Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  Once again, after his mother died, before a two-day drive to Columbia for the funeral.

  And then again, after my mother’s mother died, during a five-hour drive to Dallas.

  A fourth time, the night Lydia told them she was done with their shit.

  And once again, before our lunch at the deli, after our last big argument. I watched them from the house’s driveway, through the window. I’d flipped a dresser on my way out, knocked over a generation’s worth of photographs. When my father put his hand on my mother’s back in the dining room, it happened briefly, instinctively, I think. And then my father took his palm back, squinting through the glass at me, and neither of my parents said shit about it.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I’m finished, the house isn’t clean, but it is cleaner. My father tinkers with his shirtsleeves. He frowns at my fifth bag of trash.

  Nobody asked you to do that, he says.

  But here I am, I say.

  You ever think that’s the problem? says my father. Niggas voluntarily doing things I’m not asking them to do?

  That’s my cue. I grab my shoes by the door.

  Bye, Dad, I say. Call Mom. She’s worried.

  * * *

  And then I’m back outside.

  And I’m maybe, what, three steps from Mike’s car when I hear the door open behind me.

  My father stands there, watching me. I lean on the car’s window.

  When do you think you’re coming back, he asks.

  You want me to come back? I say.

  Can’t answer a question with a question, says my father, and I look at him, and he really does look lonely.

  For a while, this was a man whose guffaw commanded entire newsrooms. But now, here he is. Or was. I hadn’t even asked him when he’d last subbed for a class. I hadn’t asked how he was on money. Not that I could’ve helped him.

  Soon, I say.

  Approximate, says my father.

  I don’t know, I say. In a few days. Next weekend.

  Hunh, he says, you still working with those bad kids?

  I’m still working with those bad kids.

  I figured.

  Promise me, says my father, playing with his hands.

  Whatever. Fine. I promise.

  I’ll believe it when I see you.

  Then I’ll see you, I say, stepping in the car, turning the ignition, gone.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lydia figures our household’s lack of intimacy is why I have trouble connecting. She told me that, in those exact words, when we were packing up her last apartment. She was moving, again, to another spot a few blocks up the road. Her place was all portraits of friends, pictures of the places she’d been.

  How the fuck would you know what’s wrong with me, I said.

  Baby brother Benson, said Lydia, I literally watched you take your first steps. Of course I’d know.

  We were smoking something entirely too strong on the stairs of her new place, this walk-up behind a gaggle of bars in Montrose. I’d asked Lydia if she was worried about her new neighbors, and what they’d think of her, and she made the tiniest shrug.

  Who gives a fuck what they think, she said. I pay rent every month.

  They do, too, I said.

  Exactly. We both know our roles. So there’s nothing to debate.

  How’s that one guy, I said. The one you were seeing?

  Nice try, said Lydia.

  You never tell me anything.

  You’re one to talk about discretion.

  You know what I mean, I said, kicking at the steps, and that’s when Lydia put a hand on my shoulder.

  She said, You’ll know when there’s something to hear about.

  We could all be dead and gone before then, I said.

  That’s not impossible. The coastline’s rising.

  Guess I’ll just stockpile love stories between the two of us.

  It wouldn’t hurt, said Lydia. You’ve got a good one.

  I don’t know, I said.

  There’s nothing for you to know, said Lydia. I’m telling you. Mike’s a good guy.

  She kicked her legs out behind me, stretching toward the ceiling. I mimicked her, and she tapped the back of my head with her palm.

  Mike’s a wild card, I said.

  He must be the affectionate one, said Lydia.

  That’s the last word I’d use for Mike, I said.

  You’re too close to see it.

  I think I know him a little better than you do.

  And yet, said Lydia. You’re both soft.

  Because you’re so tough, I said.

  Brother, said Lydia, you literally have no idea.

  * * *

  • • •

  I’m stuck on I-10 when I dial my mother. The trucks beside me weave through the lanes like ducks in a pond.

  Before she answers, I get another call, from an unknown number. I don’t even think about it.

  Mike, I say.

  What, says Omar.

  Oh, I say.

  Who’s Mike, says Omar.

  Don’t worry about it, I say. What’s going on? What’s wrong?

  I was calling about our date, says Omar.

  I mean, he says, I know it’s not a date. Really. But I have to cancel it.

  Okay, I say.

  Okay, says Omar.

  A lane opens slowly in front of me, clogging itself with a pick-up truck and a Porsche simultaneously. The drivers flick each other off.

  Then Omar says, Can I ask what you’re up to?

  At this moment? Traffic on Allen Parkway.

  I’m sorry.

  Me too.

  But, says Omar, believe it or not, there’s actually this happy hour I like in that area. By Greenway Plaza? It’s hot dogs, you know? Maybe one day we c—

  How about right now, I say, before I even think about it, before he codifies the implications into existence.

  Oh, says Omar. Wow. Yes. Do you eat meat?

