by R. O. Kwon
* * *
–
No, I didn’t believe in God’s plan. Still, I liked listening to him talk. It had so little to do with the life I’d known. I kept thinking I’d go to one last meeting, then quit. I went again. He noticed I fidgeted, and he advised I exercise, as they did. It’ll be good for you, he said. He sounded playful, but when I laughed, he didn’t. Unechoed, I heard an idiot, laughing at nothing. I stopped. He asked which kind of exercise I liked best. I told him I used to swim; he drew up a schedule. Before the piano, I’d loved being in the pool. I used to frolic with half-nereid L.A. friends: I showed off high flip dives, and I played Marco Polo until I lost my voice, but this wasn’t fun. He set goals. I kept a log. One dull lap blurred into the next, tired leg muscles singing. Push through, he urged. Each night, I thrashed across the school’s Olympic-sized pool. I watched myself, the blurred Phoebe ghost, glide along striped tiles. In time, I noticed more habits changing. I was drinking less, I realized. If I craved gin, I sipped tonic. I hadn’t known it, but I longed for discipline. It was part of the life I’d lost with the piano: a schedule, rigid expectations. With the six-plus hours I practiced each night, I’d had rules to bind me in place. They’d held me up.
* * *
–
I started playing the piano again, in Jejah, at John Leal’s request. I’d thought I couldn’t, but in a short while, as with the ongoing swims, I didn’t mind. Plinked single-octave hymns, simple chords that resolved, like finished stories, with each line: this wasn’t the music I’d failed. If I played well, or didn’t, I felt no pleasure. I didn’t have to be afraid.
* * *
–
So, I’d changed. It was possible. I often thought about what John Leal liked saying, that if we could believe all people existed in their minds as much as we did in our own, the rest followed. To love, he said, is but to imagine well. I pulled out this thought; I held it up, in private, turning it in the light as though I’d find in its prism gleam the Phoebe I could still become.
* * *
–
The next time my father called, I picked up, for once. I said hello. He asked how I was doing. We talked a bit. I tried imagining what he’d felt: this indulged first son, servant-coddled, chaebol hidalgo, used to getting what he wanted. Then, upheaval. Humiliation. Left behind in Seoul, trailing his wife and newborn child to L.A. He had to beg a month, alone in a hotel, before she’d let him live with us. His English was book-learned, ill-suited to fast-talking L.A. If he wished to buy cigarettes, the shop clerk asked him what he’d said. He had to point, like a child. The small Korean house church across town might have been a haven, the one place where he felt valued, whole. There, people knew who he was. His familial name inspired respect. He went again. Before long, he led services; he found an available lot, and helped build the house of God. He toiled. He hustled, until if, once in a while, he didn’t uphold perfect self-control: if he flailed, and shouted, it hadn’t been on purpose—was that it? I pained him with how fast I’d picked my mother’s side, and did he hope, with his periodic calls, to retrieve lost time?
But then, late one night, as I was leaving the Litton Street house, John Leal let slip that he’d known I was rich. My mother’s savings, the life insurance: it was a small fortune, which I’d obtained through killing the person I loved. I didn’t go to the next Jejah meeting. I ignored John Leal’s emails. He showed up at my suite, knocking until I let him in. I asked him to leave. I was shaking. It wasn’t my father’s right to tell you anything, I said. I haven’t talked about it with a single friend, I didn’t tell Will—
I know, he said. I do. Phoebe, listen. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up. But, listen, your father talked to me about this a while ago. It was before I even realized I’d return to Noxhurst. He wasn’t confiding in his daughter’s friend. You and I hadn’t met, and he just wanted advice. Phoebe, he was thinking about you, the guilt you’ve carried. He worried. I’m sure he still does.
It was August, the suite heat-swollen. I still hadn’t put in an air-conditioning unit. I wiped my forehead, and he asked if I’d take a walk with him. It’s cooled down, outside, he said. I didn’t assent, but when he turned to leave, I followed him. He kept talking. What you’ve inherited is a gift, he said. No, it is. This doesn’t mean you’re obligated to keep it. You could pass it along. Phoebe, others are also in pain, and can use the help.
I’m not sure I could do that, I said.
Yes.
But I—
You can.
25.
