Chapter 40
In the Yuns’ yard, birds with blue hoods had a meal at a green metal feeder hanging on a branch of a tree.
The lawn was clear of leaves. The Yuns were on top of their landscaping, that was for sure.
We were eager for fresh kimchi, which was a rarity for those of us who bought our kimchi from the store.
My mother never had time to make it, and Harabeoji seemed to be the recipient of his friends’ homemade kimchi, which he’d share with us.
Geotjeori was kimchi that wasn’t fermented.
It was more salad-like than other forms of kimchi.
We ate it with rice and some grilled bossam.
The pork bellies were not salty, letting the salt from the geotjeori supply the custom amount we wanted for each chopstickful.
Mr. Yun sat with us outside at the table. “This weather is still good. We have to take advantage. I want you to know this house is your second home, both of you.” He peered at me and then at Channing.
Mrs. Yun agreed and patted my back as she walked around, setting various banchan before us. She had a heavy hand, but I appreciated that she was emphasizing her welcome.
“Thank you for letting us stay here. You, too, Paul, since we’ve been in your space. We don’t know how long this trial is going to take,” Channing said.
“It can’t come to that, will it?” Mr. Yun exclaimed. “We don’t want the media coverage. Kent will come to his senses. What’s a watch? Your grandfather has died. We can give him money to buy another. This seems like insult to injury; we can’t let this happen to you.”
“He wants to be mayor. I hardly believe he would want to go to court. A big scandal can’t help him,” Mrs. Yun said.
“It’s all such a delicate balance here. Kent could be mayor. Maybe even governor someday,” Mr. Yun said, inspecting a piece of pork. “I think we need to crisp this up more on the grill.” He stood up.
Paul offered to help. It seemed unfair to make him do it by himself while the rest of us sat around and waited, so I volunteered to assist. I realized I hadn’t asked how he was doing lately.
“Have you applied to grad schools?” I said as we watched the meat sizzle.
“The test is next week, so I’ll focus on schools after that,” he replied.
“Sorry we’ve kicked you out of your space,” I said.
“Hey.” He smiled. “It’s not your fault. I still have questions for you about what to put on those applications, so don’t worry, I’m getting something out of this, too.”
I laughed. “Whatever you need.”
Channing came over just then and talked computer jargon with Paul, which I didn’t understand.
I returned to the table where the Yuns were sitting.
I remembered being out here with Harabeoji and how content he had been with his best friend.
“I heard people in East End think Kent is a hero for wanting to marry Channing even after what she supposedly did to him. What would change their minds?” I asked him and Mrs. Yun now.
“I feel like we need community support for her. They’ll be the jury. ”
They looked perplexed at my question. Then Mr. Yun’s phone dinged. “Oh, I got another like on my post,” he chortled, and took out his phone.
“He’s always on that social media,” Mrs. Yun dismissed with a wave of her hand. “I look for town news, and even then, I don’t like it. They talk and talk about Koreans, not nice.”
“What do you mean by town news?”
She told me East End had community group pages on the social app. “One is snippier than the others. Mean people. To your face they’re nice, but on social media, don’t call it ‘social’ like it’s a nice thing, it’s mean media. They tear everyone down.”
Whatever Paul said to Channing made her hurry to the apartment immediately. I apologized to the Yuns, who insisted I make a plate and bring it to her.
“That’s Channing. The way she was when she was child, always concentrating,” Mrs. Yun said, and this time I didn’t fault her for it.
It was said with tenderness, even love. They’d watched her grow up, and loved our grandfather, so of course they loved her.
I’d been harsh in my judgment of them that first night they’d so generously hosted us when we’d arrived in East End.
In Paul’s small apartment, Channing was busy typing away on her laptop.
I asked her if we needed to be worried about this apartment being surveilled, and she said Paul had assured her that Kent had never been up here, and he knew for a fact because he had installed a camera outside the door on the landing of the stairs.
“I get a good feeling from Paul, I always have,” she said without interrupting her work.
