Fox Girl (15 page)

Lobetto yawned and rubbed his eye. “Why?” he asked, then added quickly before I could yell some more: “You got a good thing going where you are now. Why ruin it?”

I turned my back on him. I searched the dirt outside his lean-to for my slippers, found them, and, hopping up and down, jammed them on my feet. “Goodbye,” I huffed. When I reached the corner of his house, I stopped and slowly turned back. Folding my arms against my chest and gritting my teeth, I asked, “Do you know where she is?”

 

Sookie's mother—my mother—now lived in the pit of America Town. Her apartment had already been rented to another bar girl by the time she returned from the Monkey House, so Duk Hee had no choice but to work and live in the street cubicles fringing the clubs.

The women who lived in these “fish tanks”—rows of boxes, really—danced naked in the glass doorways. As the GIs wandered in and out of the clubs, the women pressed themselves against the glass and, gyrating, touched themselves to get the men's attention. If one of the Joes was interested in a cheap quickie, she would open her door and take him to the cot. His friends could watch for free—good advertisement—or if he wanted privacy, she could pull a curtain in front of the door.

When Lobetto tapped on the glass to Duk Hee's booth that morning, I could see the curled shadow of her body, unmoving, behind the thin fabric.

“Duk Hee,” he yelled. Still she didn't move. He pounded on the door and the flimsy structure shook. “Wake up!”

Duk Hee jumped out of bed, flapping her hands as she searched the sheets for a robe. Slipping it on, she stumbled to the front and pushed aside the curtain. As she squinted in the harsh morning light, I tried not to stare at her puffy-lidded eyes, at the deep gashes that bracketed pale and cracked lips. The lips smiled, parting to reveal a quick peek at a yellowing overbite, as Duk Hee hurried to unlock her new home.

“You've come to tell me about Sookie?” she asked as the door swung open. Startled to see Lobetto looming behind me, she staggered a few steps back. She fumbled to keep the robe closed around her body, and grimaced. “I owe you something?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You still owe me for that pack of cigarettes I gave you last week.”

When it looked like she would close the door on us, I pushed Lobetto away and glared at him. “I'll pay you for it,” I hissed at him. Then, turning to Duk Hee, I thrust out my chest and said, “I need to talk with you.”

She studied my face, the lines on her forehead wrinkling in thought. “Sookie's not coming, is she?”

I shook my head. “No. This is about something different.”

She raised her eyebrows at Lobetto.

“He'll wait out here,” I said, answering her unspoken question.

“What?” scowled Lobetto. “You think I don't have anything better to do?”

“You don't,” I snapped, then softened my tone. “Just wait, okay?”

“No.”

I rolled my eyes. “Look,” I said, “if you want to get paid for those cigarettes, you stay.”

Lobetto muttered something under his breath, but he squatted outside the door, back propped against the wall. “Ten minutes only.”

Duk Hee turned and, motioning me to follow, shuffled to the cot. She shook out the bedding, sending a large roach scuttling into the corner. “Please.” Sitting, she patted the space next to her.

I perched at the edge of the mattress, tilting my head to look at her face. She licked her lips and plucked at the elbows of her robe. It looked like a long-sleeved men's shirt, shabby and frayed and missing its buttons. I stared at the loose threads at the cuffs while I wondered how to start.

“I'm sorry,” Duk Hee said, folding the sleeves to hide the tattered ends. “I forgot my manners: would you like something hot to drink?”

When I nodded, she leaned forward, reaching for something behind my back. I jumped up, afraid the roach had returned.

“Relax,” she breathed, and I caught the stench of rice wine and stale Juicy Fruit and decay as I settled back down. From a shelf on the wall, she dragged a thermos to her lap. Using the cap as a cup, she poured a drink. When she handed it to me, I sipped out of politeness. Lukewarm water.

“Duk Hee?” I asked. Then my mouth went dry. I drank again, then blurted: “Am I your daughter?”

“Hah?” Duk Hee said. “Where'd you hear a thing like that?”

