Clay Walls

Part One

Haesu

One

You’ve missed a spot, Mrs. Randolph said, pointing. Dirty.

Haesu had been holding her breath. She let it out with a cough.

Mrs. Randolph shook her finger at the incriminating stain. Look, she demanded, then made scrubbing motions in the air. You clean.

Haesu nodded. She took in another breath and held it as she rubbed away the offensive stain.

That’s better. Mrs. Randolph nodded with approval. Good. Clean. Very good. Do that every week, she said, scrubbing the air again. She smiled at Haesu and left the room.

Haesu spat into the toilet and threw the rag into the bucket. "Sangnyun! she muttered to herself. Sangnyun, sangnyun, sangnyun! she sputtered aloud. She did not know the English equivalent for low woman, but she did know how to say, I quit" and later said it to Mrs. Randolph. The woman looked at her in disbelief.

I don’t understand. We were getting on so well. I… Mrs. Randolph pointed to herself, teach you. She pointed at Haesu. You do good. Why you say ‘I quit’?

Toilet make me sick.

That’s part of the job.

No job. No toilet. Not me. I go home. Haesu held out her hand, palm up to receive her pay.

Mrs. Randolph stiffened as she backed away from Haesu’s outstretched hand. Oo-oh no. You’re supposed to give me adequate notice. I’m not obligated to pay you anything.

They were words not in Haesu’s vocabulary. Perhaps she had not made herself clear. Haesu raised her hand higher.

Mrs. Randolph tightened her lips. So you’re going to be difficult. I’m very disappointed in you, Haesu, but I’m going to be fair. She motioned Haesu to stay put and left the room.

Haesu sighed with relief and put down her hand. She knew that Mrs. Randolph’s purse was on top of the dresser in the bedroom; the woman had gone to get the money. As she waited, Haesu looked around. It was a beautiful room. She had thought so when she first agreed to take the job. Later, when she ran the vacuum over the carpet, she had admired the peach-like pinks and the varying shades of blues of the flowing Persian pattern. She felt an affinity with the design. Perhaps what some historians say is true, that sometime in the distant past Hittites were in Korea. She ran her fingers over the surface of the table. The mahogany wood still glowed warmly from her earlier care. She had not minded dusting the furniture. It was cleaning the toilet she could not stand.

Mrs. Randolph returned carrying a coin purse. She gestured for Haesu to hold out her hand, then emptied the contents of the purse into the outstretched palm. The coins barely added up to one dollar. Haesu held up two fingers of her other hand.

Mrs. Randolph gave a laugh. No. You quit. Two dollars only if you were permanent. She shook her head; it was final.

Carefully, so as not to scratch the surface, Haesu placed the coins on the table. She picked up a dime. Car fare, she explained.

Mrs. Randolph glared at Haesu. She began to fume. Why you insolent yellow…

Haesu knew they were words she would not want translated. She turned on her heels and walked out.

—

The dime clinked lightly as it fell to the bottom of the coin box. Haesu found a seat by the window. She would put her mind to the scenes that passed before her and forget the woman. She enjoyed her rides on streetcars, becoming familiar with the foreign land without suffering the embarrassment of having to speak its language. In three months, she had learned more about America from the seat of streetcars than from anywhere else.

The ride from Bunker Hill to Temple Street was all too brief for her. Only a few minutes separated the mansions of well-to-do Americans from the plain wood-framed houses of the ghettos. But it might as well be a hundred years, she thought. Her country’s history went back thousands of years but no one in America seemed to care. To her dismay, few Americans knew where Korea was. This was 1920. The United States was supposed to be a modern country. Yet to Americans, Koreans were Oriental, the same as Chinese, Japanese, or Filipino.

As shops began to come into view, Haesu leaned forward to see the merchandise in the windows. In front of the Five and Ten-cent Store, children were selling lemonade. A discarded crate and hand-scrawled signs indicated they were in business. Charmed, Haesu smiled and waved at the children. When she recognized the shops near her stop, she pulled the cord to signal the conductor she wanted off.

