Memorial(19)

Mike is irritable.

Short-winded.

He does this thing with his tongue.

For the first few months, he’d trace shapes across my back in bed. Whenever I got them right, he’d chew on my shoulder.

Mike knows a little bit of Spanish, I say.

That’s nice, says Mitsuko.

He has to. For his job.

Also, I say, he’s really into food.

Thank you for that, says Mitsuko. Really. You’re a wealth of knowledge.

But tell me, she says, when did you know you were gay?

I take my eyes off the road, nearly swerving onto the sidewalk. Some loiterers in shades hop away from the curb. They flick me off through the rearview window.

Never mind, says Mitsuko.

Sorry, I say, it wasn’t you.

Of course it wasn’t me, says Mitsuko.

We resettle into traffic.

If it helps, she says, I had no idea Mike was that way.

He never told me, says Mitsuko. Or his father. I had friends whose children are gay. Sons who sleep with sons. Girls who sleep with boys and girls.

But not mine, says Mitsuko. I didn’t see it.

And then one day, she says, I just knew. Before he left home, it clicked. Everything finally made sense.

There was nothing to say after that, says Mitsuko. We both understood.

Cruising into the parking garage, we find a spot just across from the elevator. Once I’ve settled the car in park, we sit in the darkness.

What kind of guy did you think your son would end up with, I say.

Is that your real question, says Mitsuko, or are you asking something else?

Are you asking if I thought the man would be Japanese? she asks. Or if I care that you’re Black?

A white dude emerges from the elevator in front of us, looking extremely distressed. He fumbles with his keys for a second. At the sound of his car alarm, his whole body relaxes.

If you put it that way, I say.

Well, says Mitsuko, I didn’t think about that. That wasn’t my business. Isn’t. I’m his mother.

Or are you really asking what I think about you, she says.

Another white guy in a suit unlocks the car beside us. He peeks into my window, frowning above his tie.

I’d tell you, says Mitsuko, but you might drive us into the wall.



* * *





I trail Mitsuko as we walk past each suite, up an escalator, and over a crossway. The staff in the FedEx are mostly women, mostly Black.

They look at Mitsuko. They look at me.

A light-speed calculus blips across their eyes.

Once we’ve reached the front of the line, I smile as wide as I can. Mitsuko still hasn’t taken off her shades. She hands one woman a card and receives an armful of envelopes. When she’s asked if she needs a basket, Mitsuko declines.

That’s what he’s for, she says, nodding at me.

My kind of woman, says a lady behind the counter, chuckling.



* * *





On the drive back, I ask Mitsuko what her home in Tokyo’s like. She raises an eyebrow.

Quiet, she says.





18.



Ahmad corners me at work, jumping all over my back. Marcos and Ethan see him do this, and they follow suit, hanging from my knees. Then Barry stumbles over to try to help, but I wave him away. The boys and I slog from the copy machine, to the dumpster by the playground, to the broken door in the hallway.

When I tell them I’m tired, they dislodge, standing around.

When I finally stand up, they latch on to me again.



* * *





Ahmad seems to be doing better, says Ximena.

I ask what makes her think that, and she raises an eyebrow.



* * *





Driving home, I nearly hit a pigeon in the road—the brakes kick in just before we connect.

Luckily, there’s no one behind me. So I leave the car and walk up to the bird. It looks me up and down, and then at the ground, scrutinizing something: a quarter in the concrete.

The bird examines the coin. Glances at me. Then it grabs the quarter with its beak and takes off, flapping its wings.





19.



The next time I see my father, he insists that I take him out.

So we go out. There’s a crawfish spot not too far from his house. The business is an anomaly for the area, with the very old and Black commingling with the very young and white. The property was bought by a Pakistani guy last year, and he tore up the floor and put in some new walls. He gave the menu a sheen. Stocked the fridge with craft beer, tacked flat-screens on every wall.

My father sips one of the beers.

You drink IPAs, I ask.

They’re essentially piss, says my father. Means I’ll drink a little less.

When our waitress comes by, my father asks for another beer. She’s a pretty whitegirl, and she asks if I’m still good with my water, and my father says that no one is good with just water.

But I tell her I’m fine. She smiles, tilting her head.

Once she’s gone, my father whistles.

Your mother told me you’re living with a woman, he says.

For now, I say.

I hope it isn’t homophobic to call that a significant development, says my father.

So you and Mom are speaking now, I say.