“Please don’t bother making any trips. I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“We’ll see,” Reverend Kim said, as Hector took her inside. A couple of the aunties had retrieved bandages and ice hastily chipped from blocks delivered in the morning. The reverend went in and observed Hector wrap her knee, the children trying to push in and watch as well until the aunties shooed them all out. Soon enough the two men emerged, Hector heading to his room, Reverend Kim collecting his briefcase and coat in the mess hall before getting into the church car. He started it and rolled out on the worn path of the drive. June ran after the car and had to rap on the trunk to get him to stop, this just beneath the orphanage gate.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said, rolling down the window. He brushed her hands from the door of the dented old sedan. He didn’t know any of the children particularly well, but if there was one he knew, it was June, at least by reputation. “Now stand back.”
“Will you be contacting Reverend Tanner when you get back to Seoul?”
“It’s no business of yours.”
“But he should know Mrs. Tanner has been injured, shouldn’t he?”
Reverend Kim nodded, clearly annoyed for having to speak with her, but now giving pause. “He should be. But as with this place, there are no telephones at those orphanages. There’s a popular inn at the pass near the second one. I suppose I could leave a message there. But whether he’ll stop in is pure chance.”
“Please leave a message, Reverend.”
“Maybe I will,” he said, his eyes growing curious. “But tell me, girl, why are you so concerned?”
“I care about Mrs. Tanner.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes! More than anything!”
“And I take it you think it would be best if the reverend came right back?”
“Yes… I don’t know. It just seems Mrs. Tanner shouldn’t be alone.”
“No,” he said, somewhat thickly. “She shouldn’t.”
“So will you return tonight?”
“Mrs. Tanner does not wish it.”
“What about tomorrow? You’ll come back tomorrow?”
“She doesn’t wish that, either.” He put the car into gear. “Step back now.”
She clung to the door, tears in her eyes. “But you must! Everything will be ruined!”
He let out a begrudging sigh of solicitude. Normally he would have rolled up the window, right there and then, but she looked particularly desperate, her round face unusually tight and drawn.
“Nothing will be ruined that won’t be ruined anyway,” he said. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Reverend,” she said, “but you’re wrong.”
He sighed again. “Look here. I can’t explain it to you now. They’ll be leaving very soon. You children should make good use of your time with the Tanners.”
“Not Min.”
“Why, does he not care that they’re leaving?”
“Of course he does. He’s going with them.”
Reverend Kim said gravely, “Is that so?”
“Yes. And I am, too.”
Something sour flashed across his face, as if he had just smelled spoiled porridge. “You had better step back now,” he said to her, nudging away her hands. He rolled up the window, and before she could do anything else he drove away, the rear bumper of the rusty sedan rattling as the car bounded down the rutted drive.
SOON THE BELLS RANG for supper. June lined up with the others. The children were orderly-they were always quietest on the line-and she took her bowls of soup and rice and sat alone at the far end of the mess hall. So-Hyun and Min ambled over just as they had the last few days, knowing she would only pick at her meal. But she didn’t acknowledge them when they sat beside her, and when So-Hyun reached out to take her bowl of rice, June grabbed her wrist and held it, with increasing pressure, until the girl began to whimper.
“What’s wrong with you?” So-Hyun cried, finally able to pull back her hand. She rubbed at her wrist. “Are you crazy or something?”
June made no answer. So-Hyun scooted down on the bench, continuing to complain, while Min had already picked up his bowls and left. He was no longer even in the mess hall. June thought she ought to go find him. It was then that she noticed one of the aunties leaving the mess hall with a tray of food. She caught up with the woman just as she was nearing the cottage. “Dear auntie,” she said, “let me take it to Mrs. Tanner.”
“What are you doing out here? If you’re done with your dinner, then it’s time to get ready for bed.”
“I’ll wait and bring the dishes back for you when she’s done. That way you don’t have to make another trip.”
“I do have some radishes salting.” The woman sighed, weary from the long day. “I should get them seasoned before I go home. Okay, then, but just bring it to her and wait outside. And don’t bother her! If I hear anything different I’ll strap you, you hear me?”
