Okay? I said. Okay?
Fine, said Kunihiko. Let me go.
No.
Listen to me, I said. I’m going to tell you a secret.
My father is going to die, I said. He’s on his way out. And when he goes, who do you think’s gonna decide what happens with this fucking place? And how do you think I’ll feel about this particular conversation, after it happens? You think that’ll help your situation?
Is that a threat?
This is a promise, Kunihiko.
So you think you’re my fucking boss now, said Kunihiko.
No, I said. I know you work for me. Until I say otherwise.
Kunihiko’s eyes bulged. But he’d stopped shifting around. It was the most upset I’d seen him.
And then the door opened behind us.
Sana stood in sweatpants and a coat, with a young woman beside him. He smiled by the door, but it slid from his face as he looked from Kunihiko to me, and the woman only blinked.
And then I saw the babies in their arms.
I could tell when Kunihiko saw them, too, because that’s when he exhaled.
We both threw our hands behind our backs, stepped away from each other.
Hope we’re not interrupting anything, said Sana.
No way, I said.
Your kids! said Kunihiko.
Yeah, said Sana. And this is my wife, Erka. We were just passing through.
Maybe we’re too early, said Erka.
No, I said. You’re totally fine. Kunihiko was just pouring your drinks.
I wasn’t doing shit, said Kunihiko.
Of course you were.
No, said Kunihiko, blinking, standing straight.
You’re right, he said. If I stay here, I’d work for you. I get that. But I don’t have to stay.
And just like that, Kunihiko slipped from behind the counter. He stumbled on his way out, catching himself. When Sana moved to help him, Kunihiko stopped for a moment, and then he shrugged him away, before he slipped past Erka and out the door.
That left the five of us in the bar.
Both of the twins yawned.
So, said Erka, is it like this every night?
Sana looked at me. I waved them to the stools. They both took a seat, juggling the kids, and I turned on the radio.
I asked if they were hungry. I hadn’t prepped much just yet, but I could make that happen.
Eiju never cooks this early, said Sana.
I know, I said, turning on the faucet, washing my hands.
* * *
• • •
Slowly, slowly, and then all at once.
* * *
Eiju reduced his actions to a tidy formula: he woke up, walked slowly down the road to the station. Rode the local line to a bakery he liked in the next neighborhood over. Took a coffee, bought some pastries, and, some days, he’d bring them back. Other days, he’d eat them there. But after he finished, he’d leave, find a bench, and have a smoke by the park. When he made it to the apartment, he’d lay back down again. He’d watch television, clicking through the channels. He’d cook lunch for himself, and then me, after I’d woken up. Just before I left for the bar, he’d have a final cigarette, and he’d set his head down to sleep.
* * *
When I made it back in the morning, he’d unlock the door. We’d start again the next day.
* * *
• • •
I messaged Ben.
Nothing wild. A simple hello.
What conversations do you have when you feel like there’s nothing you want to say?
I set down the phone, and his response came immediately.
Ben asked me to send him a picture.
It was mid-afternoon. I sent him a photo of the sky.
He responded immediately, the quickest he’d ever replied:
I recognized the gas station by the apartment. The telephone lines by the Pizza Hut. The way the letters faded on their outer edges.
He’d sent a photo of his own sky.
* * *
After that, for no reason at all, I sent Ben photos of the things around me.
* * *
The train station. Some old folks on a bench. A sweaty beer at the bar. Some random kids shooting and missing three-pointers by the McDonald’s. It didn’t tell him anything about how I was doing or how I’d been. It wasn’t like there was any information being disclosed. But it was a way of speaking, more or less.
And Ben sent me pictures of Ximena from work. Our front porch. Our neighbors. In one, the kids next door were throwing peace signs with their cat.
* * *
And how did everything come to such a turning point between us?
Quietly, I guess. The big moments are never big when they’re actually fucking happening.
So let’s play through it: We’re walking around the block one night. Sometimes, we still did that. It wasn’t a big production or anything, although by then Ben was throwing shit in every argument. And we argued pretty fucking often. I was generally unresponsive to that. Or I’d just call Ben spoiled. Fucking privileged. But. Still. Afterward, or more often beforehand, we’d walk from one end of the block to the other. If it wasn’t too hot, we’d turn the corner and head back. And one day Ben asked me, at the edge of the road, if I wanted to keep going.
Yeah, I said, I think so. Unless you wanna go further.
When he didn’t respond, I looked at his face.
We weren’t talking about the same thing.
