on top of them. He flinches at the thought of each slap and punch, at the look on Mae’s face as Perry presses his thumbs into her throat. His piece of paper drops to the floor, but he leaves his empty hand extended.

  “Plumbing updates?” Gertie asks, popping her head out the bathroom door.

  Kyung sits down on the rug and covers his eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Are you sick?” She kneels down beside him. “Do you need a doctor?”

  When he doesn’t respond, Gertie opens her purse and rummages through the compartments. “I’m calling 911.”

  “No, don’t.”

  “Then tell me what’s going on.”

  He needs to pull himself together. He has to. But when his eyes are open, blurry with tears, he sees the room. And when his eyes are closed, he sees what happened here. All he wants to do is cut them out.

  “Please say something. Tell me what’s happening.”

  “Jesus,” he shouts. “Don’t you ever read the papers?”

  “What?”

  “My parents were attacked here. My mother was—raped here.”

  Gertie blinks as she looks around the room. Then she folds her arms over her chest as if she feels the same sudden cold that he does. “Didn’t someone die in this house?”

  He nods.

  “I heard about a home invasion in this area. I had no idea—”

  “It was here.” He punches the bed frame. “Right here.”

  He punches it again, harder this time, hearing the strong, sturdy sound of bone against wood. The pain travels up his arm, spreading deep into his shoulder, and he welcomes it, the complete inability to feel anything else. Gertie tries to pull him back, but not before he lands three more blows that crack the thick black veneer.

  “Let’s go,” Gertie pleads. “Let’s go now.”

  She helps him up and leads him to the kitchen, where he collapses in a chair, too stunned to speak or move. Kyung has never hit anything before—not an object, not a person—and he’s horrified for acting this way, for giving in to the impulse and liking the result. He wishes that Gertie would leave now, but it’s obvious she doesn’t intend to just yet. Although his back is to her, he can tell what she’s doing. Running the faucet, opening the cabinets, cracking ice from a tray into the sink.

  She returns with a plastic bag wrapped in a towel. “Here. This might help.”

  Two of Kyung’s knuckles are dark red. The one in the middle has already started to swell, rising high above the skin like a knot in a tree. The ice pack stings when she lays it over his hand, but he leaves it there, the pulsing blood fighting the numbing cold.

  “Thank you,” he says hoarsely.

  He looks up at her, and she does her best to smile, but her face is the color of chalk.

  “I’m so sorry,” he says, and suddenly he’s crying again.

  “Why? What do you have to be sorry about?”

  “For scaring you.”

  He’s never cared much for Gertie, but he realizes he should be grateful for her presence now. If not for her, he’d still be sitting on the floor, punching the bed frame until his bones turned to dust.

  “Oh, you can’t scare me,” she says unconvincingly. “I was just worried. Now, why don’t we have some tea? That always helps me relax.”

  Gertie puts a kettle of water on the stove. She comes back with two cups and saucers and a sampler basket still wrapped in cellophane and Christmas-colored ribbon. She slices through the packaging with her nails and rifles through the contents.

  “Calming Chamomile,” she reads aloud. “Revitalizing Ginger…” She lists off the names on every envelope, as if she doesn’t know what else to say. “Maybe we need something stronger. How about Earl Grey?”

  He doesn’t like tea, but he nods anyway, wiping his face on his sleeve.

  “So that day when I met you and Gillian at your house, when your mother was walking around without any clothes on—that was the day, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She scratches at a small chip on the edge of her saucer. “I was so booked up with appointments that week. I heard about what happened on the radio, but I didn’t really pay attention, I guess.”

  “Why would you? Who wants to think about something like that?”

  “I know, but a woman walking around naked in broad daylight … I should have made the connection.”

  “It’s better you didn’t.”

  The teakettle sings its alarm, and Gertie gets up to retrieve it. When she returns to the table, she opens two envelopes and dunks the bags with her fingertips until the water turns almost black. As he reaches for his cup, she waves him off.

  “Not yet.” She digs through her purse and removes a silver flask, shaking it gently to confirm that there’s something left inside.

  Gertie didn’t strike him as the type of person who carried alcohol in her bag, but upon closer inspection, it starts to make sense. No one who looks so pulled
together ever really is. She empties the flask into their tea, turning it upside down to shake out the last few drops.

  “Times like these…,” she says, then looks away, embarrassed. “I actually don’t know what I was going to say there.”

  The bourbon and Earl Grey don’t mix well together, but he drinks the acrid concoction anyway. Gertie adds two sugar cubes to her cup, dissolving them slowly with her spoon.

  “So … how are they now?” she asks. “Your parents?”

  Something about his expression must answer the question for him because she doesn’t bother to wait for a response.

  “It was good that your mother came to you that day. That must give you some relief, at least.”

  “Why would it?”

  “Well, she trusts you. She came to you for help.”

  He doubts that Mae trusts anyone. Not him, not his father, not even the people from her church. It was proximity that led her stumbling into his backyard that day, nothing more.

  “I’ll give you the listing,” he says. “How soon can you get it on the market?”

  Gertie hesitates. “I don’t think I can sell this house, Kyung. I’m sorry.… I really wish I could, but no one’s going to be able to sell it, not for a while.”

  “Because of what happened here?”

  She nods. “Maybe if you waited a year. People might start to forget, and the market could be in recovery by then,” she adds optimistically. “For now, though, there’s no way. Someone just died here. Your mother was … assaulted here. Even if you slashed the price, I can’t see buyers getting past that kind of history. Not yet, at least. It’d be easier to get rid of this place by burning it down.”

  Kyung would like nothing more than to take a match to the drapes and watch the flames engulf them, erecting violent walls of amber where real ones once stood. Everything in the house is so old; every piece of its ancient frame is wood. It wouldn’t take long for a fire to reduce it all to an expensive pile of ashes.

  “So my father and I are the same, I guess.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “We both own houses that you can’t sell.”

  At first, Gertie appears hurt by his comment, ready to object. But she takes a long sip of tea instead.