At a stoplight, these two smiling guys walk a toddler across the street, holding the little girl’s hands on either side. One of the men is white. The other one’s brown. They look like something straight out of OutSmart. I glance at Mitsuko, and her face doesn’t tell me much.
So, she says, you’re Black.
You noticed, I say.
Just barely, says Mitsuko. And how did you find my son?
Accidentally, I say.
Let me guess, it was Grindr.
It wasn’t.
You found my son on the internet.
No.
We met at a get-together, I say. An acquaintance introduced us.
Sure, says Mitsuko.
Once the couple crosses the road, their daughter looks up at them, beaming. She is the happiest that a child has ever been, ever. If Mike had seen them, he’d feign some sort of choking, or he’d honk his horn, or he’d grow sober, not saying much at all.
* * *
• • •
On Sunday mornings Mike drove us from market to market, all over the Northside. He juggled onions and guanabana and garlic and pineapples. He’d haggle with vendors in his shitty Spanish, and those evenings he’d cook three versions of the same fucking meal. I’d take a bite of one, and then a bite of the second. Then Mike would motion me toward the third. I usually went with the second.
Mike said this was practice for him. It was how he’d get better. I told him that not everyone did this, and he said there was a reason for that.
I didn’t grow up with their palates, he said. They can assume a lot of shit that I can’t.
So you force it on me, I said. Down my throat.
You’ll miss it when it’s gone, said Mike.
* * *
• • •
Our local H Mart is, inconceivably, closed for the day, and the next grocery store I bring Mitsuko to instead is objectively filthy—but there’s natto. There’s also a metal detector by the entrance. The doorway is flanked by a fried chicken vendor in scrubs. Older women and their children finger carrots on our left, and a little girl wandering the aisles wears a branch of parsley like a crown.
I drift around looking for a shopping cart. I find one with three wheels. We end up filling the whole thing, and also the basket, and also the crooks of Mitsuko’s elbows.
At the register, I feel for my wallet, and I wait for Mitsuko to stop me. But she doesn’t. So I pull out my card slowly, and that’s when Mitsuko plucks a bill from her bag, shaking her head.
The girl behind the register laughs, tugging at a braid.
Just like a nigga, she says.
Isn’t it, says Mitsuko.
* * *
In the parking lot outside, a pair of women in hijabs are yelling. Everything they say is punctuated with a gasp. Everything is horrible. They’re both close to tears, but then they fall on top of each other, laughing until they’re breathless.
7.
At the daycare, Ahmad pushes Ethan to the ground. When he sees his brother struggling, Xu wrestles them both in the sand. I spot it all from the window, and Ximena sees them, too, and I wait for her to intervene, but it turns out that she doesn’t.
By the time I’m outside, Barry’s already on it. He grabs Xu by the waistband and Ahmad by the elbow.
I sit Ethan down. Ask him what happened. He says he was ambushed, and when I ask why, he cocks his head like how couldn’t I know.
* * *
When I step inside to check on Ahmad, Barry’s stationed him at a coloring table in our tiny little computer room.
He won’t say why he did it, says Barry.
We know why he did it, I say. He does it every day.
Sure, says Barry, but there’s always a reason. Headache. Stomachache. Something at home.
If you asked him then he’d tell you.
He only fucking talks to you, says Barry.
* * *
In the computer room, I hand Ahmad a juice box. He blinks before he takes it. Then I sit on the carpet beside him, and I start to say something, and he looks like he appreciates it when I finally don’t.
We watch Silvia and Margaret watch us from the window. They duck their heads under the sill, resurfacing seconds later.
* * *
Whenever there’s an altercation, it’s our policy to chat with the parents. The twins’ father shows up in basketball shorts and a Texans hoodie. Once we’ve finished telling him what happened, he frowns.
I’ll talk to them, he says. Could’ve been worse, right?
Um, I say.
Xu threw dirt in another boy’s eyes, says Barry.
Sure, says their father, and is the other kid alive? He couldn’t just walk it off?
* * *
Ahmad’s brother arrives a little later, sweaty and flushed. His name is Omar. He is, I think, some sort of physical therapist. I tell him what happened, and he folds his palms over his face.
So you’re saying he started it, says Omar.
Everyone asks that, says Barry.
Ahmad was involved, I say, but we don’t give blame.
Maybe you should, says Omar.
Maybe. But we don’t.
Then why the fuck are my parents paying you guys?
I don’t say anything to that. Barry only winces. Then Omar’s shoulders drop.
Sorry, he says.
It’s fine, I say.
It isn’t. Really.
Things have been rough, says Omar. Ahmad’s living with me. Our folks are going through some things.
Totally understand, I say.
