liminal

Today marks Raewon’s third visit to the penitentiary. He is unaware the tinker stopped by the previous week with an offer for Wonil.

Raewon slouches back in his seat and stares past the glass, gaze faraway. “How’ve you been sleeping?”

How do you think? Is Wonil’s initial thought. He grins instead. “What do you wanna hear for an answer, Hyung?”

“The truth, I guess.”

“Hm. Well it’s not too bad for being without a mattress. Gotta get used to it either way,” he tilts his head. “Don’t I?”

RAEWON

He wonders why it’d never occurred to him to ask in his first visit. “That right?” he asks, furrowing a brow and leaning forward. Just blankets and a pillow, probably. “And the others?”

WONIL

“The others…” he trails off, as if he needs to give it some thought. Give up the act, Wonil. Juwon and Sunho, transferred a week in, with Euntaek left raising hell like he has nothing to lose in cell three. Which isn’t far from the truthㅡTaek hadn’t been the one nailed with the almost two-decade long sentence.

“Dunno.” A shrug. “Why, wanna make them your charity cases or something?”

RAEWON

Never a peaceful day in the penitentiary. His brother’s slight rolls off like the wind and slaps him like a fallen branch. Cold and dry. “Not interested.” He returns. “More just. Wondering if they’re the ones affecting your sleep more than the floor.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Guess that isn’t the case though.”

WONIL

“Aw, bummer.” At this point his taunting couldn’t be more obvious. “They could use a couple more years. You’re an expert at making that come true, aren’t ya?” The elites’ very own fucking genie. “Floor or not, i’m sure you won’t hafta worry about experiencing it ever. so.” So rings with a sense of finality. “Did mom call you yet?”

RAEWON

He smirks, lopsided, tilted glass. “You could say that,” he nods with his lips poised upwards.

So. The base of the cup is heavy and Raewon lets his words graze over like tinkling fingernails along the rim. “Not yet. Believe it or not,” he starts, mirroring his brother. “I’m not the first person she wants to talk to.”

WONIL

The news brings a blink of surprise. Even the success of the older, more evidently put-together son wasn’t enough to have her spare so much as a thought his way. He thinks back to the one and only time she had stood silently where Raewon is sitting, but doesn’t go forward in mentioning it. Once a cunt, always a cunt.

“Y’know they have a personal lawyer now?” Wonil says instead, absently scratching at the side of his neck. “He called me. Said to not expect a single penny out of her or dad.”

His hand falls to his lap. “So that makes two of us.”

RAEWON

Raewon hums. Matters of the will. Dad might have mentioned them in passing, but that was well over a year ago, and not long after he’d made first contact again to tell them he’d somehow shoed himself into a law firm and that he’d be setting up a transfer payment system. “Well that sounds familiar.” Raewon can’t help but grin. “Didn’t they say the same thing to you about me?” When I left?

Wonil raises a brow. “What the hell would they tell an eight year old?” On the contrary, he’d had something to say to them.

(Morning after, at the dining table. Mom’s eyes are bloodshot, but not from crying. She taps her spoon absently against her cup saucer.

“Where’s Hyung, Ma?” he asks.

“Well he’s not here now, is he?”)

He takes in Raewon’s expression. Can’t buy it.

“Bet you have something different to say, though.”

RAEWON

“You think age ever mattered to them?” Raewon laughs. “C’mon, Wonil. You know better than I do.”

A hitch. It doesn’t catch him off guard so much as it itches at his brain, something curious and persistent. The pause lingers as he narrows his eyes and leans in. “About what?”

WONIL

“If you’re expecting some shit like ‘Don’t you ever do what your brother did,’ it didn’t happen.” Wonil crosses his arms. “They’re neglectful assholes. not walking cliches.” For better or worse. He doesn’t have the patience to consider what it could’ve been like had they had the decency to be the latter. Or at the very least pretend.

He flashes a smile, a full show of teeth. Menace doesn’t suit him, but it’s something like it. “C’mon, Hyung,” he parrots. “You know better than I do.” There’s a singular question that’s been picking at him since the very day, the very second Raewon decided to show up the way that he did. “What’re you getting out of this?”

