The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [130]
Small and brown-skinned, Mrs. Cho demonstrated that her numerous wrinkles were earned from frequent smiles. Reverend Cho explained the situation. Still holding my arms, she said, “Omana! Such a shame!” I shook my head to discount the disappointment. I did not want their sympathy. Reverend Cho retrieved a raincoat and hat from inside the house, told us to watch for my luggage, which he would arrange to be delivered from the station, and left. My mother-in-law led me into the grass-roofed house just as it started to rain. “We live simply,” she said, “but I pray you’ll find comfort here.”
When my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I was glad that I knew well how to hide my feelings. Not larger than my mother’s kitchen, the one-room hovel—for that was my first impression—had a coarse floor of loose boards barely covered by a worn and stained hemp mat, two haphazard chests, a small bookshelf and table, a closet crammed with bedding and a narrow earthen stove built into the back wall. The room reeked of smoke, old food smells and damp earth. Mrs. Cho kicked off her shoes and hurried to the kitchen area. She grabbed a gourd and two tin pots off wall hooks and placed them strategically on the floor. They soon splashed with raindrops leaking through the thatch. I bent to unlace my shoes and to hide any indication of my utter dismay.
“Luckily, we still have my son’s bed,” said Mrs. Cho, “which, of course, is yours now. Put your things here until your trunk arrives.” She pointed to a corner beside the bookshelf. “Those are all the books he had no room to pack,” she said proudly.
I felt as if I were hearing her through layers of fog and veils, and struggled to speak normally. “May I look?”
She crouched beside the books, her arthritic fingers fluttering along their spines. “Of course! They’re yours now too.”
I heard those words with dread. How could I live here? Knowing I had no choice, I relied on my training and bowed to the floor. “Thank you, Umma-nim, Mother, for welcoming me home. It’s— It’s unexpected to have the burden of this daughter unexpectedly on your hands, yet you’ve shown me only kindness.”
She smiled warmly. “Well then, Daughter, what is a Christian family for but to welcome their son’s bride? I consider the unexpectedness of it a special blessing!” She fingered the books again. “Before he left for college, Second Son used to read to me from the Bible and some of these others. Perhaps you’ll humor me by reading to me occasionally? Your father-in-law has no time for a foolish old wife with no education.”
“I’d be honored to.” I hadn’t known Calvin’s mother was illiterate. Once again anger flashed through me at the careless thoughtlessness of men. With a houseful of intellectuals and men doing women’s work, why had no one taught her? I was doomed if I continued to nurse such emotions. I bowed again and spoke as politely as I could, praying the formalities would even out my tone. “I apologize for coming empty-handed, but my gifts are in my luggage.” How easily my manners brought this lie to my lips.
“Don’t worry about that. All the gifts we need come straight from God.” She leaned closer to examine my features. “Clearly you’ve had quite a sophisticated upbringing. I worry— Perhaps you— Well, I hope you’ll find comfort here.”
“Your consideration is most kind, Ssi-umma-nim.”
We sat awkwardly as the rain blew against the shutters and dripped into the gourd and pots. Presently she said, “I’ll show you where everything is and you can help me prepare supper. I used to feed all the students, but I’m afraid that was too much for me and the church took that over.”
“Students?”
“Oh yes. Next door.” She opened a window and pointed to the two-story brick building between the church and the house. “We lived there for a time. All those rooms to clean! So