Omar’s lighter than his brother. He’s built like a baker. Standing next to each other, they look nothing alike—except for their noses, which are indistinguishable.
Does this mean I can’t come back, says Ahmad.
Omar and I both say, No.
Nothing’s wrong, I say.
Nothing, says Omar, glancing at me.
Ahmad looks between us. He obviously doesn’t believe it. But he accepts what we’ve told him, for now, jogging outside.
* * *
I tell Omar I get it. And he thanks me, extending his hand, smiling real wide. When I watch them walk out, I half expect him to box Ahmad on the head, but he doesn’t do anything like that. He rubs Ahmad’s hair, shepherding him toward the car.
* * *
Eventually, I ask Ximena why she didn’t stop the fight. She looks at me for a long time before she finally answers.
I was going to, she says, but how often do you get to learn that lesson? That sometimes you just lose?
Better here than later, she says, when it actually matters.
* * *
• • •
Once, I asked Mike if he wanted kids. We were at a pub in the Heights, watching two drunk whiteboys fall all over each other. One of them would stand from his barstool, and the other guy would catch him. Then the other guy would stand, and they’d repeat the performance again.
Mike had already finished his beer, but he managed to spit some up anyways.
* * *
It was around this time that we had the monogamy conversation. Mike’s the one who brought it up.
I didn’t refuse him outright, but I never affirmed him either.
I’m just saying we should think about opening things up, said Mike.
There’s nothing to think about, I said.
I wouldn’t care what you did, said Mike, as long as you came back home.
You aren’t in a relationship with yourself, I said.
Just consider it, said Mike. Really. All I’m saying is that it’s a big world out there.
World? I said. What the fuck? What world? We live in one place.
You know what I’m saying.
And the thing is, I did know. I knew. And I’d thought abo
ut it. But I was less worried, at the time, about what Mike would do than how I’d handle it: If I opened the door, even just a crack, would I still have a reason to step back inside?
* * *
We didn’t actually decide anything, between the two of us. But a nondecision is a choice in itself.
* * *
• • •
Growing up, my sister was the disciplinarian. Our father was always working or drinking up all the booze downtown. Our mother compensated by staying out on the town herself, racking up credit on handbags.
So Lydia gave me my first cigarette, shaking her head when I inhaled and choked.
And Lydia told me how, and who, to plug for beer by the pharmacy.
And Lydia taught me how to drive, and she paid for my first speeding ticket.
And Lydia handed me my first joint, allowing me to sit in the smoke with whichever acquaintances she’d assembled.
Lydia also taught me how to kiss. She actually brought over a girl from her school. They talked in her bedroom, sipping gin from my parents’ liquor cabinet, until my sister called me up from downstairs.
The girl had dark hair and mermaid earrings. She touched my forearm, slowly, and when I jumped, she frowned.
She asked if I didn’t want to. I told her I did. Then I turned to Lydia, who looked deeply disappointed. She asked if I needed her to demonstrate, and her friend made a face, but I told her that wasn’t necessary, for real, I was good.
* * *
Years later, Lydia reminded me of all that. She lives in the museum district now. Her place is stuffed with plants. The floors are a sheened wood. Our mother used to ask her when she’d bring back a husband, and our father used to ask her when she’d find a real job, but one day Lydia told them that it wasn’t their business. They’d shot their shot. Played their game. And then I came out, which took the pressure off her for a while.
* * *
• • •
Mitsuko’s chewing vitamins when I make it back to the apartment, and I’m ducking toward the bedroom when she calls my name.
Can you cook a chicken, she says.
You mean boil it, I say.
I meant what I said.
Like, frying wings?
Absolutely not, says Mitsuko. Come here.
She’s more comfortable in Mike’s kitchen than I’ve ever been. He’d arranged everything to his liking, but Mitsuko’s reorganized all of it. Everything in the drawers, all of the ladles and spatulas and sticks. The bowls were a certain way, and now they are not. Plus, all of Mike’s spices. And the utensils, too. I never knew where he’d kept his chopsticks—they just materialized whenever we needed them—but now the place looks unrecognizable. She’s flipped it on its head. It’s entirely disorienting, but for once I can actually settle in.
Mitsuko grabs the chicken by one leg, balancing the other with a cleaver. In one fluid motion, she slices it entirely in half.
Jesus fuck, I say.
Quiet, says Mitsuko.
She proceeds to break down the carcass, bone by bone, stuffing the remains in a pot on the stove for stock. When she’s finished clipping the fat, Mitsuko shakes each limb with a flick of her wrist. Her seasonings are lined up. She douses the meat in what looks like a pool of salt. But she doesn’t say shit about it, and eventually she pirouettes to the side, flinging the chicken into a pan. It sizzles like a sheet of rain.
