The Loved Ones

by Sonya Chung

  Veda had said on a staticky phone line, with the minutes on her phone card ticking away, that she’d spend New Year’s in Barcelona, or maybe Rome. They’d see each other a few days after, then, at home. She seemed to be making the most of her time, and Charles was glad. He didn’t know that in the south of France, at Château des Milandes, she’d met a boy—he was from Miami, and his grandmother had been at Josephine Baker’s infamous desegregated performance there in ’51. Of course Rhea would gasp, wide-eyed, when she heard this. Charles would chuckle and think it was a pretty good story, too.

  On Christmas Eve, Charles found himself alone in a motel room in Zurich. It was a training site for European assignments, and he’d been asked last minute—volunteered—by Bart to fill in for a colleague who’d gone MIA. It happened sometimes—not because of the work necessarily, but because of who got into it in the first place. Charles didn’t mind; he’d never been to Switzerland. Bart told him he should pick up some training work anyhow—good pay, easier pace. They got Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off, for example.

  The two other trainers invited Charles out for a drink and a big meaty meal, but Charles declined. He had a Chester Himes autobiography with him, and that would suit him fine. For the holiday especially, Charles preferred solitude over keeping company with whomever was around. He was tired, too. That was the thing about “easier pace”—once you slowed down, the exhaustion set in. He felt noodle-limbed, and dull around the edges of his mind.

  Charles layback on the squeaky mattress and clicked on the lamp. He studied the book jacket, and the photo of Himes on the back cover. Himes wore sunglasses and a well-cut trenchcoat; he stood outside a French food market with one foot up on the doorjamb of a classic car—an old Ford, maybe a Model C, or maybe a Peugeot. The caption read, Himes in Paris, at the height of his popularity in Europe.

  Charles put the book down, clasped his hands behind his neck. The young recruits were drinking and roughhousing next door. Charles stood and looked out the window. The place was up high, in the mountains; probably a school, or maybe a sanatorium, a long time ago. The surrounding peaks were craggy and snowcapped. It looked to Charles like a painting in a doctor’s office. None of it felt quite real, himself included.

  He should get out of the motel. The place was barely a notch above an army barracks. There was a moldy smell that stung his eyes and was probably poisoning his brain. He hadn’t seen much of Zurich after the airport. Truth was he didn’t much care for an easy pace; had come to mistrust it.

  His colleagues had taken one of the company cars. Charles had the keys to the other. The fuel gauge showed full. He had all the maps he needed, along with the latest navigational gadget. He flicked the lights to make sure the high beams were working; they’d wound up a narrow back road to get here.

  Charles started driving. He made it to the bottom of the winding road just as the sun smudged and faded over the peaks. He found the highway, then took the turnoff for Basel/Belfort. He just took the turn, didn’t think about it. He guessed he wasn’t actually interested in exploring Zurich; probably he knew it when he set out.

  He pressed on the accelerator. All at once Charles couldn’t bear the thought of the next twenty-four hours up there, at the training center. He’d spent many holidays working; why was this one different. He was not sentimental about Christmas, nor New Year’s resolutions or fresh starts. But this year there were some things to think about: Veda would start college. Tier 1 was calling, if he wanted it, probably now or never; he wasn’t getting any younger. Maybe sell the house—wasn’t it about time. There was still that mysterious money to deal with; Charles was glad Veda was as suspicious of it as he was—her father’s daughter.

  Where was he heading, Charles wondered, where was all this going. His life. This car. This too was what happened when you slowed down: questions came gnawing.

  Charles looked over at the passenger’s seat and saw a glove he hadn’t noticed before, stuffed in the crack. He pulled it out: black leather, women’s. The female trainer had small, strong hands. She took care of her hands and nails, he’d noticed that, but only now realized he’d noticed. Had there been teasing disappointment in her eyes when he’d declined dinner? Maybe.

