“It’s kind of cute, isn’t it?” Gillian asks, pointing at the two of them holding hands. “Ethan seems to like spending time with him.”
Kyung nods, but he’s disoriented by the strangeness of it all. This isn’t the kind of place he ever imagined visiting with his father. He considers Walmart a dirty little secret, a store he frequents more often than he’d like. It’s cheap and depressing and sad, but cheap trumps everything these days. Kyung is no longer bothered by the poor people wandering through the aisles, the train wrecks from the Flats with their faded tattoos and unhappy, juice-and ketchup-stained children. He’s more disturbed by the people who look like him—clean and well kempt, dressed in clothes that clearly weren’t purchased here. He wonders if they shop at Walmart because they’re cheap, or because they’re struggling to make ends meet. He hates the fact that he and Gillian fall into the second category. Despite all appearances, they have more in common with the poor people than with the rich ones.
In the clothing section, Jin picks out two pairs of gray sweatpants, two short-sleeved shirts, a package of underwear, and a package of socks. He places these items in a little blue basket that Ethan carries for him. The clothes are so different from what he usually wears, but Kyung assumes these choices are about comfort, not style. It occurs to him that he’ll have to help Jin change. With the sling, it won’t be easy to do by himself. On their way to the checkout line, Gillian suggests picking up toiletries. A toothbrush, a razor, some deodorant and soap. The basket becomes too heavy for Ethan to carry, so Gillian takes it under her arm, plucking things from the shelves as Jin points to them. Jin buys more than he probably needs, but Kyung understands why. His parents’ house is a crime scene. Eventually, the police will take the tape off the doors and allow them to return, but it doesn’t mean they’ll want to. He’s discussed this with Gillian, who doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by the possibility that his parents will be living with them for a while. She’s remarkable sometimes. She never balks at doing the right thing when it comes to family, hers or his. If the situation had been reversed and it was Connie who needed their help, he doesn’t think he’d give in so easily. The thought of this makes him feel grateful, but guilty, so he squeezes her hand.
“What was that for?”
He shakes his head and lets go.
At the checkout line, Jin pats down his pants. “I don’t have my wallet,” he says. “That’s at the other house too.”
“Oh. Well…” Kyung tries not to look panicked as he takes out his own. He fans through his credit cards, trying to remember which ones aren’t maxed out or past due. He slides a Visa across the counter, but Gillian clears her throat loudly. Her eyebrows are arched high, frozen mid-forehead like a clown. He takes the card back, realizing that she probably charged the groceries on it.
“Airline miles,” he says weakly. “Maybe I’ll use one that gives me airline miles.”
The cashier shrugs, dubious, as if she’s heard it all before. Kyung hands her a card from the bottom of his stack, hopeful that it’s on the bottom because he hasn’t used it recently. Then he watches her scan the items, counting the number of beeps as he waits for the total.
“What’s that thing?” he asks, pointing at the last item in the basket, a toy caterpillar with body parts that fit together like blocks.
“It’s for the boy,” Jin says. “For helping me.”
Ethan doesn’t need another toy. He doesn’t even like blocks. Kyung wonders if he asked for it, although it hardly matters how the thing ended up in the basket. He can’t refuse now. He nods and the cashier scans the caterpillar and swipes his card through the machine. His chest tightens at the thought of being declined while his father looks on—he’ll never recover from the shame. He keeps his eyes glued to the box, the little white one next to the register that reads PROCESSING in red letters. Processing, processing, processing. It’s taking longer than usual, which means something bad is about to happen. Kyung fans through his cards again, not certain which one to use when the first is declined. He doesn’t think he has room left on any of them.
“Sign here,” she says, tearing off the receipt and putting a copy in front of him.
Kyung stares at the slip of paper as if he doesn’t believe her. Then he scribbles his name so no one will notice how badly his hand is shaking. His signature—a zigzagged line that looks like he was testing the pen for ink—doesn’t even resemble the one on the back of his card.