WILL
We followed him as he pushed a path into the waiting crowd. The protest hadn’t started yet, but wind rippled plastic-sheathed signs. Sunlit fetuses swung up, down, while flags flicked like striped tongues. John Leal halted; he spun, abrupt, and doubled back. I thought he’d tell us we’d taken a wrong turn. Instead, he butted his face up to mine, so close I felt his breath.
Will, he said. Oh, Will. He’d learned, he said, that I was full of questions. So, I was confused about his time in the gulag—which, all right, it had been a bewildering time for him, as well. Given I hadn’t lived through it, how much more so for me. But why hadn’t I brought my questions to him? It grieved him that I could still be this prideful. Think, he said, of John the Baptist telling us he couldn’t touch the latchet of his Lord’s shoes. I still hadn’t learned how to be a disciple. It was high time I did. If, that is, I had it in me. I should kneel, he said.
He handed me a thin rag; he told me to wipe the others’ shoes, then his feet. I cleaned each muddied shoe. Melted ice soaked cold into my jeans. I held his foot, working the rag through his toes. Flecks of tissue gleamed, like nacre, in the cracked skin. I was trying to think. His time in the gulag, he’d said. It was what I’d asked Phoebe. The question about Mina, but we’d been walking home. We’d left John Leal at his house. If he hadn’t, how’d he—
I glanced at Phoebe, but she looked down. She’d turned red. Phoebe didn’t blush often. If she did, the cause tended to be physical. She’d had too much alcohol, or it was hot. Phoebe hadn’t been drinking, though. It was a cold morning. Each breath showed white. I wouldn’t have believed it possible, but she still couldn’t look at me. She’d gone to him with what I’d said.
* * *
–
It was past the time the march should have begun, and people were losing patience. I’ll give it five minutes, then I’m calling it quits, a man said. Placards leaned against a building wall. I saw John Leal talking to people I didn’t recognize. With a nod, he stepped on an upended crate. His mouth moved. In that hubbub, I couldn’t pick out his words. Phoebe apologized again, tearful. It’s all right, I said, but she had more she wanted to explain. It’s fine, I said. Hoping she’d calm down, I kissed Phoebe’s head. I was intent on listening to John Leal’s speech: I was curious what his effect would be with this large an audience, if they’d respond as we did. He lifted his head, pitching his voice.
. . . hands splashed with blood, he said. We’re all here this Saturday morning, and I know I don’t need to tell you the truth that an unborn child has a heartbeat before it’s a month old. I don’t have to tell you that, within the first three months of fetal life, a human infant’s strong enough to grip a hand. But I’m not sure if it’s done much good, all this truth. What point it’s had, if you and I aren’t saving lives.
Wind gusted, flapping nylon jackets. Instead of trying to talk across the noise, he held up his palm, indicating he’d wait. More people turned in his direction.
The Lord is calling us, he said. But we’ve failed, you and I, in following Him. We’re living in a time of great evil. Rivers of blood, replenished with children’s bodies, are flooding this nation, and we’ve let the blood spill. If we are lukewarm, the Lord has said, He will spit us out of His mouth. I’ll ask you what I’ve asked myself, late at night, as I wait upon His Spirit: if the likes of you and I won’t be radical for God, who
will?
While he talked, his voice had risen. He finished with a shout, then he fell silent. The crowd around us was hushed, listening. Raising his head, he asked if he could get an amen. Several people replied; he asked again. This time, the amens belled toward him. I felt my ears ring. Yes, Lord, he said. Oh, Lord, I beg, be here with us. He called out the opening line of a hymn, one I recognized, and the crowd sang it back to him. Phoebe joined in, hands folded. She rocked back and forth, eyes closed, and I thought of the night we’d met, how she’d danced until she gasped for breath, holding the thick hair in a ponytail. It was damp at the tips. Sweat trickled down her slim throat. Phoebe’s rolling hips parodied that night; so, too, the rapt, upheld face. She’d told me, as she apologized, that he’d asked how I was doing with Jejah. He’d spoken with love, she said, and she’d responded in kind, without thinking. I’m not upset with you, I said. I wasn’t: she didn’t have to apologize. I felt a long confusion lifting. If anything, I should be grateful. For some time, I’d also failed to think.
