JHEE HONG

 

 

SOMETIMES SHE FOUND money on the floor. It was inevitable, working in retail, especially if you saw how people carried their cash. There was one customer yesterday who shoved his hand into his jean pocket and excavated a fistful of his life: a torn matchbook, a shopping list, two M&Ms (red and yellow), a used Kleenex, a movie ticket stub, and finally, a pair of crumpled ten-dollar bills. People kept their money in their front pocket, their back pocket, their shirt pocket, and sometimes in their hands, the bills turning soggy from their sweaty palms. Women were better than men, but not always. Jhee Hong had met enough frantic purse diggers to know that when it came to monetary organization, neither sex was immune to disarray.

So when she found the twenty-dollar bill lying underneath the rack of leather wallets, the money folded in half, splitting the face of the man in the oval down the middle, Jhee wasn’t surprised. What did alarm her, though, was how when she picked it up and held it in her hand, she felt nothing. This was free money, money she could buy anything with. Granted, it wasn’t a huge amount, but still, you could get plenty of things for twenty dollars. What, though? What was there to buy, really?

She unfolded the bill and gazed at the portrait. Probably a president, but she wasn’t sure. She recognized Washington and Lincoln on the smaller denominations, but this man with his high forehead and wavy gray locks, he was at best a familiar stranger. She’d seen his face a thousand times, and she knew his name to be Jackson because that’s what it said below his portrait, but his identity remained a mystery.

At the front counter of the store, a young woman walked up with a tiny red leather purse with a long spaghetti strap. It was about the size of two credit cards, but she was gladly forking over eighty dollars for it. This year marked the fifteenth anniversary of their store, and if there was one thing Jhee had learned from all the time wasted here, it was this: There was a buyer for every product. The key was having patience, waiting for that destined customer to walk in, fall in love, and leave with the bag of their dreams.

“Thank you!” she heard her husband say, sliding the item into a brown paper bag. “Thank you very much!”

She had been patient. Fifteen years ago, she was happy, and her husband had promised her the American Dream, and it was true, he didn’t twist her arm to emigrate, but where were they now? Still stuck in an apartment where the people upstairs woke them up on Saturday mornings with their ear-splitting Spanish music, still barely making ends meet selling knock-off Gucci purses at this cut-rate flea market of a mall. The last vacation they’d taken was three years ago, and they hadn’t even left the state, spending their savings on a mosquito-infested motel by the Jersey shore.

Jhee walked back to the counter and sat beside her husband, wincing as a sharp jab of pain bored into her lower back.

“You okay?” he asked.

She said nothing.

Her husband continued anyway. “Mr. Paik’s gonna help you, I know he will. Kim says he’s the best acupuncturist in New York, and he makes house calls to Jersey all the time.” Then he kept talking, about how difficult it was to get the appointment because he’s so popular, how Mr. Kim had friends who’d made amazing progress, but Jhee was only half listening. Instead, her mind was on last night, at the dinner table, when her back had ached so badly that she could scarcely breathe.

“Maybe,” her husband had suggested, in between long, loud slurps of his red miso soup, “it’s your period.”

She laid both hands on her back, trying to let the heat of her palms soothe the beast underneath her skin. It seemed as if there was something alive in there, a red-eyed monster with an unshakable grip, twisting her spine like toffee. But Jhee couldn’t decide what was worse, this physical pain or that her husband hadn’t realized she was no longer menstruating. She’d become menopausal half a year ago, hadn’t he noticed? Or did he not even know what that meant?

Jhee put her head down on the table. The lacquered wood felt cool against her cheek, and somehow it felt better to look at the world sideways, the half-empty glass of water transformed into a crystalline tower, the silver salt and pepper shakers gleaming like rockets, and behind it her husband’s oblivious face.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he had said, and only her silent tears finally clued him in to the severity of her discomfort.

So all morning, he’d been on the phone with Mr. Paik, making sure he was talking loud enough for her to hear.

“Yes, her back is very sore. Very sore.

“That’s right, she’s forty-four, but she looks at least ten years younger.

“Money is of no issue, Mr. Paik, none whatsoever. I just want you to get my wife well.”

For his attempt at forgiveness, she’d given him the silent treatment, but her husband knew it wouldn’t last for long. Jhee liked to talk, and she had no one else to talk to, though perhaps that would change today.

As if reading her mind, he paused in his praise of the master acupuncturist and said, “Hey, this is your big day, right?”