Clara’s house was several blocks away. Although the rambling Victorian was really the meeting house of the National Association of Koreans, Haesu thought of it as Clara’s. It was because of Clara that Haesu and her husband, Chun, were given a room, a room usually reserved for visiting Korean dignitaries. It was because of Clara that Mr. Yim, her husband, had agreed to make an exception to the rule.

The front door was open. Rudy Vallée’s tremulous voice filtered through the screen door. Clara was practicing the foxtrot again. Haesu stepped out of her shoes and carried them into the house.

I quit my job, she announced, loud enough to be heard over the Victrola.

Clara stopped dancing and took the needle off the record. But you’ve just started, she said.

Haesu set her shoes on the floor and plopped into the sofa. "It was horrible. That sangnyun stood over me while I worked. I had to practically wipe my face on her filthy toilet to satisfy her."

"Oh, Onni, how terrible," Clara said, looking as if she had swallowed something distasteful.

The expression on Clara’s face made Haesu laugh. "Onni, older sister. The honorific title further softened her anger. The work wasn’t hard. I could have done it, Haesu said confidently. I have to admit the sangnyun has good taste. Beautiful furniture. Carpets this thick. She indicated the thickness with her forefinger and thumb. Such lovely patterns. Like the twining tendrils on old Korean chests. Do you think we have Persian blood in us?"

Clara laughed. I wouldn’t know. You’re the one who always says you’re one hundred percent Korean.

I am. But I’m talking about way back. Long, long ago. It would be fun to know. She absentmindedly picked up one of the round velvet pillows Clara kept on the sofa and ran her hand over it, smoothing down the nap of the fabric. What difference does it make now? she said with a sigh. What difference does it make who our ancestors were? I don’t have a job.

"A lot of difference, Onni. Your ancestors were yangbans. No one can ever deny that. Everyone knows that children of aristocrats are not supposed to clean toilets," Clara declared.

Haesu tossed the pillow aside with such force that it bounced off the sofa onto the floor. Then what am I doing here?

Clara picked up the pillow and brushed it off. How many times are you going to ask me that? You’re here…

Living with you and Mr. Yim because Chun and I can’t afford a place of our own, Haesu said.

Why do you let that bother you? Mr. Yim and I don’t mind. We want you here. Clara sat down next to Haesu and slipped her arm into Haesu’s. You’re like a sister to me. If you were in my place, you would do the same.

Haesu looked earnestly into Clara’s eyes. I would, that’s true. We had such fun in Korea, laughing at everything, worrying about nothing.

It will be that way again. We haven’t been here long enough. I’ve only been here a year and you’ve hardly had time to unpack. We’ll get used to America. Clara leaped from her seat and pulled at Haesu’s arm. Put on your shoes and let’s do the foxtrot. I think I’m getting it.

Laughing as she pulled away, Haesu protested, No, no. I can’t do that kind of dance.

Yes you can. Just loosen up. You act like an old lady, Haesu. You act like you’re eighty not twenty. Clara put Rudy Vallée on again and began dancing around the parlor, gliding effortlessly on the linoleum.

Haesu drew her feet onto the sofa out of Clara’s way. She reached for the cushion and held it in her lap. Clara’s enthusiasm amused her. It also puzzled her. Rudy Vallée stirred nothing in Haesu to make her want to dance.

—

Haesu stood at the screen door waiting for Chun. Since Monday she had been thinking about what she would say to her husband. She knew what she would not say to him. At dinner on Monday, when Haesu had explained to Mr. Yim why she had quit her job, Clara had chimed in with, It’s so hard here. Haesu’s right. We had such fun in Korea, laughing at everything, worrying about nothing.

Mr. Yim’s jaw had dropped, the kimchi he held in his chopsticks falling onto his rice, causing a momentary lapse in his usual courtly manners. Laughing at everything and worrying about nothing? he had said incredulously. Then, tell me, what are we doing here? While Haesu and Clara had searched for an answer, Mr. Yim had sardonically added, As I recall, no one I knew was laughing at Japanese atrocities. Everyone I knew was worrying about persecution. Haesu had shrunk with embarrassment; Mr. Yim was a Korean patriot who had suffered torture in a Japanese prison, and was now forced to live in exile to escape death. How thoughtless of me, she had replied. Please forgive me.

