Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  That night, after he left, I waited for my father to bring it up. But he just sat on the sofa and drank his way through two six-packs. The incident dissolved in the air. Before he drove off, the guy had asked to see me again, and I told him I didn’t think so, because we probably weren’t actually going anywhere. I still hadn’t learned that there is a finite number of people who will ever be interested in you.

  When our waiter, a skinny brown guy, asked if we needed anything else, I spoke a little too quickly. He smiled. Then my mother smiled.

  You know you can talk to us, she said.

  Both of us, she added.

  My mother smelled like chocolate. My father wore his nice shirt. You’d have been hard-pressed to think that this was a man who’d thrown his wife against a wall. Or that this lady, immediately afterward, stuck a fork into his elbow.

  Awesome, I said. Thank you.

  About anything, said my mother, touching my hand.

  When I flinched, she took hers back. My father didn’t say shit.

  * * *

  That night, my father dropped me off at the house. He said he’d be back in the morning.

  Not even an hour later, I texted back the boy from the other day. When I opened the door, he looked a little uncertain, but then I touched his wrist and he got the biggest grin on his face.

  I let him fuck me on the sofa. And then again in the kitchen. And then again in my father’s bedroom. We didn’t use protection.

  He left the next morning, but not before we ate some toast. He was Filipino, with a heavy accent. He told me he wanted to be a lawyer.

  * * *

  • • •

  One day, our second year in, I told Mike all of that. We were out shopping for groceries. He fondled the ginger and the cabbage and the bacon.

  Halfway through my story, he stopped me to ask around for some kombu.

  He said, Your folks sound like real angels.

  And you, said Mike, you’re like a baby. Just a very lucky boy.

  * * *

  And then one morning Mike had already left our place for the restaurant. He’d forgotten his phone by the sink. I didn’t mean to touch it, but it flashed, so I did.

  I did not and do not know the guy whose cock blipped across the screen.

  Just for a second.

  But then it disappeared.

  You see these situations in the movies and shit, and you say it could never be you. Of course you’d be proactive. You’d throw the whole thing away.

  When Mike knocked on the door, looking for his cell, I pointed silently toward the sink.

  Wait, he said, what’s wrong?

  Nothing, I said.

  Tell me, said Mike.

  It’s cool, I said. I’m just tired.

  You’re not drinking enough water, said Mike, and he actually sat down to pour me some.

  * * *

  I never said shit about that photo. But I guess you could say it nagged me.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mike figures we’ll make a bed for his mother on the pull-out.

  Tomorrow you’ll get the bedroom, he says to her, looking at me.

  His mother doesn’t say shit, but by now she’s stopped crying. She sets her bag on the counter, crosses her arms. We lift the mattress from the sofa, layering it with blankets that Lydia gave us, and when I slip into my room for some pillows I decide not to come back out.

  The thing about our place is that there isn’t much to clean. Most of what I make goes toward half the rent, and Mike spends all of his checks on food. Which, when you think about it, leaves plenty for a ticket. That’s plenty of cash left over to fly halfway across the world.

  * * *

  They’re still shouting in the living room when I settle into bed. Something heavy falls out there. I don’t jump up to look. And once Mike finally comes in and shuts the door, I hear his mother sobbing behind him.

  She’s taking it well, says Mike.

  You hardly gave her any warning, I say. She flies in to catch you and you’re fucking flying out.

  That’s unfair. You know exactly why.

  It’s not fair to her either.

  It’s fine. She’ll be fine.

  You’re easy to love.

  Ma’s low-maintenance, he says. You won’t have to do anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. After a few days, you won’t even know she’s around.

  I start to say, Does she even speak English?

  And then I swallow it.

  And then I ask.

  You’re joking, says Mike, throwing off his shirt.

  I’m not, I say.

  I’m not gonna call that racist, says Mike. But it’s fucked up. For a second there, I thought you actually gave a shit.

  He kicks off his pants, toes them into his duffel. He’s gained more weight, but that’s nothing new. It’s never been an issue, never been something I look down on, but for the first time I sort of gag.

  Mike catches me. He keeps quiet.

  You can teach her, he says. If you care that much. Word by word.

  You’re joking, I say.

  I’m packing, says Mike.

  * * *

  • • •

  My sister met him accidentally. It happened during Halloween, at a bar off Westheimer. I’d wandered away from him to take a piss, and when I made it back to the table, Lydia was stirring her Coke beside him. She wore some witchy getup, a costume with too many straps. Mike had on a toga. I’d gone as myself.

  I was just talking to Mark, said Lydia.

  You didn’t say you had a little sister, said Mike.

  They went on like that, back and forth. Lydia ordered more drinks. When I asked if she didn’t have a date to get back to, she smiled and told me she’d just have to reschedule it. This, she said, was special. She’d never meet her baby brother’s boyfriend for the first time again.