June agreed and took the tray. When she knocked on the door she could hear Sylvie say in Korean,
You may come in
. June let herself inside just as Hector was coming out of the back room, some balled-up bandages in his hands. He walked out without saying anything to her. In the bedroom, Sylvie was sitting up in bed in a robe, reading by the lamplight, her knee newly wrapped and propped on a pillow. She seemed startled when she saw it was June but then warmly smiled, putting down her book. “You’re nice to bring me supper.”
“Does your leg still hurt?” June asked.
“I’ll be all right,” Sylvie answered.
June nodded. “Would you like to eat now?”
Sylvie said yes and took the tray from her, setting it on her lap. She removed the newspaper covering the porcelain bowls of soup and rice and prepared vegetables. The aunties had prepared some extra dishes for her.
“My goodness,” she said. “It’s so much food. I’m not terribly hungry, to tell you the truth. Have you eaten, sweetie?”
June said she had.
“But I just heard the bells a few minutes ago. Did you even have a chance to finish your own meal? Why don’t you share this with me? You use the spoon and I’ll use the chopsticks. Sit up here with me, it’ll be easier.”
Sylvie shifted to make room for her, June sitting cross-legged with the tray on her lap. She didn’t want to eat but Sylvie kept saying she should, patting her shoulders, and before she realized it, before she could stop herself, she had already begun, eating half the bowl of rice and all the radish
kimchee
. It was like breathing after holding one’s breath for too long, the inhalations at first quick and deep but then settling right back into an automatic rhythm, her body in command, cribbing her sight with opaque blinders, the dull glow of the bowls the only halos before her. Sylvie was saying to keep on, and very quickly June finished the vegetables, the fritters, the last spoonfuls of rice, and by the end she had lifted the soup bowl to her lips and drunk it down, the hot, rich broth scalding her tongue. But when she was done she felt immediately ashamed, the barely chewed morsels lodged in her gut as if she’d swallowed fistfuls of coal. She slipped off the bed to take the tray and leave, but Sylvie grasped her arm. “You don’t have to go…”
“Please forgive me!” June said. “I ate all your dinner! I will bring you more!”
“Oh, sweetie,” Sylvie said, now trying to hug her. “I didn’t need any of it. Not a bit.”
“I have to go,” June gasped, and then pulled herself away, just quickly enough to open the back door and retch onto the ground. It smelled almost good, simply like food, but she coughed up some more. Sylvie was now holding her shoulders as she stroked her back, the hollow feeling in June’s belly strangely confirming to her that this was the state in which she felt most honed, elemental, most purely alive.
“Are you feverish?” Sylvie asked her. “Are you feeling sick, otherwise?”
“No, no,” June said. “I should not eat your dinner. I am sorry.”
“Please don’t apologize for that,” Sylvie said. “Never for that.” They stepped back inside, Sylvie limping but bracing June as if she were the one who needed help walking. She pulled up a stool for herself and had June sit on the edge of the bed. She clasped June’s hands. “I’m glad you came here tonight. We haven’t talked very much of late, have we?”
“No.”
“I’ve missed spending time together.”
June didn’t answer, for she realized she had not come here to speak but rather to hear what Sylvie would say to her, to hear her utter what she of course knew was the truth. Yet all at once June found herself beset by a great flowing rush of tears. She did not feel sad or afraid and yet here she was with her face awash, her eyes burning, its salty run trickling into her mouth.
“Please don’t cry,” Sylvie said, gently wiping June’s face with her hands. “Please, sweetie. You’re going to break my heart.”
June steeled herself, rubbing her eyes. She was not going to falter. She was not going cede to childish need, to weakness. “I am sorry, Mrs. Tanner,” she said, in her clearest voice. “I am fine.”
Sylvie said, “Of course you are. May I tell you something? These months that Reverend Tanner and I have been here, they’ve been the most joyous times in my life. The reason is being with all of you children. There’s nothing else that has given me more happiness, and I’m sure nothing ever will. But above all, most precious to me has been our friendship.”
“What about Hector?” June said, unable to help herself.