RAEWON

Wonil’s voice scrapes rough like chipped toenails and he’d be a lousy professional not to detect it, gruffness betraying something that whiffs of tender flesh. He saves the laughs but maintains a smile just barely there. That’s not it, baby bro, but “For some, that’s as good a cliche as any.” He returns.

Taunting’s never been his strong suit; taunting back less so. In this circumstance and the last and the next. He swallows Wonil’s words down whole and lets them churn and writhe in his stomach until they tire out. “Nothing, apparently.” he states simply.

WONIL

“So you’re part of that ‘some’ then.”

Raewon’s words, understated as they may be, hit, then miss. You could pull out the pliers and the real answer wouldn’t ever be pried from his damn mouth. A lost cause from the onset, from how much he knows, how little they know of each other.

His mouth loosens back into a softer smile. “Great! You’ll get something outta spending your time elsewhere, I’m sure.” The chair groans as he gets up. God. What were the fucking odds, anyway?

RAEWON

“It was meant to be ambiguous but thanks for pointing it out.” he says, bracing himself. That’s what it boils down to between the shallow pauses and unreadable expressions and a ticking clock that’s evidently gone for lunch. They’ve barely made a dent into the hour.

There’s the punch. Whining grit of the chair against the floor and Raewon’s eyes drag down and up. Wonil is getting ready to go back in now. Raewon follows in suit, careful as he scoots his chair with back legs lifted off the ground, standing without bumping his knees against the low table. He’s not greedy for time, even if his brother is. Raewon places his hand onto the table, taps it twice.

TWO HOURS PRIOR

( TXT / Jeyun ) “Your best suit is at the dry cleaner’s” ( TXT / Jeyun ) That one was from Mom ( TXT / Jeyun ) “I’m already home and I’m not fetching your clothes, so figure it out like the big kid you are now” ( TXT / Jeyun ) That one’s from me. Don’t be late 👋

NOW

She’s chasing time, if not by her limbs, then by the way her eyes dart from the hands of the antique cherry grandfather clock in the foyer to her lap and back again. There could be metaphors of perpetual restlessness here, spun pretty to the imagery of beating wings, a blur of dove feathers and whatever else. But there’s nothing inherently lovely about her deep lack of patience, which only ever keeps Jeah on the constant edge of her seat, nude ankle strap heels tap-tap-tapping against the tiles.

Tonight’s game plan: a clean sweep of handshakes, backhanded compliments, handed off flutes of bubbly before it’s hand over hand at the wheel with the car driving the hell out of there. Funny to think back she’d been of the belief that these gatherings would be the last of her troubles, only to find they’re at the very forefront.

With the baby to thank for all of this, naturally.

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, or something. In other words, responsibilities that most certainly don’t count in her track record.

The whine of the door hinges has Jeah standing, the sigh that escapes her lips something along the lines of Finally. “Awesome.” She grabs the keys and her purse. “Kim’s off for tonight, so it’s on us to get there.” Pause, curious glance over her shoulder. “You got everything?”

JEYUN

( Outgoing → Noona ) Thanks ( Outgoing → Noona ) I’ll see you in a bit

Jeyun is the disciple and fifteen minutes is the monkish chant cycling in his head. Fifteen minutes. He clasps onto a handle on the bullet train. Fifteen minutes is all he needs to get a suit on his person and get his person out the door. He swipes out of the underground. If he arrives home at seven thirty and they leave at seven forty-five they will make it to the venue fifteen minutes before eight thirty. He steps off the escalators and onto the sidewalk just as the sun is beginning to set. It looks beautiful today, shining onto the glass doors of the dry cleaner’s in feathered cuts of silver.

He exchanges receipt for hanger and with suit folded neatly over forearm he walks the full five blocks back to the family apartment, each leggy stride longer than the next. He is greeted with exasperation, but there’s no reason for it. He’s fifteen minutes early.

Still, one can’t afford to dally. “Whoop,” he zips past her small frame and makes a beeline for the bathroom, but the hallway is narrow and his attempt ends up clumsy at best. “I’ll be right out!” Jeyun calls, his voice and frenzied disrobing muffled behind oak.

