by Jung Yun
* * *
Every summer, Kyung’s parents invited him to visit the beach house with Ethan and Gillian. And every summer, he declined, unwilling to spend an entire weekend in their company. His only glimpse of the property was the painting on his parents’ mantel in Marlboro, an abstract piece commissioned by his mother’s decorator as a gift. On canvas, the house seemed large, but unexceptional—a tall white block with a red front door. In person, it’s something else entirely. When the GPS tells him to turn onto a private road, Kyung hesitates, not quite believing what he sees. At the far end of the road, a single house sits high on a bluff, surrounded by a spectacular, expensive kind of nothing—no neighbors, no trees—just the sky above and a steep drop to the bay below. The three-story colonial looks like something out of a postcard, lit brightly from within as the last sliver of sun descends into the horizon.
He imagines Gillian’s reaction as she drove up the same road earlier that day. Mouth open, fingertips pressed against the window, looking like the girl from the Flats that she really is. He knows what she’s probably thinking now; he knows the inconsistency of her mind. Pride is her Achilles, but she wouldn’t hesitate to accept Jin’s help if he offered. With a few keystrokes or a checkbook and pen, his parents could erase all their debts and give them a fresh start. But their help would come with a price far worse than what they live with now. Every invitation his parents extended, every request for help or company or time—they wouldn’t be able to refuse if they took their money. Kyung isn’t about to indenture himself to them now, not after so many years of trying to avoid it. The minute he moved out for college, he juggled part-time jobs, shared apartments with too many people, took out loans to pay tuition, and took out more loans when he was short on cash—all because he didn’t want to owe his parents anything. Still, he feels a flare of resentment as he surveys the enormous property. He never asked for their help, but not once did they offer.
The long, unpaved road curves toward the water, rattling the car and everything inside it. In the passenger seat, eight empty beer cans clank against each other, accompanied by the noisy ping of loose gravel churning in the tire wells. Kyung switches off his headlights, trying to make his approach less noticeable. He wasn’t entirely committed to coming to Orleans when he started driving, and despite all the beer he drank along the way, he can’t resummon the courage he felt back at the house. By now, he assumes that Molly has confessed everything to her husband, begging for his forgiveness, and God’s too. It’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to tell Gillian, a conversation so daunting, it feels like a wall of stone—something so tall, he has to crane his neck up to see where it might end. His only choice is to climb over it or wait to be crushed if it falls. There’s no other way around this time, and maybe this is what he wanted all along, to force his own hand.
Kyung pulls into a parking space, hidden from view by the shadow of Connie’s huge Suburban. He gets out and closes his door, pushing it into place with a click instead of a slam. As he walks up the front steps, he considers turning back. No one saw or heard him arrive. No one is expecting him until tomorrow. But his desire to flee gives way to the blurriness of his eyesight, the spinning sensation in his head. To attempt driving back now would land him in jail or a ditch or the ocean, so he knocks and holds his breath, waiting for the door to open. When it doesn’t, he tries the knob, which should be locked but isn’t. He steps into the entryway, relieved to find it empty. To his left, there’s a living room with a long wall of windows that overlook the bay. To his right is a study filled with books and a soft, pillowlike couch that screams his name. Nearly everything in the house is white. White walls, white ceilings, white furniture. Like the house in Marlboro, Mae clearly spared no expense on the renovations. The place looks exactly the way a beach house should. Open and airy, like something out of a magazine where no children or pets or people actually live.
He takes a few more steps inside, following the muffled sound of voices toward the back of the house. The farther he tiptoes, the more the air begins to smell like butter and brine. At the end of a long hallway, Kyung stops before an open door and presses his back against the wall, listening to the conversation in the adjoining room. Jin tells Connie that the fishing is terrible in Nauset Bay, but offers the use of his boat to visit Salt Pond Bay instead. A woman whose voice he doesn’t recognize exclaims that she loves boats; she has ever since she was a child. Gillian encourages Ethan to climb into his chair by himself. You’re big enough now, she says. You can do it. The conversation is much easier and lighter than he imagined, moving amiably from one topic to the next without so much as a pause. He doesn’t know where his mother and Marina are—in the kitchen, probably—but so far, everything seems to be going well, better than he would have expected.
He smooths out his shirt and hair and walks into the dining room. “Hi,” he says casually, stopping to kiss Ethan on the forehead.
“Well, look who’s here,” Connie says. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“I finished early.”
Jin seems disappointed to see him. He nods in Kyung’s direction, but the gesture conveys nothing. It’s barely a greeting. It’s certainly not a welcome.
Gillian gets up to give him a hug. She sniffs his breath suspiciously and then forces herself to smile. “What happened to your face?”
Kyung touches the bandage he slapped on his cheek before he left home. He wonders if she can make out the fingernail marks through the thin layer of gauze. “Books,” he says, glancing at the wall of books behind her shoulder.
“Books?”
“I was reaching for something—at the office. They fell off the shelf and hit me in the face.”
“Oh.”
Everyone is seated around a long planked table that looks like it was salvaged from an expensive Italian farm. Kyung takes the empty chair next to Gillian. Across from him is a middle-aged blonde.
