Free Re Jane by Patricia Park Page B

tempered—the news headlines to Devon at the breakfast table. I was coming to learn her gestures, her coded expressions. “Sorry, I’m not
terribly
familiar with it. . . .”
    â€œYou not say you living right there?”
    â€œNo, we do, but . . .” Beth stopped to gather her thoughts. “I usually shop at the farmers’ market in Union Square. They have
quite
the selection of organic produce.”
    Sang frowned.
    Beth had the
nunchi
to see Sang’s displeasure. “Support local!” she said, shooting her fist in the air.
    â€œThey getting produce same place everybody else. Hunts Point Market in the Bronx.”
    Beth drew her lips into a tight smile. Then, as if groping for words, she looked up and around the room. “What a . . . nice store you have.”
    Sang again glanced over her shoulder. “I be right back.”
    Suddenly I saw it all from Beth’s eyes. Our faded green awning. The shabbiness of the wooden carts out front. The perfunctoriness of the products we carried. The non-organicness of our produce. How humble Food must have looked to her. How utterly Queens.
    Sang returned, carrying a bag of fruit. Through the plastic I could see he’d selected strawberries, raspberries, and Bing cherries. All the fruit he never brought home.
    â€œPlease take,” he said. “Because our Jane is like burden for you.”
    Beth bristled. “Mr. Re. Jane is
not
a burden. She’s become part of our family.” She squeezed an arm around my shoulders.
    A look of disapproval flickered across my uncle’s face. “Either way, I feel so sorry for you. You take while still fresh.”
    â€œBeg your pardon?”
    I realized why Beth had shifted her tone. What Sang had said about feeling sorry for Beth made sense in the Korean. It did not translate into English.
    Since Beth was rummaging through her WNYC bag and not accepting the proffered fruit, Sang handed it to me.
    Suddenly Beth held out two bills—both twenties—to Sang. “At least let me pay you for it.” With her other hand, she pointed not at the bag of fruit itself but at me, holding the bag of fruit.
    Sang’s face broke into a deep frown. “I say just take! Is gift!”
    There were many things I could have—should have—done, like jumping in sooner. I should have acted as a simultaneous interpreter—
No, Beth, in Korean culture a person’s expected to refuse an offer a few times before accepting it. No, Uncle, she felt bad taking your fruit for free
.
    Lose the
nunchi,
Jane.
It was tiring, straddling the two cultures.
    â€œStop
forcing
the fruit on her, Uncle,” I said. “She doesn’t want it!”
    Devon, who’d been quietly watching the exchange, looked up at me, eyes wide with disbelief at my outburst. My uncle looked away. I’d embarrassed him in front of everyone.
    Beth relented. “You know what? Thank you, Mr. Re. I’d be honored.” She took the bag from me. “Devon, thank Jane’s uncle for the fruit.” Devon did as she was told. Beth squeezed my shoulder, staring at me the way she’d stared down at her organic fruit peels on my first day. “Jane, we’ll wait for you outside.”
    When Beth and Devon left the store, Sang returned to his abandoned hand truck. He took a box cutter from his breast pocket and sliced open the top carton. I moved to help him, but he waved me away. “That woman making Uncle high blood pressure go up.”
    I didn’t say anything. I felt a pang of guilt for not taking my uncle’s side.
    â€œYou, too,” he added.
    The guilt was immediately replaced by irritation.
    â€œSo you met them,” I said impatiently. “Aren’t you going to tell me to come home now?”
    Sang put down his box cutter. He spread his arms wide, palms up, as if the matter were out of his hands. “You want to make mistake, what I care?