The baby reemerges, trail of cologne following him like a halo, into the foyer where Jeah waits with lips pressed into a thin line. He slips into the calf leather derbies she’s laid out for him at the door with a sheepish smile, “Sorry, you were saying—” and looks down to the crown of her head as she gathers the keys. There’s a piece of lint by her ear. He picks it off and keeps it between his fingers so he can dispose of it outside. “—joyride?”

Like every time before it, the joke earns him a chilly wave of the hand.

—

The family vehicle’s passenger seat is, at this point, perfectly molded to his sitting form. This too, is part of his fate as the youngest. But there’s another perk—he rests a hand on the volume knob and with one tweak Elgar in E is coursing through every material surface of the car. He pays no mind to his sister. With his other hand, Jeyun browses through texts to confirm the address and inspect the first few restaurant reviews.

“Japanese? Didn’t we do kaiseki last time, too?” He scrolls further down. “Ooh, on second thought. Egg walnut tamagoyaki for dessert. Fall offerings are the best, aren’t they…”

JEAH

Clocking in a little after eight o’ clock, traffic has lightened up significantly.  At a red light, her grip loosens from the wheel and the turn signal is left blinking, fingers drumming idly in wait. This particular concerto conjures memories from the summer of ‘37. Sixteen, sullen, and suffering because of those god-awful scales, and finishing solid in second place. The 2015 Garavaglia is sitting in the corner of her old bedroom, virtually untouched since high school graduation. Selling it? Out of the question.

The light flicks green and the car slows back into motion. “Did we?” With Jeyun’s impeccable habit of tracking minute details, chances are he’s right. And after a good minute, she says, “Oh. Well. All I remember is the sake.” Junmai-shu flooding over her tongue by the cup as it’d been passed over talk of inter-generational politics, nostalgia beyond her years, and the plight of current economy. Big talk for big people, with the matching shoes to step into. "Think it’d kill them to do fusion for a change?”

An afterthought: it actually just might. Guess you can never be too careful with the conservative type at these things.

They veer to the rightmost lane. The digits on the dashboard flip to 8:10. According to the GPS screen underneath, their destination is the second to last building, straight down. “At least I can count on you to spice up the menu when you become head honcho or whatever.” She grins, and there’s that characteristic glint in her eye. “Matter of fact, that should be your first course of business.”

JEYUN

Jeyun had played accompaniment for her, of course—his sister’s trusty steed, finely trained and black coat of fur thick with pomade and brushed back just so. He likes to think that the reason for Jeah’s drop to second that summer had been a result of his absence, as her finger slipped on one of the cadenza’s double stops. However smug the recollection may make him now, his heart had nearly dropped out of his body then. Du Pré moans and groans through the speakers. “You were better,” Jeyun looks straight ahead. “Than first. Choi something.” Choi Kyungil. Current principal cellist of the Berlin Philharmonic. Not that Jeyun was ever the sort of person to search for a person’s whereabouts out of sheer pettiness and over a decade after the fact. “Maybe even better than Jacqueline.” He turns the volume knob up.

“We did,” Jeyun nods. “I’ll have to learn from your example this time around.” Not the drinking part. “And keep myself to a steady nibble.” There’d been so many courses over the course of three hours that he’d barely made it to the okayu without falling backwards for a digestive snooze. Just conjuring up the image of a bowl of porridge is enough to get him queasy and he winces at the possibility of it appearing again on tonight’s offerings. “If it doesn’t kill them then it might kill me,” he says with a bitter laugh. Some years ago a craving for sea urchin had backfired horribly and he’d never been able to look at another risotto the same way ever since. Perhaps all rice dishes had a personal score to settle with him. He should have never let that pot go unattended all those years ago.

The vehicle slows, approaching the valet at the back of the restaurant. A cheery bucktoothed attendant comes to take their place and Jeyun hands him a few of his crispiest bills, ironed last week. He waits for Jeah to join him at the curbside and they round the corner to the front. “You have a point.” Jeyun grins. It’s a known fact at the Oh’s that dad doesn’t have the most refined of palates—courtesy of his outer city upbringing. “I’ll make sure it’s the spiciest so you won’t have any excuses to skip.” They step through the courtyard, greenery abundant and fragrance potent. Then through the first set of doors, wide open. The next set of doors slides quickly open and the proprietress is already there folded over ninety-degrees.

