Memorial

by Bryan Washington

We both sat cross-legged on the floor. Ben thumbed at the waistband of his boxers.

  What about your parents, I said.

  What about them? said Ben.

  You know what I mean. How’d they split?

  It wasn’t anything like that. They just got sick of each other. There’s no story to tell.

  That’s a whole story right there.

  If you say so, said Ben. But my parents weren’t surprised. They knew it was coming. It’d been building up for a while.

  And y’all had money, I said.

  What the fuck does that have to do with it?

  It has everything to do with everything.

  Ben shifted onto his elbow, staring at me. He’d been letting his hair grow out.

  Sure, he said. They had money. I grew up middle-class. But we’re Black. So that cancels everything out.

  If you say so.

  I say so.

  That wasn’t an attack, I said. It’s not a competition. It’s okay to grow up okay.

  Fine, said Ben. Sorry.

  Don’t be sorry.

  All I’m saying is that my folks knew who they were when they settled in with each other. The only ones blindsided were me and my sister. So maybe that’s the funny thing. The surprise. We were the ones who ended up having to find out.

  I don’t think so, I said. Nobody knows what the fuck is going on. Maybe everyone’s parents are like that.

  Not everyone’s, said Benson. Just most of them. Many. And then they end up with us.

  And we didn’t say much after that. We listened to the dogs barking next door, and the corridos humming from the next window over. And the neighbors outside chatting and smoking, and the white kids blaring trap music, and Harold stepping onto his porch, eventually, to tell them to shut the fuck up.

  * * *

  No matter how it felt at the time, we were just one part of the neighborhood. A cog inside the whole thing. But in sync, regardless.

  * * *

  • • •

  One morning I woke up and Eiju was sitting beside me. Eyes closed, snoring, with his arms slack. Ass on the floor. I didn’t know how it happened, but I wasn’t about to shake him awake to ask.

  I’d never really looked at his face before, and definitely not since I’d been in Osaka.

  But now, here he was.

  I saw the creases on his forehead. I saw the bend of his nose. His big-ass ears.

  All of these were his gifts to me. The only ones he’d given me.

  Delayed, sure. Present nonetheless.

  * * *

  A few hours later, he farted himself awake.

  Fucking around on my phone, I watched the slow act of his unraveling into himself. The blinking. The gradual, slight tensing of the muscles. The shifting of his body as it registered him coming back to consciousness.

  And then, breathing softly, Eiju stared into space.

  When he realized I was beside him, he didn’t flinch or anything like that.

  I thought you’d left, he said.

  I didn’t leave, I said.

  I thought you were gone, he said.

  I’m right here, I said. I’m not gone.

  * * *

  And then, that evening, Eiju was himself again. He asked if he could pass through the bar.

  It’s still your fucking place, I said.

  So he walked with me through the neighborhood and up the stairs. Wiping at the stools. Groaning at customers. Mixing his drinks entirely too fast. Snapping his towel at Kunihiko, who’d burnt the rice, asking what in the hell was wrong with him, what on Earth did he think he was doing. And Kunihiko grimaced, but under that grimace there was a warmth, like he was grateful that Eiju was around that night and for the attention, and I honestly don’t know how he couldn’t be.

  Hiro, Takeshi, and Sana sat across from us, clapping and whooping. They’d been buzzed for hours. They were are all on holiday. A thick drunkenness sat in the room, and I’d fucked with a little sake myself, and the night was warm the way it gets in Osaka sometimes.

  You’re back! said Sana.

  I’m visiting, said Eiju.

  He’s back! said Takeshi, toasting the room.

  Shut up. Stop that.

  He’s back! He’s back! He’s back!

  * * *

  That night, I closed shop early. The crowd had thinned out. Eiju’d started his walk back to the apartment a few hours beforehand, and when I’d asked if he needed a cab, he asked who the fuck I thought he was.

  I’d opened my mouth, and then I closed it. Told him to have it his way.

  So Kunihiko started cleaning on one end of the bar. I started on the other. It was inevitable that we’d meet in the middle, eventually, but we always acted shocked when it actually happened.

  When our fingers brushed, Kunihiko asked if I knew how lucky I was.

  To have him, he said.

  I frowned.

  He’s yours, too, I said.

  It’s not the same.

  It isn’t. But you should be grateful. You’ve seen parts of him I never will.

  And then Kunihiko looked at me. Every now and then, slivers of the guy he may’ve been slipped through his expressions.

  But then, just as suddenly, they disappeared again.

  I don’t know, he said. Eiju treats me like a son.

  He does, I said.

  And I don’t know how to repay that.

  I don’t know if you can, I said.

  It was Kunihiko’s turn to look a little bewildered at me.

  You just have to stick around, I said. That’s enough. It has to be.

  We just have to stick around, said Kunihiko, cheesing, and then he put his hand on my shoulder, knocking over a bottle of shoyu.

