Memorial(20)

We’ve always spoken, says my father. We just don’t say anything. Does this mean you’re not gay anymore?

No, I say.

It’s never too late to change, says my father.

From him, this is typical. I’ve stopped trying to shout him down.

Our hands are full of crawfish. Their entrails seep through the newspapers below us. When the waitress stops by our bench again, my father smiles and asks for more water. Even though my glass is topped off, she adds a little for me anyway.

Let me guess, says my father. That was an insensitive comment.

I’m over it, I say.

You know I don’t mean it, says my father.

You’re a grown man. It is what it is.

I just don’t know the rules, says my father. They keep changing on me.

They’d be mandates if they didn’t, I say.

There’s a reason dictators do what they do, says my father.

There’s no way we’ll finish our food. The crawfish has overcome us. My father says he’ll eat more later, and I know that he won’t, but we wrap the leftovers in classified ads anyway.



* * *





As we walk through the parking lot, the waitress waves again. When I wave back, my father thumps the roof of Mike’s car.



* * *





We take the long way back. Every few miles, my father gives commentary.

There’s the house your mother and I almost bought.

There’s the church we went to for years, the one with that cheating pastor.

There’s the complex your aunt almost leased.

There’s your chemistry tutor’s lawn.

There’s the pharmacy.

The pool.

The park.

I slow down for all of it, but I never actually stop.



* * *





And then we’re back home.

You know what, says my father, I never cared who you fucked.

I know you think I do, he says. But I don’t.

Your mother cares, says my father. A lot. But not as much as you think.

And then he grabs his sack of crawfish, whose guts have bled all over the car floor mat.





20.



That evening, I catch Mitsuko sharing a mug of something with our Venezuelan neighbor. It’s one of the rare moments that I’ve seen the woman without her children. She and Mitsuko aren’t laughing or smiling or anything; they’re just drinking over the fence, silently, together.

Every now and again, one of them looks up, like they’ve suddenly heard something. But they don’t say shit about it.





21.



Here is the root of the problem, our problem: the night before Mike left, in bed, before we fucked, he asked if I thought we were working.

What the fuck kind of question is that? I asked. Working? Are you saying we’re done? Right after we bring home your fucking mother?

I’m asking a question, said Mike. That’s all.

Just say it. Don’t be a little bitch.

Benson, I am literally only asking what you think.

I think you should just come out and say what you’re trying to say, I said. If you think we’re done, just say it. I’ll pack my shit tomorrow.

It’s not that simple, said Mike, and then he put his face in his palms.

But it is, I said.

You are the only one that’s been fucking around, I said.

This again, said Mike.

Yes, I said. Again. Again and again and again. And now you’re leaving for who the fuck knows where. For who the fuck knows how long.

You’re not being fair, said Mike. That isn’t fair. It’s my dad.

A man you couldn’t give a fuck about!

That won’t matter when he’s dead.

We’d been whispering. We hadn’t looked at each other. I felt Mike’s body relax beside me.

Look, said Mike. Just because something isn’t working doesn’t mean it’s broken. You just have to want to fix it. The want has to be there.

Tell me, I said. Do you want to fix it?

I guess that’s what I’m trying to find out, said Mike.





22.



I’m cooking with Mitsuko when I get a call from Omar.

It’s Ahmad, he says. Shit.

What’s wrong, I say, and Mitsuko gives me a look.

I don’t know what he’s doing, says Omar. I don’t know what’s— You need to call an ambulance, I say.

No, says Omar. It’s not that. Nothing wild. He’s just being strange, you know? The way he gets sometimes? But you’ve seen it before. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.

We hang up. I tell Mitsuko that I think I have to go somewhere.

She looks at the pot still simmering in front of us, a seafood curry swimming with scallops and shrimp and carrots, just waiting for rice. Her hair is down. She’s not wearing makeup. For the first time since she’s lived in this apartment, Mitsuko’s starting to look comfortable.

Only if you tell me that you’re taking this food with you, she says.

When I open my mouth to protest, Mitsuko grimaces.

We’re not wasting it, she says. We don’t do that.



* * *