Memorial(11)

So you’re saying he started it, says Omar.

Everyone asks that, says Barry.

Ahmad was involved, I say, but we don’t give blame.

Maybe you should, says Omar.

Maybe. But we don’t.

Then why the fuck are my parents paying you guys?

I don’t say anything to that. Barry only winces. Then Omar’s shoulders drop.

Sorry, he says.

It’s fine, I say.

It isn’t. Really.

Things have been rough, says Omar. Ahmad’s living with me. Our folks are going through some things.

Totally understand, I say.

Omar’s lighter than his brother. He’s built like a baker. Standing next to each other, they look nothing alike—except for their noses, which are indistinguishable.

Does this mean I can’t come back, says Ahmad.

Omar and I both say, No.

Nothing’s wrong, I say.

Nothing, says Omar, glancing at me.

Ahmad looks between us. He obviously doesn’t believe it. But he accepts what we’ve told him, for now, jogging outside.



* * *





I tell Omar I get it. And he thanks me, extending his hand, smiling real wide. When I watch them walk out, I half expect him to box Ahmad on the head, but he doesn’t do anything like that. He rubs Ahmad’s hair, shepherding him toward the car.



* * *





Eventually, I ask Ximena why she didn’t stop the fight. She looks at me for a long time before she finally answers.

I was going to, she says, but how often do you get to learn that lesson? That sometimes you just lose?

Better here than later, she says, when it actually matters.



* * *




? ? ?

Once, I asked Mike if he wanted kids. We were at a pub in the Heights, watching two drunk whiteboys fall all over each other. One of them would stand from his barstool, and the other guy would catch him. Then the other guy would stand, and they’d repeat the performance again.

Mike had already finished his beer, but he managed to spit some up anyways.



* * *





It was around this time that we had the monogamy conversation. Mike’s the one who brought it up.

I didn’t refuse him outright, but I never affirmed him either.

I’m just saying we should think about opening things up, said Mike.

There’s nothing to think about, I said.

I wouldn’t care what you did, said Mike, as long as you came back home.

You aren’t in a relationship with yourself, I said.

Just consider it, said Mike. Really. All I’m saying is that it’s a big world out there.

World? I said. What the fuck? What world? We live in one place.

You know what I’m saying.

And the thing is, I did know. I knew. And I’d thought about it. But I was less worried, at the time, about what Mike would do than how I’d handle it: If I opened the door, even just a crack, would I still have a reason to step back inside?



* * *





We didn’t actually decide anything, between the two of us. But a nondecision is a choice in itself.



* * *




? ? ?

Growing up, my sister was the disciplinarian. Our father was always working or drinking up all the booze downtown. Our mother compensated by staying out on the town herself, racking up credit on handbags.

So Lydia gave me my first cigarette, shaking her head when I inhaled and choked.

And Lydia told me how, and who, to plug for beer by the pharmacy.

And Lydia taught me how to drive, and she paid for my first speeding ticket.

And Lydia handed me my first joint, allowing me to sit in the smoke with whichever acquaintances she’d assembled.

Lydia also taught me how to kiss. She actually brought over a girl from her school. They talked in her bedroom, sipping gin from my parents’ liquor cabinet, until my sister called me up from downstairs.

The girl had dark hair and mermaid earrings. She touched my forearm, slowly, and when I jumped, she frowned.

She asked if I didn’t want to. I told her I did. Then I turned to Lydia, who looked deeply disappointed. She asked if I needed her to demonstrate, and her friend made a face, but I told her that wasn’t necessary, for real, I was good.



* * *





Years later, Lydia reminded me of all that. She lives in the museum district now. Her place is stuffed with plants. The floors are a sheened wood. Our mother used to ask her when she’d bring back a husband, and our father used to ask her when she’d find a real job, but one day Lydia told them that it wasn’t their business. They’d shot their shot. Played their game. And then I came out, which took the pressure off her for a while.



* * *




? ? ?

Mitsuko’s chewing vitamins when I make it back to the apartment, and I’m ducking toward the bedroom when she calls my name.

Can you cook a chicken, she says.

You mean boil it, I say.

I meant what I said.

Like, frying wings?

Absolutely not, says Mitsuko. Come here.

She’s more comfortable in Mike’s kitchen than I’ve ever been. He’d arranged everything to his liking, but Mitsuko’s reorganized all of it. Everything in the drawers, all of the ladles and spatulas and sticks. The bowls were a certain way, and now they are not. Plus, all of Mike’s spices. And the utensils, too. I never knew where he’d kept his chopsticks—they just materialized whenever we needed them—but now the place looks unrecognizable. She’s flipped it on its head. It’s entirely disorienting, but for once I can actually settle in.