Up until two weeks ago Haesu walked with Chun to Clara’s house on Thursdays. Chun had found them work as live-in domestics. But Haesu could not bear being summoned by the persistent ringing of a bell and, after two months, had quit. Chun had insisted upon staying on, choosing the security of room and board and five dollars a month. Haesu now saw him only on his days off.

As soon as she recognized his slight build and flat-footed gait, she flung open the screen door and walked out to meet him.

Chun did not stop for her. She had to turn around and walk alongside him, matching her steps to his. I quit my job, she said.

Let’s talk about it later, he said, speeding up. I have to go to the bathroom. The damn food makes me sick. He hopped up the front steps and disappeared into the house.

Later that night, when they were alone in their room, Haesu told her husband the details of her quitting.

You’ll get used to the work, he said.

Never! I’ll never get used to cleaning someone else’s filth.

It takes two minutes to clean a toilet. It won’t kill you, he said as he climbed into bed.

Haesu felt the heat rise to her cheeks. I’ll never understand how you do it, how you can remain mute while someone orders you to come here, go there, do this, do that…like you were some trained animal. They call you a houseboy. A twenty-five-year-old man being called ‘boy.’

They can call me what they want. I don’t put the words in their mouths. The work is easy. Work for pay. There’s no problem as long as they don’t lay a hand on me. Just a job, Haesu. Work for pay.

Cheap pay and demeaning work, she said.

Chun shrugged his shoulders. No work, no pay. No money, no house, no food, no nothing. It’s as simple as that.

That’s not good enough for me and I won’t disgrace my family by resorting to menial labor, she whispered hoarsely, keeping her voice down as her anger rose. She was obliged to maintain the peace of her host’s home.

"I haven’t met a yangban yet who thought any work was good enough for him. Me? I’m just a farmer’s son. Any work is good enough for me. Isn’t that right?" He pulled the covers over him.

I don’t want to talk about that now. I have an idea. Are you listening? Riding home on the streetcar, I saw these little stands where people were selling things. Nothing big and fancy. Little things. Standing in the sun selling…things. It didn’t seem like hard work. Why can’t we do something like that? Are you listening? She shook his shoulders.

Chun snorted. You? Selling things? Out in the sun where all the Koreans can see you?

Haesu pulled the blanket from his shoulders. I don’t care about that. All I care about is that we be our own boss. Can’t you see that? No one will tell us what to do.

Chun pulled the blanket from her. Let a man get some sleep, will you? He covered himself then turned his back to her.

Haesu walked over to his side of the bed. She leaned over him and put her lips close to his ear. She spoke softly. I will never work for anyone. Do you hear me, Chun? I’ll never clean someone else’s filth. Never! You’ll never make enough money as a houseboy to support us. Do you hear me, Chun? As soon as we make enough money, we are going back to Korea. We don’t belong here. Just tell me, what are we doing here? She really had laughed at everything and worried about nothing in Korea; a daughter protected from the world by her parents, groomed in seclusion for marriage.

Chun’s answer was a series of rattled breaths followed by deep snores.

—

In the morning, Chun showed no indication that he had heard her. She raised the subject the following week. She pursued the matter until Chun held up his hand to stop her.

All right, all right, have it your way, he said. We’ll ask Mr. Yim. See what he thinks.

Mr. Yim was the titular head of the house. In truth, the house was more his than Clara’s because he was paid by the National Association of Koreans, the NAK, to maintain the clubhouse. He was fifteen years older than Clara, older than everyone who lived under his roof. He treated them all as he would his own children.

Haesu waited impatiently as Chun explained her idea to Mr. Yim. Ordinarily, Chun’s terse speech left her yearning for more. Now she hoped for greater brevity.

