“I. . . I—” Leah, who preferred silence over talking, and singing over everything, wished she could say something, but she had no words.
Charles was angry now, because he could tell she still didn’t agree.
“You can’t care about what people say or what people think, dammit.”
“It’s not just that I care what—”
“Don’t be a sheep. You’ve already lost so much. If you’d only fought for your own—”
Leah stared at this man who didn’t know her at all. Why was he saying these horrible things about her life? There was nothing wrong with her life. She was grateful for her hardworking husband who loved her, for her smart daughters, her good health. Her singing was this extra beautiful gift that she’d never expected. And she cared about her friends. Everyone should have a turn. She stared at the red tiles beneath her feet.
“This is why I never work with Koreans. They are so goddamn stuck. You must choose yourself over the group.” Charles said these things, not caring if Leah even understood his meaning. He was angry with his family, with the immigrant communities in New York, even the artists he knew who weren’t Korean who kept on wanting to compromise. An artist, a real artist, couldn’t do that. An artist could not necessarily have the things other people had—a happy marriage, children, a quiet home life, a retirement account, even mental health. These were things that following convention might give you, but most great artists had been denied much of them. Both of his wives had wanted children, but he had told them no, for these very reasons. Charles had no intention of giving up his art to make room for a steady job or crying babies, because to him, a life without music was insupportable. Without it, he would have certainly put the gun in his mouth.
Charles put his head down on the piano. His life of music had been reduced to this basement practice room smelling of kimchi chi-geh, where a white-haired housewife who had true talent was reminding him to be fair.
Leah didn’t know what to do. The new director was very upset with her.
“I’ll sing it,” Leah said. “I’ll sing it for Mr. Jun’s retirement on Sunday. And I’ll practice at home,” she continued, hoping the new director would raise his head from the piano and look at her. Perhaps smile again. “It’s just that I didn’t think it was right for me to sing for two Sundays in a row.”
Charles lifted his head and shouted, “Goddamn you! Did you hear anything I said?”
Leah pulled back, her eyes blinking in terror. Joseph had never said anything so awful.
Charles took another breath. “Take the recording from the player and listen to it at home. Listen to her feeling. Think about the words, feel the music. Feel more than you want to. If you want to sing about redemption, you have to recognize the sin.” He didn’t know if she understood him.
Leah got up from her seat. Her hand trembled as she removed the compact disc from the player, and she restored it to its jewel case. She walked quietly to the coat closet to get her things. She opened the door, then turned around to bow. Charles wiped tears from his face with both hands. Leah pretended not to see, wanting to protect his pride. In the church parking lot, the only car was hers, and Leah drove home slowly, wondering where he lived exactly and how far he’d have to travel tonight.
14 HOSPITALITY
CASEY FINISHED THE BREAKFAST DISHES and got dressed for work. She had an hour and a half before she had to be at Sabine’s, but she couldn’t stay home.
Unu didn’t ask why she was leaving early, but Casey told him anyway that she had promised to meet Sabine before work. That wasn’t true, and as she walked toward Madison Avenue, she couldn’t figure out why she had lied to him.
She hated it when she felt sorry for herself and hoped a long walk down Madison might help her lousy mood. The first year of business school was almost over, but she still didn’t have a summer internship with an investment bank, and it was making her feel horrible. Hugh Underhill had said to give him a call if she needed anything, but she hated the idea of asking for help. Most of her friends at school had summer job offers with Internet start-ups, and though Casey had interviewed with a few, nothing was even remotely interesting to her. She couldn’t understand what happened when you stuck a “。com” behind a word or what these companies did. But everyone said that’s where the action was. Also, a lot of the interviewers looked twelve. But she reminded herself that girls with five-figure debts couldn’t be picky, so she had not turned down a summer internship offer from Sklar.com, a market research company. For the past three months, ever since Unu lost his job, her credit card debts had only gotten worse. The debts she’d been paying off steadily had crept up again. As she walked and walked, dressed in one of her Sabine’s getups—hat, dress, and fancy shoes—Casey felt like escaping, but where would she go?