by Angie Kim
Why had she kept it? She could think of no purpose, no reason other than her supreme idiocy. In the hospital after the explosion, when she overheard detectives talking about finding cigarettes and needing to comb through the woods in the morning, she’d panicked and driven to Miracle Creek in the middle of the night to retrieve the things she’d stupidly left behind. She couldn’t find the cigarettes or matches; the note was the only thing she found, behind a bush near a square area cordoned off with yellow tape (Elizabeth’s picnic spot, she later learned). She grabbed the note and, for some bizarre reason she couldn’t explain, chose to keep it.
Of course, everything she did back then seemed inexplicable now, a year later. But on that day, with the insanity-inducing mix of shame and rage coursing through her, all her actions had made perfect sense. Even the note-in-wok placement—it had seemed strangely appropriate to keep the proof of her husband’s relationship with a Korean girl inside a present from the woman who’d first accused him of having an “Oriental fetish.”
It had happened the Thanksgiving after their engagement, at Matt’s grandparents’ house. After introductions, Janine was returning from the bathroom when she overheard a group of female voices—Matt’s cousins, all perky blondes with Southern accents in varying degrees of thickness—saying in whispers, as if sharing shameful secrets, “I didn’t know she was Oriental!” “What is this now, the third?” “I think one was Pakistani—does that count?” “I’ve been telling you, he has an Oriental fetish, some men are just like that.”
At this last utterance (made by the soon-to-be wok-gifter), Janine padded back. She locked the bathroom door, turned on the faucet, and looked at herself in the mirror. Oriental fetish. Was that what she was? An exotic plaything to quench some deep-seated psychosexual aberration? Fetish implied something wrong. Obscene, even. And the word Oriental—it conjured up alien images of third-world, backward villages from long ago. Geisha and child brides. Submission and perversion. She felt hot shame sweeping through her, head to toe, side to side, each sweep flooding her in torrents. And anger, a piercing sense of unfairness: she’d had white boyfriends, but no one accused her of harboring a Caucasian fetish. And she had friends who’d dated only blondes or Jewish women or Republican men (by coincidence or intent, no one knew or cared), but they didn’t get accused of having a blonde fetish or Jew fetish or Republican fetish. But take any non-Asian guy who’s dated at least two Asian women—well, that was a fetish, he must have wanted them to fulfill some kinky, psychologically aberrant need he had for exotic Orientalness. But why? Who decided it was normal to be attracted to blondes and Jews and Republicans, but not to Asian women? Why was “fetish,” with its connotation of sexual deviance, reserved for Asian women and feet? It was offensive, it was bullshit, and she wanted to scream out, I am not “Oriental,” and I am not a foot!
At dinner, Janine sat next to Matt (but not too close), feeling wrong and dirty, wondering who else thought Oriental fetish looking at them. Her acute awareness of her foreignness churned in her stomach anytime anyone remarked about Asians, even the benignly stereotypical or intended-to-be-flattering comments she normally laughed off: Matt’s kind grandmother saying, “Imagine what gorgeous kids you’ll have. I saw this special on the Vietnam War half-breed kids, and I’m not kidding, they’re just beautiful,” for instance, or Matt’s solicitous uncle saying, “Matt says you’re first in your class. I’m not surprised. I knew some Asian kids in college—Japanese, I think—and boy, were they wicked smart.” (Followed by his wife’s “Half of Berkeley’s Asian now,” then to Janine, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”)
Afterward, Janine tried to forget it, reminded herself it was an ignorant comment uttered by an ignorant person, and in any event, Matt had plenty of non-Asian ex-girlfriends (specifically, six whites, versus two Asian-Americans—she’d checked the next day). But from time to time—when she saw Matt joking with an Asian nurse in the café, for instance, or when a woman she’d never liked said, “You guys should double-date with the new podiatrist and his wife, she’s Asian, too”—she thought of the wok cousin and felt heat sear her eyes and cheeks.