  Charles drove, and wondered, and drove faster. Time off in the spring: it sounded like more work than work. He sighed. A pilgrimage to Senegal? Maybe Frank was still there, alive, maybe he wasn’t. Pilgrimage was a melodramatic word. Charles thought about it on and off, but not too hard. He was waiting. He thought more often about his PO Box in McLean. Charles began to wonder if that last letter wasn’t a mistake. Everything had become a little less real since then, hadn’t it? He’d been working and living, going along, a solid restart; but now he saw painted replicas instead of mountains and sky. He was slow to notice what he noticed. What if a pilgrimage was a real thing, an important thing; not melo-anything.

  Charles felt blurry in the head, at the same time he knew exactly where he was heading. He was halfway to Paris.

  Outside Langres Charles pulled over. The gas tank was just about half-full. Or half-empty. He’d pulled off onto a wide turnout, but it was pitch black and hardly anyone was on the road. He needed to think. Charles’s hands began to shake. He should’ve stopped to eat something.

  What had made him think Hannah would write back? He thought she would. Charles held out his hands and breathed out, a loud white breath. He was forty-one years old. He had gotten his wits about him, or at least more of them. He wasn’t good or great, but he thought that if he took care, he could be true. Steer clear of false. That was the heart of it, of everything, and he should keep his eye on the ball. He thought, I do believe she’ll answer, and, It is important. He thought, Let it be. No sudden moves, none too soon.

  The night was black and cold. A pair of headlights came full on from behind and sped past, leaving a blacker darkness in their wake. Charles saw Hannah in his mind now, swimming—that smooth, strong backstroke—in the middle of a vast ocean. She was going somewhere, getting there by strength and intuition. She didn’t look over her shoulder, just kept stroking.

  He needed to let it be. Let her get where she was going.

  His job was to watch and wait. A while longer.

  Charles held his hands out until they steadied. Then he turned the car around.

  He drove back up to the motel on the mountain. He relaxed as he drove, kept to the speed limit. He thought maybe when he got there he could find his colleagues at the bar they’d mentioned. There was a small, cold hand in need of a glove. All the petrol stations were now closed, but he’d have just enough to get there.

  It didn’t matter, Charles thought. What did or did not arrive in his PO Box. “It doesn’t matter,” he said out loud. He had written to her, written everything he knew to be true, for a long time. It really wasn’t much. That was the thing: it usually wasn’t—the part that matters.

  In his mind, Charles read to himself words he’d written, which he’d read over several times and, he realized now, had committed to memory.

  Frank and I, we’re not so different. Neither of us wanted what we got stuck with. That’s the truth, and it never changed.

  But you knew that. You knew from the beginning.

  I’ve been writing to you a long time. I wonder who you’ve become. What you think is important. If you think any of this is.

  I could find him. Frank, my father. Then I’d look him in the eye. I’d say

  You and I are not so different.

  I had good luck, not bad luck. I had a window, and I jumped.

  It wasn’t ever the boy’s fault. It never is.

  Three minutes is too long.

  He was your grandson, and he favored you, and Benny was his name.

  3.

  “Where’d you get these?” James took a piece of dried squid from the open bag on the seat between them. “Ick, they’re stale.” He spit it out into a cocktail napkin.

  Hannah looked out the window onto the blinking night lights of G
wangju. Duras’s The Square—Monique’s birthday gift—lay in her lap.

  Hannah didn’t answer. The girl in Duras’s story was pathetic and sad. It wasn’t so different from the other novels, but right now Hannah couldn’t bear it.

  “You didn’t touch the dinner,” James said. “What else is in there?”

  Hannah handed James her tote bag. He pulled out the wasabi beans. “I forgot how much you loved these.” He needed to make small talk. Hannah understood. “You were really small when you started eating spicy things.” This was true. In Paris Hannah sometimes went to Tang Frères for snacks and sauces. Once she put garlic chili sauce on eggs cocotte, and Monique chided her in horror. She ate it; she wished it had tasted better.