When she looked up from the Korean newspaper she’d been pretending to read, Jhee was caught off guard at the earnestness displayed on her husband’s face. She knew it wasn’t a handsome face, tiny black beads of eyes too close together, a nose not so much flat as rather haphazardly deflated, yet there were times, like now, when this unattractive conglomeration reassured her and gave her strength. Immediately, the feeling that rose up from her was guilt. The only way she got Mrs. Kim to agree to do anything with her was by falsifying her husband’s birthday, which in actuality had come and gone a month ago. At some point her lie would be exposed, but Jhee didn’t care. The only thing that mattered now were these few hours ahead of her, these hours she would spend pretending to shop with Mrs. Kim, whose first name she still did not know.

 

Jhee didn’t know her name because in Korea, mothers referred to one another by the name of their firstborn child, a custom she never could accept. There were many things about her native country that annoyed her, actually—such as the automatic respect extended to anyone older, even if they didn’t deserve it, or how most wives acted like little girls in front of their husbands, often addressing their counterparts as “Daddy.” That was just plain disgusting, but the last thing she wanted was to be ostracized as the neighborhood freethinker, so Jhee kept her opinions to herself, smiling and nodding while secretly hoping for an overseas escape. One of the reasons she’d married her husband was because his brother, a naturalized citizen in the United States, had offered to invite him to be a permanent resident.

What was Mrs. Kim’s story? Why was she here? As she stood beside her in A Second Chance, the used bookstore in Peddlers Town, Jhee wanted to know, and she didn’t understand why Mrs. Kim wasn’t curious about her. They were the only two Korean women in this entire building, and yet it had taken Jhee months to get her to come to this outing.

“That’s a lovely scarf,” Jhee said.

“Thank you,” Mrs. Kim said, putting her hand on the red-and-blue hand-knitted fabric wrapped around her neck. In actuality, it was ridiculous for her to have this on, considering it was May and already feeling like summer. “My daughter made it for me.”

Of course, she was one of those people, all about her kids, everything about her kids.

“Yun Sae’s Mother?” Mrs. Kim asked.

“Jenny,” she reminded her. “Please call me Jenny. That’s what I call myself now, here, in America.”

“All right,” Mrs. Kim said, clearly uncomfortable. “Why are we here?”

Finally. For a bit there, Jhee had wondered if Mrs. Kim would ever ask, but now that she had, Jhee could relax somewhat. Mrs. Kim had taken the bait, and now the conversation was going the way she’d intended.

“Look at all these books,” Jhee said, sweeping her arm dramatically, feeling a little like an actress delivering her lines. “Each of them has a story just waiting to be discovered. Isn’t that exciting?” She pulled out a hardback from the shelf, the worn jacket barely hanging on to the covers, and flipped through the pages.

“You can read these books?” Mrs. Kim asked, astonished.

No, of course not, Jhee was about to say. She’d intended to talk about the books she read in Korea when she had been a private tutor, which she hoped would lead Mrs. Kim to share her own past. But then she saw Mrs. Kim staring at her with eyes full of reverence. She was a taut ball of a woman, her arms crossed tightly, as if to keep herself from opening up to the world. From the moment they met, Jhee knew she wanted to get to know her, but she hadn’t known how. Now she stood in front of this locked door with a key.

“Yes,” she said, not quite believing what had just come out of her mouth, the audacity of this fabrication.

But it was the right thing to say, because what lay on the other side of that door was Mrs. Kim’s bright blossom of a smile.

“It must be so nice. I can’t read a damned thing. I mean I know the letters, but I don’t even know how they sound.” She glanced at the book in Jhee’s hand and attempted to sound out the title. “Duh . . . Goo-ra . . . Goo-ra . . . ?”

The words were written in dark blue, in the sky above the blue mountains and the desert-colored earth. In the foreground of the cover art was a family, Jhee gathered, the father standing and the mother and son sitting on a hill, all three people with their backs turned, gazing at the desolate landscape below. In front of them was what looked like a very old car, its trunk packed with junk.

Lucky for Jhee, she knew these words, at least the first three. “The Grapes of,” she said, and explained to Mrs. Kim that grape in Korean was poe-doe.

“Poe-doe? Isn’t that strange. Goo-ra-ip. It’s not even close, is it?”

They laughed together. “And this,” she said, pointing at Wrath, a word she had never seen. She rifled through her small cache of vocabulary, thinking of grapes, what goes with grapes, it wasn’t summer, she knew that—then she had it. “This word, woo-rae-tuh, it’s the name of the town. It’s a town in California.”

Mrs. Kim nodded understandingly. “So you read this book?” Mrs. Kim opened it to a random page and gazed at the English words staring back at her.

“Not the whole thing,” Jhee said, settling into her lie, “the first half of it was good, but then it slowed down a lot.”

