Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  Yeah, I said.

  Yeah? said Tan.

  I think so, I said. Yes.

  Okay.

  Okay.

  * * *

  I booked my flight.

  * * *

  I called my mother.

  * * *

  I texted Ben.

  * * *

  I sat in Eiju’s apartment. I took all of him into my nose. I held him in my body, and I tried not to exhale, I tried not to push back out again. My father had left a second time. My father had tried to stay. My father hadn’t tried to stay. It wasn’t his fault. It was his fault. My father wasn’t coming back. My father wasn’t coming back.

  * * *

  • • •

  But, a few days beforehand, I was riffling around his bedroom’s cabinet. I’d been looking for loose yen or a pencil or not much of anything, sifting through the shit my father’d accumulated over years in this apartment. He hadn’t stepped through that room in at least a week, stuck to the living room couch at the end. I’d brought out all of his clothes to make things easier on him. Folded them up within reach. Sat outside the bath while he washed himself and shut my ears as he cried. And it was in a drawer that I found a photo of the two of us.

  The hoodie I’m rocking looks entirely too big on me. My father’s still got a headful of hair, and some of it sits on his shoulders. He’s smiling way too wide for his face, with his hands under my arms, and I’m sitting on his lap with the ocean and the pier and the whole country behind us. I don’t know if I’m smiling because I was told to or because I was happy, but my father’s expression is entirely unmistakable.

  Ma must’ve taken the photo when we were in Cali. I don’t remember her doing that. But I guess that’s the thing: we take our memories wherever we go, and what’s left are the ones that stick around, and that’s how we make a life.

  * * *

  So I’ll take that photo with me.

  I’ll say that’s what happened.

  It’ll be all that’s left, as I step onto the plane.

  And when I land on the tarmac, back on the ground, unbelievably, inconceivably, until the day I die, I am taking my dad home, I am taking him back, he will follow me wherever the fuck I end up next.

  Benson

  1.

  Mike unpacked his bags and caught a whole night’s sleep, which became a whole day’s sleep, which left me and Mitsuko tiptoeing around the apartment. Like we’d made some unspoken agreement to let the bear hibernate. To catch up on his rest. To ignore the problem he created, although of course he didn’t create it, and now I’ve gone back to work barely having seen him.

  The kids track mud all over the carpet. They’re eager for spring break. Totally wired. Barry and I slump across the counter, watching Ethan and Xu poke each other’s noses.

  You heard from our girl yet? says Barry.

  No, I say.

  Ximena flew to Amsterdam to meet the rest of Noah’s family. She’d insisted, vehemently, that it wasn’t their honeymoon, which could only be in Oaxaca, with the rest of her family.

  Sounds about right, dude, says Barry. Of course she’d leave us with the kids.

  She just got married, I say. Dude.

  Which is totally cool, says Barry. But when I got hitched, I showed up to work.

  I don’t say anything to that. Barry just smiles, satisfied with his case. Margaret joins Ethan and Xu in their roughhousing, and I look up at Ahmad, who’s coloring crossword puzzles on the carpet.

  Eventually, I ask him why he’s doing that. The kid doesn’t even look up at me. But then I get down on all fours, at eye level, and Ahmad rolls to the side.

  I say, You know the boxes are for letters, right?

  Not always, says Ahmad.

  Well, I say, at least a significant chunk of the time.

  Nah, says Ahmad, sighing and rolling toward his stomach, bringing our chat to a close.

  They just need to be filled, he adds, already scribbling again.

  * * *

  Back at the apartment, I catch Mike in the living room.

  He’s sitting with his mother. Mitsuko’s fucking around on her tablet. An urn stands between them, and it hasn’t moved for the past two days, and I haven’t asked what’s in it because I already know.

  They’re making arrangements. Mitsuko’s hair is precisely all over the place. But her poise is postured, perfect. She and her son couldn’t be any more different, and yet they look exactly alike. A few hours earlier, Mitsuko booked her flight back to Tokyo, and she chose a seat by the emergency exit. She’d decided that it was time to go, and Mike hadn’t disagreed.

  I figure there won’t ever be a better time to tell him.

  Hey, I say, do you have a minute?

  When Mike looks up, there’s something new on his face, underneath this grin. He’s been cheesing since he landed. It’s fake, and I wonder if I’m the only one who notices. We’ve spent too much time together for me to miss it—and in reality, underneath the smile, he looks entirely exhausted. But if Mitsuko sees that, she doesn’t show it.

  Ma? says Mike.

  Mitsuko doesn’t even blink. If anything, she licks a finger for her tablet.

  No, she says, we’re busy.

  It’ll only take a second, I say.

  Ma, says Mike.

  Really? says Mitsuko. Right now? With everything that’s going on?

  She follows that with something in Japanese to Mike, but now she’s looking at me, and all I can do is smile.

  What’s up, Ben? says Mike.

  You know what, I say, it can actually wait.

  It’ll have to, says Mitsuko, slipping off her glasses, shifting her body toward mine.

