Memorial(22)
Hey, I say, when are you coming home?
Scattered voices slip through the phone, and also the sound of motion. For Mike, it’s midday.
That’s the question, isn’t it, says Mike.
It is.
Mike asks if I want him to come back, and I don’t say a word.
We’re both silent. Both holding the line.
I owe him a lot, says Mike.
Not everything, he says. But I think I should see him through this, you know?
I know, I say.
So when he’s gone, says Mike, I’ll come back.
When he’s gone, I say, you’ll come back.
The whitegirls up the road stumble into the grass, laughing all over each other. The streetlights keep flickering. A chill settles in. And our neighbor, as if snapping out of a reverie, smiles and waves my way, putting her whole shoulder into it.
And you, says Mike. How are you doing?
The other day I saw a pigeon fly away with some cash, I say.
Go figure. It’s probably for booze.
You think so?
Duh, says Mike. Don’t overthink it.
* * *
I shut the door behind me as quietly as I can, but Mitsuko’s already asleep on the sofa.
There’s a bowl of rice on the counter, covered with a paper towel. It’s still a little warm.
23.
One day, Mike asked me what I wanted. This happened a few months back. Before the photo. We were standing beside a taco truck in the Heights, since Mike had driven by it, and he’d noticed me staring, admiring the sign, and just like that he turned the car around. It was the most spontaneous thing we’d done in a while.
A guy and this lady stood on the other side of the window. The man leaned over the stove, beside the space heater, and his partner played with their credit card reader. When Mike and I ordered in Spanish, her eyes sort of fluttered, but then she smiled, and we waited for our food under a flock of trees. It was winter. They were dying.
This should fill me up, I said.
That’s not what I mean, said Mike.
Then what do you mean?
Like, what do you want?
I looked at the truck. A little bit of steam slipped through the windows, and it teetered from the breeze.
I mean, I’m fine right now, I said.
Okay, said Mike.
I don’t need kids, if that’s what you’re asking.
I’m a fat Asian gay, so I wouldn’t be able to help you there.
Exactly, I said. Or not exactly. You know what I mean.
Not sure if I do, said Mike.
I’m saying I don’t need a ring. We don’t even need to be exclusive. I’m okay.
I want you to be better than okay.
Then learn to code. Make us some money.
I’m being serious, said Mike, and when I saw his face, I knew that he was.
He shuffled around with his hands in his hoodie, stepping all over the leaves. They cracked underneath his sneakers, and then mine, until we’d formed a crooked graveyard of their stems.
Look, I said. Okay is good. All right is good. Most people don’t get more than that. That’s a myth.
I don’t think it has to be, said Mike.
If something happens, it happens. We’ll deal with it.
That’s what everyone thinks until the thing actually happens.
You’re good enough for me, I said. Our situation is good enough for me. And everything that comes with it.
So you’re saying you don’t know what you want, said Mike.
I think you’re making a problem where there isn’t one.
But, said Mike, and that’s when the lady called us over from her truck.
She handed us our sack, smiling. Mike tipped her a five-dollar bill. She told us to be well, and I told her we’d try, but Mike had already started walking back to the car, already stuffing his face.
24.
At work, we watch the kids climb each other’s backs like mountain lions. They make it to three levels before they topple. And on the gravel, they point fingers, make blame, and complain—but then they brush their hands, steadying themselves for another go.
* * *
Ximena schools me on the reception’s venue. She and Noah chose a taquería on Airline that they eat at all the time. They’re planning for a mariachi band, and a fuck-ton of sombreros, and Ximena’s mother disapproved until she learned the groom’s family was paying for it.
Now it’s all smiles, says Ximena. Suggestions. Gentle critiques.
She asks if Mike will be back in time. I tell her I don’t know.
Let me know, she says, so I can warn the bartenders.
* * *
Eventually, the kids have built an unsteady sort of tower. Marcos, the child on top, raises his hands in triumph.
Ximena and I clap, and clap, and clap.
* * *
I spot Omar when he picks up Ahmad. He basically pivots his whole body to avoid making eye contact, but he lingers to talk to Ximena.
Later, once he’s left, she asks me what’s wrong.
Why does something always have to be wrong, I say.
It doesn’t, says Ximena. That’s why I’m asking.