“But I . . . aren't you . . . Sookie said.”

“Sookie!” Duk Hee snorted. “That girl is always saying stupid things, getting the story wrong.” She waved at the cup of water. “Pass me that.” She drank what was left and gagged. “Yugh. How can water taste so rotten? Must be the taste of my tongue.” She cackled, then, eyeing me over the brim, asked: “What did she tell you?”

My spit tasted bitter. “Sookie told me,” I said, swallowing, “that she saw me being born—”

“That's true,” she said.

The air left my body in a rush. “You are my mother,” I whispered.

Duk Hee shook her head so hard, the barrette popped off and her frazzled hair whipped into her eyes. “No, no,” she said. “That woman your father married is your mother.”

“But,” I began, then stopped. I chewed on my lip, peeling and eating a layer of thin, papery skin. I tasted blood.

Duk Hee slapped at my mouth. “Stop that,” she scolded. “Your father does that all the time.” She moved back against the wall and began to fiddle with the thermos. “I'm sorry; I shouldn't have done that.” Tilting her head back, Duk Hee brought the thermos to her lips. Water dribbled down her chin. When the trickle slowed, she tossed the bottle to the ground.

I waited.

Duk Hee glanced at me, then looked down. “All right. I'll tell you what I can.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “I've known your father a long time. We grew up in the same village, near Paekdu. I wouldn't say we were friends—he was a boy, and a few years older—but it was a small village and everybody knew everybody else.”

“Sort of like America Town,” I said.

“Yes. And no.” Her lips twisted. “Anyway, during World War Two, the Japanese raided Korean towns and villages for boys to fight for them. And they took girls, too, to . . . to . . . take.”

“Take where?”

Duk Hee ignored my question, continuing to speak, her voice wooden. “After the war, I returned to Paekdu. I had a mother, a father. A little sister. Two brothers. I thought I might be able to find them back home. But there was no one. No village. No home. Our house and fields were burned to the ground.”

I reached out to touch Duk Hee's hand, wanting to comfort her, but she shifted away from me and gazed out the door. “I sat in the ashes of my family's home for two, three days, maybe longer. I didn't know what else to do, where else to go. I think I would have died there, if your father hadn't shown up. Together, we decided to make our way south; somehow it was easier for us to keep moving, to keep busy, to keep not remembering.”

“Why didn't you marry each other?” I asked. To me her story seemed romantic, and a happy ending between the two survivors the most logical conclusion. “You should have been my mother from the beginning.”

She stared at me as if I were a stranger, then shook her head suddenly. “Don't make me laugh,” Duk Hee said in a way that sounded more like herself. “Neither one of us had anything. I had less than nothing. We each did what we had to, to survive.”

I persisted with my fantasy, in my revision of the past. “If you had married my father, we could have been a family. You and me, Sookie and my father. Sookie always liked my house, she could have lived there, too.”

Duk Hee gave me a funny look. “Hyun Jin,” she said, “Sookie wouldn't be here if I had married your father. Sookie is Sookie because she doesn't have a father, at least not one that I can name.”

I blushed at her frankness.

“And I can say for sure that she wouldn't have been living with you in your house, because that wouldn't have been your house; it's your mother's, remember?” She laughed at my confusion, then added more gently: “Besides, it wasn't like that between your father and me.”

“Like what?” I asked, miffed at being laughed at.

“Like how a husband and wife should be.”

I frowned. “But what about me? How?” I felt my face redden again. I couldn't even think the words I wanted to ask.

“Coming south, your father and I helped each other when and if we could. I guess it was habit that made him turn to me when he had trouble making a baby with his wife. I already had Sookie, so he knew we could help each other again.”

“You ‘helped each other,' ” I echoed. “What does that mean?”

Duk Hee shrugged. Her robe gaped open, exposing her drooping breasts. “I carried his seed. He gave me some money.”

“That's it?” I coughed, words choking my throat. “You sold me?” My eyes burned, but I would not let this woman see me cry. “Did you make a lot of money?” I asked, clenching my teeth to keep my mouth from trembling. “How much was this ‘seed' worth?”

