Memorial

by Bryan Washington

  When I tell them I’m tired, they dislodge, standing around.

  When I finally stand up, they latch on to me again.

  * * *

  Ahmad seems to be doing better, says Ximena.

  I ask what makes her think that, and she raises an eyebrow.

  * * *

  Driving home, I nearly hit a pigeon in the road—the brakes kick in just before we connect.

  Luckily, there’s no one behind me. So I leave the car and walk up to the bird. It looks me up and down, and then at the ground, scrutinizing something: a quarter in the concrete.

  The bird examines the coin. Glances at me. Then it grabs the quarter with its beak and takes off, flapping its wings.

  19.

  The next time I see my father, he insists that I take him out.

  So we go out. There’s a crawfish spot not too far from his house. The business is an anomaly for the area, with the very old and Black commingling with the very young and white. The property was bought by a Pakistani guy last year, and he tore up the floor and put in some new walls. He gave the menu a sheen. Stocked the fridge with craft beer, tacked flat-screens on every wall.

  My father sips one of the beers.

  You drink IPAs, I ask.

  They’re essentially piss, says my father. Means I’ll drink a little less.

  When our waitress comes by, my father asks for another beer. She’s a pretty whitegirl, and she asks if I’m still good with my water, and my father says that no one is good with just water.

  But I tell her I’m fine. She smiles, tilting her head.

  Once she’s gone, my father whistles.

  Your mother told me you’re living with a woman, he says.

  For now, I say.

  I hope it isn’t homophobic to call that a significant development, says my father.

  So you and Mom are speaking now, I say.

  We’ve always spoken, says my father. We just don’t say anything. Does this mean you’re not gay anymore?

  No, I say.

  It’s never too late to change, says my father.

  From him, this is typical. I’ve stopped trying to shout him down.

  Our hands are full of crawfish. Their entrails seep through the newspapers below us. When the waitress stops by our bench again, my father smiles and asks for more water. Even though my glass is topped off, she adds a little for me anyway.

  Let me guess, says my father. That was an insensitive comment.

  I’m over it, I say.

  You know I don’t mean it, says my father.

  You’re a grown man. It is what it is.

  I just don’t know the rules, says my father. They keep changing on me.

  They’d be mandates if they didn’t, I say.

  There’s a reason dictators do what they do, says my father.

  There’s no way we’ll finish our food. The crawfish has overcome us. My father says he’ll eat more later, and I know that he won’t, but we wrap the leftovers in classified ads anyway.

  * * *

  As we walk through the parking lot, the waitress waves again. When I wave back, my father thumps the roof of Mike’s car.

  * * *

  We take the long way back. Every few miles, my father gives commentary.

  There’s the house your mother and I almost bought.

  There’s the church we went to for years, the one with that cheating pastor.

  There’s the complex your aunt almost leased.

  There’s your chemistry tutor’s lawn.

  There’s the pharmacy.

  The pool.

  The park.

  I slow down for all of it, but I never actually stop.

  * * *

  And then we’re back home.

  You know what, says my father, I never cared who you fucked.

  I know you think I do, he says. But I don’t.

  Your mother cares, says my father. A lot. But not as much as you think.

  And then he grabs his sack of crawfish, whose guts have bled all over the car floor mat.

  20.

  That evening, I catch Mitsuko sharing a mug of something with our Venezuelan neighbor. It’s one of the rare moments that I’ve seen the woman without her children. She and Mitsuko aren’t laughing or smiling or anything; they’re just drinking over the fence, silently, together.

  Every now and again, one of them looks up, like they’ve suddenly heard something. But they don’t say shit about it.

  21.

  Here is the root of the problem, our problem: the night before Mike left, in bed, before we fucked, he asked if I thought we were working.

  What the fuck kind of question is that? I asked. Working? Are you saying we’re done? Right after we bring home your fucking mother?

  I’m asking a question, said Mike. That’s all.

  Just say it. Don’t be a little bitch.

  Benson, I am literally only asking what you think.

  I think you should just come out and say what you’re trying to say, I said. If you think we’re done, just say it. I’ll pack my shit tomorrow.

  It’s not that simple, said Mike, and then he put his face in his palms.

  But it is, I said.

  You are the only one that’s been fucking around, I said.

  This again, said Mike.

  Yes, I said. Again. Again and again and again. And now you’re leaving for who the fuck knows where. For who the fuck knows how long.

  You’re not being fair, said Mike. That isn’t fair. It’s my dad.

  A man you couldn’t give a fuck about!

  That won’t matter when he’s dead.

  We’d been whispering. We hadn’t looked at each other. I felt Mike’s body relax beside me.

  Look, said Mike. Just because something isn’t working doesn’t mean it’s broken. You just have to want to fix it. The want has to be there.

  Tell me, I said. Do you want to fix it?