Sylvie bowed her head. She looked at June and said, “I’ve done many regrettable things, here as in the rest of my life. I don’t know if I’ll be forgiven. Perhaps you can someday forgive me, but I will not ask you for that. I deserve nothing of the kind. I simply hope you know something about yourself. Early on, I didn’t know if I was being unfair to the other children by spending more time with you. My husband certainly thought I should have gone about things differently. But you have always lifted me up. And I see now how much you’ve grown and changed, in such a short time. I’ve been watching you the last weeks. You’ve been so thoughtful, and kind, and wonderfully willing to help some of the younger girls, and I notice how you’ve now taken Min under your wing. When we were playing the game earlier today, I was so pleased that you wouldn’t let Byong-Ok provoke you. You don’t even seem to have your famous temper anymore! You’ve become the girl I always believed you were. And I know only a small bit of that is because of me. It’s more because of this place, and everyone’s hard work and care, but most of all, it’s because of you. No matter what you do or where you go in this world, your undying spirit will see you through. You have a singular perfection, that way. Nothing will ever halt you. But you should know something else, too. You have a great and passionate heart, June, one as capacious as you are strong. Soon, I know, and forever, it’ll be full of love’s riches.”
Sylvie reached over to the shelf that served as a night table and pulled out a book and gave it to June. “I was hoping that you might like to have this. Would you accept it from me? Would you keep it safe, after Reverend Tanner and I have gone?”
June stared at the thin volume in her hands. It was the one covered in blue cloth, the one of the long-ago battle in the long-ago war. Here was the sole possession of Mrs. Tanner’s she had truly wanted, and had once stolen, and had given back. And so this is what she would have. This was her prize.
“Yes,” she said, gripping it tightly. “Thank you.”
She rose to leave. Sylvie hugged her and almost fiercely held on but June did not yield a hair to the embrace, a breath, even a prickle of her skin. How quickly she could check herself. She was only a child but she was a right hard stone. When Sylvie released her, June did not have to look at the woman’s face to know that it looked as if it had just been struck, brutally smashed.
June left the cottage. In the twilight the children were coming out of the mess hall, chattering and running around in the last weak lamp of daylight. They streamed past her as she carried the tray of empty bowls, the book pinned under one arm, staring at her for a moment and then fluttering by like the tiny, carefree birds that nested in the bushes and small trees around the orphanage and under the eaves of the buildings. During the summer there had seemed to be scores of the mouse-brown wrens perched about, hundreds of them, but now their numbers had rapidly thinned, culled by the growing scarcity of the season. After returning the tray, June watched the other children, and she thought how their numbers were thinning, too, but rather because of their character, or young age, or plain luck, and that those who remained would be only less fortunate, and grow older, simply settle ever deeper into the fixed molds of their selves, the selves that had already been passed over.
When the bell rang once again, the children scattered and dashed about in a final frenzy before being ushered inside by the aunties. June stayed outside in the leading shadow of the darkness. She crouched on her haunches well beyond the far end of the field, right by the rickety gate, her hands and neck and face steadily stiffening in the chill. One of the aunties called out for her and waited for an answer but didn’t call out again. They had become accustomed to not bothering with her. The kerosene lamps were now lighted in the dormitories, the windows aglow on both the boys’ and girls’ sides. In recent weeks she had indeed helped the youngest girls brush their teeth and dress for bed and had even read to them a few times, but tonight she would stay out until she couldn’t bear the cold. Or maybe she would simply remain here, lie down on the hard, gravelly dirt and close her eyes and hope that this would be the night that brought forth winter in its first full, harsh form. She remembered sleeping on the train with the twins, the same icy fingers grasping at them as they had huddled tight, and how she had hoped they might get all the way to Pusan without having to march again, to eat again, without fearing any more misery and privation. It was June’s decision to climb atop the overcrowded train. Since that night she had often wondered if it would have been better to wait for the next one, or to have taken their chances on foot, or else steered the twins and herself far off the main road without any provisions and simply waited for the one merciful night that would lift them away forever. The twins would not have suffered and she would not be here now. For what had surviving all the days since gotten her, save a quelled belly? She had merely prolonged the march, and now that her new hunger had an altogether different face, it was her heart that was deformed, twisting with an even homelier agony.