The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [132]
I followed Mrs. Cho’s instructions to empty the linen closet and spread the heavy quilts—my bedding next to the bookshelf, and beside mine, theirs. With the blankets spread, there was no space left on the wooden part of the floor. Even when she indicated she’d sleep beside me, it remained a layout of considerable discomfort. She brought her husband a basin of warm water. Without further ado, Reverend Cho undressed and, completely naked, wiped himself all over with a washrag. Thoroughly shocked, I turned to the wall and buried my eyes in my hands, too appalled to be polite, and mortified that I’d seen more of him than I had my own husband. Mrs. Cho added water to the basin and I heard her splashing. “There’s hot water on the stove still for you too, Daughter.” She snuffed the lamp, crawled into bed and settled on her side facing away from me. “Goodnight.”
I waited until they breathed evenly with sleep, and still I couldn’t move. It was impossible to remove my clothes in this setting. Impossible to bathe, to sleep! I huddled in the corner with my face to the wall, tugged Calvin’s stained blanket around my legs and agonized. After a few hours of uncomfortable dozing, I tiptoed out of bed and filled the basin with now-cold water. Holding the blanket around my shoulders, I stepped into the linen closet and gingerly undressed. I washed quickly and silently, donned a nightdress and added a jacket for extra coverage. I rearranged the blanket on the rough floor as far away from them as possible—a few centimeters’ gap. Although exhausted, I slept hardly at all and woke at the first hint of dawn to dress, scrub my face and use the outhouse before my in-laws stirred. I folded my bedding quietly and packed it in the closet. The yellow telegram fell from its folds. I went to the back porch to catch the sun’s first rays to read what I’d written—a lifetime ago!
TO MR. CALVIN CHONGSO CHO C/O PUSAN PRESBYTERIAN MISSION STOP PASSPORT DENIED STOP I STAY IN PYEONGYANG STOP STUDY TWICE HARD STOP GO WITH GOD STOP WRITE YOUR WIFE
The words blurred as the wall around my emotions burst. I ran through the garden and beyond the outhouse until I tripped in my socks and fell in the wet brush, sobbing. I wept with grief and fury, and railed against God for teasing me so cruelly—giving me a summer filled with boundless hope, only to erase it in an instant with a single word delivered in hated Japanese. Even though I’d told Calvin to continue on, I cried out in my heart to call him home. I knew that he must go on, and that he would, but I wanted him to not leave me, to not abandon me to this deprivation and hopelessness. I felt shame for my jealousy, knowing his foot might at that moment be leaving this land to board the steamer, and failure for not being beside him. I grieved not only for the missed journey and loss of my dream but because I longed to be near him, to see his slow smile, hear his thoughtful questions, feel his warm and dry hands again on my neck. At least that much was true, that I did love him, although it now meant less than nothing, only yearning and pain.
When my tears were done, I remembered my father-in-law’s prayer and knew I was undeserving of Calvin, of America, of anything good. The demeaning peasant’s life I faced was punishment for pride, willfulness and Christian doubt. I refused to aspire to martyrdom, to accept suffering as the way to salvation. Still, I tried to pray for forgiveness for my arrogance and selfish wanting, for relief from the hurt I felt, but my bitterness was too acute to receive any sense of grace. I had seen the crude life that lay ahead and knew I had to accept it. My rage would not make the days pass any easier. I sat up at last, feeling empty and resigned. For that, I gave grim thanks.
I wiped my nose with leaves and returned to the house, resolved because of my love for my husband and my pious sense of duty to do right as his wife, to be