There was an undercurrent throughout the service that drew every eye back to Mrs. Shin. Even Father Kwak couldn’t escape it. As he watched her walk up the aisle, his voice trembled, causing him to lose his place in the reading. After that he tried not to look at her.
Though Mrs. Shin looked different, she still held herself the same way. You could tell she knew she was getting stared at by the little quivers in her shoulders. After the service, as I left with my parents to go downstairs to the potluck dinner, I saw Father Kwak sitting with Mrs. Shin in the front pew. They talked with their heads bowed closely to each other, almost touching. It looked strangely intimate.
Week after week, Mrs. Shin showed up in one outrageous outfit after another. This turned most of the church away from her. The men were afraid to be caught looking and the women were offended. It was Cathy’s idea that Mrs. Shin felt guiltyand believed herself to be a prostitute. I looked at Mrs. Shin’s tight clothes, and it seemed to me that she wanted us to look. Especially the men, especially Father Kwak, who had the best view of her from the lectern. Sometimes I wanted Luke to look at me that way. But she didn’t seem to enjoy it. With her it seemed more like a duty.
I wasn’t surprised when I found out that she had taken on the name Magdalena. Or surprised that nobody called her that. Everything about her started to irritate me: the skinny, bent shoulders, her tiny bird hands, the streetwalker heels. And it was so easy to spot her, even in the dim lighting of the church. Some part of her glittered and stole light. There was always more coughing than usual echoing through the church when Mrs. Shin was there. Father Kwak stood rooted in front of the lectern, seeming afraid of the microphone. She made us all afraid. And angry, though I couldn’t say why. All I know was that sitting there sometimes, I felt myself hating her, hating her with a clear, strong streak of purity that made it feel good.
I forgot about it during the week, but on Sundays it came back like a phantom illness. And when she wasn’t there, it was even stranger—I went home feeling vaguely unsatisfied.
Father Kwak was the only person who still talked with Mrs. Shin. Inevitably after mass, he spent half an hour with her in the rectory office. Soon unkind talk began to bubble up. I remembered the picture I had taken of the two of them. How close they had seemed. Was she reaching for his throat or his collar? Brushing away a mosquito? Lifting a strand of fallen hair? I wondered if Father Kwak still had the picture. After I’d turned the film over to him, I’d never seen it again.
Finally, there was a restrained argument between the priest and some concerned members of his flock. They hinted, they alluded, they implied. Father Kwak ignored their insinuations until they suggested he ask Mrs. Shin to attend another church. Then he exploded in a rage.
“Every person is a child of God!” he shouted. “You fools! Did you not hear it read aloud just this afternoon? Our Lord says, ‘But whosoever shall confess me before men, him will I confess also before my Father which is in heaven. But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my Father which is in heaven!’ Do you ask me to deny her whom God accepts? Do you people understand nothing of charity?”
“Charity isn’t the issue, Father Kwak,” Dr. Kim, the elder statesman, said calmly. “Mr. Lim spoke too hastily when he suggested that she should not be here—I’m sure he would phrase it differently now.”
Mr. Lim nodded.
Dr. Kim looked around at the crowd that had formed around him in the parking lot. “No one here is suspicious about her devotion to God or to you,” he said. He raised an impressive eyebrow. “But on the issue of clothing—I agree that something must be done. It just isn’t suitable to be seen by children,” he said. “Surely you agree, Father Kwak?”
Father Kwak only said coldly, “I will talk to Mrs. Shin,” and walked away without another word, a thunderous black form crossing the stubbled parking lot.
Mrs. Shin wasn’t there the next week. It was a week at the end of November when the Parks got their new Mercedes blessed, making everyone shiver outside. Then she missed another week. And another. It got cold.
One Saturday in December, I came into the kitchen to find my mother on the phone with Father Kwak. She had on her false charming voice and was stacking empty glass jars while she talked. Her plan for this Saturday was to make kimchi. I saw lying about the familiar tubs, the jars of red pepper and paste, Morton salt, and piles of wilting cabbage heads. I poured myself a glass of orange juice and turned to leave. My mother motioned me with her hand to stay.
“That’s just terrible,” I heard her saying. “Of course I’ll call you right away after I’ve seen her. . . . No, you’re right to worryif you haven’t been able to reach her. . . . I know. This snow is terrible. No, you shouldn’t come out here. . . . Well, my daughter will drive me. That’s what children are for. . . . Yes, I promise I’ll call just as soon as we get back. . . . No, no, please don’t thank me. I’m worried myself now. . . .”
“That poor man,” she said, hanging up. “I can’t tell whether he’s in love with her or just being kind, but he certainly does care about her. He gave me his telephone