  Ma, says Mike, and when his mother groans, he adds, Just let him talk. We’re all family now. You two have gotten to know each other.

  Whatever kernel of loss Mike’s feeling is in his voice. Right there.

  Mitsuko puts her tablet facedown. She looks from me to Mike.

  Boys, she says, I haven’t asked any questions. I’ve gone along with everything. Michael left, and I said nothing. I stayed with a young man I’d never met, for an undetermined amount of time, and I said nothing. But now, of all moments, you’re telling me to wait. No.

  You can wait, says Mitsuko. Just this once. It won’t hurt you. Michael is back. Soon, you’ll have him all to yourself again, and you can tell him whatever you want to, for however long you want to tell him. But right now, we have things to do. Right now, we’re busy.

  And with that, Mitsuko turns back to her tablet.

  I look at Mike. He purses his lips.

  So I say, All right.

  And I shut the door behind me.

  But not before Mitsuko groans an audible, breathy, Jesus.

  * * *

  Under any other circumstance, I’d have texted Ximena immediately, but she never bought an international phone plan, and I won’t be fucked with a trillion-dollar bill.

  I’d text Mike, but he’s sitting in the center of the sun.

  I’d text Omar, but he’s on the other end of the solar system.

  So I reach out to my sister.

  * * *

  Spring in Houston is scalding sidewalks and sun-drunk lovebugs. It’s dead grass and midday thunderstorms. It isn’t the beginning or the end of anything, just a prolonged in-between through dead-end traffic on I-45.

  Mike may be back, but I still take his car. I drive to the park a few blocks away, and then I just sit in the quiet, where I can hear myself think. Everyone’s bracing themselves for the sun. The Third Ward’s residents lounge on their front steps, fanning themselves, halfway watching their kids. The daughter next door to us throws grass at a kitten, enticing the stray with Spanish. The humidity’s negligible for once, which only happens a few times a year, but once everyone’s outside, and the w
eather finally turns civil, the block looks less like a gentrification exhibition than a living, shitting neighborhood.

  Eventually, Lydia’s car ambles toward mine. She steps out of it in shorts and a sweater, fondling a vape pen. We make our way to a swing set, dragging our feet below us, smoking as the chains clink beside us.

  You better be going through it, she says. Making me drive all the way out here.

  It’s not that far, I say.

  You could’ve came to me.

  I could’ve. Mike’s back.

  That’s enough for Lydia to whistle. She leans against her swing, passing me the pen.

  Is that a good thing, she asks.

  It’s a thing, I say.

  Sorry, bubba.

  Nothing to be sorry about.

  I know. But I’m still sorry.

  I ask how Lydia’s been doing, and she responds with a shrug. She’s been living with our father three days out of the week. In the photos she sends me, sometimes, he looks absolutely miserable. But the thing is that he’s present, and she’s right there beside him.

  I tell her that it’s cute, and Lydia scoffs.

  Nothing cute about living with an old fucking man, she says.

  I wouldn’t mind that, I say. If I could find one to put me up.

  You’ve already got a nice little mister.

  Maybe not, I say. That might be about to change.

  Lydia looks at me. She turns my way, crossing her legs.

  Everything changes, she says. Change isn’t good or bad. It’s just change.

  Is that supposed to cheer me up?

  It’s not supposed to do anything. Just throwing it out there.

  Moving on isn’t a bad thing, says Lydia, yeah? It’s just a thing. And it happens to everyone. Whether you want it to or not. So do you want it to?

  I don’t know, I say.

  Of course not, says Lydia. If it helps, I like Mike. But I like you more.

  Thanks, big sister.

  You’re welcome, baby brother.

  Lydia squeezes my shoulder, massaging the edge of it. A cloud drifts just above us, shielding us from the glare. I tell my sister that, worst-case, I might need to stay at the house for a while, and she turns my way, frowning, and then she exhales a mouthful of smoke, falling into a laugh.

  That’s fine, she says, grinning. But I’m already sleeping in your room.

  * * *

  When I make it back to the apartment, Mitsuko’s asleep on the sofa. There are dishes in the sink, and Mike’s washing them, slowly. But before I speak up, he puts a finger to his lips, wiping down his hands, waving me toward the bedroom.

  We’ve hardly shut the door before he wraps his arms around me.

  The first thing I do is flinch.

  And then I realize it’s just a hug.

  All Mike’s doing is hugging me.

  I open my mouth, and he shushes me.

  We’ll deal with it, he says. We’ll figure it out.

  But, says Mike, let’s just do this for a minute, please, and I can’t remember the last time I heard him use the word.

  So I sink my head into his shoulder. Mike closes his eyes. I tremble.

  * * *

  When I wake up, it’s way past midnight. The living room’s silent. I figure Mitsuko’s sound asleep, and Mike’s tapping on his phone, and I can’t tell if he sees me or what.

  So I ask him to pass me a pillow. I tell him I’ll sleep on the floor.