The crowd kept singing. I watched, alone. It was a horde, and they all had what I lacked. In what He’s credited to have said, the Lord is explicit. He insists on full, absolute devotion, nothing less. John Leal had that part right. But from the start, I’d obeyed His call. I’d pledged my life to Him, if to no avail, which left me believing God had to be nothing, a fiction; that, or He didn’t want me.
Fifteen minutes, a man said. The crowd shifted forward. I put a hand in my pocket, and I felt a twist of plastic wrap I’d forgotten bringing. It was a small bundle of prescribed sedatives, pills I’d grabbed at the last minute because Phoebe and I planned to stay in the city that night. I had enough trouble sleeping that I relied on these pills, the bottle’s festive castanet rattle a promise, preludial to rest. Though I hadn’t tried taking them except at night, before I went to bed, the pills also tranquilized. I could use a little extra calm, I thought. I opened the cellophane. To rush the effect, I chewed the pills.
* * *
–
The march began. We’d been asked to walk in silence. Phoebe stayed close to me, a light hand at my back. The first time we showered in a shared stall, she’d pointed out the indent of my spine. This, she said. Here. She’d traced the rill, following the line down to my ass. I hadn’t conceived, before then, of having a back worth noticing: now I did, the skin gilded with Phoebe’s sight.
This situation, well, it was a crisis. The girl I loved was in a cult—and that’s what it is, I thought, a cult. It was a problem, but I’d solve it, because I was intelligent. The sun’s heat intensified. Disquiet thawed until, tranquil, awash, I almost sympathized with these people. If I were convinced that abortion killed, I, too, might think I had to stop the licit holocaust. It wasn’t so long ago that I’d believed as they did. In fact, I pitied them. Goodwill toward all, I thought. While driving down from Noxhurst, I’d asked Phoebe, at last, if she agreed with the protest’s object, having abortions outlawed. It isn’t what I want to think, she’d said, but a fetus has a pulse within a month of fertilization. It’s alive.
We marched awhile before the pill’s effect changed shape. I’d been watching protest signs bob past, marveling at bloodied photos, when a fetus jumped down. Others followed, flailing. Infant fists lifted; placentas writhed like tails, trailing dots of blood. One fell inches from my foot. I squatted, and I picked it up to prevent its being trampled. It was small, not quite spanning my hand, so I retrieved a second twisting fetus, then a third. Phoebe crouched down with me. What’s wrong? she whispered.
I asked if she’d give me the handbag; instead, she asked what I was doing. With my chin, I motioned toward my little charges, but I’d lost them. I looked around. White orthopedic shoes flitted past. She nudged me, repeating what she’d said. But they’d vanished. I’d imagined the field of fetal children. The first time I filled the sleeping-pill prescription, a pharmacist had cautioned me about potential side effects. Mild hallucinations, he’d said. This wasn’t mild, though. I’d have to tell the pharmacist. Phoebe asked if I was hurt, so attentive it brought tears to my eyes. I’d taken a sedative, I explained. It was the pill I used to sleep, except, this time, I’d stayed awake. It had, perhaps, gotten a bit strong.
Stand up, she said, rising.
I tried; I couldn’t. She helped me to my feet. The flesh of my arm bulged around Phoebe’s tight grip. She released me, and kept marching. I focused on each step: left, then right. The next time I glanced up, John Leal was walking next to Phoebe. His hip grazed her side, so I tapped his arm. I have a question, I told him.
Not now, Will.
I—
We’ll talk after this.
No, I said. This isn’t a request. I want to talk.
His head tilted, as if to see me in a different light. He glinted at the edges, protean, slipping. I had to grab him while I still could. Pin him down until he’d admit to his shape-shifting lies. He rubbed his face. I can’t help you, Will, he said. I’ve tried, but I don’t have the time. To be honest, I’ve lost interest.
Before I could think of how I’d respond, Phoebe pulled me back. Soon, we’d left the protest behind. We stood out on the street, hailing taxis. Lines of cars sped past, cutting long scars in the slush. The cabs were all occupied. I’d forgotten where I’d parked. I watched the sidewalk flecks, blotted gum. The harsh dazzle of pitted ice. Wind stirred the trash. In a lost, past life, I’d fancied these to be coded messages, dispatches from a loving Lord. Each detail flashed with divine relevance, but it was a false hope. What I had instead was this: salted bitumen, an oil-stained plastic bag. I should give it more attention, not less. I swayed, trying to understand.