  I guess that’s what I’m trying to find out, said Mike.

  22.

  I’m cooking with Mitsuko when I get a call from Omar.

  It’s Ahmad, he says. Shit.

  What’s wrong, I say, and Mitsuko gives me a look.

  I don’t know what he’s doing, says Omar. I don’t know what’s—

  You need to call an ambulance, I say.

  No, says Omar. It’s not that. Nothing wild. He’s just being strange, you know? The way he gets sometimes? But you’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.

  We hang up. I tell Mitsuko that I think I have to go somewhere.

  She looks at the pot still simmering in front of us, a seafood curry swimming with scallops and shrimp and carrots, just waiting for rice. Her hair is down. She’s not wearing makeup. For the first time since she’s lived in this apartment, Mitsuko’s starting to look comfortable.

  Only if you tell me that you’re taking this food with you, she says.

  When I open my mouth to protest, Mitsuko grimaces.

  We’re not wasting it, she says. We don’t do that.

  * * *

  Which is how I end up at Omar’s door with an armful of curried rice and katsu.

  When he sees that it’s me, he buzzes me upstairs. He opens the door in basketball shorts and this tank top that’s too long.

  Sorry, he says.

  Don’t worry about it, I say.

  No, says Omar. It’s really nothing. I shouldn’t have called.

  We walk through the apartment—which is bright, with good lighting—and Ahmad is lying facedown on the floor. He’s lodged in the hallway, arms to his sides. Legs splayed out like some sort of performance piece.

  When I call his name, he looks up.

  Hey, kid, I say.

  Hey, says Ahmad.

  W
hat’s going on, I say.

  I’m thinking, says Ahmad.

  What about?

  Stuff.

  Sounds rigorous.

  I take a seat beside him, and then I look up at Omar. He looks at his brother, and then at me, and sits awkwardly behind us, bouncing on his ass.

  And that’s how we stay. Saying nothing. Which gives me a chance to look around.

  There’s no art on the walls, but there’s a bookshelf. Some throw pillows. A cowboy rug is draped across the wood, and the room smells a little like cinnamon.

  Omar squirms, working to get comfortable.

  Nothing’s really changed. Ahmad hasn’t moved much at all. So what I do next is kick out my feet, get flat on my stomach, and join him.

  Once we’re parallel, Ahmad turns his head to give me a look.

  All of a sudden, he begins to cry.

  * * *

  After he’s put his brother to bed, Omar meets me back in the living room.

  It’s the divorce, he says. Kids take it a lot of different ways.

  This isn’t the worst one, I say. Trust me.

  He hasn’t talked about it since he started staying with me.

  Just hug him every once in a while. Make him feel seen.

  That’s the thing. I don’t think he wants that.

  Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a say. Ignoring him is the one thing you can do wrong.

  And then the two of us sit there in silence.

  I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing.

  There’s a pair of work shoes by the door, and also a child’s sneakers, and also mine. They’re followed by six pairs of sandals, bear-size, all of them frail at the toes.

  Wait, says Omar, you brought food.

  You can cook! says Omar.

  A friend made it, I say.

  A friend, says Omar.

  A friend, I say.

  If you say so.

  Trust me.

  Well, says Omar, should we eat it now?

  And then he says, Maybe this could be that date, you know?

  It comes out boyishly, as if Omar isn’t entirely sure. Then he crosses his legs on the sofa. He props up an arm, looking objectively ridiculous.

  Honestly, I say, you should save the food for Ahmad.

  He’ll be hungry, I say, and the words feel like weights in my mouth.

  He won’t eat it, says Omar. No offense, but it’s french fries or bust with him.

  I should go, I say, because of course I really should, and then I start to stand, because that’s where gravity’s leading me, and then, out of nowhere, for no reason at all, or maybe for every reason that’s already clearly presented itself, Omar leans over and kisses me.

  It’s brief. Just lip to lip.

  There’s this smooshing sound, like we’ve just shucked an oyster.

  And then, Omar’s sitting again. Hands in his lap like he’s been scolded.

  I say, Ha.

  I say, I should still go.

  And then I stand up.

  And then I grab my shoes.

  And then I am gone.

  * * *

  I’ve literally just parked by the apartment when my cell rings.

  Ben, says Mike.

  Godfuckingdammit, I say.

  * * *

  It’s been a minute, says Mike.

  I agree that it has.

  One of our Black neighbors is sitting on her porch. She’s rocking in her chair, watching the streetlights flicker. The block’s quiet, for once, and the mosquitoes are out, and the woman swats her elbows from time to time, wiping her mouth with the crook of her arm.

  Well, I say to Mike.

  How are things, I ask. Are you at your father’s?

  I am, says Mike. Or we were. We’re out now. Took a little trip.

  He’s not doing well, says Mike.