What Mrs. Kim didn’t realize yet was how little she actually needed to know to survive in this country. Jhee remembered when she first arrived, the fear and hopelessness that tugged her at every sign she couldn’t read, every conversation she failed to understand. But then it turned out that words on signs were often accompanied by descriptive pictures (an x through a lit cigarette) or revealing colors (green for yes, red for no), and there weren’t many phrases you needed to know to sell handbags to customers. Looks good on you. Very pretty. Nice, strong bag. Big enough, fit everything.

In time, Mrs. Kim would find this to be true, but for now, Jhee was grateful for her ignorance. Maybe she was taking advantage of the disadvantaged, but there were worse things you could do in this world. All she wanted from this fellow countrywoman was her friendship. And one other thing.

“So,” Jhee asked, perusing through another book, a burgundy paperback without cover art, “what is your name?” She’d kept it as casual as possible, but she knew she hadn’t succeeded, as Mrs. Kim glanced at her with unease. There was an agonizing pause, and Jhee fought herself several times from recanting her question.

“Well,” Mrs. Kim finally said, and to Jhee’s surprise, it was she who was apologetic. “It’s just In Young. I don’t have an American name, like you.”

Jhee replaced the book on the shelf, held her friend by her shoulders, and spoke with fierce determination. “Then we’ll get you one.”

“My husband calls himself Harry,” Mrs. Kim said. “I think it’s silly, but he likes it.”

“A name,” Jhee muttered to herself, scanning the various colors and sizes of spines lining the back wall of this bookstore. On the topmost shelf, a large brown volume caught her eye, the author’s name in gold: SHAKESPEARE. Of course! When the idea came to her, she literally jumped for joy, never mind her creaky back. She felt wonderful, creative, energized—the opposite of the way she usually spent her days, and it was all because of this woman who stood next to her. Jhee wished to hug her, but no, not yet, there would be time for that.

“Here,” she said, and took Mrs. Kim by the hand, which was unexpectedly small, almost childlike. And she related her idea to her as they walked among the shelves. They were in a bookstore after all, and the name of the author of each and every book was ripe for their picking.

“Oh!” Mrs. Kim said. “That sounds like fun.”

And it was, like a treasure hunt. Jhee had chosen Jenny because her Korean name started with a J, so she advised Mrs. Kim to do the same, but none of the names seemed right. Ida, Iris, Ilene.

“How about this?” Mrs. Kim said, holding a book titled Out of Africa. On the back was a profile of the author’s face, but she was named Isak, which Jhee knew to be for a man.

“I think it’s a mistake,” Jhee said.

“Too bad,” Mrs. Kim said. “I like that name, eye-sack.”

When they ran out of the I’s, they tried the Y’s, but they were even fewer in number.

“Yolanda?” Jhee said.

Mrs. Kim shook her head. “Too many sounds.”

In the end, it was Mrs. Kim who found her American moniker. She held up a dog-eared paperback to Jhee, the cover an old painting of a beautiful white woman from the neck up, her skin as pale as rice, her thin lips pink and pursed. There was something inherently weak about her, though, maybe even unhealthy, the way her cheeks sunk in slightly, her eyes masking a sorrow only she knew, but Jhee thought this potential vulnerability only added to her beauty.

“She’s pretty, don’t you think?”

“I guess,” Mrs. Kim said. “So . . . is this okay?”

“Sure, Jane’s a great name.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Kim said, hesitating. “Yes. Okay.”

“Wait,” Jhee said. “You don’t like it?”

“I like this more, I think. Ehm-ah, am I saying that right?”

It was the title of the book, printed below the author’s name: Emma.

“Yes,” Jhee said, a little annoyed that Mrs. Kim wasn’t so linguistically challenged after all. “You sounded that out? That’s good.”

She chuckled. “No, not really. The only word I know by sight is Mommy, and it looked like that. And if it sounds like it, too, that’s even better.”

“Uh-huh,” Jhee said. Mrs. Kim was so Korean, a good little mother who lived for her children. Jhee had hoped she’d found someone with attitudes similar to hers, and it was disappointing to discover that she was just like everybody else, but maybe she was being too harsh. In time, she’d show her another way to live her life, that there was more than just doting after children. There had to be. The separation between children and their mother was an inescapable fact of life, but for immigrant parents like them, it was worse. She could remember her own son coming home from elementary school, eager to share his newfound knowledge with her; but as the years rolled on and the happy boy turned into a sullen teenager, she saw how glad he was for the language barrier between them. It broke her heart.