But he didn’t bat my suggestion down. He saw the recognition in my eyes. All of a sudden we were on the same page. And we turned back together.
* * *
We didn’t say anything else the whole walk back. We didn’t fuck that night. But he held my hand until he fell asleep. I watched the way he cradled my fingers, and I tried to commit it to memory.
I’d break up with him the next evening. It would be better for us both.
When Ben flipped around, snoring, I tried to get that memory down, too.
* * *
But then, of course, Ma called to tell me about Eiju.
* * *
• • •
Questions my father has asked me since I’ve been in Japan: Where do you live now in Houston? What? Why there? Couldn’t find a bigger dump? You really think that’s racist? Are you kidding me? You really think you’ve suffered? Do you live alone? Well, what’s he doing? And he just let you go? To come here? To see me? And you think he really cares about you? You think anyone really cares about you? You think anyone really cares about us? Why’d you come here again? Calm down, it’s not a big deal, you can’t take a question but you think you’ve fucking been through some shit? What are we eating for dinner again?
* * *
One night, Takeshi and Hiro goaded Sana away from his family, already six beers into a drinking game when they walked through the door. They were past piss-drunk before I asked them to simmer down.
Bullshit, said Hiro.
You aren’t Eiju, said Sana.
Exactly, I said. Which means I’ll throw your asses out.
At that, they all just fucking looked at me. Like I’d broken some sacred rule. But they didn’t say anything about it either—they just did what I’d asked.
* * *
Later on, after all of this, they’d tell me, in that moment, I looked like him. That I sounded just like him.
* * *
On another night, Takeshi passed through the bar by himself. Usually, he was the loudest dude in his gaggle, but that evening he wasn’t saying much of anything. There was a comfortable silence. He drank, chain-smoking, and I made myself busy behind the counter, and before he took off, he left too much money under his coaster. But when I called his name he waved me off, headed back into the night.
* * *
> The mornings weren’t exactly bright when I walked back to the apartment, and sometimes I’d pass the same huddle of kids at the station, dancing to Missy Elliott on their phones. They popped and locked by the escalator, pausing every now and again to watch one another. Whenever they saw me, they didn’t stop. They let me linger, just doing their thing.
* * *
One morning, I drove the truck out to the dock for a supply run. When I handed Hikaru the list, he smoked, blowing everything just above my face. He didn’t ask about Eiju. Acted like he wasn’t even a factor. And once Hikaru stepped inside, he didn’t come back out again. But then Sora emerged to help me load boxes, groaning the whole time about his knees. Afterward, the kid handed me two beers, and we drank them on the back of the pickup again, not saying a fucking word about anything.
* * *
I served the beer, I mixed the drinks, I cooked the rice, I washed the dishes.
* * *
It does a funny thing to your head, realizing the moment that things begin to change.
At first, there was a pause, while the regulars acknowledged that this was their new reality. That I was their new reality. They were a little slower to ask for refills. A little more considerate with their conversations. They only had one person to deal with now, two feet running behind the bar instead of six.
* * *
One night, Natsue asked me how it was going, and I told her things were fine.
Really? she said.
Really, I said.
Okay, she said, and she rose her finger for another beer.
* * *
Eventually, their expectations returned. The scenery shifted.
* * *
It only happened once: one day, Hiro asked for stir-fried pork with kimchi, and it came out the way my ma made it, the way I’d been cooking it for Ben. Which was entirely unlike Eiju’s. Or Kunihiko’s. And Hiro opened his mouth to say the words: This doesn’t taste the way Eiju would’ve done it.
Natsue and Hayato twitched. All I could do was nod.
But, said Hiro, it’s not that bad. I can live with this.
* * *
One night, Mieko leaned across the bar and tapped my shoulder.
You didn’t hear this from me, she whispered, but I have the perfect boy for you.
* * *
• • •
One afternoon, after a checkup, I asked Taro what to expect going forward. By then, he was visiting Eiju as a daily courtesy. We’d had the hospice conversation exactly once, and when I suggested more help, Eiju asked why the fuck I thought he’d been keeping me around.
* * *
After his check-ins, Taro and I talked outside on the railing. He’d purse his lips before he answered, considering everything.
What now, I said, and I swear to god he almost shrugged.
Nothing, said Taro.
I mean what can I do, I said.
I know what you meant, said Taro.
Everyone thinks there’s more they can do, he said. The truth is that, sometimes, you’re already doing it.
* * *
Of course Eiju didn’t want to hear that shit.
He was slow to get out of bed now.
