Miracle Creek

by Angie Kim

Pak accepted this long ago, on the first day he joined Young at the Baltimore grocery store. The preteen hoodlums saying “Ah-so” in fake accents, pretending they couldn’t understand his “May I help you?” and sniggering as they repeated in bastardized singsong, “Meh-yee ah-ee hair-puh yoooooh?”—that, he could dismiss as the antics of children trying on cruelty like a shirt in a store. But the woman who’d ordered a bologna sandwich: her struggle to understand his “Would you like a soda also?”—a phrase he’d memorized that morning—had been genuine. She said, “I couldn’t hear; could you repeat that?” After his louder, slower repetition, she said, “Say that one more time,” then, “I’m sorry; something’s wrong with my ears today,” and finally, just an embarrassed smile—the embarrassment for him, Pak realized—and shake of her head. With each of the four repetitions, he felt heat radiating through his cheeks and forehead, as if his head were bowed over burning coal and being pushed down centimeter by centimeter. He ended up pointing to a Coke and miming drinking it. She laughed in relief, saying, “Yes, I’d love one,” and taking her money, he thought of the beggars outside, taking change from people like this woman, with kind but repugnant pity in her eyes.