“Ha, ha. Excellent word play, sis.” He steps a slight ways in front of Jeah before the woman leads them past a maze of corridors to their room. It’s something he’s tried to get used to doing but it still feels unnatural and he’s certain Jeah has noticed every time. “I’m sure there will be more pressing things calling for my attention when the time comes.” He lifts his wrist. 8:15 on the dot. Fifteen minutes early. “Things like, how to redecorate the house. Or who to hire to take our Christmas card photo. Unless you’d like to take those responsibilities head on instead.”

JEAH

“You remember his name.” It’s a statement, not a question, complete with the knowing lift of her voice. Half in the sheer perceptibility of Jeyun’s habits, half at how she’s never forgotten herself:

Choi Kyungil.

Even if she closes her eyes and recalls his face now, all there is to see is the cross hair framed perfectly over his side profile. Standing ten feet away with a bouquet of deep red roses and the first place emblem, and the single thought that snaked around the folds of her brain was what if? She’d never held a gun in her entire life, and still hasn’t, but the press of retribution on her hands had been the closest she’d ever gotten to the feeling. Just as cold. Maybe even just as satisfying.

It runs in the family, after all.

Jeah only laughs at his remark. “I don’t think Jackie would appreciate that at all.” The music is cut short. “Dead for over fifty years, and her legacy’s still kickin’.” Pulling the keys out of the ignition, she steps out to hand them to the attendant. “If that isn’t something, I don’t know what is.”

Upon entering, they’re greeted with the scent of jasmine. The establishment is pristine. Lush plants encircle a stone fountain that sits at the center. All details absorbed with vague interest.

Jeah turns to the sight of Jeyun’s back, and is suddenly reminded of a second memory. She’d only been eight then, sitting in their parents’ bedroom. Mom had just clasped a string of pearls around her neck. Dad was pulling on his suit jacket. When they’d been about to exit the room, her mother had placed a hand on the back of his shoulder, and he’d straightened under her touch. By the time she began to do the same to the eldest, herself, and the youngest, Jeah finally understood. The significance of the single, plain gesture.

So she does it in her place: as Jeyun steps in front, a reminder. Hold your head high. Jeah’s hand returns to her side just as promptly as it’d left it, and they walk on.

Inside, the table is set. She takes her place near one of the ends. Fifteen minutes to kill. “You know I’d be the first person to stop the Christmas card thing. Mom would hate me for it.”

A pause, as she ponders the weight of her question. “Who would we send them to, anyway?”

JEYUN

The two acclimate quickly to their surroundings, shedding their coats and handing them off to the hunched proprietress, who murmurs demurely if the lady and sir will have anything to drink while they wait for the rest of their party to arrive. Any gyokuro will do please and thank you, Jeyun hums, and with a delicate shuffling of her feet she is gone as if never there.

Jeyun’s claims the seat across from his sister and at the opposite end of the table, slinging his scarf over the backing of the chair. Build your own presence instead of relying on the collective. Emanate it as far as it will go, until it permeates every corner of the room.

The woman returns with a sizable kettle, glazed shiboridashi, and two thinly thrown teacups on a tray. She pours silently, systematically, and slips out. The fountain just outside their window bubbles on, flow of water gliding down rocks smoothed by years both kind and unkind. Warm in his hands, he gives one of the thimble cups to his sister and gives it an unceremonious clink. The most intentional of cultural blunders to be sure, but no one else has to know.

He lifts the cup to his lips. The broth is pleasingly vibrant and sweet, like taking a stroll through a rainforest. “I thought you might look at it differently. Oh Jeah’s first foray into art direction. It’s only a matter of time.” She’d proved herself as the Oh’s representative visionary based on doodles from childhood. She’d upheld her status at her senior thesis show five years ago. Her decision to venture into law had been something of a curveball—whether she’d done it for herself or with the family in mind, he’d yet to home in on.