He was slow to take a dump.
He was slow to sit on the fucking sofa.
He was slow to stretch on the fucking patio.
Now, when I made it back from the bar in the mornings, I cooked breakfast for us both while he watched from the sofa. Sometimes, he’d take a single bite. Sometimes, he’d make it through his portion. Sometimes, he’d throw it all up afterward, and Eiju usually made it to the toilet, unless he accidentally, absolutely didn’t.
But he always tried to eat what I made him.
* * *
When Eiju asked about the bar, and how it was going, and how his patrons were, I told him I was still adjusting. That I wasn’t him.
No shit, he said. But that’s not what I asked you.
It’s fine. Still learning.
It’s easier when you’ve got some help. Kunihiko’s a good study.
I hadn’t told him about Kunihiko, that I hadn’t seen him since he left.
You’ll get used to it, said Eiju.
And, despite everything, I told him I would.
* * *
• • •
When things start to go, they leave all at once.
* * *
The next time Eiju falls, it’s an event. He descends, spectacularly, in the kitchen, knocking over the cutting board and the ladles on the way down.
* * *
After that, his body’s collapsing is a quiet, natural thing. He simply falls.
* * *
If I was around when it happened, then of course I helped him up.
Who knew what happened when I wasn’t.
* * *
One morning, in the kitchen, I asked him. I’d just gotten back from the bar. We were eating on the floor, where he couldn’t fall, and Eiju made this face.
Getting up gives me something to do when you’re gone, he said.
Don’t be stupid, I said. We should get you an emergency button.
So we can have more people fucking around in here? Get the fuck out of here.
I think you meant to say more help.
No, said Eiju. I’m fine. Your mother would say I’m returning to the earth, he said. And it’s entirely too early for this conversation.
In either case, said Eiju, I don’t want a burial. Blow me into the ocean, all over Kansai. I don’t care. Won’t care. And neither will Mitsuko.
Don’t say that.
It’s true.
But you don’t have to say it.
Now you’re the one who’s being unrealistic.
She won’t give a shit, said Eiju. And she shouldn’t.
Just promise me that you won’t wait to tell her, he said. Let Mitsuko know as soon as I’m gone. Have you been talking to her?
Don’t worry about that, I said.
Fine, said Eiju.
Promise me, said Eiju.
All right.
Say it.
I promise.
Good, said Eiju.
I’ve only got so many things to worry about now, said Eiju. Try not to give me too many more.
* * *
I’d watch Eiju to see if he’d crack. When it would happen. He never did.
* * *
I’d sit down on the wood floor beside him. I let myself lean on his legs, and when he didn’t stiffen, I closed my eyes.
* * *
I waited to hear his breathing soften. When it didn’t, I let myself drift to sleep.
* * *
But maybe that’s the point, said Eiju, once he thought I’d dozed off.
Maybe everything comes back around, I heard him say, halfway asleep.
* * *
• • •
A memory: Eiju and me at home in Houston. We’re waiting for Ma. She’s flown back to Tokyo, briefly, where her parents will formally disown her. It’ll be decades before she returns again.
But now, in her absence, Eiju and I make faces at each other. We’re piled under a bedsheet. Our neighbors are fighting or fucking next door—doing something noisy through the apartment walls.
First, Eiju’s a ghost.
Then, he’s trumpeter.
Next, he’s a dog.
I am six or seven.
At one point, Eiju crawls around me in a circle, pawing at my shoulder, on his hands and knees, while I try to grab at his hair, the happiest I’ve ever been.
* * *
Another memory: Ma’s still gone. Eiju and I are eating in the Chinese restaurant. He’s brought me to work, because of course he can’t afford a babysitter, or even have the first idea about where to find one. But his shift is over, and I�
��m sitting on the counter as he ladles noodles into my mouth. When they slip off my face, or out of my teeth, he catches them, tangling them in his fingers to eat them himself.
Slowly, he says, dangling them from his lips.
* * *
A memory: Eiju and I drive downtown, drifting through Houston in the evening. He has no one to go home to, and I’m the only person he needs to see. We’ve rented a car with that week’s earnings, a flashy thing Ma would never approve of. I’m sitting next to my father as he names the streets, sounding them out, enunciating everything. His English is fine, but he stumbles on the Spanish and Vietnamese avenues.
When we stop at the lights, he points my fingers toward the streetlights above us.
That’s where you’ll live, he says, after every glossy building we pass, with their lights shining down on the two of us.
Memorial Page 20