Memorial

by Bryan Washington

So I’m on borrowed time, said Eiju.

  You’re on your own time, said Taro.

  I’m already dead.

  You’re still here. But you need to be comfortable. Manning the bar is a bad idea.

  He’s hardly ever around now, I said.

  It’s time to cut it out entirely, said Taro.

  Are you telling me that I shouldn’t work, said Eiju, or that I can’t work?

  I’m telling you that working will kill you faster than what already is, said Taro.

  Eiju looked at Taro. He looked at his lap. Then he exhaled a noise I’d never heard from him, this whooshing thing that was somewhere between a roar and a cry and a groan.

  When I started to stand to go to him, Taro set a hand on my shoulder. Eiju’s chest rose and fell. He shook. Wheezed.

  Eventually, he settled into himself.

  Okay, he said. That’s okay.

  We knew this was coming, he said. Right?

  We did, said Taro.

  It’s what we talked about? said Eiju.

  It is, said Taro.

  Okay, said Eiju.

  Then that’s fine, he said. I’ll stay home.

  You need the practice managing things anyways, he said, turning to me, smiling.

  And I knew, viscerally, primally, that I could’ve just said, No.

  I could’ve broken that man right there.

  It wouldn’t have taken much.

  I looked Eiju in his face. I took all of it in.

  * * *

  I said, Okay.

  * * *

  • • •

  One time, years back, before Ben, I was about to dick down some whiteboy I’d met at Grand Prize. Found him at the pool table, and once we made it to his place, he was tugging at my shorts, and then he’d finally gotten them off, and then he stopped moving entirely. Stopped breathing, even.

  When I asked what was wrong, the whiteboy said it just wasn’t what he expected.

  When I asked what it was, he smiled, because he thought I knew, although honestly, in that moment, I was thinking of everything but my dick.

  And then he stopped smiling.

  And everything clicked.

  * * *

  When I told that story to Ben, way later, he laughed right in my face. A rarity.

  Fuck you, I said.

  Be nice, said Ben.

  I never laugh at your stories.

  You’re right. I’m sorry.

  You should be.

  But I wasn’t laughing because it was funny, said Ben. That’s not funny. It’s never funny. But I have a question.

  Go ahead.

  Did that stop you from fucking him?

  Ben had this smirk on his face. I thought about what I would say before I said it.

  No, I said.

  No what?

  No, I said.

  And we stared at each other.

  Well, said Ben.

  * * *

  • • •

  A few things that Eiju, even in sickness, on the literal brink of death, can’t bring himself to believe in: regular breakfasts, socks around the apartment, washing his hands with soap, a full eight hours of sleep.

  * * *

  He smoked in the mornings.

  I reminded him of the doctor’s orders.

  Eiju reminded me that he had cancer, not fucking Alzheimer’s.

  I told Eiju that he was exacerbating things. Making his situation worse.

  He said the end result would be the same, did I think he was a fucking idiot, why was I reminding him.

  * * *

  I moved my futon from the living room to his bedroom. My nose brushed his shoulder at night. This was a recommendation from Taro, who thought, worst-case, if something happened, my reaction time would be quicker. Not quick enough. But quicker.

  Taro told us that this moment was all about minimizing risk, that this was the point, and Eiju grumbled as we death-proofed his apartment.

  When I wiped down the floors like Taro suggested, Eiju asked why we didn’t just take all the furniture out, to minimize the risk.

  When I cooked the food Taro prescribed, Eiju asked why we didn’t just skip meals altogether, to minimize the risk.

  When I settled my head into the pillow beside his, smoothing my ears against the linen, Eiju asked why I didn’t just sleep in the same futon, to minimize his risk to the maximum.

  * * *

  You think it’s a game, I said. But it’s not. Not even a little bit.

  Eiju’s head leaned against my feet. He kept his eyes closed on the wood.

  You don’t get it, he said. That’s exactly what this is. All of this is a game. It’s all a losing match.

  And nobody wins, said Eiju. We all lose. That’s the point.

  * * *

  I called Kunihiko to say we were closing the bar for the week.

  Until we figure out what we’re going to do, I said.

  He was silent for so long that I wondered if the line had been cut.

  And what are we going to do, he said.

  I told him I didn’t know, in as honest a voice as I could.

  You’ve said that already, said Kunihiko.

  What?

  That you didn’t know. That you don’t know. But never mind, I get it.

  And then he hung up.

  * * *

  One morning, Natsue visited the apartment. She brought a breakfast bento sealed with plastic wrap. When I answered the door, Eiju was still sleeping, so she and I stood in his bedroom doorway, watching his chest rise and fall.

  Thank you, I said, and Natsue glanced my way.

  He’s a dear friend, she said. One of my oldest.

  Yeah, I said. But not just for that. For not freaking out about me. Being his son.

  Ah, said Natsue.

  She smiled, just a little bit.

  I always knew, she said.

  You did?