  Now you’re just being fucking ridiculous, says Mike, pulling me onto his stomach.

  We lie there for a moment, just breathing on each other.

  So, I say, you went to Osaka.

  Yeah, says Mike. Now I’m back.

  And your father, I say, and I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth, but all Mike does is scratch the bridge of his nose.

  I slip my fingers in his hair. Mike’s shoulders relax.

  I’ve been seeing someone, I say.

  I don’t know what I expect to happen, but I brace myself.

  Mike blinks once, and then once again.

  Seeing seeing? says Mike. Or are you two just fucking?

  I don’t know, I say.

  Okay, says Mike, and his body relaxes even further.

  In that case, he says, I met someone, too.

  He looks me in the eyes when he says it.

  Despite everything, I don’t feel anything.

  It isn’t serious, he says.

  Right, I say.

  We just met.

  But it’s serious enough for you to bring it up.

  Mike licks his lips at that. He weighs whatever he’s about to say next on his teeth.

  His name’s Tan, says Mike. And what’s your guy’s name?

  He’s not my guy.

  Fine. Your person.

  This conversation is insane, I say.

  Maybe, says Mike. But tell me about him.

  I’d rather not.

  You were ready to dish earlier.

  Stop it.

  His name’s Omar, I say.

  Omar, says Mike. That’s a nice name.

  Don’t be a dick.

  I meant it, says Mike. It’s a nice name.

  Fine, I say.

  Do you like him?

  No.

  And then I say, I might like him.

  But I don’t know, I say. I don’t know what we’re doing.

  I lie with my hands in Mike’s hair. He keeps letting me do that.

  I guess we left our situation up in the air, says Mike.

  No, I say. You left.

  I left, says Mike.

  Our heater strains above us, and we can hear its muscles flexing. A sneeze slips in from the living room. Neither of us brings it up.

  I might be leaving again, says Mike.

  You’re joking, I say.

  No, says Mike. A surprise for a surprise. Now we’re even.

  That’s not even remotely the same thing.

  Ben, says Mike, my dad is dead.

  He’s gone, says Mike. And that is what it is. But he left me something. And I think I should take it, at least for a little while.

  Something, I say.

  A business. It’s a little complicated.

  A business, I say.

  Yeah, says Mike.

  The two of us flex our toes. They accidentally brush.

  So it’s something you don’t even know if you’ll like, I say.

  No, says Mike. I don’t. And, honestly, I could hate it. I might already hate it. But I think I’d like to find out.

  Our neighbors slam the screen door, but neither of us jumps. A scattering of Spanish slips through the window, followed by laughter and clinking bottles.

  Well, I say, I can’t possibly pay for this place on my own.

  If you were making that kind of money, says Mike, this would be a very different conversation.

  Stop fucking around, I say, and Mike settles his chin on my shoulder.

  We’re silent for another five minutes.

  It turns into ten.

  So you’re not even gonna ask to come, says Mike.

  I look at him.

  To Japan? I say.

  You know where, says Mike.

  I look him in the face. He isn’t smiling anymore. I don’t see the joke.

  I say, Are you asking me to come?

  Mike says, Would that change your answer?

  I say, What the fuck would I do in Japan?

  You’d figure it out, says Mike. Same as people figure anything out. Other people have done it.

  Not people like me.

  Because you’re Black?

  Because I have a life here, Michael.

  You say that like I do
n’t. Like all my people aren’t here. Everyone I fucking care about. Like that isn’t my life, too.

  You do, I say. But it’s different.

  It’s the same fucking thing, says Mike.

  No, I say. You’ll have your mother, this business thing. I wouldn’t have anyone.

  I won’t have shit, says Mike. You’ve spent more time with her in the past few weeks than I have in the past few years.

  If anything, he says, I’m losing two people. The two people that actually give a fuck about me and my fucking life. That’s my fucking situation.

  It’s the tensest I’ve ever seen Mike. But he delivers everything in an even tone. He cracks his knuckles over his stomach, so I set my palms on his belly to stop him.

  You won’t lose me, I say. Even if you leave. Either way.

  Everyone says that, says Mike.

  I’m not everyone, I say. You won’t lose me. Okay?

  Right.

  Do you believe me?

  Okay, says Mike.

  Okay then, I say.

  I say, So.

  I say, You think I just go with you? And then it’s happily ever after?

  Mike rubs his palms on top of mine. He kneads them, slowly, like he’s smoothing out the wrinkles.

  Eventually he says, There’s no such thing.

  It could be, I say.

  It could be, says Mike.

  I squeeze his knuckles for him. They crackle like tiny fireworks.

  But no, says Mike. I really don’t think so.

  And just like that, the air whooshes right out of my body.

  And I tell Mike I don’t think so either.

  And once the words leave my mouth, they actually feel true.

  * * *

  So what are we doing, I say. You know. Until?

  Until?

  Until you’re gone.

  I’m moving, says Mike. Not dying.