  * * *

  • • •

  For the longest time, our family could barely afford two meals a day. And a little while later, eventually, we could. But only if my mother purchased it, which meant that all of a sudden Eiju wasn’t so hungry anymore. It was rare for him to eat something he hadn’t made himself.

  But, when Eiju did cook, he made the dishes he’d learned at the Chinese restaurant, and the dishes he made at the Mexican restaurant, and the dishes he made at the Jamaican spot, curry chicken over rice and steamed eggs with okayu and caldo de bistec and fried plantains under fried dumplings, and even in the worst fucking times, when he drank away all the cash, he always found enough to sit us down for a decent dinner. A good one, even.

  The three of us sat, picking away at this food. My folks wouldn’t talk, but they weren’t arguing either.

  * * *

  Once, when I was a kid, Eiju and I both lazed on the sofa, staring at the wall where there should’ve been a television. We’d sold it a few weeks beforehand. Ma had been inconsolable. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since, not even at dinner.

  Staring at the nothing in front of us, I asked Eiju how he’d met my mother. I’d never asked before. Hadn’t even thought to.

  He looked at me, wincing.

  It started raining and then she was there, he said.

  * * *

  • • •

  Things I’ve cooked for my father, who insists on never eating out anywhere besides his own bar: okonomiyaki, yakisoba, oyakodon, katsudon, mabo don, mori soba, kake soba, kitsune udon, nabeyaki udon, bulgogi, soondubu jjigae, doenjang jjigae, ika-age, takoyaki, lamb curry, chicken curry, creamed salt cod, a Dungeness crab soufflé, poached flounder in tomato sauce, steamed black cabbage, Romano beans sautéed in oregano, salmon, salmon carpaccio, shrimp bisque, garlic-baked squid, grilled tuna in a red onion salad, tempura, grilled asparagus braised in garlic butter, carrot and red pepper soup, soy-braised pork, fried rice, huevos rancheros, huevos divorciados, carne asada, migas, simmered radishes, tatsuta-age, spicy tuna on toasted bread, oka
yu, fried rice, steamed rice.

  * * *

  Things I’ve cooked for my father that he’s visibly enjoyed:

  * * *

  The next time Eiju asked about my plans, we’d driven out to Nakazakicho to restock the bar. It was usually something Kunihiko handled. He’d make the trip on the days he had off. But that week, according to Eiju, Kunihiko couldn’t make it, because he had something or another going on, and when I asked Kunihiko about it later, he said, So I’m not going with you guys?

  But I didn’t press Eiju on that. We stepped around the tiny little truck he kept behind the bar. I’d never ridden in it, and I asked him why he kept the fucking thing in the first place, and Eiju asked if I hadn’t seen Godzilla.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  Calm down, said Eiju. You never know when you’ll need to leave.

  That’s beyond idiotic, I said.

  It isn’t, said Eiju. Just watch the news.

  I can’t even remember the last time I saw you drive.

  So you’re saying I can’t.

  I’m saying I don’t have insurance. And I’m really not trying to die in a car wreck abroad.

  Makes no difference to me how I go, said Eiju.

  And besides, he said, fingering the keys, I figured you’d do the honors.

  I don’t think that’s a great idea, I said.

  Couldn’t be a better one, said Eiju.

  * * *

  And then we were on the road.

  The drive wasn’t far. Eiju told me which turns to take. The morning was sleepy enough that I idled alongside the bikers, and the occasional motorist scootering by, but mostly I just took my time.

  The roads felt comfortable. We passed ramen stalls and convenience stores. Drove over the bridge. Idled by chicken stands and cops and some guys fixing telephone lines, and another group of dudes plugging in potholes. They worked in tandem, rocking these uniforms. Calling and responding to each other. Eiju whistled “Little Red Corvette” over and over again.

  * * *

  When we made it to the market, our distributor was waiting by the garage. He was a stocky guy, with a too-big mustache and his hands on his hips.

  Eiju, he said, extending his hand.

  And company? he added, pointing at me.

  Before I could answer, Eiju said, My son.

  He avoided my eyes, looking straight ahead.

  Oh, said the vendor. He cocked his head.

  And then, without missing a beat, he said, No shit.

  Must be the eyes, he laughed.

  And that’s why I like you, Hikaru, said Eiju. Everyone else mentions the ears.

  But it wasn’t long before they started talking business. Hikaru opened his building’s garage, where our supplies sat in stacks. Eiju’s name shined from a placard near the front. It took something like twenty minutes for me to bring all the boxes back to our truck, and another guy—skinny and scruffy—helped me while Eiju and Hikaru talked. They stepped inside the building, only to come back out with two beers, kicking their feet against the concrete.

  The other guy helped me load the crates into the car. He looked a little younger than me.

  He told me he was Hikaru’s son. His name was Sora.

  You the new Kunihiko? he asked.

  Hardly, I said. He’s out sick or something.

  And you’re not from here.

  I’m not from here.

  Weird, said Sora, but he didn’t say anything else.