  I’m sorry, I say.

  And instead of Mike’s usual You Didn’t Do It, or his You Don’t Have to Say That, he just says, Thank you.

  That’s when I understand.

  But how’s my mother, says Mike.

  Just lovely, I say. Still adjusting to our shared proximity.

  That’s what she told me.

  Go figure.

  But it’s a compliment, says Mike. Could be worse. Ma says you’ve been cooking.

  We play house together, yes.

  I can’t even imagine it.

  Just because the neighborhood’s snoring, that doesn’t mean it’s asleep. There’s a house party going on a few houses down. Some whitegirls stumble onto a lawn, laughing with red Solo cups. They glance back at the door they came from, and one of them covers her mouth, and her friend latches on to her shoulders, balancing them upright.

  Hey, I say, when are you coming home?

  Scattered voices slip through the phone, and also the sound of motion. For Mike, it’s midday.

  That’s the question, isn’t it, says Mike.

  It is.

  Mike asks if I want him to come back, and I don’t say a word.

  We’re both silent. Both holding the line.

  I owe him a lot, says Mike.

  Not everything, he says. But I think I should see him through this, you know?

  I know, I say.

  So when he’s gone, says Mike, I’ll come back.

  When he’s gone, I say, you’ll come back.

  The whitegirls up the road stumble into the grass, laughing all over each other. The streetlights keep flickering. A chill settles in. And our neighbor, as if snapping out of a reverie, smiles and waves my way, putting her whole shoulder into it.

  And you, says Mike. How are you doing?

  The other day I saw a pigeon fly away with some cash, I say.

  Go figure. It’s probably for booze.

  You think so?

  Duh, says Mike. Don’t overthink it.

  * * *

  I shut the door behind me as quietly as I can, but Mitsuko’s already asleep on the sofa.

  There’s a bowl of rice on the counter, covered with a paper towel. It’s still a little warm.

  23.

  One day, Mike asked me what I wanted. This happened a few months back. Before the photo. We were standing beside a taco truck in the Heights, since Mike had driven by it, and he’d noticed me staring, admiring the sign, and just like that he turned the car around. It was the most spontaneous thing we’d done in a while.

  A guy and this lady stood on the other side of the window. The man leaned over the stove, beside the space heater, and his partner played with their credit card reader. When Mike and I ordered in Spanish, her eyes sort of fluttered, but then she smiled, and we waited for our food under a flock of trees. It was winter. They were dying.

  This should fill me up, I said.

  That’s not what I mean, said Mike.

  Then what do you mean?

  Like, what do you want?

  I looked at the truck. A little bit of steam slipped through the windows, and it teetered from the breeze.

  I mean, I’m fine right now, I said.

  Okay, said Mike.

  I don’t need kids, if that’s what you’re asking.

  I’m a fat Asian gay, so I wouldn’t be able to help you there.

  Exactly, I said. Or not exactly. You know what I mean.

  Not sure if I do, said Mike.

  I’m saying I don’t need a ring. We don’t even need to be exclusive. I’m okay.

  I want you to be better than okay.

  Then learn to code. Make us some money.

  I’m being serious, said Mike, and when I saw his face, I knew that he was.

  He shuffled around with his hands in his hoodie, stepping all over the leaves. They cracked underneath his sneakers, and then mi
ne, until we’d formed a crooked graveyard of their stems.

  Look, I said. Okay is good. All right is good. Most people don’t get more than that. That’s a myth.

  I don’t think it has to be, said Mike.

  If something happens, it happens. We’ll deal with it.

  That’s what everyone thinks until the thing actually happens.

  You’re good enough for me, I said. Our situation is good enough for me. And everything that comes with it.

  So you’re saying you don’t know what you want, said Mike.

  I think you’re making a problem where there isn’t one.

  But, said Mike, and that’s when the lady called us over from her truck.

  She handed us our sack, smiling. Mike tipped her a five-dollar bill. She told us to be well, and I told her we’d try, but Mike had already started walking back to the car, already stuffing his face.

  24.

  At work, we watch the kids climb each other’s backs like mountain lions. They make it to three levels before they topple. And on the gravel, they point fingers, make blame, and complain—but then they brush their hands, steadying themselves for another go.

  * * *

  Ximena schools me on the reception’s venue. She and Noah chose a taquería on Airline that they eat at all the time. They’re planning for a mariachi band, and a fuck-ton of sombreros, and Ximena’s mother disapproved until she learned the groom’s family was paying for it.

  Now it’s all smiles, says Ximena. Suggestions. Gentle critiques.

  She asks if Mike will be back in time. I tell her I don’t know.

  Let me know, she says, so I can warn the bartenders.

  * * *

  Eventually, the kids have built an unsteady sort of tower. Marcos, the child on top, raises his hands in triumph.