But those times, she knew he’d done nothing wrong and she was being irrationally reactionary. The notes were different. The first one she found—the night before the explosion, while doing laundry, in Matt’s pants pocket—she’d shown to Matt, who said it was from a hospital intern whose passes he’d rebuffed. She’d tried to believe him, had wanted to, but she couldn’t help looking the next morning—through his clothes, car, even the trash—and found more with the same handwriting. Most were short, variations on See you tonight? or Missed you last night, but she came across one reading Hate SAT words! NEED smokes tonight!, and she knew: Matt had lied.
When she found the final note—the now-infamous H-Mart note that she’d stored with the wok for a year and was now holding in her hand—and read her husband’s scribbled handwriting, This needs to end. We need to meet, 8:15 tonight. By the creek, and the Yes in girlish writing on the bottom, that was when she realized: the proposed time (right after a dive) and location (he’d mentioned only one “creek”) had to mean that the girl he was meeting, the girl he’d smoked with and God only knew what else, was Mary Yoo.
It made her crazy. She could see that now. Finding this note, realizing that Matt was involved with a Korean girl, not knowing which humiliated her more—the teenage part, or the Korean part?—and wondering if the wok cousin had been right. A blast of heat blew through her, so hot and fast she felt feverish and weak, and she wanted to slap Matt and scream, ask what the hell was it with him and this fetish, and yet, at the same time, she hated herself for buying into this fetish bullshit, and she wanted to never say it out loud to him, it was too shameful.
Now, standing in her kitchen, Janine held the note, this piece of paper that had been the beginning and ending of everything she wished she could undo that night: from driving out to Miracle Creek to confront Mary with it, to retrieving it in the middle of the night, plus all the awful things between. She took it to the sink and ran it under the water. She tore it into pieces, again and again, and released the bits into the stream, letting them fall in. She switched on the disposal, focusing on the grating sound of the metal blade turning around and around, obliterating the note into particles of pulp. Once she was calm, once she could no longer hear the rushing of blood in her eardrums, she shut off the disposal and the water, put the wok booklet back in the box, and closed it up. She put the box back in the cabinet, behind all the things she’d never use, and shut it tight.
THE TRIAL: DAY THREE
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
PAK
PAK YOO WAS A DIFFERENT PERSON in English than in Korean. In a way, he supposed, it was inevitable for immigrants to become child versions of themselves, stripped of their verbal fluency and, with it, a layer of their competence and maturity. Before moving to America, he’d prepared himself for the difficulties he knew he’d experience: the logistical awkwardness of translating his thoughts before speaking, the intellectual taxation of figuring out words from context, the physical challenge of shaping his tongue into unfamiliar positions to make sounds that didn’t exist in Korean. But what he hadn’t known, hadn’t expected, was that this linguistic uncertainty would extend beyond speech and, like a virus, infect other parts: his thinking, demeanor, his very personality itself. In Korean, he was an authoritative man, educated and worthy of respect. In English, he was a deaf, mute idiot, unsure, nervous, and inept. A bah-bo.
Pak accepted this long ago, on the first day he joined Young at the Baltimore grocery store. The preteen hoodlums saying “Ah-so” in fake accents, pretending they couldn’t understand his “May I help you?” and sniggering as they repeated in bastardized singsong, “Meh-yee ah-ee hair-puh yoooooh?”—that, he could dismiss as the antics of children trying on cruelty like a shirt in a store. But the woman who’d ordered a bologna sandwich: her struggle to understand his “Would you like a soda also?”
—a phrase he’d memorized that morning—had been genuine. She said, “I couldn’t hear; could you repeat that?” After his louder, slower repetition, she said, “Say that one more time,” then, “I’m sorry; something’s wrong with my ears today,” and finally, just an embarrassed smile—the embarrassment for him, Pak realized—and shake of her head. With each of the four repetitions, he felt heat radiating through his cheeks and forehead, as if his head were bowed over burning coal and being pushed down centimeter by centimeter. He ended up pointing to a Coke and miming drinking it. She laughed in relief, saying, “Yes, I’d love one,” and taking her money, he thought of the beggars outside, taking change from people like this woman, with kind but repugnant pity in her eyes.