  I eat everything.

  And then Omar gives me the address.

  And then Omar tells me where to park.

  I promise it’s still not a date, says Omar.

  I know, I say.

  Good, says Omar.

  * * *

  The happy hour is actually at an icehouse. The patio’s oversaturated with white people. Six or seven televisions blare reruns of the same college football game, and Omar’s sitting on a bench in the back.

  He looks oblivious. A little dopey. And he’s smoking a cigarette. But when I walk over, he stomps it right out.

  I promise I won’t tell on you, I say.

  No, says Omar, this is good. I’m trying to quit.

  Looks like that’s going well.

  It was until today, says Omar, grinding the butt with his toe.

  We both order hot dogs. His is a reasonable size. Mine is obscene, a bratwurst, topped with way too many garnishes. The guy who brings them over is pale and tattooed, asking us once, and then once again, if we want anything on tap. But we don’t.

  A few bites in, we haven’t really spoken. Omar glances at me, and then over my back.

  Ahmad’s a weird kid, says Omar.

  All kids are weird, I say. They’re kids.

  Go figure, says Omar. I guess you’d know. I was pretty weird.

  And now?

  I’m a therapist, says Omar. Stretching people who didn’t stretch themselves. A little less weird.

  Just a little, I say. Does your brother live with you?

  My brother lives in his own world, says Omar. He checks in with me from time to time.

  I’d join him if I could, I say, and then I take a sip of my water.

  Omar finishes and
looks like he wants to lick the crumbs from his fingers, but he doesn’t. He twiddles them instead.

  I should be thanking Ximena, says Omar. My parents could never afford you guys if not for the discount she’s giving us.

  Xim’s the best, I say. You met her fiancé?

  Yeah. He’s cool.

  He’s all right, I say.

  And then, all of a sudden, we’ve exhausted our list of things to talk about.

  It occurs to me, briefly, that if Omar knows Ximena well enough for a discount, he probably already knows about Mike.

  The whiteboys behind us are starting to get rowdy. When one of them busts his ass on the concrete, the others raise their beers and cheer.

  Thank you, says Omar.

  For what, I say.

  For this.

  I already paid, I say.

  No, says Omar. For coming out here. You didn’t have to.

  I needed to sit down with someone else for a while, he says. It just gets to be a lot. It is a lot.

  Don’t worry about it, I say. Anytime.

  We watch the whiteboys behind us.

  Tomorrow? says Omar, and for a moment I can’t tell if he’s joking.

  Any other time, I say.

  An indeterminate time, says Omar.

  A time and place to be determined, I say.

  Cheers, says Omar.

  * * *

  When I make it back home, Mitsuko has already cooked. There’s miso soup on the counter. She’s watching television on the sofa. Her eyes are red, like she’s been crying, and when she sees me, she doesn’t say a word. And then I hear her sobbing, and then I see the television.

  She’s watching Maid in Manhattan.

  She’s bawling at Maid in Manhattan.

  Jennifer Lopez sits on the stoop, and Mitsuko’s leaking her eyes out.

  When she catches me staring, she asks what the hell I’m looking at.

  * * *

  That night, I text Lydia about our father. Then I call my mother. She answers on the third ring.

  I’m a little busy, she says, and her new life erupts in the background.

  There are children laughing. The Pomeranian’s barking. I think I can hear a man.

  I saw Dad, I say.

  Something pops on the other end of the line. There’s more laughter from my stepbrothers. We’ve only met a handful of times, and I can never match their names with their faces.

  I said I’m busy, says my mother.

  I saw Dad, I say again.

  Hold on, says my mother, shifting over the speaker, away from the noise.

  Okay, she says. Okay. Was he drinking?

  He wasn’t drunk.

  Good, says my mother. That’s better than when we stopped by. But you’ve got to stay on him.

  I can hear a screen door shutting behind her, and then the click of a lighter.

  Are you smoking, I ask.

  I am, says my mother.

  I thought your husband wasn’t into that?

  You can use his name, Benson.

  I could.

  It wouldn’t kill you, says my mother, taking a drag.

  Ever since she got remarried, my mother’s toggled between her old vices and her new life: She started going to church again, because of her new husband’s profession and the need to show face. But she also picked up her cigarettes again, because she loved them, and my father couldn’t stand them. She changed her entire wardrobe. She started swearing. She started smiling, deeply and widely.

  Lydia says my mother and I are the same. She says that this, too, is something that I’m too close to see.

  You never told me how you were doing, says my mother.

  You didn’t ask, I say.

  I did. But I’m asking again.

  Things are fine. Nothing’s changed.

  You’re taking your medication?

  That’s not something you have to worry about.

  You can’t stop me from worrying about you, says my mother. And how’s Mike? I didn’t see him.

  Mike’s away, I say, and I can hear my mother start to say something before she stops.