  Of course. Eiju couldn’t keep a secret at gunpoint.

  Does anyone else, I asked, but Natsue only shrugged at that.

  I think that everyone knows exactly how much they need to know, she said.

  We took the food back out to the sofa. I loafed around in sweatpants, while Natsue tugged at her blazer. Cross-legged on the sofa, she asked how I was holding up.

  He’s all right, I said. Considering.

  Not your father, said Natsue. You.

  I’m good.

  Just good?

  Just good. I’m not the sick one.

  That doesn’t mean you’re good, said Natsue.

  I’ll be fine, I said.

  Sure, said Natsue. You better be.

  But check in if you aren’t, she said.

  * * *

  One afternoon, Takeshi and Hiro visited the apartment. Sana was home with his kids, but his friends brought a six-pack from 7-Eleven. Standing in our apartment, slipping off their shoes, they acquainted themselves with Eiju’s living room as he slept, gawking at the walls, and then the sofa, looking like a couple of boys.

  The beers are for you, said Takeshi.

  We didn’t know if Eiju could drink, said Hiro, but we figured you might need it.

  I asked them to stick around so we could kill the pack in the living room. And they declined, vehemently, before sitting down—until they ended up drinking three apiece, bitching and laughing and fucking around, and I hardly had to talk at all.

  * * *

  And then, that night, Kunihiko visited.

  I expected some awkwardness between us, and it was still there when he stepped through the doorway. It was his first time in Eiju’s place. Kunihiko tugged at his fingers, and I told him not to be so surprised, and he tried to make a scowl. He wandered around the living room, and then into t
he kitchen, taking these big-ass steps. He’d look my way, and he’d start to open his mouth, but nothing came out. And I wasn’t about to help him get comfortable. And then, just as things were getting ridiculous, Eiju emerged from the bedroom.

  He looked at Kunihiko. He asked what the fuck was wrong.

  Nothing, said Kunihiko.

  Exactly, said Eiju. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. So stop looking so scared.

  Okay, said Kunihiko, and he looked at me, and I shrugged.

  The three of us stood in the living room. Eiju scratched his ass.

  How about you two make yourselves fucking useful and cook us some rice, he said, dropping onto the sofa.

  So that’s what Kunihiko and I did, standing silently beside the sink.

  * * *

  When we made it back to the living room, Eiju was already snoring. So Kunihiko and I sat on the floor across from each other, slipping bitefuls into our mouths.

  * * *

  I cooked for Eiju. I cleaned the apartment. I walked from one end of our block to the other and I wandered around Kuromon Market and I ate lunch at the curry spot behind the complex and I caught the local line to Umeda and one day I didn’t ride it back, I figured I’d walk the entire way back to the apartment. Osaka isn’t large. It would’ve only taken a few hours. But it was cold as shit. My sneakers hugged the edge of the curb. Halfway through, I gave up, and I found a local station, but the train platform I took was headed the opposite way, I realized once I was already on it, and I felt spent, just fucking done, so I knocked out in my seat after like fifteen seconds.

  By the time I woke up, I was halfway across the city. A thick guy in shorts and Jordans sat across from me, looking a little spooked when I woke up. We spent the rest of the ride pretending not to check each other out, until he finally got off, throwing a final glance my way, and then I really was alone.

  * * *

  At the end of the week, Eiju and I chewed at some curry I’d cooked, when he suddenly started shaking. We’d both had one beer, and then I’d had a second, a third, a fourth. A rerun of a Hanshin Tigers match played on the screen, jostling across the turf through Eiju’s faded, stodgy television.

  But then: the trembling.

  First in Eiju’s shoulders, and then his knees.

  His fingers.

  I asked what was wrong.

  The fucking face he made.

  Nothing, he said.

  And then he began to cry.

  I sat with my beer and my curry, as Eiju shook, trembling slowly, and I did my best not to move.

  * * *

  When he’d finished, Eiju coughed. I passed him one of my paper towels. He took it, wiping his mouth, clearing his throat, asking if I had another beer in the fridge.

  * * *

  • • •

  The last conversation I had with my father, before he took off from the States, was in our living room.

  He walked around in his socks and his sweater. I was headed to school. When I came home that afternoon, I wouldn’t see him, or that evening, or the next morning. By then, he would have effectively evaporated from my life. But that morning, I didn’t know that, and he took his time with his shoes.

  Before I shut the door behind me—in Nikes and this big-ass jersey, the way I used to do it—Eiju grabbed hold of my shoulder. Told me to stand right next to him. When I did that, he walked around and faced me, until he was breathing on me, and he smelled alive, and it was the closest we’d stood together in I don’t know how long, and I was acutely aware of his body, and our chests nearly bumped into each other’s.

  Eiju didn’t look down on me. He couldn’t look down on me. By then, I’d gotten as tall as him. He met me eye to eye.

  He took my hands in his.

  He meshed our fingers together.

  Then he smiled.

