Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  One time Ximena told me that was a sign. We were at her place, watching Juan assemble a Lego train set. I texted Mike that I’d be out late, that I might be gone until the morning, and he’d responded immediately with a solid OK.

  Noah never brings me food, she said. Mike’s thinking of you.

  Noah isn’t fucking half of the city.

  Wouldn’t it be less than half? There aren’t that many of y’all out there.

  Y’all?

  People of the gay, said Ximena.

  Eh, I said. There’s more of us than you think.

  And even if Mike’s thinking of me, I said, I don’t know if they’re good thoughts.

  But you don’t get to control that, said Ximena.

  You’re taking up space in another human’s brain, she said. You’re a foreign entity. A parasite. That’s a lot by itself.

  9.

  On weekends with Mike, I’d lay in bed until noon. He’d eat pancakes at the table, three or four at a time, frying another handful for me at midday when I got up.

  But now, when I wake, I hear voices in the kitchen. Then I recognize them. The synapses click into place. And I’m flying across the bedroom.

  Mitsuko’s sipping coffee. Lydia’s on the sofa. My mother’s sitting beside them with her hands in her lap. They’re laughing about something, and Mitsuko’s actually smiling, and when I walk in the room, she leaves it on her face, just for a moment, long enough for me to see it.

  Lydia’s the easiest, so I start with her.

  Holy shit, I say.

  Holy shit yourself, she says.

  You’ve got some fucking balls, I say.

  Yes, says Lydia, more than you.

  Stop it, says my mother, standing for a hug.

  I don’t want to give it. I’d rather just cross my arms. But I cannot even make myself do this.

  No hello? says my mother.

  Buenas, I say.

  Why are you here, I say. How are you here.

  Why are you here, mimics Lydia, in a pitch two octaves higher.

  Also, says Lydia, where’s Mike?

  Enough, says my mother.

  When I turn to Mitsuko, she only shrugs. Her smile’s back.

  Benson, says my mother, when was the last time you heard from your father?

  That can’t be what you drove here to ask, I say.

  Can you please just answer the question, says Lydia.

  I toss a pillow at her. Lydia tosses it back. My mother tells us both to chill the fuck out.

  He’s not doing well, she says. It’s the drinking.

  Then take him to a doctor, I say.

  Benson, says my mother.

  People detox every day. You can all go together.

  If you really think it’s that easy, says my mother, we shouldn’t have come here after all.

  That’s when Mitsuko clears her throat.

  She tells us she’s going for a walk.

  Mitsuko looks at me, says to leave the door unlocked, and when she’s gone, Lydia and my mother exhale.

  I mean, she’s a little older, says Lydia. Plus you’re starting late. But I approve.

  Stop it.

  You definitely have a type.

  I can’t talk about this with you. I need to take my fucking pills.

  Then you should probably do that, says Lydia.

  Tell me what’s wrong with my father, I say, and Lydia’s cheeks descend.

  Honestly, she says, I think he’s just lonely. Like, he only needs some company. But my opinion means nothing in this family.

  You don’t really believe that, says my mother.

  Don’t tell me you don’t see it, says Lydia. There’s solitary, and then there’s Dad.

  If that’s true, you did it yourself, says my mother.

  We all did it, says my mother, looking at her heels, and my sister and I look down with her.

  Because, truthfully, our mother looks as well as I’ve ever seen her. She’s got these bracelets, and these boots, and a jacket that clashes with everything. When she lived with my father, she mostly wore brown. In all of my memories, that’s what I see her in.

  Look, I say, I’m sorry. Really. But I don’t think there’s anything I can do. Especially if you’ve tried.

  You’re his son, says my mother.

  And you were his wife, I say.

  I drop that to shock her, but I don’t know if it does. My mother just blinks at me. Like she’s reevaluating something.

  He kept you, says my mother. He didn’t have to do that. But he asked to. He wanted you to stay with him.

  And now he needs you, she says.

  He needs medication, I say.

  And who better to bring it to him than you, says my mother.

  She adds, You clearly aren’t doing anything else.

  * * *

  My mother leaves first. She doesn’t say goodbye. Just slips on her shades and steps right out the door. But Lydia hangs around and gives me my father’s new number. When she asks if I need the address, I tell her I know where I lived.

  If you say so, she says. Call me when you see him.

  I’ll do that, I say.

  No you won’t, she says.

  There’s a beat where I should ask how she’s doing, but I let it pass. And she does, too. I don’t know if she’s grateful or disappointed.

  But before she turns to leave, Lydia touches my shoulder.

  You never said where Mike was, she says.

  You’re very observant, I say.

  That’s what they tell me.

  Just like Jesus. Worked out for him, too.

  You’re a real catch, little brother, says Lydia. Premium grade.

  * * *

  When Mitsuko comes back, I’m lying on the sofa. She takes one look at me, opens her mouth, and closes it again.

  Then she says, My son called.

