The Fruits of Sin Gina Chung (bio) It was Mrs. Lee who first heard it from Mrs. Suh, who heard it in turn from Mrs. Park, who said she'd confirmed it with Mrs. Kim: that Reverend Chang's seventeen-year-old daughter Sora—the skinny one who never looked anyone in the eyes and never did insa properly, barely bobbing her head downwards in the most perfunctory way—was pregnant. "Perhaps it's an immaculate conception, a second coming," the bolder among us tittered over hot Styrofoam cups of barley tea after services, taking care not to spill any on our patterned blouses. "Who might the father be?" the rest of us wondered, telegraphing our curiosity to one another with our carefully plucked or tattooed eyebrows. We were none of us young anymore, and our eyesight was going, but very little escaped the attention of our eyebrows, which quirked upwards at the first sign of gossip, like antennae. Soon after we heard of Sora's condition, Reverend Chang, who often began Sunday services with prayer, stopped delivering the sermon. Instead, his assistant, Pastor Mark, who had recently graduated from seminary, commandeered the pulpit, while Reverend Chang sat on the side. We noticed that the reverend's thinning hair was, as always, combed neatly over his bald spot, but his lips pressed themselves into a white line of concern as Pastor Mark stumbled through the Bible verses in his terrible Korean. Next to us, our husbands dozed, checked their phones, or impatiently flipped through the tissue thin pages of our leather-bound Bibles for us when we couldn't find the daily scripture verses. We wondered when our husbands, these men we'd known for most of our adult lives, whose shirts we'd ironed and whose bellies we'd filled and whose children we'd borne without complaint, had become so old and crotchety and dull, and when they had started taking on that old man smell, like sweaters left in a basement. We studied Sora Chang, who sat in the front pew and didn't open her mouth once, not even to sing the hymns. Her hair, the only thing beautiful about her, hung long and straight down her back, its reddish-brown strands catching the light. When we were called to bow our heads to thank the Lord for another blessed week, we noticed that Sora didn't bother to close her eyes, instead keeping them cast up towards the ceiling, as though she was reading something fascinating there. "She doesn't look very pregnant," we whispered to one another, and indeed, Sora seemed to be as thin as ever, her bad posture turning her body into a lazy C hunched over itself. ________ We thanked God that our children were not like Sora. Before her disgrace, she was known for being a straight A student at the local high school—bound for Harvard or Yale or at least Princeton, we had all thought. She had been accepted into the regional and state youth orchestras every year, sitting in the front row of the woodwinds section with her clear-tongued clarinet, her hair neatly combed into a French braid. Sora Chang had everything a girl in our community could want—a father with a [End Page 11] respected position, brains, credentials, youth—only to throw it all away, and many of us considered this unforgivable. We were grateful that our children were also not like Melody, the older Chang daughter, who had hair that, when she parted it, was completely shaved off on one side, like a prickly half-moon. Melody came to church only on holidays, wearing dark lipstick and dresses that didn't even make an attempt at hiding her tattoos. We heard that she no longer lived in the state, that she lived in a house in the country with—and this we only whispered over the phone to one another when our husbands, who disapproved of us gossiping, weren't listening—another woman. "Just like husband and wife," Mrs. Lee said, her surgically enhanced double eyelids almost disappearing as she widened her eyes at the scandal of it all. Mrs. Lee also said...
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