“Good,” I said, relieved. When she’d pulled me outside earlier with her worry, it had unnerved me. The idea of Kent listening wherever we went made my skin crawl.
“He knew we were at the Yuns’ because of course he was listening in and watching us at the house on Sandpiper Lane. I’m sure it was those smoke detectors.”
“Are you sure we can’t get the Ahns to work with us on this somehow? If he installed those in their house—”
Channing jumped to her feet and said, “Come with me.”
This time she slid into her flip-flops and asked for the keys to my car. When we ran down the stairs, the Yuns were still sitting outside with Paul on their terrace. I waved and motioned to the driveway. They waved back.
At first, I thought we were going to the Ahns’ house after all, that Channing had taken my suggestion to ask them for help.
I imagined we’d climb a ladder and remove the smoke detectors, call the company, and watch the footage that had been recorded of us and the Ahns’ children.
I pictured how upset the Ahns would be to learn that Kent continued to spy on their family up to that very minute.
I wanted the whole town to turn against him and see how he’d created this entire false story about my cousin stealing from him.
Instead, Channing drove toward her old house and then past it without a glance in its direction, above the speed limit.
“Slow down, where are you going?” I said.
“It’d help if I knew the Wi-Fi.” She made a sudden sharp turn toward Kent’s house.
“We were there the night of the party, and our phones tried to connect with it. But if I could just get close enough.” She flashed a signal to the curb and gradually brought the car to a halt.
We were a couple of houses away from Kent’s driveway.
“There,” she said, pointing to her phone’s screen.
Wi-Fi networks popped up asking her which she’d like to join.
Some were simple, like Thomas; some were coy, like OurWiNotUr$; others were a string of letters and numbers.
“It’s that one, I remember.” She took a screenshot of it and then typed something into her Notes app.
Part of me wanted to see Edison and Austin, and I still thought their parents could help. “Should we do the same to get the Wi-Fi for the Ahns?” I asked.
She frowned. “Why? I already have it. We need to get back. These things take a while. Have to let the programs run,” she replied.
Then she gave me a sad smile. “I get it, I want to see those kids, too. We’ll drive past, but anything else and they could say I’m harassing them.
You saw that text from their mom. She’s pissed.
” I told her she was right. And then I added, “We’ll get through this. There will be time after.”
We had work to do. Channing was busy cracking into Kent’s system in his house, and I knew I had to figure out what to do with that footage once we had it.
I didn’t tell Channing that Ames had said the judge was Kent’s friend who could keep any jury from seeing evidence that hurt Kent’s side of the story.
I sat beside Channing on the couch in Paul’s apartment, opened my own computer I hadn’t touched in days.
The screen showed several notifications from my job, including my principal, who expressed condolences for my grandfather’s death.
I thanked her now and apologized for not being there for the start of the new school year and how I still could not say when I would return to teach.
Colleagues sent messages of sympathy. They’d heard about my grandfather’s funeral. I found myself tearing up at the messages from Alma and Mateo, my closest friends at work, whom I missed sharply just then.
There were some online training videos I had to complete and sign off on.
A social media notification was on the list, too, a former student of mine asking to “friend” me.
A few others, probably parents of students in the incoming class.
My general social media hadn’t been updated in a few years.
As a teacher, it was awkward to tell parents I wouldn’t accept their request to connect with them.
We used a school digital platform that allowed them to message me.
Plus, I had no use for social media anyway.
There was a teaching group page that I consulted now and then. It was one of those support ones.
Channing had set up a page for Harabeoji many years ago to help him stay in touch with his friends in East End and in South Korea. Recent posts caught my eye. Friends wrote how much he’d meant to them.
It was a strange phenomenon to scroll through and read outpourings of such grief and celebration of his life.
There were stories of what he’d done for his friends over the years.
How he’d helped one person by driving them to the airport or picked up another one late at night.
Small gestures of sitting with a friend when that friend’s wife had died or making people laugh at the funeral of a devoted friend with stories about their boyhood adventures in Korea.
He had been well loved. I had never known that he’d had such a wide range of friends. Korean and non-Korean.