  Lydia was Mike’s age. A few years older than me. She wrote copy for the Buffalo Soldier Museum downtown, and if you told her you didn’t know Houston had one of those, she’d say that’s because it’s for niggas.

  But that evening, she played it cool. Laughed at our jokes. Paid for more beer.

  Just before last call, Lydia gave Mike her number.

  Wow, said Mike. This is a first.

  Life is long, said Lydia.

  Cheers, said Mike.

  * * *

  Later that night, Lydia texted me.

  He’s funny, she said.

  Too funny for you, she added.

  * * *

  • • •

  Between the four of us, my father and Lydia are the darkest. Whenever we ate out as kids, she and I always sat on the same end of the table. If we didn’t, we ran the risk of waiters splitting the check, the sort of thing our father bitched about for months. We never ate at those restaurants again.

  * * *

  • • •

  It’s late when Mike touches me, and I’m not thinking about it until we’ve started—then we’re mashing our chests together, jumbling legs and elbows.

  His tongue touches mine. My nose strafes his belly button. There’s a point when you’re with someone, and it’s all just reaction. You’ve done everything there is to do.

  But once in a blue moon, they’ll feel like a stranger, like this visitor in your hands.

  So it’s the first time we’ve kissed in weeks, and then I’m sucking Mike off when he lifts up his knees.

  I point toward the living room.

  Grow up, says Mike.

  And before he says anything else, I’ve got one finger in there, and then four. Like I’m kneading dough. He laughs. He stops when I’m inside him.

  He’s tight, but I fit.

  I wish it takes me longer.

  Afterwar
d, Mike waddles toward the toilet, and I’m staring at his packed duffel. When I wake up, he’s back in bed, asleep, arms wrapped around his shoulders.

  Now would be the time to wake him up and ask him to stay, but I don’t do that.

  I watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few dates in, Mike told me a joke. I’d just let him fuck me at his place. We hadn’t made it past the sofa. And it was fine, mostly, except for a few things, like his putting his thumb in my mouth, and me spitting that out, and my grinding too fast, and his saying slow down, and my laughing, and his coming immediately, and my taking forever to come.

  But eventually it all happened.

  Afterward, I rubbed a palm on his thighs. He held my head in his lap.

  So, said Mike, a Jap and a nigger walk into a bar.

  Hey, I said.

  That’s it, said Mike. That’s the joke.

  2.

  Slamming cabinets wake me up. I reach for my pills. Then I reach for Mike, and he’s not there.

  His duffel’s gone, too. He left the bathroom light on. It would’ve been too much to ask for a note, but of course I look for one anyway.

  There’s a text though: MITSUKO HARA

  And then: MAKE SURE SHE TAKES HER MEDICINE BC SHE FORGETS

  And then: IT’S MY FATHER, BEN. IT’S REALLY NOT YOU

  * * *

  • • •

  Mitsuko’s in the kitchen, opening things and looking into them and closing them back up again. Water’s boiling on the stove. There’s a mug on the counter. She’s cooked rice, sliced a cucumber, and poached an egg when I step on the tile, and she doesn’t look up, doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m around.

  Then she nods my way.

  Do you work, she asks.

  What, I say.

  You don’t work, says Mitsuko, shaking her head.

  I do, I say. Mostly in the afternoon.

  And what does that look like?

  I’m at a daycare.

  So you’re a teacher, says Mitsuko.

  More like a babysitter, I say.

  And Mitsuko doesn’t say anything to that. And I don’t prompt her.

  Mike’s mother is compact, like him, but nimble. Sturdy. She finishes her bowl and turns to wash the dishes. I tell her she doesn’t have to worry about that, and she doesn’t even turn around.

  When she’s finished with everything, she wipes down the sink, setting everything back in their cabinets. I couldn’t tell you where she found the rag. But as she reaches for her jacket, lifting her shoes at the door, I ask if she’s taken her pills, and Mitsuko finally looks at me.

  You’re joking, she says.

  Mike just mentioned them, I say.

  Incredible, she says. That’s what he tells you.

  I’m sorry, I say.

  And now you’re apologizing, says Mitsuko.

  Well, she says, you’re too late.

  And loud, she says.

  Both of you, says Mitsuko before she shuts the door. The whole night. Like dogs.

  * * *

  • • •

  My mother’s new husband is Nigerian. He’s a pastor. They’ve got this Pomeranian and two boys. She lives in a neighborhood with a gate, hosting potlucks and block parties, but the first time I showed Lydia their Christmas photo, the one they sent my father in the mail, she shrieked.

  The dog, she said.

  It’s fucking hideous, she said.

  • • •

  I usually bike to work. Mike owns the car. It’s in his name, but he’s gone now, so I drive it just to see what that’s like. His steering wheel’s worn and warm on my fingers, and the fabric’s torn against my thumb, and the seat’s indented underneath me, probably from Mike’s ass. I try to settle into it, but something still feels off. After fucking around with the rearview mirror, I give up, drive the whole way blind.