“Don't get me started!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I never did get paid the full amount! Your father paid in dribbles, a little here, a little there over the years, whatever he could wrestle away from your mother.”

“She's not my mother!” I stood up. I wanted to move away, to pace, but there was no room to walk in the narrow space between the cot and the far wall. The floor was strewn with clothes, used paper plates, stained flyers.

“Hyun Jin,” Duk Hee said, looking up at me. “She is your mother. What does it matter where you were carried?”

“What does it matter?” I stared at her. “Didn't you ever love me? Was it so easy for you to give me away?”

“Easy? No!” Duk Hee shuddered, misunderstanding me on purpose. “I had to fight to get her to take you in. Do you know that jackal of a woman said I tried to trick her?” She stooped to root through the pile of clothing and pulled out a short-sleeved red T. “Called you deformed!” Duk Hee snorted as she picked lint off the shirt. “Back and forth we pushed you until she shoved me backward and shut the door in my face. There I was, holding this newborn—” Duk Hee cradled the shirt like swaddling. “What was I gonna do? I left you at their door.”

I felt dizzy, and swayed. “You just left me?” I whispered. “On the street?”

Duk Hee clucked her tongue. “Don't worry. I didn't really leave, I hid and watched. You cried and cried, my God, could you cry. Finally, just when I was going to give up and take you back, your father opened the door and pulled you in.”

“My father wanted me,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Never doubt it,” she whispered. Then, tossing her head, she added: “He paid for you, after all.” Her tone was mocking, though I couldn't tell if she was mocking me, or my father, or herself. Duk Hee wriggled out of her cover-up and into the T-shirt, then reached in to lift her breasts toward the neckline. “You know, these used to be happy before I had Sookie.” She jiggled her breasts and sighed. “Time to visit the Monkey House for a
chi-chi
shot.”

“What about you?” I demanded. “Did you ever want me? Did you ever love me?”

Sighing, Duk Hee said, “I knew I carried you for someone else. You were promised to someone better, to a better life. I thought of that every day, so that even though I carried you under my heart, I was able to push you away from it.” Duk Hee knelt to rummage through her clothes once more and lifted out a pair of black shorts.

My own heart hurt as I watched her peel off her underwear and step into the shorts. Her butt hung out of the bottom. “Look,” she said, pushing me toward the door, “I've got to find something to eat before work.”

Gritting my teeth, I pushed her back. “I am your daughter!” I yelled.

Duk Hee pressed her hands over her ears. “There you go, crying again. So loud!”

I yanked at her arms. “I am your daughter!” I yelled again, louder. “That should mean something to you!” My voice broke, and though I tried to keep it strong, I could hear the pleading creeping into my words.

“Look at me!” Duk Hee snapped. “I am not your mother. I never wanted another child. I never wanted to bring another daughter into this world. I've even lost the one I tried to keep.”

Panting, I fought the sobs that threatened to rip out of my throat.

Duk Hee rubbed her wrists, red where I had grabbed her, and touched my shoulder. “Go home,” she nudged. “I'll walk you out.”

Shifting away from her hand, I let myself be guided to the door, but I chafed at her easy dismissal of me. Wanting to show her that she meant as little to me as I did to her, I asked: “How can you stand living in this box?” High and squeaky, my voice didn't sound like it came from my body, but I was proud that the words sounded casual, slightly derisive. “All the people passing by, looking in?”

“I don't see them anymore,” she said, seemingly not bothered by my impertinence. “Just like they don't see me.” She tilted her head. “At least here I don't have to pay the bar owner a cut on every Joe I take.”

Duk Hee opened the door and shoved me out. Spying Lobetto a few stalls down, she whistled him over. “Lobetto,” she said. “Take her home. To her parents.”

 

“Open the door!” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice as I pounded at the shop door that was locked for the first time in my memory.

“You're dead.” I heard the voice of the woman who raised me on the other side of the door. “You made your choice—a black dog who lies down with black pigs.”