Mr. Yim’s response was important to her. She’s never felt qualified to enter into debate with him about anything. He was a yangban higher born than she. And he was a scholar. But his life had become one of contradictions. Ten years ago, when the Japanese confiscated his land, he refused to relinquish his ancestral home to the usurpers and set his house on fire. He left for America with only the money in his pocket and found work in Los Angeles washing dishes. When he began to receive a small stipend from the NAK for his organizational work, he arranged to have a bride sent from Korea. He was besieged with photographs from potential mothers-in-law who listed their daughters many virtues; they were after his family name. Mr. Yim chose Clara. He claimed that he chose her because of her family background and honest face, but everyone knew it was because she was an exceptional beauty. You’re a classic Korean beauty, Haesu would tell Clara, with delicate features and skin as smooth and fair as porcelain.

Remembering Clara’s unfailing response, I’d rather have your large eyes, brought a smile to Haesu’s lips.

I see that Chun’s idea appeals to you, Mr. Yim said. What will you sell?

Chun looked at Haesu. Her mind went blank; lemonade was for children.

Hmm. How about fresh produce? Mr. Yim suggested. Men who work at the produce market often come to the café where I work. I could find out how you can get produce wholesale. You can quit your job as houseboy, Chun. He waved his hand in the air. Don’t worry about having food in your stomachs or a roof over your heads. Consider my home yours. He nodded. I approve of your idea. Selling anything to someone is better than polishing his shoes.

—

The sky was just turning light as Chun pulled and Haesu pushed the crate of apples up Temple Street. They had invested in a wagon for their new business. Haesu had assured Chun that no risk was involved. If the business failed, she would sell the wagon to some child in the neighborhood.

At Sunset Boulevard Chun said, This is as far as we go.

By the time they had finished stacking the apples, the sun had risen and shone obliquely on the skins. Haesu had polished each apple the night before. They now glowed a magnificent red. She selected one for its elongated shape, skillfully cut it into a floret then set it atop the pyramid of apples. She stood back to examine her handiwork. "Ibuji?" she said, asking Chun to confirm that it was beautiful.

He nodded. It looks like a lotus.

His poetic reference took her by surprise. Her look made Chun blush.

Cigarettes, he blurted and dashed across the street to a drugstore.

How strange he is, Haesu thought. They have been married several months and he was as much a stranger to her as when she first learned she was betrothed to him. Her parents had arranged it; she never wanted him. She had begged them to reconsider, reminding them that his family was socially beneath theirs. They would not listen. They would never go back on their word; they could not. Chun had asked his American missionary employer to act as matchmaker and Haesu’s parents could not refuse the esteemed foreign dignitary. When Chun had to leave Korea, Haesu was sent to California to marry him, committed for life to a man she did not love.

Haesu took a lemon from the pocket of her apron and cut it open. She squeezed the juice over the cut apple to keep the white from darkening.

The lotus was a Buddhist symbol of purity, a flower that bloomed even when rooted in stagnant water. Her family were Buddhists before their conversion to Christianity. So were Chun’s.

He can’t forget, Haesu told herself, he still thinks of home.

She looked up as a streetcar passed. A Chinese woman sitting at a window seat was staring at her.

She’ll think I’m part of the American scene, Haesu thought. She couldn’t help the smile that came to her face.

2

It was meeting night. While Clara and Mr. Yim were in the parlor unfolding wooden chairs and setting them in rows, Haesu and Chun were in their room soothing their weary bodies.

Oooh, nothing feels as good as this, Haesu murmured, playing her toes in a warm solution of Epsom salt. Chun had been soaking in a tub of hot water and now threw himself on the bed.

You can’t go to sleep, Haesu warned. The meeting will start soon. You’ll have to attend. What will everyone think?

They’ll think I’m unpatriotic.

Min Chang Mo is going to be the speaker. He was in Kyonggi Province after the March First Incident.

I’m tired, Chun said, adjusting the pillow under his head.

Who isn’t? Haesu said, adding more hot water to the pan.

