Memorial(21)

Which is how I end up at Omar’s door with an armful of curried rice and katsu.

When he sees that it’s me, he buzzes me upstairs. He opens the door in basketball shorts and this tank top that’s too long.

Sorry, he says.

Don’t worry about it, I say.

No, says Omar. It’s really nothing. I shouldn’t have called.

We walk through the apartment—which is bright, with good lighting—and Ahmad is lying facedown on the floor. He’s lodged in the hallway, arms to his sides. Legs splayed out like some sort of performance piece.

When I call his name, he looks up.

Hey, kid, I say.

Hey, says Ahmad.

What’s going on, I say.

I’m thinking, says Ahmad.

What about?

Stuff.

Sounds rigorous.

I take a seat beside him, and then I look up at Omar. He looks at his brother, and then at me, and sits awkwardly behind us, bouncing on his ass.

And that’s how we stay. Saying nothing. Which gives me a chance to look around.

There’s no art on the walls, but there’s a bookshelf. Some throw pillows. A cowboy rug is draped across the wood, and the room smells a little like cinnamon.

Omar squirms, working to get comfortable.

Nothing’s really changed. Ahmad hasn’t moved much at all. So what I do next is kick out my feet, get flat on my stomach, and join him.

Once we’re parallel, Ahmad turns his head to give me a look.

All of a sudden, he begins to cry.



* * *





After he’s put his brother to bed, Omar meets me back in the living room.

It’s the divorce, he says. Kids take it a lot of different ways.

This isn’t the worst one, I say. Trust me.

He hasn’t talked about it since he started staying with me.

Just hug him every once in a while. Make him feel seen.

That’s the thing. I don’t think he wants that.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a say. Ignoring him is the one thing you can do wrong.

And then the two of us sit there in silence.

I wonder if we’re thinking the same thing.

There’s a pair of work shoes by the door, and also a child’s sneakers, and also mine. They’re followed by six pairs of sandals, bear-size, all of them frail at the toes.

Wait, says Omar, you brought food.

You can cook! says Omar.

A friend made it, I say.

A friend, says Omar.

A friend, I say.

If you say so.

Trust me.

Well, says Omar, should we eat it now?

And then he says, Maybe this could be that date, you know?

It comes out boyishly, as if Omar isn’t entirely sure. Then he crosses his legs on the sofa. He props up an arm, looking objectively ridiculous.

Honestly, I say, you should save the food for Ahmad.

He’ll be hungry, I say, and the words feel like weights in my mouth.

He won’t eat it, says Omar. No offense, but it’s french fries or bust with him.

I should go, I say, because of course I really should, and then I start to stand, because that’s where gravity’s leading me, and then, out of nowhere, for no reason at all, or maybe for every reason that’s already clearly presented itself, Omar leans over and kisses me.

It’s brief. Just lip to lip.

There’s this smooshing sound, like we’ve just shucked an oyster.

And then, Omar’s sitting again. Hands in his lap like he’s been scolded.

I say, Ha.

I say, I should still go.

And then I stand up.

And then I grab my shoes.

And then I am gone.



* * *





I’ve literally just parked by the apartment when my cell rings.

Ben, says Mike.

Godfuckingdammit, I say.



* * *





It’s been a minute, says Mike.

I agree that it has.

One of our Black neighbors is sitting on her porch. She’s rocking in her chair, watching the streetlights flicker. The block’s quiet, for once, and the mosquitoes are out, and the woman swats her elbows from time to time, wiping her mouth with the crook of her arm.

Well, I say to Mike.

How are things, I ask. Are you at your father’s?

I am, says Mike. Or we were. We’re out now. Took a little trip.

He’s not doing well, says Mike.

I’m sorry, I say.

And instead of Mike’s usual You Didn’t Do It, or his You Don’t Have to Say That, he just says, Thank you.

That’s when I understand.

But how’s my mother, says Mike.

Just lovely, I say. Still adjusting to our shared proximity.

That’s what she told me.

Go figure.

But it’s a compliment, says Mike. Could be worse. Ma says you’ve been cooking.

We play house together, yes.

I can’t even imagine it.

Just because the neighborhood’s snoring, that doesn’t mean it’s asleep. There’s a house party going on a few houses down. Some whitegirls stumble onto a lawn, laughing with red Solo cups. They glance back at the door they came from, and one of them covers her mouth, and her friend latches on to her shoulders, balancing them upright.