The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [129]
I kept my head bowed, vexed that he’d seen something of my feelings and accurately attributed it to wavering faith. Let him see then! I had nothing left—why hold on to propriety?
He clasped his hands and prayed, “Father in Heaven, my daughter and I come before you in bleakness and anger. She is burdened by the loss of her plan of international travel and American schooling, the separation of her new husband—my second son—married in your house only yesterday …”
I chafed under his prayer. It took all my training to suppress the urge to kick my chair across the room and run from the table. I thought then of my mother, her tear-soaked handkerchief tucked into my skirtband, and I breathed hard to feel it pressed against my heart. It quelled the wrathful buzz in my ears, enough to sit and hear Reverend Cho’s impassioned prayer, which seemed to go on forever. But it was a kind prayer, and after the amen I found myself somewhat chastened by his sensitivity. I glanced at my father-in-law’s eyes, which were wet. I lowered mine, dry, and said, “I will pray on this.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I caught a glimpse of his smile and thought derisively that it was the practiced minister in him that made such obvious kindness shine in his eyes. No, this was impossible, hateful thinking. I pushed it down, found comfort and even pride in my ability to do so.
“Now then.” He patted my hand and pulled a fountain pen and small pad from inside his jacket. “We’ll need to send a cable to your husband.” His rough palm on my hand recalled the demonstrative goodbyes shared by father and son. I cringed to think what more I would see of the Cho family’s ill-mannered sense of physical propriety.
“After that,” said the minister, “I’ll take you home. Your mother-in-law waits eagerly to meet you, especially since she’s heard your charms extolled for several months now. Naturally, you’ll come home with us. As to what the days ahead might bring, we’ll leave that to God with, perhaps, a little help from common sense and the American Post Office.” He opened the pen and handed it to me.
I wrote more crookedly than I thought possible, and flushed with longing for home and Gaeseong, ended my message to Calvin with my father’s parting sentiment from yesterday morning, eons ago. I pushed the paper across the table.
“Fine. See if you can finish your tea while I send it.”
During his short absence, I wove an invisible wall around my emotions, strong enough to carry me through the next few unknown days, resilient enough to permit access to my feelings when I felt more able to wrestle with them.
INSIDE THE CHOS’ brushwood gate, a small weedy yard led to tall dusty shrubs that hid most of the house. Mrs. Cho welcomed me warmly at the door. She grasped my arms and came quite close, peering into my face. I stiffened until I saw her cloudy eyes. I thought of poppy root and gingko extract with gentian to improve her obviously failing vision. This automatic educated medical response made me bitter, it being largely the cause of my present disillusionment. God had punished me for ambition, for failing the test presented in the guise of my husband—a man of God—who had brought with him the dream of an American education. Had I sincerely cared for him, or was it what he offered that had attracted