“Hi, I’m Vivian.” She reaches over the flower arrangement to shake his hand, clinking all the shiny bracelets on her wrist. “But you can call me Vivi.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Connie’s new girlfriend is prettier and more cheerful than Kyung would have expected. Such a difference from his first wife, who never appeared happy in any of their pictures. Until now, he always assumed that Connie liked his women short and thick, but Vivi is exceptionally fit for her age, which he’d put at mid- to late fifties. She’s tan too, in a carrotlike way that suggests fake sun out of a bottle, not vacations at the beach.
“We’ve been having such a wonderful time here,” Vivi says. “Thank you so much for inviting us. I was just telling Connie how I was hoping to get to the Cape this summer, and not two days later, you called.”
She has a pretty laugh. Feminine and natural, with a flash of straight white teeth. Connie is clearly enamored of her, which is strange. He looks like he’s on his best behavior, dressed in a shirt that actually has buttons. The fact that he’s here with his in-laws suggests that he’s serious about making this woman happy. Serious, or simply too cheap to take Vivi on a getaway of their own.
“Grandpa and I found shells today,” Ethan says from the other end of the table. He lifts a hermit crab shell in the air so that Kyung can see.
“Did you have fun?”
Ethan looks at Jin, giggling in a way that seems almost secretive. Such an innocent gesture, but it confirms what he’s suspected for weeks. There’s a transfer of affection happening, a slow siphoning off from Kyung to Jin. He doesn’t know how to make it stop, much less reverse it. If he tells Ethan to stay away from his grandfather, he’ll demand to know why. Kyung would never be able to answer his son’s questions truthfully, not without changing him.
“I’m glad you had a good time.” He takes a bottle of wine from the table and fills his glass just shy of the rim.
His excess apparently amuses Connie, whose laugh sounds like a donkey’s bray. “That must have been one heck of a drive.”
> “Save some for the rest of us,” Gillian suggests gently.
“But you were the one who said we’re on vacation.” Kyung takes a long drink, surprised by the pleasant, unfamiliar taste in his mouth. He picks up the bottle and examines the label. It’s a 1989 white Burgundy. There are two more bottles just like it on the table.
“You had the same reaction I did,” Connie says, his mood as jovial as Kyung has ever seen it. “I guess we were just drinking the cheap stuff all these years, right?”
From the kitchen, Mae and Marina file out, carrying plates of bright red lobsters sitting on beds of lettuce.
Mae takes one look at Kyung and frowns. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow.”
“I finished early,” he repeats, hopeful that no one will ask what he actually finished.
“But I didn’t buy enough lobsters.”
“It’s fine, Mae,” Gillian says. “These are big. We can share.”
Mae looks put out by the offer. She doesn’t like running out of food, which she says is a sign of a bad hostess. “I need another place setting,” she tells Marina.
“Yes, Mrs. Cho.”
Vivi studies Marina as she leaves the room. There’s something about Vivi’s expression—curious, but pleased—that suggests she’s never been attended to like this. It’s obvious now why Mae did such an about-face and decided to bring Marina to the Cape. She wanted her around to help serve the guests. She probably assumed that people like Connie and Vivi would be impressed.
When Marina returns, she sets a plate of lobster in front of Kyung.
“Where did this come from?” he asks.
“I don’t like lobster, Mr. Kyung.”
“But it’s yours. You should have it.”
He tries to return the plate to her, but Marina is already heading back to the kitchen, turning only to exchange a glance with Mae to see if she approves. Mae ignores her as she takes her place at the end of the table, whipping a cloth napkin open and spreading it across her lap. She’s dressed more elegantly than she has been for weeks, with an emerald green blouse that ties at the neck and a thin gray skirt. Everyone, it seems, has dressed for dinner. Even Ethan, who’s sporting a miniature blue bow tie. Kyung glances at his shirt, which is spattered with flecks of dried blood. He realizes that he forgot to bring the suitcase that Gillian packed for him, a lapse he hardly knows how to explain.
“So Gillian tells me you’re a biology professor,” Vivi says.
Kyung accidentally glances at her cleavage. He can’t help himself. There’s so much of it, and so clearly arranged for display. He turns his attention to the vase of tulips on the table, but the blurry yellow buds appear to be moving in circles, orbiting and reorbiting each other.
“Do you enjoy teaching?” she asks.
“Ha!” he laughs too loudly. Such a stupid, predictable question. “You don’t really want to know the answer to that, do you?”
Vivi seems charmed by this. “I guess I feel the same way. I mean, I love teaching, but seventh graders aren’t exactly what they used to be.” She gives Connie a knowing look. “I can’t wait to retire in a few years. There are so many places I’ve put off visiting, and now I finally have someone to travel with.”
The polite response would be to ask Vivi where they’re planning to go, but the room is incredibly bright. The chandelier reflects light everywhere. Even the silverware is too shiny. Kyung lowers his head and studies a spot of blood on his pants. Like the tulips, the spot won’t stay in one place. It resembles a heart at first, then an ace, then a leaf. When he looks up again, the conversation has come to an awkward pause. Everyone is trying not to stare. Kyung empties his wineglass and leans over Gillian for an open bottle that’s too far to reach. She nudges him away with her elbow and fills his glass for him, pouring a stingy half inch that he finishes in one gulp.
