fussing and fretting as they carry the boxes inside. But he can hear everything, and if he stares down contemplatively at his shoes while he’s rolling, he can see them out the side of his eye.
‘Okay, that’s the last one,’ the girl – Harper’s girl – says, lugging a half-open box out of the back of the car. She spots something inside and reaches in to pull out a doll, shockingly naked, holding it by the ankle. ‘Omma!’
‘What now?’ her mother says.
‘Omma, I told you to drop this off at the Salvation Army. What am I supposed to do with all this junk?’
‘You love that doll,’ her mother reprimands her. ‘You should keep it. For my grandkids. But not yet. You find a nice boy first. A doctor or a lawyer, seeing as you are studying sociopathy.’
‘Sociology, Omma.’
‘And that’s another thing. Going into these bad places. You’re looking for trouble.’
‘You’re overreacting. It’s where people live.’
‘Sure. Bad people, with guns. Why can’t you study opera singers? Or waiters? Or doctors. Good way to meet a nice doctor, I think. Aren’t they interesting enough for your degree? Instead of these housing projects?’
‘Maybe I should study the similarities between Korean mothers and Jewish ones?’ She tangles her fingers absently in the doll’s long blonde hair.
‘Maybe I should slap your face for being rude to the woman who raised you! If your grandmother heard you talking like this …’
‘Sorry, Omma,’ the girl says, sheepish. She examines the doll’s locks twirled around her fingers. ‘Remember that time I tried to dye my Barbie’s hair black?’
‘With shoe polish! We had to throw that one away.’
‘Doesn’t that bother you? The homogeneity of aspiration?’
Her mother waves her hand impatiently. ‘Your big college words. It bothers you so much, you take the kids you working with in the projects black Barbies, then.’
The girl tosses the doll back in the box. ‘That’s not a bad idea, Omma.’
‘But don’t use shoe polish!’
‘Don’t even joke.’ She leans over the box in her arms to kiss the older woman on the cheek. Her mother bats her away, embarrassed by the show of affection.
‘Be good,’ she says, climbing into the car. ‘You study hard. No boys. Unless they’re doctors.’
‘Or lawyers. I got it. Bye, Omma. Thanks for your help.’
The girl waves and waves as the woman drives off, up towards the park, then drops her arm as the car executes a reckless U-turn to come all the way back. Her mother rolls down the window.
‘I nearly forgot,’ she says. ‘Lots of important things. Remember dinner on Friday night. And drink your Hahn-Yahk. And call your grandmother to let her know you’re all moved in. You’ll remember all that, Jin-Sook?’
‘Yes, okay, I got it. Bye, Omma. Seriously. Go. Please.’
She waits for the car to leave. Once it turns the corner, she looks helplessly at the box in her arms and then sets it down next to the trash can before disappearing into the residence.
Jin-Sook. Her name sends a flush of heat through Harper. He could take her now. Strangle her in the hallway. But there are witnesses. And, he knows this deep down, there are rules. Now is not the time.
‘Hey, man,’ a sandy-haired young man says, in a not quite friendly way, standing over him with the casual overconfidence of his size. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a number on it, and shorts that have been cut off at the knee, leaving white fraying threads. ‘You gonna be here all day?’
‘Finishing my cigarette,’ Harper says, dropping his hand to his lap to hide his half-erection.
‘Think you better hurry it up. Campus security don’t like people hanging around.’
‘Free city,’ he says, although he has no idea if that’s true.
‘Yeah? Well don’t be here when I get back.’
‘I’m going.’ Harper takes a long drag, as if to prove it, without moving an inch. It’s enough to placate the young bull. He jerks his head in acknowledgement and strolls off towards the strip of shops, glancing back once, over his shoulder. Harper drops the cigarette to the ground and ambles up the way, as if he’s leaving. But he stops at the trash can where Jin-Sook left the box.
He crouches down beside it and starts pawing through the jumble of toys. It’s why he’s here. He is following a map. All the pieces must be put into place.
He finds the pony with the yellow hair as Jin-Sook (the name sings in his head) emerges from the building, hurrying back to the box, looking guilty.
‘Hey, sorry, um, I changed my mind,’ she starts apologizing, then cocks her head, confused. Up close, he can see that she’s wearing a single earring, a dangly shower of blue and yellow stars on silver chains. The motion makes the stars shiver. ‘That’s my stuff,’ she says, accusing.
‘I know.’ He gives her a mocking little salute as he starts limping away on his crutch. ‘I’ll bring you something else instead.’
He does, but only in 1993, when she is a fully fledged social worker for the Chicago Housing Authority. She will be his second kill. And the police won’t find the gift he leaves her. Or notice the baseball card he takes away.
Dan
10 February 1992
The Chicago Sun-Times’ typeface is ugly. So is the building it sits on, a low-rise eyesore that squats on the bank of the Chicago River on Wabash, surrounded by soaring towers. It is, in fact, a shithole. The desks are all still heavy old metal things from World War II with wells for typewriters that have been plugged with computers. There is aerated ink caked in the air vents from the printing presses that shake the whole building when they run. Some reporters have ink in their veins. The Sun-Times staff have ink in their lungs. Once in a while someone will complain to OSHA.
There’s a pride in the ugliness. Especially in comparison to the Tribune Tower across the way with its neo-Gothic turrets and buttresses, like some cathedral of news. The Sun-Times has an open sprawling office with all the desks butting up against one another, arranged around the city editor. Features and sports are shunted off to the side. It’s messy, it’s noisy. People are shouting over each other and the squawking police radio. There are televisions going and phones ringing and the fax machines bleeping as they churn out incoming stories. The Tribune has cubicles.
The Sun-Times is the working-class paper, the cop’s paper, the garbage collector’s paper. The Tribune is the broadsheet of millionaires and professors and the suburbs. It’s South Side vs. North Side, and never the twain shall meet – until the start of intern season, when the rich college brats with connections descend.