Pak became quiet. He found relief in the relative dignity of silence and retreated into invisibility. The problem was, Americans didn’t like silence. It made them uneasy. To Koreans, being sparing with words signaled gravitas, but to Americans, verbiage was an inherent good, akin to kindness or courage. They loved words—the more, the longer, and more quickly said, the smarter and more impressive. Quietness, Americans seemed to equate with an empty mind—nothing to say, no thoughts worth hearing—or perhaps sullenness. Deceit, even. Which was why Abe was worried about Pak testifying. “The jury has to think you want to give them information,” he’d said, preparing Pak. “You take those long pauses, they’ll wonder, ‘What’s he hiding? Is he figuring out how best to lie?’”
Sitting here now, with the jury seated and all whispered conversations on pause, Pak closed his eyes and savored this last moment of silence before the slinging and pummeling of words would begin. Perhaps he could drink in the silence and keep it in reserve, like a camel in the desert, use it to refresh himself bit by bit on the stand.
* * *
BEING A WITNESS was like acting. On a raised stage, all eyes on him, trying to recall someone else’s scripted words. At least Abe started with basic questions with easy-to-memorize answers: “I am forty-one years old,” “I was born and raised in South Korea,” “I moved to America last year,” “At first, I worked in a grocery store.” The kind of question-answer sets listed in Pak’s old English textbooks, which he’d used to teach Mary back in Korea. He’d drilled her, making her recite her answers again and again until they became automatic, the same way she’d drilled him last night, correcting his pronunciation, forcing him to practice just once more. And now, Mary was at the edge of her seat, staring at him with an unblinking intensity as if to telegraph her thoughts to his, the way he used to during her monthly math competitions in Korea.
This was the thing he regretted most about their move to America: the shame of becoming less proficient, less adult, than his own child. He’d expected this to happen eventually, had seen how children and parents switch places as the parents age, their minds and bodies reverting to childhood, then infancy, then nonbeing. But not for many years, and certainly not yet, when Mary still had a foot in childhood. In Korea, he had been the teacher. But after his move, when he visited Mary’s school, her principal had said, “Welcome! Tell me, how are you liking Baltimore?” Pak smiled, nodded, and was deciding how to answer—perhaps the smile-nod had been enough?—when Mary said, “He loves it here, running the store right by Inner Harbor. Right, Dad?” The rest of the meeting, Mary continued speaking for him, answering questions directed his way, like a mother with her two-year-old son.
The irony was, this was precisely why they’d immigrated to America: so that Mary might have a better life, a brighter future, than theirs. (Wasn’t that what parents were supposed to hope for, that their children would become taller/smarter/richer than they?) Pak was proud of his daughter for the speed with which she achieved fluency in this foreign language that eluded him, for her sprint down the path of Americanization. And his inability to keep up—that was supposed to happen. Not only because she’d been here four years longer but because children were better at languages, the younger, the better; everyone knew that. At puberty, one’s tongue set, lost its ability to replicate new sounds without an accent. But it was one thing to know this, and another thing entirely to have your child witness you struggle, to transform in their eyes from a demigod to someone small.
“Pak, why did you start Miracle Submarine? Korean-run groceries, I’ve seen. But HBOT seems unusual,” Abe said, the first of challenging questions requiring longer narratives.
Pak looked at the jurors and tried to imagine them as new friends he was getting to know, as Abe had advised. He said, “I worked … at a wellness center … in Seoul … It was my dream to … start same facility … to help people.” The words he’d memorized didn’t feel right in his mouth, stuck like glue. He’d have to do better.
“Tell us why you got fire insurance.”
“Fire insurance is recommended by hyperbaric regulators.” Pak had practiced this over a hundred times last night, the seven r’s in a row straining his tongue, making him stutter. Thankfully, the jury seemed to understand him.
“Why 1.3 million?”