“Mom’s got a lock on her contact book. We’d have to pry it out of her own hands first.” He laughs. It’s on the tip of his tongue to list off uncles and aunties and their grandmother who is always the first to call once she’s received her card, gushing about Jeah’s beauty resplendent before she catches herself halfway and states—voice neutralizing to its original contralto—how she couldn’t help but notice Jeah isn’t getting any taller.

No, halmae. She’s twenty-seven this year. Even if her face, unblemished and skin stretched taut and firm, hardly betrays it, her time’s passed. Jeyun unconsciously places two fingers to the patch of skin beneath his left eye. The loose puffiness there is sobering. They’re trudging onward in other ways.

“I’m terrible.” Jeyun says instead. “I can’t think of anyone other than Kyunghoon and Jinwoo. And it’s only because they came to me this morning with news of their engagement. Which is finally a thing, by the way.” Everyone else is a convenient, gray-streaked blur. Lost in a soup of fortissimos, debts, and headcounts.

“Still, I’m not sure anyone actually likes receiving them. At their core they’re just disguised opportunities for moms to boast about their kids, right? Be it in the quality of the photo or the content of the letter. This year our boy James graduated from middle school. He will be attending Daewon in the spring and we wish him all the success in the world! Congrats, James! Or, Chaerin is doing great in her acting career. She filmed in Peru in June and Prague in July! She’s becoming more well-traveled than this old dog!” He frowns. “Come to think of it. What did mom say about us last year? I didn’t get a chance to see before she sent them all out. It couldn’t have been anything remotely interesting.”

JEAH

The cup is held firm between her thumb and pointer, but she doesn’t raise it to taste yet. Under the light, the color of the brew is true to the namesake. From the aroma alone, she’s melting through the seasons quick: March frost receding for fresh, new pastures. Spring just can’t come soon enough.

“Real funny, Jeyun.” He manages to coax an amused look out of her all the same. "Different themes, maybe? With a bit of practice and some sideburns, Dad could have the Scrooge look down to a tee.“ A step up from their usual fanfare: for as long as Jeah can remember, the cards have always came out nearly identical to the ones from the year before it. The same positioning before their ornament-studded Christmas tree, standing tall and poised in their long sleeve knee-length velvet dresses and chunky cashmere sweaters in variations of cardinal red and evergreen. They’re all smiling, or trying to, at least—the photo revealing various degrees of tight-lipped discomfort save for (of course), Mom. Everlasting it seems, in her serene, elegant glow.

"She’s going to do it for as long as she can.” Jeah finally holds up her tea with a sigh. “Upholding tradition and all.” There’s no pause to savor the notes—a turn of the head, and the cup returns to the tray empty. It’s a daunting, but irreversible thought: them growing older, their parents old. Briefly, she wonders if the third person gone without mention goes through the same morning ritual that she does. Waking up to look yourself dead in the eye, and in that slit of startling disconnect between slumber and clarity, you really aren’t you.

But that’s a given in a way, isn’t it?

“Oh wow.” Some good news for a change. “After all that circling around each other, huh?” she chuckles. “There’s Soobin with her new baby too, but I only know that ‘cause Mom told me.” Pretending to know any more beyond that point is a lost cause, one Jeah certainly has no qualms over. Soon they will reach a point in their own lives where the family tree is no longer recognizable, with themselves as the two last branches dangling in the breeze, waiting for the fall. Gruesome. No wonder why Mom wouldn’t let her take on the job.

She resorts to toying with the empty cup. As Jeyun carries on, she can’t help but pick up on the pattern in all of his examples. “You can't possibly be jealous.” A certain playfulness colors her tone, complete with the lifting of the corners of her mouth. Still the baby, ever the baby. The cup is set back down again. "Since you can’t remember, Mom wrote about how she was so happy to have you back home.“ Home: something that spells out another sort of promise.

The sound of approaching footsteps signals the time: 15 minutes up, and this leg of their conversation folds to a close.

Jeah straightens up, parallel to the back of the chair. She takes stock, and the number of heads she ends up with is not a pleasant discovery.

“Hell of a night this’ll be.” She slowly stands to bow in greeting.