  Most days, it’s the same eight kids at the aftercare center. There’s Hannah, with the straightened hair. Thomas with the twists. Xu and Ethan are twin brothers, and Marcos has a sister named Silvia. Then there’s Margaret, who’s a year or so older than the rest of them, and Ahmad, the lone Black kid, who’s something like two years younger.

  I work with another guy, named Barry, who’s big and white and scruffy. And then there’s Ximena, who is none of those things. We’re something like a team. Our boss comes by in the evenings, but she mostly just handles the money and our schedules, and unless she’s handing us checks, she’s generally MIA.

  When I stumble through the doors, Ximena waves. She’s watching Ethan and Xu on the swings. As Ahmad runs from the sandbox, pointing at nothing behind him, I pick him up by the elbows. He laughs. It’s our Thing.

  I tell Ximena about Mike.

  You’re joking, she says.

  Nah.

  Well, says Ximena, have you talked to the mother yet?

  She’s talked at me, I say.

  At, says Ximena.

  Around.

  And?

  I don’t know, I say.

  She’s Mike’s mom, I say.

  No, says Ximena. There’s mothers, and then there’s moms. Then you’ve got mamas.

  Ximena lives with her mother, and they’re co-parenting her kid. That’s what she likes to say: that she’s raising a six-year-old with her mother. She used to go to med school, but then she stopped doing that, and whenever the aftercare dads come around, they linger with her by the counter.

  A while back, I asked Ximena why she entertained them at all. She asked if I’d ever seen a cadaver.

  Doesn’t matter if it’s fifty years older or twenty, she said, a body’s a body’s a body.

  * * *

  But Ximena’s getting married, again, in a few weeks. To some whiteboy who cleans teeth for a living. I’ve met him exactly once.

  Before I take my lunch, Ximena touches my elbow.

  At least there’s a bright side, she says. It could’ve been Mike’s father.

  Mike could’ve left you with some man, she says.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the seventh or eighth or ninth date, I asked Mike about his parents. I’d started spending some nights at his place. We ordered single-topping pizzas and drank gas station wine.

  He looked at me a long time before he finally answered.

  Ma grew up in Tokyo, said Mike. Got knocked up in the city. Had me there, moved here, and eventually she went back home.

  To Japan?

  Sure.

  But you didn’t want to go back with her, I said, and Mike made this face.

  No, he said. This is where I live.

  But Ma’s adaptable, said Mike. That’s where I get it from.

  And your father, I said.

  What about him, said Mike.

  You didn’t mention him.

  I didn’t mention him, said Mike.

  * * *

  • • •

  One night, Mike told me that his father hit Mitsuko. We were at the Warehouse, watching his friends strum guitars in some band. They slumped onstage, a little fucked up, tinkering at amps already way too drenched in reverb. Some kid in a mariachi suit blew into a trumpet. A sleepy crowd nodded behind us, bouncing around on the 1 and the 3.

  I didn’t know whether I liked this scene. Mike had told me his ex was playing. I’d tried picturing what the guy might look like, wondered which one he was up onstage, but eventually Mike yawned and asked if I was ready to leave.

  Already? I said.

  He saw us, said Mike. Or I think he did. He had opportunities.

  So we were vaping outside by the entrance when he told me about his father. This couple walked their pit bull to the intersection behind us. When it growled at the two of us, Mike
bared his teeth, and the dog shut up and looked at his owners, who looked at Mike, who looked at me.

  Ma hit him back with this pan, said Mike. We were in the States by then.

  Shit, I said.

  Knocked him over and everything, said Mike. I thought she’d killed him. Then she shouted at me for not helping her. But she was yelling too fast, in Japanese, and I couldn’t understand.

  It was like something out of a movie, said Mike, vaping. I still don’t think she forgives me.

  When the streetlight turned, the couple kept walking. The pit bull nipped at a biker, who almost busted his ass.

  Movies are based on life, I said.

  Not always, said Mike.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mitsuko’s flipping through a magazine when I make it back from work. She stares at my shoes when I step inside, so I turn around and slip them off at the door.

  I figure I have to try.

  So, I say, how was your day?

  How was my day, says Mitsuko.

  My son leaves the country the morning after I arrive, she says.

  He leaves me with I don’t know who for I don’t know how long, she says.

  I haven’t seen him in years, she says, and he’s off looking for my ex-husband, who is rotting from cancer as we speak.

  My day was fucking phenomenal, says Mitsuko.

  * * *

  I shake a little and smile. Tell her I’m only stepping into the bedroom for a minute. But then I lay down, and I fall under a blanket, and I don’t get up again for hours.

  * * *

  Around midnight, I’m awake. The lights are out in the living room.