Memorial(10)

They should, I say. You and Mike make the same things.

Maybe similar, says Mitsuko. Not same.

We drive through the mix of locals beginning their day. Whole swathes of Houston look like chunks of other countries. There are potholes beside gourmet bakeries beside taquerías beside noodle bars, copied and pasted onto a graying landscape.

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.