  * * *

  We piled everything into Eiju’s truck, grunting all the while. Every now and again, we stole glances at each other. The road mumbled behind us, along with the steady clinking of a nearby trainline, and there wasn’t anything in the morning air, really, or at least no sex I could sense offhand: we were just genuinely staring.

  Once we’d finished packing, we sat on the back of the pickup. Sora pulled two cans of beer from his sweater. When he waved one my way, I shook my head.

  It’s not even eight yet, I said.

  Sora shrugged, cracking open his can.

  The two of us sat, staring at our fathers.

  Has yours started bugging you about the business? Sora asked.

  You could say that, I said.

  Mine tells me I need to start talking to clients. But he never gives me the chance.

  Your dad probably wants you to just take the initiative.

  Then he needs to show me how.

  And I didn’t say anything to that. It felt, for the moment, like the guy just needed someone to listen.

  Maybe you’re right, he said, after a while. But just when I think he wants me to say something on my own, he gets the biggest attitude. Everything has to be on his terms.

  Mine’s the same way, I said.

  And he wants me to get married before I take over everything. Make an heir. Or so he says.

  How’s that working out for you?

  It isn’t, said Sora, taking a long pull of his beer. And it won’t.

  You’re young. It’s not a race.

  That’s not what I’m saying.

  When I glanced Sora’s way, he didn’t say anything else.

  Does he know, I said, and I felt the kid exhale beside me, emptying all the air in his lungs.

  Then he turned to his shoes, kicking at the tires.

  No, he said.

  I think so, he added. I don’t know.

  That’s cool, I said. It’s not your job to know that.

  We could never talk about it, said Sora. It’ll never come up. I don’t know what he’d do.

  He’d deal with it or he wouldn’t. You don’t get to control that.

  It’s different for you, said Sora. You don’t live here.

  I’m from here.

  But you’re not from here. You get to leave.

  Sora kept kicking at the tires. I watched him do that.

  Sorry, he said.

  Don’t be, I said.

  I shouldn’t have said that.

  You’re not wrong.

  I know. But I still shouldn’t have said it.

  I get where you’re coming from, I said.

  It’s just that we only get so much time, I said. You know? And I’d hate to see you waste that.

  Sora looked at me again. He scrunched up his eyes. But then he laughed.

  You don’t even know me, he said.

  Shut up, I said. I’m your elder. I’m trying to mentor you.

  Fuck, said the kid, grabbing at the other beer.

  I waved for him to pass me another one, and he opened the can before he did. We watched our fathers box each other’s shoulders by the garage, dodging fists.

  * * *

  When they’d finished bullshitting, Eiju and Hikaru walked our way. Three beers in, they laughed and laughed, burnt red in their faces.

  There they are, said Hikaru. Already drunk. Looking like a couple of real men.

  Eiju didn’t add anything to that, just smiling. Sora took another swallow from his can, and his father squeezed his shoulder, and the kid made a face that shook me, because I knew it all too well. But I didn’t say a word.

  * * *

  We drove back to the bar a few hours later. The traffic had picked up only slightly. The occasional car followed along behind us, before trailing off down some other lane, and Eiju sat in the passenger seat, with crumbs all over his lips, and eventually he put both hands on his knees and sighed.

  You know, he said, Hikaru thinks his son’s a fag, too.

  I didn’t say anything to that. I stopped at one light, hooking a right.

  I told him not to worry about it, said Eiju.

  You told him not to worry about it, I said. The man who still says fag.

  Keep your eyes on the road, said Eiju.

 
I mean, what can he do about it? he said. The boy’s not like you though. Whole different situation. Hikaru’s gotta pass his place off to someone else, and that’s hard to do if his kid doesn’t have a kid.

  What makes our situation any different?

  The fact that I’m not Hikaru.

  Well, I said. Sora could still have kids.

  You’re joking, said Eiju, looking at me. You’re not in America anymore. Here we consider people beside ourselves.

  I don’t think any country has a monopoly on consideration for others.

  You know what I’m saying.

  Maybe you should be clearer, I said.

  Just because you can do something doesn’t mean that you should, said Eiju.

  That’s not Hikaru’s decision to make, I said.

  We sat at a stoplight. Eiju fondled a toothpick between his lips.

  Maybe it isn’t, said Eiju. But he’s making it anyway. The property’s going to someone.

  So you feel sorry for him.

  Is that what it sounds like?

  It does.

  Well, said Eiju, it’s none of my goddamn business. Their family’s their family. I’ve got my hands full with mine.

  We settled in front of a light. A small troupe of schoolkids crossed in a steady jog.

  If my hands weren’t on the steering wheel, my fingers might’ve exploded from their joints.

  I didn’t ask what family, specifically, Eiju was referring to.

  I didn’t tell him that the only thing he did with his actual family was abandon us.

  * * *

  I don’t say anything about it. I just keep on driving.

  * * *

  We made it back though.