Once the Shore by Paul Yoon

often he slammed his fists against the shut door and shouted something in Japanese that Ahrim could not discern. He had a fine jawline,
dark eyebrows, and strong, thick arms. Although autumn was soon approaching, he was sweating through his T-shirt, leaving a trail between his shoulders. Sinaru’s mother could be seen behind one of the windows. She held a broomstick, the bristles of which she tapped on the windowpane, as though her husband were a fly she were trying to swat.
    There were women who found him attractive, she knew. She had heard one speak of him to a friend at the market, pointing at the different sizes of fish, in mischief.
    Ahrim shut off the engine of her truck. He turned and stared at her blankly, his eyes large and white against his tan skin. They were Sinaru’s eyes.
    He approached her, grinning. “Sea woman,” he called. “Have you seen my son?” He looked at her as if he knew something about her and wouldn’t tell—he always looked this way. He leaned on the passenger-side door and tucked his head through the open window. “I want to see my boy,” he said. “My son.”
    “I haven’t seen him,” she said.
    He smelled of cellophane, the plastic of the factories. He chewed on his fingernails. “Aren’t you his play buddy?” he said.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been at the market all day.”
    He lifted his hands. “Sure,” he said. “But if you do see him, tell him he should come find me, yes?”
    “All right.”
    “And tell him to bring her along.” Sinaru’s father pointed his thumb to where his wife stood behind the window.

    Ahrim left her truck and walked up the pathway to her house. She still kept her door unlocked, like the old days, and so she entered thinking perhaps the boy was inside. He would never, not when she wasn’t there, but she thought it all the same and sighed when she saw that he wasn’t. She went outside again and headed to the backyard and the grove where the scent of citrus lingered and the bark of the trees was bright under the sun, which split and shadowed along the leaves. He wasn’t there either. She called for him, in a low voice, afraid that his father might hear. “Sinaru,” she said. “Sinaru. Where are you hiding?”
    When she returned to the front of the house the street was empty, save for a group of children kicking a ball in the neighboring playground, dust rising to their shins. The father was gone. Had Sinaru’s mother acquiesced and allowed him entry? Had he left? There was his car in their gravel driveway. He could have walked, she considered, to the nearby noodle shop for a drink. He could be spending the night elsewhere. The woman had kept the door closed. It was what she would have done, Ahrim concluded.
    There was dinner to cook, although she no longer felt like cooking it. She was tired. It had been the diving, yes. She remained in front of her door and looked out across the street at the varying roofs of the village, some of them still made of strips of reed. The light of day was paling toward the blue of evening. The weather cooled. She listened to the soft thud of sneakers scuffling along the playground.

    She hardly knew her neighbors. There were younger couples now. It was likely, she thought, that they spoke of her inside their homes. Same as always, they would comment over dinner. Their spouses would shake their heads. They would look at their children, with assurance, in their silence perhaps a concern. She keeps time with the young boy, a woman her age, her solitude.
     
    A few days passed. There had been an incident at Sinaru’s school and today she waited for him.
    She boiled seaweed. When they were softened she marinated them with sesame oil, rice vinegar, a drop of sugar, and some spices. She ate them in a glass bowl, cupping it with her hand, bringing the rim close to her lips, using her chopsticks. She sat on the floor, her legs crossed, beside the folding screen behind which she used to undress. Jinsu