They had to stick together, she and Mrs. Kim. There was so much Jhee had to teach her. She snatched the book away from her and smiled, not only because she was about to do something nice, but because she now had something meaningful for the twenty dollars she’d found.

“I love it, In Young. Emma is the perfect name for you, do you know why? Because it’s the one you chose. And I’m going to buy it for you.” She knew Mrs. Kim would decline once, and again. Then she would say thank you and let her buy it, because that’s how it was between Koreans. Did no one else see the inherent inefficiency of these silly customs?

At the front desk, Jhee greeted Ralph, the owner of the bookshop. He was flashing his biggest, warmest smile, which in actuality was like seeing the widening of an open wound. Jhee heard Mrs. Kim draw in a quick breath behind her.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” Ralph said.

The man was, in every sense of the word, ugly. His nose was enormous, his eyes were off-center, and these unfortunate components were embedded on a face that was long and horsy. Who could love a man like this? Hopefully a woman equally as unattractive, or one that simply didn’t care. For his sake, Jhee hoped there was somebody out there for him. He seemed like a nice enough man, always greeting her whenever they saw each other in the mall, and the few times they met at a door, he held it open for her.

He just had to be patient. Somebody would come along, just like the woman who came in and bought the little red purse from their store this morning. If she could speak better English, that’s what she’d tell him—though maybe not. It was easy to think in such terms when the possibility didn’t exist, like somebody saying they’d donate a heap of cash if they won the lottery. In reality, they’d probably keep all the winnings to themselves, and Jhee wouldn’t say anything.

She handed the book to Ralph and pointed to Mrs. Kim. “My friend. Emma Kim.”

“What a coincidence,” Ralph said, “just like the book. It’s great to meet you, Emma.” He extended his hand to Mrs. Kim, who shook it. Then she gave him a quick bow, probably out of habit. Seeing it reminded Jhee of the more elaborate bowing that went on during the Korean New Year, when the children honored their parents with a ceremony known as jurl. Standing straight with your arms by your side, you silently got down to your knees. You never made eye contact, you always looked down, because that’s how you showed respect. Then as your head dipped forward down to the floor, you drew a studied arc with both arms, and if you were doing it correctly, you finished with your forehead resting on the backs of your hands. Sometimes this sequence of motion was repeated three or four times in succession, though Jhee couldn’t remember why. Mrs. Kim probably knew.

“Goodness,” her friend said as Ralph rang up the sale, “this man is just hideous.”

“Oh yes,” Jhee said, feeling bad for what she was about to say, but only for a moment. “Isn’t he just the ugliest person you’ve ever seen?”

Ralph, oblivious to their Korean conversation, leaned over and plucked a plastic Snoopy bookmark, complete with a yellow Woodstock-inspired tassel, from the bin on the other side of the register. He tucked it behind the front cover and handed it back to Jhee. “Just a little present from me. A gift.”

They both thanked him and giggled together as they left the store.

“Hah-mah,” Mrs. Kim whispered, “hippopotamus” in Korean. “That’s what he looks like.”

Their laughter had the weightless quality of schoolgirls, but then Mrs. Kim peered at her wristwatch and it broke the spell.

She cleared her throat. “We should find your husband’s present,” she said, back to her stern, boring self.

 

What Jhee ended up getting was a portable cassette player, which now sat underneath her seat. It was the least expensive thing she could find at HiFi FoFum, which was still too much—Dmitri, who owned the stereo store, only carried name-brand merchandise—but time had been running out. The way she’d wanted this day to end was to treat her new friend to dinner, and it had taken a great deal of convincing to get her to Hometown Grill. The amount of guilt Mrs. Kim exhibited over a simple meal away from her kids was downright embarrassing.

“They’ll survive without you,” Jhee had said, but Mrs. Kim hadn’t even gotten her sarcasm.

“I guess so,” she said, and as they sat in the cozy dimness of the restaurant, she kept up the annoying habit of looking behind her. What did she think, that her two children were going to come begging for her return? They were probably glad to eat something American for a change, which is how Mrs. Kim should be approaching this opportunity.

The key was to distract her with questions. Her drive to learn was as demanding as a child’s, and as she answered her queries, Jhee was happily reminded of her tutoring days in Korea, the rush she received from imparting knowledge to another person.

“Now that little black cap on his head,” Mrs. Kim asked, referring to Dmitri’s yarmulke. “What is it?”

It had been too long since Jhee experienced this connection between a teacher and a student. She’d forgotten how it was like giving a gift, how it made you feel generous and superior at the same time.

“It’s because he’s Jewish, Emma. Some Jewish men wear it.”