With a brush of kidskin, Phoebe put my hand to a lamppost. Hold this, she said. I’ll be back in an instant. She crossed the plain of ice until I couldn’t be sure which of the distant backs was hers. Folios of newsprint drifted. Close by, a girl in bright lipstick fiddled with a bike’s chain. She jumped on its seat; she lurched left, raincoat flaring out. The thin form grew a sail, a pale nephilim wing. I thought she’d fall, but she pinged the bike bell, then swept down the street.
Will, Phoebe called, leaning out from an idling cab. She took me to the station, waiting until the first train that would go north to Noxhurst. Once it pulled in, she talked the attendant into letting her on without a ticket. He doesn’t feel well, and I’m not staying, she explained, giving him her smile.
Here, she said, pushing my seat into a recline. I tried to apologize, but she said she had to get back to the protest. She set my phone’s alarm to ring before my stop.
What about the apartment? I asked, remembering. Your friend’s place.
Oh, that, she said.
She took out her phone. I was about to say I could wait in the apartment until the protest finished, but she said, still looking at the phone, I’m staying the night. From the train, I watched Phoebe go, striding fast, horizontal. I’d have left the train, chased Phoebe down, if I’d been less to blame. The train slid into the afternoon, and I slept until the Noxhurst station.
* * *
–
Up through the next morning, in spite of what she’d said, I still thought Phoebe would come back Saturday night. But I woke Sunday to find she wasn’t home. She also hadn’t returned my calls. I should have studied; I opened a book, stared at it as long as I could, then poured a drink. I sat in the apartment through morning: I took a bus to Michelangelo’s. Though I didn’t have a shift, I helped at the front until I noticed a five-top littered with used plates. I carried them back to the kitchen, spilling pesto on my shirt. I dropped a knife. I took the table’s busboy out back, and I yelled at him. I asked what the fuck he’d been thinking. Looking down, he muttered that it wasn’t his table. It’s Gil’s, he said, his childish face bagged with fatigue. I excused him. I left, riding the bus home again.
The sun went down, and I called Phoebe. I left a short message asking if she�
�d let me know she was all right. Relying on the principle that almost nothing happens as I think it will, I started ticking through possible disasters. What I predicted, I’d forestall. I sat at the kitchen table. Each time I emptied a glass, I poured the next drink. It was 3:10 in the morning when the front door swung open. She stood in the hall, half-dissolved in porch light. Easing the lock into its slot, she set down a bag. She turned. Oh, she said, startled. It’s you. What are you doing?
I closed the laptop, and, with it, all the light I’d had. I’d been searching traffic-accident reports. She flicked on the hall lamp. I saw Phoebe take in the gin bottle, the knit hat I still hadn’t removed. Will, she said. I told you I was staying the night.
I didn’t know when you’d be home. I kept calling.
My phone died, she said. I didn’t notice it until a minute ago.
Hope rose, then fell. While she hung her coat and pashmina, I took a long, sustaining swig of tonic-splashed gin. The plaid skirt twitched on Phoebe’s thighs, brass buttons gleaming. The phone had tolled through its full five rings before it prompted me to leave a message, which meant it had been on. If it hadn’t, the phone would have shunted me to Phoebe’s voicemail with just one ring. No, each time I called, the phone had vibrated. She’d pulled it out, seen Will, and put it back in the bag. I was able to see what she’d done, in such detail that I knew it had to be true. When I could, I asked how she’d gotten home.
I drove, she said. I, well, John Leal did. I was too tired. I’ll make tea. Do you want anything?
Getting up, I went to the sink. I’ll do it, she said, but she hesitated, then sat. I filled the kettle. From the cupboard, I took down the aged puerh I’d bought in Beijing’s tea bazaar, a labyrinth I’d spent hours roving, intent on finding what she’d like best. It’s the king of teas, the merchant had explained, pouring me a sample cup. Unable to decide, I’d tried so much tea I’d had to piss outside, behind the building. I broke off a piece. I crumbled it into the mesh basket. Puerh leaves unfurled, like relaxing fists.