It had taken them several weeks to learn that if they were to make a profit, they would have to push their wagon from one place to another. In the early morning they were at Temple and Sunset selling apples to workers leaving for work. At mid-morning, they moved on to Grand Avenue to catch the shoppers at lunch. In the afternoon, they made stops in residential districts on their way home. As the day wore on, the apples showed signs of aging and were sold at reduced prices to children returning home from school.

If only we didn’t have to walk so much, Haesu said. If only we had a car or truck.

It takes money. Lots of money, Chun said.

We could drive around Bunker Hill. Sell all kinds of produce to wealthy customers.

You wouldn’t have to drive anywhere if we had a truck. I could do it all myself.

What would I do? Haesu would like to know.

"Stay home like Clara. Like all yangbans."

How much would it take?

Chun shrugged his shoulders. Maybe five hundred dollars.

Hmph! Might as well be five million. We have all of fifty dollars saved up, she noted.

Takes money. Everything takes money, Chun mumbled.

Haesu wiped her feet dry with a towel. You had better get dressed, the people will be arriving soon. But she was too late. Chun’s eyes were closed, his breathing turning into loud rasps.

At the first sound of people climbing the porch steps, Haesu quickened her movements. By the time she got downstairs, Koreans had crowded into the living room, hands outstretched, ready to grasp any hand it found in its path, cutting the air with the aspirated consonants and mellifluous vowels of their native tongue. Haesu moved through the crowd, taking grip of a dozen hands as she went, exchanging news of family and friends with her fellow countrymen.

Some of the men offered to help Mr. Yim set up more chairs. The ones who couldn’t tell one end of the chair from the other chuckled with embarrassment as they tried to figure it out. They let out a startled "aigoo!" when the chair snapped open.

Haesu once asked Clara the English equivalent of aigoo. Clara thought oh my or my goodness came close but were not exact translations. Yobo was another commonly used word for which Clara had searched for an English counterpart. She thought you there was something like it, but laughed when Haesu said, You there to Chun and suggested she stick to yobo.

As even more Koreans arrived, "Yobo!" spanned the room. Additional chairs filled the space intended to separate the speaker from the audience. The remaining chairs were set up on the porch outside of raised windows. Latecomers made their way to the stairs leading to the second floor to sit on the steps. According to Clara, before the March First Independence movement, Mr. Yim had to phone members and beg them to attend the meetings.

On March 1, 1919, Haesu was in Shanghai. She was booked on the S.S. China scheduled to leave for San Francisco when she heard about Korea’s Declaration of Independence from Japan. She thought it a substantial reason for canceling her passage and returning home. But political escapees from Korea had dissuaded her. The situation in Korea was worse than ever, they had told her. The Declaration was purely symbolic, a nonviolent political gesture that had infuriated the Japanese, causing them to retaliate violently and intensify every atrocity they had ever committed on the Korean people. She was persuaded to give vent to her indignation from America.

Before the meeting was called to order, Haesu took her place on one of the four chairs facing the audience to take a few notes. She was the secretary, appointed by Mr. Yim for her skillful use of the Korean language and beautiful handwriting. Her accounts of the meetings were published in the Korean newspaper.

The first paragraph extolled the attendance of conscientious Koreans. She then studied the guest speaker as he mingled with the crowd, jotting down notes for later amplification. Tall. Sturdy physique. Delicate hands. Large expressive eyes. Well-delineated lips of an aristocrat. Honest, earnest expression. Distinguished. According to Korean standards, a fine-looking man.

Not by anyone’s standards was Chun a handsome man, she thought. His angular face with eyebrows resembling birds arched in flight gave him a look of perpetual disconcertion. By her standards his teeth were too large and his eyes too small. Only his narrow high-bridged nose deserved admiration. That was all she found to admire by her standards.

Mr. Yim, Min Chang Mo, and K.Y. Yun, the treasurer, filled the seats next to hers, signaling the meeting was about to begin. After the Korean national anthem, Mr. Yim introduced the guest speaker. Haesu listened while taking notes. Married. No children. Twenty-eight years old. Came from a family of scholars. She underlined scholars. Destined to be a professor but was forced to flee Korea. Wanted by the Japanese police for sedition.