“I’m amazed it stays on. He was moving around pretty fast in that store of his.”

“Well,” Jhee said, and she paused here, relishing the moment, “they stick bobby pins around it so it doesn’t slide off.”

Mrs. Kim nodded, and Jhee saw how she wanted to ask something else, but she stopped. Instead, she stared into the votive candle lit in the middle of the table and spoke quietly.

“I know I’m asking too many questions.”

And instead of being gentle, Jhee was firm in her reply. “There’s only one way you can offend me, and that is to not ask what’s on your mind. Understand?”

“You’re too kind,” Mrs. Kim said.

“Next question,” Jhee said, and Mrs. Kim smiled.

“Does he wear it every day? The hat?”

“It’s called a yah-mah-ka.”

“Yah-mah-ka,” she repeated.

“It’s a show of devotion to his god,” Jhee said, not certain about this part but saying it with confidence, with authority.

“Isn’t that interesting,” Mrs. Kim said. She seemed so youthful whenever she learned something new, her eyes opening up a little wider. “And what about this on the table?” She pointed to a printed card on a miniature brass easel.

Jhee explained to Mrs. Kim about the special of the day, which she was glad to see was something she recognized: steak.

“Stae-kuh,” her friend said, unsure. “Is that good?”

“Oh yes, very good, especially with hot sauce.”

Jhee and her husband had eaten twice at Hometown Grill, and on both occasions, they’d been serviced by the same waitress, but today it was the chef himself, Jake, who’d seated them and handed out the menus. Perhaps the waitress on duty was late or was attending to some emergency, or maybe they were just early. It was a quarter to five, not exactly prime dinner hour. Jhee usually saw him from behind the chrome counter of the open kitchen in the back, his face occasionally illuminated by the flare-up of the grill flames. He looked tired today, a slow shuffle to his step, but there was something different about him, too, and when he returned to take their order, Jhee realized what it was.

“Hair,” she said to him, pointing to her chin. “No hair.”

Jake stood with his pen poised over his notepad. Their eyes met, and it was strange how his smooth face made him look younger and yet at the same time older, like the feeling you got looking at a midget.

“Yeah,” Jake finally said after a lengthy pause, “yeah.” Then he asked them for their order.

“We will have the special,” Jhee said, a phrase she’d memorized yesterday. She’d also remembered, “Grilled chicken, please,” and “Grilled steak, please,” but she’d hoped to order the special, because it sounded very American.

“Very good,” Jake said, and took away their menus. “It’ll be out shortly.”

As Jake left for the kitchen, Mrs. Kim stared after him with concern. “Do you know him?” Jhee asked.

“No,” Mrs. Kim said, and when she saw Jhee examining her, she blushed. She adjusted the napkin on her lap and changed the subject. “I hope I can speak as well as you can one day.”

Jhee was about to reassure her that she would indeed, with time and with her guidance, when something thin and hot seared deep into the small of her back. It came with such intensity that she let out a small gasp.

“Jenny,” Mrs. Kim said, alarmed, “are you all right?”

It was the first time Mrs. Kim called her by her American name, and Jhee knew she should praise her for doing so, but she couldn’t form the words. Instead her entire being was consumed by this excruciating sensation, and it seemed to Jhee that time was moving very slowly. She saw Mrs. Kim rise up from her chair in slow motion, then crouch down a centimeter at a time next to her. Her friend’s hand floated to her forehead and rested there for an eternity.

“Are you okay?”

What if it never left? What if she felt like this for the rest of her life? The purity of this pain was exquisite, but it was already fading, ebbing away, and a strange thought crept into her mind. She could see how a pain this true could become a source of strength, how you might come to depend on it like the chiming of a clock or the setting of the sun.

“I’m fine,” Jhee said, but now that the ache was gone, in its place was a feeling of profound uselessness. Why had it been so important to befriend this woman, a woman she didn’t really even like, a woman she’d lied to from the very beginning? Suddenly she felt very stupid.

As if on cue, Jake appeared and clanged a pair of white dishes in front of them. Shredded carrots and broccoli florets outlined the perimeter of the plate, but the thing in the middle didn’t look like steak. It looked like a mound of raw ground beef, mashed together with chopped onions and a gooey yellow paste that resembled egg yolk.

“Steak?” Jhee asked him.

“Right, steak tartare,” Jake said. “Bon appetit.”

And once again they were alone, the two Korean women of Peddlers Town.

Mrs. Kim poked at her bloody cake with a fork. “Is this cooked?”

Jhee Hong sectioned off a wedge and stared at the clump of meat in front of her. It almost looked alive, glistening in the candlelight.