  She says, He sounded horrible.

  * * *

  • • •

  Mike and I once spent the night in Galveston for a long weekend. We hadn’t gone on trips together, not a single one, so this was a brand-new thing. But for the first time in months, he’d taken time off from the café. My gig was closed for a holiday weekend. We had a weird energy brewing around the apartment with both of us there, just lying around. And then there were the neighbors, who’d knocked on our door the night before, warning us that they’d be hosting some sort of marathon quinceañera. They spent the entire first night outside in the yard, shouting and dancing and beating a piñata. Around two in the morning, they locked hands to sing a song about Jesus. Once their sixth chorus rolled around, I told Mike it didn’t matter where we went, as long as we went somewhere else. But he was already snoring.

  * * *

  So the sand was a grimy pale. Our end of the beach was scarce. A high school couple argued about prom under a makeshift fort behind us. Some girls rolled around in the water in front of us while their mother tucked her head in a Ferrante novel. Every now and then, she’d look up at her girls, and then at us. When Mike finally waved, she wiggled her fingers.

  We laid out a towel, took off our shirts, and glazed in the sun for the whole afternoon. For lunch, we drifted up the pier for fish tacos. The woman who sold them was missing an ear. They were delicious, and we ordered four more, and then we watched some boys do somersaults in the sand by the dock. A pair of older couples mimicked them, lounging around the corner, husbands and wives looking round and unbothered.

  Eventually, we bought more tacos from the one-eared woman. She said, Buena suerte a ambos, and I asked Mike what that meant.

  He told me we were lucky charms. Everything we touched turned to gold.

  And we walked the food back to our tiny spot in the sand. I fell asleep with Mike’s calves on my shoulders.

 
* * *

  When I woke up, the beach had cleared out. Windows glowed from beach houses lining the pier.

  I felt around for Mike. He wasn’t on the towel. But his trunks were right beside me, and I felt this sort of chill.

  That’s when he called from the water. He stood in the coastline, far enough out to float away. He yelled my name, waving his arms, with this big-ass grin on his face, and when I started to make my way over, he yelled for me to strip.

  I looked to see who else was on the coast. Mike yelled for me to stop.

  He said that nobody cared.

  And if they did, it didn’t matter.

  And, sometimes, it helps to think that I was someone who could do that. I could strip buck-naked on the beach, sprinting through the sand, because I felt that strongly about anyone.

  10.

  I don’t visit my father the next day. I don’t call.

  11.

  Or the next day after that.

  12.

  Then the weekend’s gone, and I’m back at work.

  Ximena ambushes me immediately about her reception.

  I watch Barry wrestle with the twins.

  I stare at my phone, and Mike hasn’t reached out, and all of a sudden the day is over.

  13.

  Mitsuko buys nine cookbooks from I don’t know where. She says we’re going to start with the classics. She’s been brighter since she heard from her son, a little like Mike’s given her a charge—and that night, Mitsuko cooks what she tells me is his favorite: potato korokke, crowded beside onions and gravy, surrounded by sliced tomatoes and lettuce. She mashes the potatoes with pork through her fingers, drizzling the mixture with salt and pepper, molding tiny patties and flipping them in flour and egg yolks and panko. I watch them crisp from the counter, and Mitsuko watches me watch them.

  It is the most personal thing she’s shared with me so far, and I tell her that.

  She looks at me for a while, then says, Don’t be stupid.

  14.

  We play WALL-E for the kids. They sit enraptured in front of the television. We’re not in the habit of turning it on—that’s the one thing we’re paid not to do—but none of them have seen it before. Silvia and Marcos park themselves on the rug. They’re followed by Ethan, who’s trailed by Xu, and then Thomas and Margaret and Hannah. The only kid who hasn’t joined them is Ahmad, who’s sitting at the table, sketching tiny skyscapes in crayon.

  No wonder, says Barry.

  The screen’s like fentanyl, he says. Shuts them right off.

  Ximena and I don’t ask him where he found that analogy, or why.

  * * *

  When Omar comes for Ahmad that afternoon, he asks if he can talk to me.

  Better day? asks Omar, palming his brother’s head.

  Strike’s over, I say.

  At least for now, says Omar.

  Every day is a gift, I say.

  You don’t look religious.

  I didn’t know you could or couldn’t look religious.

  I know, says Omar, smiling. Aren’t people mysteries?

  Ahmad twists the bottom of his jacket in front of us, squirming with his feet.

  Listen, says Omar, I have a question. But I don’t want it to be weird.

  Then I guess you’ll just have to ask.

  You know my brother really well, he says.

  Sure.

  And I’m trying to learn him better. Figure out this thing he’s got going on.

  So do you think you’d want to grab a drink one day, says Omar.

  Not like a date, he says. But, you know. Just to talk.

  I look at Omar, and then at Ahmad. He’s staring at the clouds above us, and I can’t tell if he’s internalizing any of this or not.

