Memorial(15)

It is the most personal thing she’s shared with me so far, and I tell her that.

She looks at me for a while, then says, Don’t be stupid.





14.



We play WALL-E for the kids. They sit enraptured in front of the television. We’re not in the habit of turning it on—that’s the one thing we’re paid not to do—but none of them have seen it before. Silvia and Marcos park themselves on the rug. They’re followed by Ethan, who’s trailed by Xu, and then Thomas and Margaret and Hannah. The only kid who hasn’t joined them is Ahmad, who’s sitting at the table, sketching tiny skyscapes in crayon.

No wonder, says Barry.

The screen’s like fentanyl, he says. Shuts them right off.

Ximena and I don’t ask him where he found that analogy, or why.



* * *





When Omar comes for Ahmad that afternoon, he asks if he can talk to me.

Better day? asks Omar, palming his brother’s head.

Strike’s over, I say.

At least for now, says Omar.

Every day is a gift, I say.

You don’t look religious.

I didn’t know you could or couldn’t look religious.

I know, says Omar, smiling. Aren’t people mysteries?

Ahmad twists the bottom of his jacket in front of us, squirming with his feet.

Listen, says Omar, I have a question. But I don’t want it to be weird.

Then I guess you’ll just have to ask.

You know my brother really well, he says.

Sure.

And I’m trying to learn him better. Figure out this thing he’s got going on.

So do you think you’d want to grab a drink one day, says Omar.

Not like a date, he says. But, you know. Just to talk.

I look at Omar, and then at Ahmad. He’s staring at the clouds above us, and I can’t tell if he’s internalizing any of this or not.

I decide that they look nothing alike.

I tell him that it’s fine. That I’ll accompany him on this not-like-a-date.

I ask if there’s anywhere he wouldn’t recommend.

No, says Omar. But I can’t text you.

Should I not use your name, I say.

Only if you give me the wrong number, says Omar.



* * *





Of course Ximena sees everything. She bites her lip, and then she unbites it.

I tell her it’s nothing, and she tells me she hasn’t said a word.

Instead, she shows me pictures of the shoes she’s chosen. What her mother’s wearing, the venue, the suit for her son. She finishes with photos of her dress, a glowing, golden thing. Apparently, she’s already shown her fiancé.

I know you’re not supposed to show them, says Ximena, thumbing her screen. But it’s okay.



* * *





That night, my mother calls, and I don’t answer.

Lydia calls, and I don’t answer.

Mitsuko has me frying pork cutlets, directing my hands at the stove. I burn the first batch. The second one’s even worse. But she takes a bite from both, and neither of us says anything about it.

And then, out of nowhere, Mitsuko asks about my mother.

She used to be a divorcée, I say. Now she isn’t.

So we’re halfway in common, says Mitsuko. Have you met the new husband?

Once. He’s rich.

Does that surprise you?

In a way.

Why, says Mitsuko.

I don’t know, I say. He’s just nothing like my father.

Wrong, says Mitsuko. You’re all like your fathers.



* * *





And then, later, as we’re washing the dishes, Mitsuko clears her throat.

She says, It’s none of my business. But my son crossed the ocean for his.



* * *




? ? ?

One day Mike cooked me a meal and I told him I hated it. I said that just to say it, just to see what would happen. We’d fought that afternoon, about nothing, about money. He’d told me I couldn’t understand because I’d grown up with, because my parents had.

We lived in a box, said Mike. Slept with fucking roaches on our fucking faces. We didn’t fucking dine out on fucking Elgin. My folks couldn’t be fucking frivolous.

You don’t know what you’re talking about, I said, although really, he did, and that conversation ended the only way that it could’ve—with fucking, hastily, half-clothed, on the counter, because we just didn’t have the words.

He’d cooked a pork stew. You could smell it from around the block. I took one sip, and sort of frowned, and told him it wasn’t for me.

In the end, we both stood bare by the kitchen counter. Mike smiled real wide, like he was going to cry.

I couldn’t help but apologize.





15.



So, the next morning, despite everything, I’m at his door.

My father’s door.

And then I am knocking. Waiting.

It’s hard to head home without succumbing to nostalgia, standing where so many versions of yourself once stood, one of a suburb’s magical properties. There’s the bakery on the cul-de-sac, with the Korean lady who’d always slipped me donut holes. There’s the chicken sandwich shop by the gas station. The pasta restaurant by the Tex-Mex joint. And everyone’s lawn is sort of glowing, because it’s the middle of the day in Katy, and every couple of seconds a minivan materializes behind me, and I’m thinking of just turning around and calling the whole thing off when the door juts open, just a crack.