Min wasted no time getting to his story. They burned my mother and sister alive, he said bitterly. I saw it with my own eyes. He told of being there in Kyonggi Province right after the March First demonstration when the Japanese police herded his mother and a score of villagers into a church, his mother carrying his infant sister on her back. He and others were left to witness what was to follow. He was stunned when the police set fire to the church. He was filled with anguish as the searing heat forced him back. His cries of agony matched those of his mother.

A shudder ran through Haesu; she put down her pen. Tongues clacked and murmurs of indignation rumbled through the audience. Someone yelled, Those sons of bitches! Mr. Yim called for order, asking for restraint, requesting that Min Chang Mo be allowed to resume his story. Haesu picked up her pen. Forced to witness the murder of his mother and sister, she wrote.

Then the Japanese police fired their guns at the pyre of human bodies, Min said. He raised his voice above the obscenities shouted by some of the men in the audience. I too was enraged. I vowed to destroy every police station in Korea. Half the audience rose to its feet and shouted, "Mansei!" The other half scrambled to join them.

It took both Mr. Yim and K.Y. Yun to calm everyone down. Min went on to say that there were about fourteen thousand military and civilian Japanese police in Korea. He needed more dynamite. He had come to America to collect money for more explosives.

Before the applause had subsided, K.Y. Yun began passing out mimeographed copies of the Treasurer’s Report. Before everyone had received his copy, Yun proceeded to read the report aloud. He called off the names of contributors to the Independence movement, waiting for hands to clap after the names of generous donors, then lumped together the names of donors of smaller amounts according to denomination. Haesu was mortified to discover that Chun’s name was not on the list. When K.Y. Yun called for new pledges, Haesu promised fifty dollars.

—

Unable to sleep, Haesu tossed and turned in bed. At three o’clock in the morning, when Chun got up to go to the bathroom, she told him she had pledged the fifty dollars.

I was going to warn you about that, he said as he left the room.

She felt miserable. The paucity of his response made her uneasy. He gave her the impression that there was more meaning to what he left unsaid, leaving her wondering where she stood in the matter. She didn’t know which she wanted most, his approval or his absence.

Chun crawled back into bed without saying a word.

I couldn’t stand not contributing something, she explained. My family always gave generously. I had to give something.

You have to have something to give, he said.

She tried to think of some response. She knew he wasn’t asleep; his body was taut and she sensed that his eyes were open.

Then she felt his hand on her, crawling over the rise and depressions of her body. When he turned toward her, she protested. No! They’ll hear.

They’re asleep, he said as he groped for the cleft where he would enter. Pressing his chest hard against her nipples and jamming his knees between her thighs, he formed a human vise. She wanted to scream herself free. Instead, she became wooden. Her lack of response only served as a goad, intensifying his determination to arouse her. But the more he tried, the more she wanted to expel him from her. It was over when he could hold back no longer. Grunting like a barnyard animal, he collapsed in a heap on top of her.

She pushed him aside and, almost immediately, he fell asleep. She lay there thinking how much she hated it, more each time than the time before. Finally, she turned on her side and pulled the covers over her shoulders, asking herself, Who cares about the money?

3

Something was going on with Chun, but Haesu did not ask any questions. One night, he took the money she had pledged to NAK and left. The next morning, when he returned, he handed the money to her. He began to go out several nights a week, often not returning until morning.

Has he found a second job? Mr. Yim asked.

I don’t know, Haesu replied. She found herself hoping that it was another woman.

When she mentioned to Chun that Mr. Yim wondered if he had found a second job, Chun said, He hasn’t said anything to me.

He probably doesn’t want to appear as if he’s prying, she said. It isn’t easy for anyone to ask you anything.

Chun ran his hands through his hair, scratching his scalp along the way. Then, smoothing his disheveled hair, he said, It’s time for us to move out. Tomorrow you go out and find us a place to live. I’ll work by myself.

We can’t afford a place of our own, she said.

Fifteen dollars a month. He pulled out his wallet and counted off the money. First month’s rent, he said, handing her the bills.

