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. I manage to get to my knees and then to my feet.I stagger into thebedroom and open Mr.Kim s closet, which is almost empty except for a few pairs of neatly pressedjeans in various sizes ranging from small boy to grown-up, and several crisp white shirts, my little clothingstash, ready and waiting.Dressed, I walk back to the kitchen, lean over Kimy, and give her a peck onthe cheek. What s the date? September 8, 1998.Where you from? Next July. We sit down at the table.Kimy is doing theNew York Times crossword puzzle. What s going on, next July? It s been a very cool summer, your garden s looking good.All the tech stocks are up.You should buysome Apple stock in January.She makes a note on a piece of brown paper bag. Okay.And you? How are you doing? How sClare? You guys got a baby yet? Actually, I am hungry.How about some of that soup you were mentioning?Kimy lumbers out of her chair and opens the fridge.She gets out a saucepan and starts to heat up somesoup. You didn t answer my question. No news, Kimy.No baby.Clare and I fight about it just about every waking moment.Please don tstart on me.Kimy has her back to me.She stirs the soup vigorously.Her back radiates chagrin. I m not starting onyou, I just ask, okay? I just wondering.Sheesh.We are silent for a few minutes.The noise of the spoon scraping the bottom of the saucepan is getting tome.I think about Clare, looking out the window at me as I drove away.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html Hey, Kimy. Hey, Henry. How come you and Mr.Kim never had kids?Long silence.Then: We did have child. You did?She pours the steaming soup into one of the Mickey Mouse bowls I loved when I was a kid.She sitsdown and runs her hands over her hair, smoothes the white straggling hairs into the little bun at the back.Kimy looks at me. Eat your soup.I be right back. She gets up and walks out of the kitchen, and I hearher shuffling down the plastic runner that covers the carpeting in the hall.I eat the soup.It s almost gonewhen she comes back. Here.This is Min.She is my baby. The photograph is black and white, blurry.In it a young girl,perhaps five or six years old, stands in front of Mrs.Kim s building, this building, the building I grew upin.She is wearing a Catholic school uniform, smiling, and holding an umbrella. It s her first day school.She is so happy, so scared.I study the photo.I am afraid to ask.I look up.Kimy is staring out the window, over the river. Whathappened? Oh.She died.Before you were born.She had leukemia, she die.I suddenly remember. Did she used to sit out in a rocker in the backyard? In a red dress?Mrs.Kim stares at me, startled. You see her? Yes, I think so.A long time ago.When I was about seven.I was standing on the steps to the river,buck naked, and she told me I better not come into her yard, and I told her it was my yard and shedidn t believe me.I couldn t figure it out. I laugh. She told me her mom was gonna spank me if I didn tgo away.Kimy laughs shakily. Well, she right, huh? Yeah, she was just off by a few years.Kimy smiles. Yeah, Min, she a little firecracker.Her dad call her Miss Big Mouth.He loved her verymuch. Kimy turns her head, surreptitiously touches her hand to her eyes.I remember Mr.Kim as ataciturn man who spent most of his time sitting in his armchair watching sports on TV. What year was Min born? 1949.She died 1956.Funny, she would be middle-aged lady with kids now, herself.She would beforty-nine years old.Kids would be maybe in college, maybe a little older. Kimy looks at me, and I lookback at her. We re trying, Kimy.We re trying everything we can think of.Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html I didn t say nothing. Uh-huh.Kimy bats her eyelashes at me like she s Louise Brooks or somebody. Hey, buddy, I am stuck on thiscrossword.Nine down, starts with K Clare:I watch the police divers swim out into Lake Michigan.It s an overcast morning, already very hot.I am standing on the Dempster Street pier.There are five fire engines, three ambulances, and sevensquad cars standing on Sheridan Road with their lights blinking and flashing.There are seventeen firemenand six paramedics.There are fourteen policemen and one policewoman, a short fat white woman whosehead seems squashed by her cap, who keeps saying stupid platitudes intended to comfort me until I wantto push her off the pier.I m holding Henry s clothes.It s five o clock in the morning.There aretwenty-one reporters, some of whom are TV reporters with trucks and microphones and video people,and some of whom are print reporters with photographers.There is an elderly couple hanging around theedges of the action, discreet but curious.I try not to think about the policeman s description of Henryjumping off the end of the pier, caught in the beam of the police car searchlight.I try not to think.Two new policemen come walking down the pier.They confer with some of the police who are alreadyhere, and then one of them, the older one, detaches and walks to me.He has a handlebar mustache, theold-fashioned kind that ends in little points.He introduces himself as Captain Michels, and asks me if Ican think of any reason my husband might have wanted to take his own life. Well, I really don t think he did, Captain.I mean, he s a very good swimmer, he s probably justswimming to, urn, Wilmette or someplace I wave my hand vaguely to the north and he ll be back any time now.The Captain looks dubious. Does he make a habit of swimming in toe middle of the night? He s aninsomniac. Had you been arguing? Was he upset? No, I lie. Of course not. I look out over the water.I am sure I don t sound very convincing. I wassleeping and he must have decided to go swimming and he didn t want to wake me up
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