Following him inside, she recognizes the bareness. The white walls. The single sofa. The single bed. The familiar absence.
“I’ve got nothing here. I can heat up some water, or maybe boricha?” he says, putting a kettle on the stove.
Her body feels numb from the cold concrete corridor. The sleep was a blackout, leaving her spent, hollow, confused. “Boricha,” she answers. My favorite, she is about to add, and then realizes that it’s been years since she had it last. Mom used to keep it refrigerated and serve it instead of water. But it had never tasted like water. It was light brown. It smelled of corn, like an autumn harvest. She seems to have forgotten about it one day. Odd how that happens. You swear by certain things—that particular sundress he first saw you in, or that rose lipstick you wore every day, or that barley tea you once declared you couldn’t live without. But then, one day, someone, perhaps a stranger, in a bare, bleak apartment far from home, asks, without a hint of history, “Water or boricha?,” and you suddenly remember that it’s been years since you’ve even thought of it. But how is that possible? How is it that you could go on fine without what had once been so essential, that you haven’t even been aware of its absence? How is it then you could declare, without hesitation, that it is your favorite? Shouldn’t love require more? Isn’t love a responsibility?
“It’ll warm you up,” he says, taking a mug from the shelf. Suzy realizes how fatigued she feels, and how cold. For hours, she wandered through the streets of Queens. For hours, she could not get rid of the one thought circling in her head—her parents. What did they do to bring on such hatred? And then there was a girl named Mariana.
“Someone’s been following me,” she says, surprised that she is telling him.
“Have you told the police?” His eyes are on the kettle, which is taking a long time to boil.
“No,” she says, leaning on the cushion, glancing at the ashtray on the table. It is filled to the brim. The butts are smoked to their last skin. The sofa faces the opposite direction from the kitchenette. She cannot see him when she says, “I don’t think many people are too upset that my parents are dead, including the police.”
Finally, a hissing noise.
“I’m not interested in your parents’ death,” he says.
Now a shrill from the kettle, but he won’t turn it off, as though he is grateful for its shield.
She waits. The final pitch of the boiling water, but she is patient. It’s been a long day. It’s been a long, long five years.
When he stands before her with a cup of boricha, which he promptly puts on the table, he says nothing. He merely sits opposite her, waiting for her to finish. After tea, you may go. He does not have to say it. She knows she is not welcome. He is doing her a favor. A sobbing girl, frozen out of her mind, who can turn her out?
“Someone’s been sending me a bouquet of irises, someone’s been hanging up on the phone, someone’s even called with a threat,” she says, holding the mug between her cold palms. “What do you think it all means?”
He lights a cigarette. His hands are restless. A chain-smoker.
“The murderer wants to be found,” she says, taking a sip. The tea is instantly familiar, clean and hot as it rolls down her throat. “Not by Detective Lester, but by me.”
He won’t meet her eyes. He does not want any part of this conversation. The furrows between his eyebrows grow deeper as he inhales harder.
“You told me last time that having children didn’t really save my parents. You’re right, it didn’t.” Suzy takes a deep breath before continuing. “I need to know why they couldn’t be saved, what it is that they did to you. I guess I’m asking you to tell me before you tell the police, because the police will come sooner or later.”
He takes a long drag, longer than necessary. “Is that a threat?”
“No, a plea… because I think you understand what it means to try living while circling death again and again,” she says quietly, glancing at the photo of his wife, the dead woman guarding his bedside.
The frigid stillness, except for the clock ticking nearby. Her hands around the mug tighten, as though their hold steadies her. When he finally meets her eyes, she lets out a sigh, realizing that she has been holding her breath.
“Your father had enemies. Many, in fact. ‘Enemies’ might not be the right word. People who held deep grudges against him, let’s say. I was one of them. So I can’t blame you if you were to discredit everything I say. The ones who know the truth are both dead. So who’s to argue over what really happened?…” He pauses, his eyes wavering between her face and the rest of the room. He seems to be trying to find the right words, the right place to begin. His face clouds with something indefinite, something akin to resignation.
“When we met your father, we were working at a store on Tremont Avenue. My wife was at the cash register. I was doing the setup work around the store. We were both too old for the job, but we tried to make up for it by working hard, getting the freshest produce, opening the store before anyone else. One day the owner called me in. He was moving back to Korea. He offered me the store at a bargain. I’d saved some money by then, not a whole lot, but enough for a down payment. There was just one problem. We were both still illegal, my wife and I. We had no green cards, and definitely no right to own anything. That’s where your father came in.”
She recognizes the accent in his Korean from his deposition. Each syllable drags into the next without any inflection. It is kind to the ears. From central Korea, where people speak slowly in a quiet murmur. She was told that its land borders no water, anomalous on a peninsula. The only province kept hidden in the hills. The people there must be full of longing, searching the sky for a glimpse of blue. Their gentleness might belie what is unrequited, and perhaps broken.
“He’d done deliveries for us in the past. My wife remembered how he’d wanted to buy a store but didn’t have enough cash. He had once offered to invest some money for renovation in exchange for a part ownership. So we sought out your father, made a partner deal, put his name on the lease.”
Who would do that? Why would they trust a stranger? How would they know that he wouldn’t put the store under his name and run away with it? But Suzy also knows that the world of immigrants has its own rules. Every man is guide to every other man. They don’t speak English, or read English. They don’t know the American laws. They might even break them without knowing. They are forever guilty before the customers, the policemen, the inspectors, the district attorneys, the IRS agents, the INS agents. Sure, America is the land of opportunity, and yet they wouldn’t recognize an opportunity even if it is waved in front of them. Only another immigrant can show them, in their language, in ways they can understand. A fellow countryman who might understand America better, who might be less afraid, who might be legal.
“Soon his wife joined us. Your mother. She wasn’t much of a talker. I hold no grudge against your mother. I only say that because I do believe that, deep inside, she was good. I saw her smile once, a real full smile. She was looking at a truck passing by. When I asked her what she was smiling at, she blushed and said there was a load of irises in the back of the truck, and the irises brought back some old memories. I never saw that smile again. Maybe it was too late by then. She seemed tired of life. Numb. ‘Dead inside,’ is what my wife said. She always did what was required of her. She wouldn’t work too hard or too little. She just did her duty with a minimum of fuss. She never talked back to your father. He’d sometimes call her names, bad insulting names in front of me and my wife. They were both well into their forties. It really wasn’t right to do that.”