  I decide that they look nothing alike.

  I tell him that it’s fine. That I’ll accompany him on this not-like-a-date.

  I ask if there’s anywhere he wouldn’t recommend.

  No, says Omar. But I can’t text you.

  Should I not use your name, I say.

  Only if you give me the wrong number, says Omar.

  * * *

  Of course Ximena sees everything. She bites her lip, and then she unbites it.

  I tell her it’s nothing, and she tells me she hasn’t said a word.

  Instead, she shows me pictures of the shoes she’s chosen. What her mother’s wearing, the venue, the suit for her son. She finishes with photos of her dress, a glowing, golden thing. Apparently, she’s already shown her fiancé.

  I know you’re not supposed to show them, says Ximena, thumbing her screen. But it’s okay.

  * * *

  That night, my mother calls, and I don’t answer.

  Lydia calls, and I don’t answer.

  Mitsuko has me frying pork cutlets, directing my hands at the stove. I burn the first batch. The second one’s even worse. But she takes a bite from both, and neither of us says anything about it.

  And then, out of nowhere, Mitsuko asks about my mother.

  She used to be a divorcée, I say. Now she isn’t.

  So we’re halfway in common, says Mitsuko. Have you met the new husband?

  Once. He’s rich.

  Does that surprise you?

  In a way.

  Why, says Mitsuko.

  I don’t know, I say. He’s just nothing like my father.

  Wrong, says Mitsuko. You’re all like your fathers.

  * * *

  And then, later, as we’re washing the dishes, Mitsuko clears her throat.

  She says, It’s none of my business. But my son crossed the ocean for his.

  * * *

  • • •

  One day Mike cooked me a meal and I told him I hated it. I said that just to say it, just to see what would happen. We’d fought that afternoon, about nothing, about money. He’d told me I couldn’t understand because I’d grown up with, because my parents had.

  We lived in a box, said Mike. Slept with fucking roaches on our fucking faces. We didn’t fucking dine out on fucking Elgin. My folks couldn’t be fucking frivolous.

  You don’t know what you’re talking about, I said, although really, he did, and that conversation ended the only way that it could’ve—with fucking, hastily, half-clothed, on the counter, because we just didn’t have the words.

  He’d cooked a pork stew. You could smell it from around the block. I took one sip, and sort of frowned, and told him it wasn’t for me.

  In the end, we both stood bare by the kitchen counter. Mike smiled real wide, like he was going to cry.

  I couldn’t help but apologize.

  15.

  So, the next morning, despite everything, I’m at his door.

  My father’s door.

  And then I am knocking. Waiting.

  It’s hard to head home without succumbing to nostalgia, standing where so many versions of yourself once stood, one of a suburb’s magical properties. There’s the bakery on the cul-de-sac, with the Korean lady who’d always slipped me donut holes. There’s the chicken sandwich shop by the gas station. The pasta restaurant by the Tex-Mex joint. And everyone’s lawn is sort of glowing, because it’s the middle of the day in Katy, and every couple of seconds a minivan materializes behind me, and I’m thinking of just turning around and calling the whole thing off when the door juts open, just a crack.

  My father’s eyes.

  Who’re you, he says.

  Stop it, I say.

  My father squints a little deeper.

  I think, just for a blip, that this could be worse than I’d thought.

  Kidding, he says, opening the door.

  Learn to take a motherfucking joke, he says.

  * * *

  The house is a sty. It’s almost unbelievable. My father’s got takeout cartons on the carpet, and the
counters give off a musk. The windows are dewy from the inside, my father’s sweatpants are stained, and I have to wonder if things were this way when we lived together or if Mike’s standards just rose my own.

  My father sits on the couch. An open beer stands between us. He eyes me, and then the beer, and then the ceiling above.

  Go ahead, I say. I’m not the cops.

  Might as well be, says my father. Showing up at the crack of dawn. Out of the blue. You even take your meds yet?

  Don’t worry about me, I say. Ma says you’re not doing well.

  You’re right here. You tell me how I’m doing.

  She says you’re not taking her calls. She’s worried.

  Then tell her to come out here her damn self.

  When my father gets like this, there’s no talking to him. No point. So I pick up the burger wrappers around the couch, which gets me looking for a bag to put them in. After a while, I’ve made my way through the foyer. Then the kitchen. I leave his bedroom alone, but my old room’s open beside it.

  I look inside, and it’s the one place that hasn’t been trashed. The posters haven’t been touched, Bowie and Hendrix and Ultraman Tiga. Vinyl records lay scattered on the desk. Below them, in the desk drawers, there’s still probably some faded, printed-out porn.

  When I’m back downstairs, my father’s dozing. I reach for his beer, but he grabs at it before I do.

  He drinks, looking me in the eyes.

  * * *

  • • •

  I can count the number of times my parents touched each other in front of me.

  Once, after my father’s promotion at the station. A hug.