During her first year away, Grace phoned only once, to say that she wouldn’t be coming home during the breaks. Oddly, her parents did not seem too upset. If they were worried about her, they did not show it. In fact, they avoided mentioning her name altogether. Once, Suzy remarked casually at dinner, “I wonder how Grace is settling in.” They just ignored the comment. They seemed almost relieved that she was gone. For the final few months, Grace had barely spoken to the rest of the family. She seemed ready to leave home forever. Suzy did not think that her sister would ever come back, certainly not move back home, the way she did a few years later.
Without Grace, the house became unbearable. Although Grace had never been a source of warmth for Suzy, her absence made Suzy feel strangely alone. Her parents had just bought the shop on Tremont Avenue. Both had been working at different fruit-and-vegetable stores for a few years, Mom as a cashier and Dad doing delivery. None of the other jobs had panned out. Dry cleaning didn’t bring in enough cash; fish markets smelled nasty; clothing repair was taxing to the eye; nail salons were toxic; liquor stores got robbed too often; car services were too prone to accidents. Miraculously, they seemed to have saved enough to buy a store, which also meant that they came home even later.
Running their own business made them perpetually anxious. There were nights when they did not come home at all, because the store was open twenty-four hours. Suzy never got to see it. The less she knew, the better, Dad said. A fruit-and-vegetable market, nothing to see, nothing to learn. When Mom mentioned how other kids helped out, Dad balked: “I’m not slaving away in this goddamn country to have my kids cut up melons!” And that put an end to that. Suzy was secretly relieved. She’d seen Korean markets. They were familiar sights around the city. While the rest of the country had 7-Elevens and Pathmarks, New York City had Korean markets, where one could find almost anything at any hour, fresh and cheap. They all had the basic setup of fruits and vegetables, bunches of flowers in buckets, stacks of groceries on shelves, and salad bars and fruit cups. But the key was that almost all the food items were fresh; nothing was ready-made. They even sold freshly squeezed carrot juice.
The thought of seeing her parents at work made her uneasy. The twenty-four-hour market. The sleep-deprived wife behind the cash register. The bossy husband in a baseball cap hauling boxes in the back. The confused customers gesturing to workers, none of whom speak English. Such an absolute immigrant portrait terrified her. And she knew that the only one who would understand such fear was Grace. Grace had been her American ally. Grace had always been there as a shield. Without Grace, her home became a refuge for two overworked immigrants and Suzy, the interpreter of their forsaken lives.
And then there were those bills to sort out. Grace had always taken care of them. Suzy was suddenly lost without her. She had never had to calculate deductibles from the balance due or fill out loan applications. Luckily, by then her parents had learned to operate within the Korean community. There were people whom they could consult in Korean, an accountant or an insurance agent. When they absolutely needed to communicate in English, they got by in their broken English. Her parents never relied on Suzy the way they had with Grace. Because Grace was older, Suzy assumed. Grace knew how to get things done. But sometimes it almost felt as if it was Grace who wouldn’t let her. All those times when Grace was stuck having to translate for Mom and Dad, she never once asked Suzy for help. When Mom suggested Suzy take a turn, Grace snapped, “Leave her alone,” and then said loudly, so Suzy could hear, “She’s too slow, she’ll never figure it out.” That did it. Suzy never offered to help. Let her deal with the mess, she thought sulkingly. But now that Grace was gone, Suzy thought perhaps Grace had been right after all. On the rare occasions when Suzy had to read over a confounding notice from creditors, she wondered how Grace had managed, gone all day as Mom and Dad’s personal interpreter.
The elevator reeks of urine and sweat. The floor appears not to have been swept in years. The loud bass line from a boom box vibrates through each floor, accompanied by the occasional shrill of a woman, either joyous or dying. Suzy pauses before the door marked 8F
Kim Yong Su is a truck deliveryman, which means that he should be home now. A deliveryman’s day begins around 10 p.m., when he drives his truck to the wholesalers in the Bronx Terminal Market or the Hunts Point Market and purchases the goods that have been ordered by his client stores. He then loads the boxes of fruits and vegetables onto a truck and starts making deliveries through the early-morning hours. On average, one driver has five or six stores on his roster. A regular truck won’t hold more than six stores’ worth of goods. He is the middleman. All deliveries must be made by at least 9 or 10 a.m., when the stores finish stocking inventories. By noon, he must rush home, eat quickly, and go straight to bed, so that he can rise again at sunset.
Suzy rings the bell once. Nothing happens. No sound comes from the inside. Maybe he is not home yet. Maybe he is already asleep. She rings again. Somewhere from the end of the corridor comes a hissing noise. A kid up to mischief. A curious neighbor looking on. Finally, a shuffling sound against the door and an eye through the peephole. “Who is it?” the voice asks in Korean. “Suzy Park.” She brings her face close to the door. “I met you the other day at the deposition, I was your interpreter.” Then a clatter of bolts, and a face emerges, the same face that beckoned her at McDonald’s only five days ago.
He looks surprised, if not wary. He does not invite her in. Not yet anyway. His face seems to be asking, What are you doing here? Do interpreters make house calls now? Did my lawyer send you? Did the court? Am I in trouble for something I am unaware of? Whose side are you on?
“I would’ve called, but I had no phone number for you,” she says finally. It is hard to know where to begin. She hopes that she is not imposing too much on his sleep time.
He appears even more puzzled. He is not sure if he should let her in. Why is she here?
“I think you knew my parents,” she comes straight out. “They had a store on Tremont Avenue in the Bronx. They were killed five years ago.”
A flicker of something in his eyes. A flash of recognition. He looks her over once, lingering on her face, and says, “I’ve got nothing to say.” He is about to shut the door when Suzy blurts out, “Mr. Lee from Grand Concourse sent me. He told me that you know things, that you were wronged by my parents.” It is not true, of course. No one sent her here, only her own suspicion, and poor Mr. Lee, he will never know what exactly ensued from his testimony. The man behind the door pauses mid-step, his eyes boring into her once more. Then he moves aside, reluctantly.
Inside is a small studio with a bed against one wall, along with a table and a tattered brown sofa. On the other wall is a kitchenette barely wide enough for one person. It is a shabby place, but not without a semblance of order. Obviously he lives alone. But of course that must have been in his testimony; she never recalls details afterward, one witness’s life often blurring with another.
He motions for her to sit on the sofa before bringing a chair from the foot of the bed. He then sits opposite her with a table between them.