  Almost there, he said.

  Almost, I said.

  Soon, he said, and I walked out first to catch the bus and I locked the door behind me and I wouldn’t hear Eiju’s voice again for over fifteen years.

  * * *

  Or maybe I’m lying—it wasn’t the closest I’d ever been to him. That would’ve been when I was a kid.

  One time, Eiju was out on one of his benders. One of his first in Houston. We didn’t see him that night, or even the next morning, and I collapsed by the door, kicking and screaming when Ma tried to move me, and she ended up sleeping out in the hallway beside me, dragging her sheets across the carpet.

  I’d kiss my father on the forehead before bed. Eiju wasn’t an emotional man, but he’d do the same. Right on my ears. I couldn’t fall asleep until he’d done the kiss, and he never forgot to do it. Not even once he started drinking. Before things got bad. If he wasn’t around, I’d sit up with Ma, and she’d try it in his stead, but it just didn’t feel the same, and we ended up waiting for him.

  Whenever Eiju reappeared from out in the world, he smelled like liquor and smoke. And the first thing he did was kiss me once on the forehead. And then on my right ear. And then on my left ear. And then, just once, on the bridge of my nose.

  * * *

  • • •

  Kunihiko and I reopened the bar a few days later. The morning beforehand, I’d asked Eiju how he felt about that, and he just made this face.

  We’d sat in the living room, lounging in pajamas. Two bowls of pickled cucumbers stood on the table between us. This time, a rugby match between Australia and South Korea boomeranged across the screen. I’d rigged together a stream of the game from my laptop.

  Does it even matter what I think, said Eiju.

  Of course it matters, I said. It’s your bar.

  At that, Eiju started coughing. A gaggle of men in front of us stood locked in a scrum, bending their knees.

  I waited until Eiju’d finished. Passed him a paper towel. He accepted it. Our little ritual.

  Right, he said. Of course it fucking matters.

  * * *

  So Kunihiko and I wiped down the counters and stools, and we took stock of the liquor. He didn’t say shit to me, and I did my best not to read too much into that. By then, we only communicated when we absolutely had to. I’d nod and he’d point and I’d grunt in confirmation.

  This was, I thought, no different from being back home with Ben.

  And then I thought about how that turned out. Or how it didn’t turn out.

  But this silence wasn’t sustainable. I knew that. Kunihiko had to have known that.

  So I waited until he’d bent over by the bar’s sink and I toed him in the ass.

  Kunihiko shot up, blushing.

  Hey, I said, it isn’t that bad.

  Kunihiko gave me a long look. Then he bent over again, scrubbing at a panel below him. I stood there, and Kunihiko kept trying to ignore me, but, eventually, he looked up again.

  You’re still here, he said.

  Still here, I said.

  I know this is hard for you, I said, but none of this is a surprise.

  It was a surprise to me.

  Okay, I said. I’m sorry about that.

  You could have told me, said Kunihiko. He could have told me. You both just left me in the dark.

  He leaned against the counter, holding one wrist in the other. I scratched at my shoulder.

  Look, I said. I see Eiju every day. He knows what he’s doing. And what’s coming.

  I couldn’t help him, said Kunihiko.

  That’s not your job.

  That’s where you’re wrong.

  Kunihiko stood up, with his hands behind his back. Our foreheads nearly grazed each other’s.

  I should’ve been there, he said. At the hospital. When he found out he was sick. For all of it. Because I’ve been with him, this whole time. And you should have, too. That’s the problem. The problem is that you were gone.

  Kunih
iko had beer on his breath. He was breathing on me now, leaning his forearms on the counter.

  He could’ve died, said Kunihiko.

  Bullshit, I said.

  Stop. He could’ve. And what would you have done then?

  I think that’s enough, I said. Have you been drinking?

  No. Maybe. But where were you, exactly? Really?

  None of your fucking business, Kunihiko.

  Out fucking boys, probably. While your father chokes on his deathbed.

  * * *

  There’s this phenomenon that you’ll get sometimes—but not too often, if you’re lucky—where someone you think you know says something about your gayness that you weren’t expecting at all. Ben called it a tiny earthquake. I don’t think he was wrong. You’re destabilized, is the point. How much just depends on where the quake originates, the fault lines.

  * * *

  Anyway. That’s what I felt.

  I waited to see if Kunihiko would break the silence again, but he did not.

  I said, That’s none of your business.

  I bet you think I’m an idiot, he said.

  No. But I think you’re being fucking ridiculous.

  Do you really think Eiju wouldn’t have told me that, said Kunihiko. Me?

  I think you’re fucking pissing me off, Kunihiko.

  Good. That’s a good thing. You should be pissed. You should fucking care.

  Kunihiko, I said, and I grabbed at his collar.

  It happened pretty quickly. More like a dance than anything else. There wasn’t any space for him to go anywhere, so there we were, groin to groin, and when Kunihiko tried to shift, I set my feet on either side of him.