Don't get me wrong. I am not at war with my mother-in-law. But she is a walking ultimatum, with energy of a Category-5 hurricane and decisiveness of an attack submarine commanding officer. She hates me because I am not ethnic Korean. She loves me because our hut looks Korean, and because I keep it meticulously clean, exactly as a proper Korean wife is supposed to do. She pities me for my missing legs. She admires me for my medals and my job in Police. She complains that I never ask her to help. She praises me for not complaining and doing everything myself. All at the same time, and with Category-5 hurricane intensity. Most importantly, she wants to make sure that my husband and I consume enough calories and right amount of protein every day.
“Anyoung haseyo, Ma,” I say approaching the kitchen shed. Being spotted, I very well can take the initiative. Does she know that we have no water at home?
“You're early. I though, you three are dining out tonight. Tan's birthday?” a single range-setting shell is fired. The super-dreadnaught gracefully turns for a broadside, whilst at her battle bridge her Senior Gunnery Officer is calculating if we have eaten dinner.
“The plan did not work out, Ma. Tan and Kim were called to a crime scene.”
“Far?”
“In the Chinamerican Patches. I am afraid it will take a long while.”
“I decided to leave some food for you two, just in-case.” From the kitchen top, she lifts two glass containers with something appetizing. Ka-boom! A mighty broadside salvo from all main caliber guns, and right on-target! Of course, ‘just in case’ is nothing but thin excuse. She leaves us food every day, independent from our plans for the evening. OK, today I don't mind. I fail to be the perfect Korean wife in one aspect: I am not much of a cook, and if it comes to cooking Korean, I am practically hopeless.
“Oh, thanks, Ma,” I diligently make a surprised face, as if I believe in her ‘just in case’ statement. “Tonight it will come very handy. I'll take it.”
“I'll carry it for you.”
“No, Mom. I can take it myself. I am on wheels!” No way I let her carry the things for me, especially in front of the whole Patch. But more important, she should not see our empty water jerrycan!
“On wheels!” The in-law says grumpily, but passes me the containers, “do you need rice too?”
“Thanks, Ma. Rice – I'll manage.”
“Manage! Do you have water at home?” Lucky us, she did not look into our jerrycan today.
“Yesterday, we had it half-full,” I give a half-honest answer. Helm, full portside! Scotty, be so kind, set the radar counter-measures!”
“How are your legs today?” Great. The second salvo from the in-law dreadnaught comes short of target! My cruiser lacks the gun caliber, but she has advantage of maneuver and speed.
“Today – not too bad. No pain.” Scotty, now both engines – full speed ahead! Breaking the contact. Aye-aye, Capt'n, full ahead.
“Did you smoke?”
“Once.” Really – twice, but my in-law thinks that one To-Ma-Gochi a day is a medicine, while two or three is an acute drug addiction.
“I hope the pain goes away.”
“Right.”
She always asks this. A typical pre-Meltdown generation, she still doesn't believe there are conditions that cannot be cured in a couple of weeks with some wonder-drug. As far as I was told, fighting with phantom pain is pointless. But instead of a fight, you can make a peace accord: manage your condition with regular meditation and an occasional puff of Marijuana. So far, I am doing it quite well.
“If you need something, don't go yourself. Send the neighbor kids or ask them to call me, OK?”
“Sure, Ma.” Holding the food containers with one hand, I push the skate with the other targeting to our little shack.
Very well, Scotty. We made through it with minimum damage, no sweat. Yes, Capt'n: minimum damage. And having the ‘just-in-case’ package is not too bad. May I remind you, ma'am, that we've got only rice, Kimchi and soy souse at home? You're an unbelievable pessimist, Scotty. We also have half-a-jar of jam and even acorn coffee! Not to forget our main weapon: brownies in the top-secret hold. Attention all hands! Captain's orders! Changing to bikini top and shorts! Jerrycan on stand-by! Navigator, set course for the water well, if you would! And be so nice to avoid the enemy radars this time.
The standing plan is for Kim to fetch water on his bike tonight, but this is unlikely to happen. No probs, the Tour de France leader will pump her upper arms a bit more. The only issue, I must avoid detection. The last thing I want is the fifty-five-year old lady wrestling the empty jerrycan from her daughter-in-law. She did it on few occasions, to my total embarrassment. The idea that your mother-in-law has to fetch water for you somehow does not fit well with my self-esteem. Especially considering that she wakes up at four in the morning and walks no less than ten miles every day, in any weather, and with two baskets on her shoulder-pole. She runs her own fast-food business: XV Century style. In the morning, she prepares the meals and delivers them by lunch-time to the Landfill workers. After lunch, she walks to the market to buy supplies for the next day, and so on. Naturally, for the water run I can ask any of my so-called ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’. But I will need more water tomorrow: scrubbing the shack floor, shipshape. OK, tomorrow I will whistle from the porch and abuse my executive auntie's powers. Today, the polite ‘nephews’ and ‘nieces’ may play their oh-so-important softball match…
***
Kim arrives home at something past eight. He bangs his bike against the pole and curses the cable lock in the darkness. The investigation hasn't gone too well, I conclude. So I must make my husband talk, or he will be upset all night long.
“The Homicide Unit gave you shit for the unnecessary call, did they?” I ask, crawling to the porch.
“Something along these lines,” he sits at the stairs tread kicking off his sandals. “Anything to eat? I am bloody hungry.”
“Kimchi and rice soup. With kimchi on the side. Fried kimchi rice with kimchi salad. Steam rice…”
“Stop being silly.”
“OK, just joking. Your Mom will not allow us to die of starvation. We have vegetable curry, pickled daikon and even a quarter of fried chicken. Kimchi and steam rice, naturally. Coffee and brownie with jam to polish off.”
“Sounds good. Have you eaten?”
“Waited for you, Mister Coyote. Water?”
I open the jerrycan and pour water on his hands. Kim washes his neck and face. With his hair spiking in all directions, now he positively resembles Wile E Coyote from the cartoon.
“Do you want to know who is in-charge of this investigation?” he asks. Great. We are talking.
“Who?”
“His Highness Deputy Investigator Woxman!”
“That buffoon? You are not joking?” Admittedly, Woxman is not exactly a buffoon. Two months ago he topped the written test, and by wide margin. Kim came the second. That's why Woxman is a Deputy Investigator now, and my husband is still just a Deputy. Although, Deputy Investigator Woxman is nothing more than a pompous jerk. He is an investigator as much as I am – a Korean cook.
“If I was joking, I wouldn't be pissed off,” Kim reaches for the chopsticks.
“Take it easy. The Homicide Unit had to come for nothing, so bloody what? Woxman must be thankful. He was delivered to the place by a horse, in full comfort, like a damn VIP. If not for the reported homicide, he would sweat all the way on his bike, correct?”