“So … these are darling.” Vivi picks up one of the porcelain seashells scattered across the table. “I didn’t even notice them before.”
The shells have a thick gold band in the middle, separating them into two halves held together by a button. When Vivi presses hers, the shell pops open like a box.
“What’s it supposed to do?” she asks.
“Sometimes I lean place cards on them,” Mae says. “Mostly, they’re for decoration.”
“How sweet. They remind me of something my grandmother would have collected. She loved anything porcelain.”
“You should take them, then. The whole set. I think I have twelve.”
“What?” Vivi looks to Connie for help. “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
“They’re not valuable, if that’s what you’re thinking. And I almost never get to use them. It would make me so happy if someone did. Besides, it’s my way of thanking you for your help today.”
Kyung glances at Mae. “Help with what?”
Gillian clears her throat. “Vivi helped your mom with that inventory she’s been working on. They were at it all afternoon.” Something in her voice suggests that she doesn’t think much of her father’s new girlfriend, but no one else seems to notice. Her disapproval registers just below the surface, like a frequency only audible between husband and wife.
“I thought that list was just for the other house,” Kyung says.
“It’s important to have a record of things.” Mae leans toward Vivi again. “If there’s something else you saw today that you liked more, please—”
“The shells are perfect, really. Thank you so much.” She turns hers over, squinting to read the underside. “Lime … Lime-oh-jess? Huh.”
Kyung frowns at the badly mangled French. It’s Limoges, and it’s expensive—hardly the insignificant little trinket that Mae made it out to be. He sits back and examines Vivi, wondering if Gillian’s assessment of her is the same as his own. She’s a gold digger of some sort, accustomed to being taken care of, which would explain the perfect hair and tan and body. The nails and jewelry too. Connie isn’t a wealthy man, but he earns a good salary and has a house, a car, and a pension. Maybe that makes him wealthy to her.
“Kyung.” Connie snaps his fingers. “Earth to Kyung.”
He realizes he’s been staring at Vivi again because she turns away, flustered, straining to hear the conversation at the other end of the table.
“It has bug eyes,” Ethan whines, cocking his head at the lobster on his plate.
“Here.” Gillian picks up a silver cracker. “Let me get you some of the meat from the claw. That’s the best part.”
“You mean the hand?”
“It’s not a hand, honey. It’s a claw.”
“But I don’t want any.”
“Just try it. Your grandma worked hard to make this for you.”
“No.”
Kyung dislikes how everything has come to a standstill because of the boy. He never would have dared to act out in public as a child. “Don’t talk back to your mother,” he says. “Just eat your dinner like she asked.”
Ethan looks at Jin, who doesn’t respond, but something about this exchange bothers Kyung. What was his son hoping for when he turned his head? For his grandfather to overrule him?
“Eat your dinner,” Kyung repeats.
“But I don’t want any.”
“Eat—your—dinner.” The words come out slowly, but there’s no mistaking his menace as he brings his hand down on the table, causing everything—the china, the crystal, the silverware—to rattle. Gillian, Connie, and Jin are all quick to interject: “Take it easy.” “What are you doing?” “Stop.” The voice he hears last and loudest is his father’s, and this, he won’t abide.
“You don’t have the right to tell me to stop. You, of all people. Where do you think I learned this from?”
Vivi coughs into her napkin. “My goodness,” she says to no one in particular. “I’ve never tasted lobster this fresh before. I guess all those others I ate were frozen.”
Mae glares at Kyung as perfect circles of pink bloom on her cheeks. Then she turns back to her gu
ests. “We get them right off the boat at the dock. I like how easy they are to prepare.… Would you like some more butter?”
“No,” Kyung shouts. Everyone at the table jumps, their shoulders stiff, their spines perfectly straight. He’s not about to let them sit there and act like this is a normal meal, a normal family, a normal life. “Stop with the fucking butter. We’re not going to do this anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Mae says, looking at Connie and Vivi. “My son—I think he’s had too much to drink tonight. It’s not like him—”
“No. No. No,” he repeats. “No more excuses for each other. No more pretending everything’s fine. No fucking more.”
Vivi narrows her eyes at Connie, mouthing the words, Should we go? Poor woman, Kyung thinks. Gold digger or not, he almost feels sorry for her, walking into this sideshow when all she wanted was a free weekend at the beach. He stands up, raising his glass to her as if to give a toast.
“See, Vivi? What you need to know about my parents is that this one”—he points to Jin with his glass, spilling an arc of wine across the tablecloth—“this one used to hit my mother. And this one”—he flicks his finger at Mae—“this one used to hit me. So don’t be fooled by all their nice things and nice manners. They’re not good people.”
Gillian buries her face in her hands, mortified. Jin lifts Ethan out of his chair and whisks him out of the room. Mae throws her knife down so violently, it cracks her plate in two as she runs into the kitchen. Kyung remains standing, teetering from side to side like a tree caught in the wind.