  Is that something you want to talk about, she asks.

  No, I say.

  It’s okay to talk to people about these things, Benson.

  You don’t have to keep saying my name.

  You’re my son, says my mother. I named you. I love saying your name.

  I watch some flies dance outside my window. They connect and reconnect.

  Let me know if you need anything, she says. Whatever it is. I’m here for you. Whatever this thing is that you’re going through, you don’t have to do it alone.

  And I start to thank her, but then the kids start yelling, and the dog starts barking, and my mother’s husband calls her name, and everything on her end dissolves into noise.

  16.

  Another dream about Mike: This time, we’re in a nightclub. The sort of place you’d never actually find us. Only, he is a stranger, and I am a stranger, and we are flirting at the bar.

  Hey, stranger, says Mike.

  Hello, stranger, I say.

  And then we are laughing together. Our shoes kiss each other’s soles.

  And then we are in a bathroom stall, biting at skin, hands in each other’s pants, grunting like otters against a dingy, dented stall.

  * * *

  It’s a little past midnight when I clean myself up in the bathroom, because it’s been literal years since I’ve had a wet dream. The television outside is at a low murmur. Lydia’s texted me back.

  She says: Nigga u really went? LMAO.

  17.

  The next morning, before I head to work, Mitsuko says she needs a ride downtown. She’d mailed herself ingredients from Japan to the FedEx building by the Marriott.

  So we pull out of the neighborhood, and off I-45, dodging the never-ending construction on Elgin. As I hook a right at a stoplight under the bridge, a disheveled guy in a Rockets sweater sips from a paper bag. He’s seen better days, but the sweater’s brand-new. It’s got the tags and everything.

  He nods our way. I nod back. Then the light changes, and we both turn back to our lives.

  Tell me something about my son that I don’t know, says Mitsuko.

  Well, I say.

  But, the thing is, I’ve got nothing.

  Mike is irritable.

  Short-winded.

  He does this thing with his tongue.

  For the first few months, he’d trace shapes across my back in bed. Whenever I got them right, he’d chew on my shoulder.

  Mike knows a little bit of Spanish, I say.

  That’s nice, says Mitsuko.

  He has to. For his job.

  Also, I say, he’s really into food.

  Thank you for that, says Mitsuko. Really. You’re a wealth of knowledge.

  But tell me, she says, when did you know you were gay?

  I take my eyes off the road, nearly swerving onto the sidewalk. Some loiterers in shades hop away from the curb. They flick me off through the rearview window.

  Never mind, says Mitsuko.

  Sorry, I say, it wasn’t you.

  Of course it wasn’t me, says Mitsuko.

  We resettle into traffic.

  If it helps, she says, I had no idea Mike was that way.

  He never told me, says Mitsuko. Or his father. I had friends whose children are gay. Sons who sleep with sons. Girls who sleep with boys and girls.

  But not mine, says Mitsuko. I didn’t see it.

  And then one day, she says, I just knew. Before he left home, it clicked. Everything finally made sense.

  There was nothing to say after that, says Mitsuko. We both understood.

  Cruising into the parking garage, we find a spot just acro
ss from the elevator. Once I’ve settled the car in park, we sit in the darkness.

  What kind of guy did you think your son would end up with, I say.

  Is that your real question, says Mitsuko, or are you asking something else?

  Are you asking if I thought the man would be Japanese? she asks. Or if I care that you’re Black?

  A white dude emerges from the elevator in front of us, looking extremely distressed. He fumbles with his keys for a second. At the sound of his car alarm, his whole body relaxes.

  If you put it that way, I say.

  Well, says Mitsuko, I didn’t think about that. That wasn’t my business. Isn’t. I’m his mother.

  Or are you really asking what I think about you, she says.

  Another white guy in a suit unlocks the car beside us. He peeks into my window, frowning above his tie.

  I’d tell you, says Mitsuko, but you might drive us into the wall.

  * * *

  I trail Mitsuko as we walk past each suite, up an escalator, and over a crossway. The staff in the FedEx are mostly women, mostly Black.

  They look at Mitsuko. They look at me.

  A light-speed calculus blips across their eyes.

  Once we’ve reached the front of the line, I smile as wide as I can. Mitsuko still hasn’t taken off her shades. She hands one woman a card and receives an armful of envelopes. When she’s asked if she needs a basket, Mitsuko declines.

  That’s what he’s for, she says, nodding at me.

  My kind of woman, says a lady behind the counter, chuckling.

  * * *

  On the drive back, I ask Mitsuko what her home in Tokyo’s like. She raises an eyebrow.

  Quiet, she says.

  18.

  Ahmad corners me at work, jumping all over my back. Marcos and Ethan see him do this, and they follow suit, hanging from my knees. Then Barry stumbles over to try to help, but I wave him away. The boys and I slog from the copy machine, to the dumpster by the playground, to the broken door in the hallway.