Haesu was about to ask where he got the money, but decided against it. Whatever fifteen dollars would provide was welcomed; keeping her fights with Chun private and her growing sense of obligation to the Yims were beginning to wear heavily on her.

At breakfast, she explained why she had not gone to work with Chun. We’ve imposed upon you long enough. It’s time we moved. I’ll need you to go house hunting with me, Clara.

I’d love to go with you, Clara exclaimed. Then a pained expression suddenly came over her face. But what will I do after you move?

Haesu laughed. What you always do when I’m not here. She had meant to cheer her friend but Clara turned thoughtful, almost sad.

Do you know that green crepe dress with the side bow? How do you think that would look with my white shoes? Clara asked. In the next breath she said, I don’t know if I want to go. I hate it when everyone stares at me. They look at me as if I was some kind of freak.

Nonsense. It’s only because we don’t look like other Americans, Haesu said.

It’s these eyes, Clara said, popping hers open as wide as she could.

Don’t be a child, Clara. You’re a rare beauty. Your eyes are just right.

That’s easy for you to say. I’ll bet no one asks you if you can see with your eyes.

Who asks that?

There. I told you. Children ask me that all the time.

Children! Haesu scoffed. What do they know? Wear the green dress and the white shoes. You’ll look beautiful. I’ll wear something special too. Come on, Clara, it will be fun.

With a sigh of resignation, Clara said, All right. Let me know if you want to borrow anything.

Mr. Yim had sat quietly while the women made their plans. He now leaned toward his young wife, placing his hand on hers. While you are out, if you see something you would like to buy for yourself, please do so. He turned to Haesu. Clara has not been out of this house for months.

I know. It’s my fault. As soon as we get a truck, Chun says I won’t have to work. Then Clara and I will go all over Los Angeles together. As a matter of fact, we can start today. Let’s get ready, Clara.

Mr. Yim pulled a gold fob from his pocket. I’m late for work, he declared. Don’t change your mind, Clara. You’re more beautiful than any woman in this country. He put on his hat and walked out the door.

Haesu skipped every other step going up the stairs, unbuttoning her house dress as she went. Going through her limited wardrobe, she made her decisions quickly, taking everything she was going to wear from the dresser and closet and laying them on the bed. The corset was her least favorite garment. Why should she have to reshape her body to fit into a dress? The lacing around her small breasts needed little cinching. It was her hips that required the hardest pull, the part of her body that, in Korea, was hidden under a billowing chima.

Her ecru crepe dress glided smoothly over her satin underslip. Ready to step into a pair of black pumps, she discovered her feet were bare. Forgot again, she muttered impatiently. She sat on the bed to put on the taupe silk stockings. The fine mesh conformed to her legs as she carefully stretched it to her knees. Straightening the seams before securing the stockings to her plain pink garter, Haesu then worked her feet into her shoes.

As careful as she tried to be, she couldn’t seem to avoid putting snags in her stockings. Yanking and tugging was how she had put on the padded socks she grew up with, calf-high coverings sturdier than the canoe-shaped shoes they fitted into, socks sewn with upturned toes to fill the upturned toes of shoes that historians linked with cultures of the Middle East. She never forgot to put them on.

It wasn’t necessary but she put a touch of rouge on her cheeks. She was blushing with excitement. She flattened her lips against her teeth to rub lipstick over them, the way a door-to-door cosmetic saleslady had shown her. She had giggled throughout the demonstration, having had to make such funny faces while the saleslady applied the makeup. She remembered that Clara had scolded her for her lack of seriousness, scolded her Onni for being silly. That had struck Haesu as being even more amusing. She was a year older than Clara and entitled to the respect accorded older sisters. The whole event struck her as being a comic drama with everyone playing the wrong role, causing her to laugh harder than ever. She now wore makeup as a matter of course, concerned with wearing the right color and the correct amount.

She put on her wide-brimmed black straw hat, the only hat she owned, setting it carefully over her thick black hair. She decided to borrow white gloves and a white bag from Clara.

She found Clara sitting on the sofa downstairs. I’m sorry, Haesu said. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.

"I don’t