  In Gwangju, they rented a sedan and began their journey toward Hadong. It was Christmas Eve. They’d flown the red-eye and were exhausted, but they were on a mission.

  Hannah slept fitfully while James drove. James pulled over to the side of the road, opened his map, and nudged Hannah awake. They’d been driving a long time, and they were lost. “Do you see a little road that leads into Umulkol?” She studied the map. “I think so. It’s hard to tell.”

  James reached into his briefcase and pulled out pages, the relevant section of the will. “‘A Chinese parasol tree.’ Shit, I meant to bring a picture. ‘A melon patch …’”

  “It’s so desolate,” Hannah said. She’d envisioned swaths of swaying yellow; it was an image she couldn’t account for, but there it was.

  “I guess winter wasn’t in the plan.”

  They drove farther on, both growing discouraged. James peered through the windshield and drove slowly; Hannah shifted her eyes between the passenger’s side and the map. Suddenly, “There,” Hannah said, pointing. James looked up, followed her finger. “That has to be it.”

  “Why does that ‘have to be it’?”

  Hannah hesitated. She wanted to say, Because of the way it hovers above the field, all alone. Because look how ancient and out of place it is, and the way the tips of the branches catch the light, like diamonds. She said, “Because it’s the only one there.”

  James reversed and drove down the road they’d just passed. He was trying to get closer to the tree but never quite arriving. Then suddenly he braked hard and stopped. “Check it out. Those are definitely not melons.”

  It took a moment for Hannah to see; James had always had better eyesight. Not far from the base of the tree, a series of dirt mounds dotted the land. Next to each mound, a large hole. “They’re building something here, look.” Bags of cement, lumber piled on pallets. James sighed. “This isn’t what they wanted.”

  “So now what?”

  “I don’t know. I was hoping this was it. That we could just get it done and head back to the city.” They’d planned to spend a night in Gwangju, then take the train to Seoul in the morning. Christmas morning. Grace and the children were already there.

  “We can’t just lug these all over the country.” Hannah’s eyes flashed to James’s backpack, which held the two bronze urns.

  “Lemme think. There’s a place. I don’t know if I can remember. We’ll have to drive around. Maybe go on foot. I think when I see it, I’ll recognize it.”

  “It?”

  James bit his lip. He was uncertain but hopeful. A little desperate.

  “Okay,” Hannah said. “I’ll drive, then. You look.”

  They found their way to the old village. The first time down the center road, they drove past it, but then Hannah looped around again. “It’s somewhere here,” James said. Daylight was waning. Just as Hannah switched on the headlights, James shouted, “Here!” Hannah pulled over and parked, just shy of a ditch.

  “Careful getting out,” she said. She reached into her duffel bag, found the knitted poncho and pulled it over her head.

  The great stump was covered in moss, the path barely discernible beneath the overgrowth. James kicked the stump’s edge. “We don’t have a flashlight.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t know. Depends how far in we go. Do you remember this?”

  Hannah shook her head, frustrated. How could she?

  James looked around, his foot up on the stump like an explorer. “Well, let’s hurry then. While we can still see.”

  They walked briskly, nearly jogging. James led and carried the backpack. The path was clear, well-worn, but they had to watch for overgrown roots pushing up. Hannah tripped once and nearly fell; James caught her by the elbow. At one point James stopped to rest and Hannah bypassed him. “C’mon,” she said. Her certainty and determination mounted without reason. Mounted because they were breathing hard and racing the sun. “We have to hurry. We have to get there.”

  They got there—to a ridge, high above the village. “This is it,” James said. Smiling, like a boy who’d just captured the flag. “This must be it.”

  Hannah took in the crisp mountain air. Hands on hips, shoulders back. Her fingers and toes were cold. The poncho was soft and tightly woven and kept the rest of her warm. She felt strong and winded at the same time—lungs tight, blood pumping, Hannah scanned the horizon, and the village houses below. Grimacing, she said, “I don’t know.” She was all quivering senses now, an animal in the wild, hunting. “I think we should keep going. This way. Just a little farther.”

