but Gillian has already left five messages. When it rings again, he turns it off and decides to tell her he misplaced it. Kyung has a habit of forgetting where he left his phone, something theyâve argued about in the past. She says he should be more careful with it in case she needs to reach him, but heâs willing to risk an argument later rather than explain why he had to leave now.
Just past the veteransâ hospital, Kyung pulls over at an intersection where thereâs a bar on each corner. One is closed, the metal window gates shuttered for the night. Two others appear to be topless bars. The fourth, MacLarens, has a long green sign above the entrance with faded shamrocks that anchor each end like quotation marks. FINE IRISH PUB , the sign says, although the cracked front window appears to be held together by nothing more than duct tape and hope. When he opens the door, heâs relieved to find it nearly deserted. The only other customers are two old men playing keno beside the jukebox, staring at numbers as they tumble across a screen. Their table is full of empty beer glasses and scraps of crumpled paperâlitter from their previous games. Kyung sits down at the far end of the bar, keeping his head down as he orders a whiskey on the rocks.
âKind?â a woman asks.
âKind, what?â
âWhat kind of whiskey ?â
Her tone is impatient; her accent, crude and South Boston. Kyung looks up, momentarily stunned silent by the womanâs wrinkled appearance, badly camouflaged under layers of girlish frost. Frosted hair, frosted eyes, frosted lips.
âCheapest you have.â He tries to unfold the embarrassing origami of his money before she has a chance to see. âHow much is that, by the way?â
âFour-fifty.â She pours him the equivalent of a double from a plastic bottle of Black Velvet, forgetting the iceâa mistake he doesnât bother to correct.
âYou all right?â
Kyung drinks slowly, not certain why a stranger would ask. What about him makes her think heâs not?
âIâm just tired.â He rubs his eyes as proof.
âThat oughta help,â she says, motioning toward the whiskey.
She looks at him as if she expects their conversation to continue, but Kyung canât think of anything else to say. The standard questionsâ Howâs business? How are you doing? âseem useless. The bar is nearly empty and she works there for a living, so he already knows the answers. Besides, he doesnât have the energy for a stranger right now. He spent his entire day preparing for Jinâs arrival, hoping that his efforts might be appreciated, or even just acknowledged. Instead, his father talked down to him in his own house, in front of his own child, when all he was trying to do was be kind. Kyung knows he was pushing too hard, asking one question after the next when Jin clearly wanted to be left alone. But the role of doting Korean son doesnât come naturally to him. Heâs still figuring out how to try. Theyâll never get through this if Jin doesnât try too.
The woman walks away, scattering coasters across the length of the scratched wood bar, occasionally shuffling them like a deck of cards. When she reaches the opposite side of the room, she stops in front of the television set. The Red Sox are on again. The Red Sox are always on in this town.
âJesus. Heâs put on weight,â she says, staring at the dreadlocked Puerto Rican at bat. âFor nine million a year, youâd think heâd go on a diet.â She turns around, seemingly eager for someone, anyone, to agree with her. Kyung looks down at his drink.
According to the coasters she left, MacLarens is Marlboroâs favorite bar, an unlikely claim trapped in the speech balloon of a grinning leprechaun. It seems more like Marlboroâs oldest bar. The place shows all the telltale signs of age: A wood floor that pitches and slopes as
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