“The company determined the policy amount.” At the time, he’d been outraged, having to pay so much—and every month!—for something that might never materialize. But he’d had no choice. Janine had insisted on the policy, had made it a condition of their deal. Just behind Abe, Janine was looking down, her face pale, and Pak wondered if she lay awake at night, regretting their secret arrangement, the cash payments, wondering how their excited plans had ended here.
“Yesterday, Ms. Haug accused you of calling the company regarding arson, using Matt Thompson’s phone. Pak”—Abe stepped closer—“did you make that call?”
“No. I never use Matt’s telephone. I never call my company. There is no need. I already know answer. It is written in the policy.”
Abe held up a document, as if to show off its thickness—two centimeters at least—then handed it to Pak. “Is this the policy you’re referring to?”
“Yes. I read before I signed.”
Abe put on a look of surprise. “Really? It’s a mighty long document. Most people don’t read the fine print. I don’t, and I’m a lawyer.”
The jurors nodded. Pak guessed they were in the category of people—most Americans were, Abe said—who just signed things, which seemed to be incredibly trusting or just lazy. Maybe both. “I am not familiar with American business. So I must read. I translated to Korean using dictionary.” Pak flipped to the arson page and held it up. The jurors were too far to make out the words, but they could surely see his scribbles in the margins.
“And the answer to the arson question is in that document?”
“Yes.” Pak read the provision, a model of American verbal excess, an eighteen-line sentence full of semicolons and long words. He pointed to his Korean scribble. “This is my translation. You get money if someone sets fire, but not if you are involved.”
Abe nodded. “Now, another thing the defense tried to pin on you is the H-Mart note the defendant claims to have found.” Abe clenched his jaw, and Pak guessed he was still upset about Teresa’s “defection,” as he’d called it. “Pak, did you write or receive any such note?”
“No. Never,” Pak said.
“Know anything about it?”
“No.”
“But you do own an H-Mart notepad?”
“Yes. I had in the barn. Many people use it. Elizabeth used it. She liked the size. I gave her one pad. For her purse.”
“Wait, so the defendant kept an entire H-Mart notepad in her purse?” Abe looked shocked, as if he hadn’t known, hadn’t scripted Pak’s answer.
“Yes.” Pak resisted the urge to smile at Abe’s theatrics.
“So she could’ve easily crumpled up H-Mart paper and left it for others to see?”
“Objection, calls for speculation.” Shannon stood.
“Withdrawn.” A smile passed through Abe’s face like a fast-moving cloud as he put a poster on the easel. “This is a copy of the marked-up chart Ms. Haug introduced yesterday.”
Pak l
ooked at the red letters blaming him for the destruction of his patients’ lives, his daughter’s face, his own legs.
“Pak, your name is all over this chart. Let’s explore that. First, ownership or possession of the weapon—in this case, Camel cigarettes. Did you have any last summer?”
“No. I have no-smoking rule. It is too dangerous with oxygen.”
“How about before last summer? Have you ever smoked?”
Pak had asked Abe not to ask this, but Abe said Shannon was sure to have evidence of his past smoking, and admitting it first would deflate her planned attack. “Yes, in Baltimore. But never in Virginia.”
“Have you bought cigarettes or anything else from any 7-Eleven, anywhere?”
“No. I saw 7-Eleven in Baltimore, but I never go inside. I never saw 7-Eleven near Miracle Creek.”
Abe stepped closer. “Did you buy or even touch any cigarettes last summer?”
Pak swallowed. There was no shame in white lies, answers that were technically untrue but ultimately served the greater good. “No.”
Abe took out a red marker, marched to the easel, and crossed out P. YOO next to Suspect ownership/possession. Abe closed the marker, the cap’s click an auditory exclamation point to the slashing of Pak’s name. “Next, Opportunity to commit crime. There’s been a lot of confusion here, with your neighbor, your voice, all that. So tell us, once and for all: Where were you during the last dive, before the explosion?”
Pak spoke slowly, deliberately, elongating each syllable. “I was inside the barn. The entire time.” This wasn’t a lie. Not really. Not when it had no impact on the ultimate question of who set the fire.