  James gave her a curious look. “It’s getting dark.”

  “I know. But it’s clear out, look, you can see the moon. I’ll bet there will be stars. We’ll find our way back.”

  They continued along the ridge. The smell of pines was sweet and sharp. Then Hannah veered away, into the forest. It was barely a path but for a clump of yellowing burdock root that caught her eye. The ground was hard. Farther on, it became soft, supple, where the dense forest opened up and noon daylight had earlier penetrated. Darkness clicked down. Gauzy night clouds obscured the moon; if it had shone, Hannah would not have seen. She was listening. To her blood pulsing in unison with the earth’s. She stopped, and James too. They stood in the center of a clearing. A grove of black pines towered; a fresh, dry layer of needles, moist layers below. Hannah’s feet sunk into the live wet earth.

  James caught his breath, bent over. He looked up at Hannah. He said, “Are we ready?”

  Her breath was white; her eyes wide open. The moon would make her entrance through the treetops in just a moment; Hannah could feel it.

  “Hannah?” James held a brass urn in each hand.

  Hannah beheld her brother and remembered something he’d told her, what the police found: under the blankets, Soon-mi and Chong-ho holding hands.

  Hannah reached out toward James, and he laid one of the urns in her two palms. She held it.

  Flesh, hair, bones, blood. Heart. Essential substance. Never again to be contained. Hannah bent down, placed the urn beside her. With one hand, she cleared away a patch of needles. With the other, she felt for a soft spot, then dug down, plunging her hand as deep as it would go.

  Hannah lifted her hand in a fist and squeezed the soil until it was warm in her palm.

  “Yeah. Okay,” she said. “Ready.”

  4.

  December 25, 1992

  Dear Mr. Lee,

  I don’t write many letters, so I hope these words don’t sound strange. It’s hard to write more than a few words before they start to seem like someone else’s. That’s probably why I’ve always written postcards. It’s my job these days to help someone write words that belong to other people—real people with made-up voices—and that somehow makes more sense to me. I think real voices stay mostly silent, and inside.

  This piece of paper is not very large, so I won’t write more than can fit. You asked me what I think is important. This piece of paper is important: it belonged to my father, and he wanted me to have it. I guess I mean he thought it was important, and so now I do as well; even though it will take some time to really understand.

  In your letter what seemed most important to me was the very ending. It was like hearing
a silent, inside voice. It was like the ending to a story, a long story written over a long time, and it made me sad for you, and sad for your father. I never knew my grandparents, and your words made me feel a little sad about that, too.

  But the sadness was like a gift, something I felt in my actual heart—like when the muscle is working so hard it pushes against the space that’s holding it. It pushes and pushes, and it hurts, but you also know it’s getting larger and stronger.

  My opinion is that the only way for you to have that gift for yourself is to find your father. And then say to him those words that you wrote. I’m not sure, but I have a feeling it’s never really too late.

  I’ve been thinking about what to say to my father, and my mother, the next time I visit them; maybe I would try to explain this new word I learned, sankofa. It has something to do with going back to find something, but it’s also about going forward. It reminds me of backstroking.

  I am running out of space. Also, my baby niece is asleep in her crib next to me, and it’s Christmas morning, and she is starting to wake up and cry. (Watching her sleep gives me that heart-hurting feeling too, though I’m not sure why.) I will finish by telling you that this piece of paper, and what I am enclosing with it, is also meant as a gift. Please take the soil in your hand and squeeze it tight until it is moist and warm.

  Je suis votre bien-aimée,

  Hannah Lee

  5.

  Their flights arrived within two hours of each other, so Charles waited for Veda at the gate. “You look good, girl,” Charles said. Something was different about her, even Rhea would remark on it later that night: You better get ready, Charles; your angel’s ready to fly. Veda let Charles give her a big bear hug and ruffle her hair, but it was as if she knew he needed to.