The calligrapher's daughter_ a novel - Eugenia Kim [133]
I didn’t care that my mother-in-law knew I’d been crying. She ran her fingers through my blunt hair, handed me a pair of dry socks and held my hand. “Sad face, daughter-in-law. Jesus will see you through.”
I thought, If only it were that easy, but I said, “Thank you. I’m grateful, Ssi-umma-nim.” I lightly disengaged my mother-in-law’s hand and added what I knew she’d want to hear. “I’ll pray for guidance.”
Mrs. Cho’s face curled in all its wrinkles. We fixed breakfast. Before setting the table, I dug through my suitcase and brought out my brass rice bowl, which I filled with porridge along with my in-laws’ bowls. I greeted Reverend Cho, who was dressed and jotting notes at the table as dawn’s light filtered through the shutters, and I announced the meal. I wanted to erect invisible walls of discretion and form in this household. After I served them both, I bowed and gave him all of my money.
He handled it, gave one of his sympathetic grunts and returned a few bills. “You keep this until you decide how you’ll occupy your days.”
I thought for a moment. “Am I to decide?”
“There’s little work for you in this house. Your mother-in-law has time on her hands even with her duties here. You could offer your services to the church. You could work at the mission or teach. Watch what goes on around you the next few days and see what work you might do. I’ll introduce you to the mission director’s wife on Sunday. I understand you play the organ. We do need an organist.”
I spoke directly. “You’re very kind. I’ll do that, thank you.”
His smile was friendly and inviting, and I felt even more ashamed about my earlier suspicion of his ministerial sincerity and revulsion at their home life.
“Come,” said my father-in-law, “let’s eat.”
Watching them eat this time, I discovered they both devoured their food as quickly as Calvin had. I’d have to increase my pace or go starving, for I couldn’t continue eating when they were done.
I FOUND AN excellent herbalist in the market and began to treat my mother-in-law’s eyes. After learning that Mrs. Cho was slightly diabetic, I regulated her diet based on my own knowledge, enhanced by the advice of the pharmacist and what I could glean from copies of the ancient Compendia of Korean Pharmacopeia in the mission library.
I washed and relined Calvin’s tattered quilt with a deconstructed night-colored skirt and meters of cotton I had in my trunk. Every evening after I arranged my in-laws’ blankets and their washbasin, I went outdoors to dampen the stove until they were in bed. I undressed in the linen closet wrapped in my quilt, and laid as close to the wall as I could, but still heard every sound their bodies made. I was relieved that I never heard them being man and wife at night.
I chose to teach kindergarten in the mission compound partly because the innocent, earnest children made me forget my unhappiness, and it gave me a private physical space. It also left adequate hours to clean house and repair the thatch, tote water, visit the market, cook, wash clothes, tend the garden and keep the fuel stores filled. I couldn’t refuse Reverend Cho’s urging to play the organ, though it meant half a day at church every Sunday, and on Wednesday evenings hurrying to cook and leave without eating to rehearse with the chorus until the moon rose. Fortunately the choral director was a funny and energetic man who made rehearsals enjoyable.
One morning several weeks after my arrival, Reverend Cho opened his jacket and delivered a letter from Calvin. My heart leapt, and I thought I’d wait to read it during the half hour of quiet in my classroom before kindergarten began. I noticed the torn envelope at the same time that Reverend Cho said, “I was hoping he’d write more about the progress of his elder brother’s church in Los Angeles, but he only talks about how charitable he’s been. Well, you’ll see what he says.”
I stared at my father-in-law