If I were at home, I would’ve marinated this, says Mitsuko. But I’m not at home.
Once she’s finished and the meat’s cooked, Mitsuko sets two bowls on the table, which is new. I sit across from her.
We eat, mostly in silence.
Did you get that, says Mitsuko.
Well, I say, bits and pieces.
She looks me over a little coolly.
That’s all right, she says, but you’re going to learn.
You have to, she adds.
* * *
• • •
My parents didn’t cook. Neither did Lydia. They ordered everything from this Vietnamese spot a few blocks from the house or we went out to eat. But after the women in my family bounced, I made my hungover father simple meals for breakfast: scrambled eggs, grilled cheese, fruit bowls. A mangled guacamole.
Once, a little beside myself, I cooked chilaquiles. I’d watched a man on the internet fry a batch the night before. Foolproof, he called the recipe. Impossible to fuck up.
So I sprinkled too much cheese. Cut myself chopping tomatoes. My father glazed in the living room while I mashed the chips and the eggs. He groaned, eyeing the weather, when I passed him a paper plate.
We sat on the couch, chewing slowly, tracking a storm. My father winced while he ate. But he didn’t spit it out.
* * *
• • •
Mike texts me that night. His father’s doing worse.
worse? I say.
CAN’T SLEEP, WON’T EAT, BREATHING HEAVY, says Mike.
i’m sorry
YOU DIDN’T PUT IT INSIDE OF HIM
When I ask Mike what the next steps look like, he tells me they don’t know yet. He tells me his father is stubborn. But the one certainty Mike has is that he’s glad he flew over, or he thinks that he’s glad, or he can’t really imagine having not flown over.
It’s too much to parse over the phone, over a screen. I tell Mike that I dismembered a chicken with his mother.
Mike writes, ???
i know, I text. i’m shocked
YOU ENJOY IT?
I survived
HA. THINK YOU’LL TRY AGAIN?
we’ll see
I wait for Mike to ask about his mother. Or how we’re doing in Texas. But he doesn’t. The dots on my screen appear, and disappear, and reappear again, but nothing comes through.
So I ask him how he’s doing, how he’s really doing, and he sends me a selfie.
He’s shaven, wincing in the photo. I can see his whole face for the first time in a year.
8.
When I’m up the next morning, Mitsuko’s already gone. Her jacket is gone. Her shades are gone. I check for her shoes and they’re gone.
I look for a note, and Mitsuko’s left one on the table.
It’s written entirely in kanji.
I could pull my fucking ears off.
But then I finally notice that she’s taken the laundry baskets. Hers, and mine, and all of the detergent.
* * *
At work, Ahmad sits in a corner for hours not talking to anyone.
Ximena tries coaxing him with Legos. Barry offers a basketball. When it’s my turn, I ask Ahmad why he’s doing what he’s doing, and he tells me that he’s on strike.
All right, I say. But why?
The rules, he says.
Fascinating. When did you start?
Yesterday.
And how long will it last?
However long it takes.
You could be sitting around for a while, I say.
Okay, says Ahmad.
So I nod, and stand, and Ahmad exhales.
You’re leaving, he says.
You’re on strike, I say. I’m the appointed authority here. We’re at a crossroads.
But you don’t have to go.
I think I do.
Nobody has to do anything, says Ahmad. Not even you.
* * *
Which is, inconceivably, something that Mike would say.
And because I can’t think of an adequate retort, I sit back down.
* * *
Over lunch, Ximena flashes pictures of her reception dress. She’s in the process of picking the shoes. Her mother won’t weigh in on either the shoes or the dress. Her father drove in from Laredo the weekend before, and when he met Noah, he told his daughter the young man was fine, but did she have to choose a gabacho?
Ima
gine, says Ximena, the fucking nerve.
* * *
When Omar arrives, I inform him that his little brother’s on strike. When I ask if he knows why, Omar smiles.
A better question is why we aren’t, he says.
That’s fair, I say.
If you and I started one right now, says Omar, how long do you think it’d last?
Seventy-two minutes.
That’s very specific.
Specificity is important.
I’d like to think we could do better, says Omar.
I don’t even know what I’d do, I say.
The same thing we always do, says Omar, palming his brother’s head.
But he doesn’t say what that is.
* * *
That night I’m dicing onions beside Mitsuko at the counter. She strains dashi into a bowl, while I do my best to hold on to my fingers.
Once she sees my vegetables, Mitsuko sighs. Takes the knife from my hands. She chops my halves into quarters, again, and my quarters into halves, again.
* * *
• • •
Even after we started throwing furniture at each other, Mike always brought back food from his job. He’d set the Tupperware on the counter. He’d cooked it himself. And it was always, always delicious.
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