Memorial(24)

I want to say that I had, and he was too drunk to see it.

Or that it wasn’t just his house.

I taste the words and swallow them.

Who’s he, I say.

You know, says my father.

I really don’t.

Your beau. The nigga you’re shacking up with.

You don’t know what you’re talking about.

Lydia told me, says my father, but we don’t have to talk about that.

One dude on-screen drives his car off a bridge. It explodes in midair. A group below him gasps.

You’ve been talking to Lydia?

All of my children have found me in my time of need. You’ve all panned out.

Then why am I here, I say.

My father only shrugs, and then he nods at the television.

There’s an ad for a weight that shakes you into some semblance of fitness. The man on the screen doesn’t do much; he holds it and sits. But he already looks healthier, happier, better.





28.



Omar drops off his brother and asks to speak to me. Ximena overhears, shooting me a look, but she doesn’t say anything about it.

Before I can open my mouth, he says, I just wanted to apologize.

You have nothing to be sorry for, I say.

I didn’t know, he starts, and I cut him off.

You’re right, I say. You didn’t. Water under the bridge.

So it’s just sitting there, says Omar.

Waiting for a current, I say.

Truce? says Omar.

We shake on it.





29.



I watch Mitsuko crack an egg with her palm in the kitchen. I think it’s a fluke, but then she does it again.

Wait, I say. Wait!

What, says Mitsuko.

How did you do that?

Do what?

Mitsuko gives me this look like she’s entirely exasperated. But then she does it again, executing the cleanest of breaks.





30.



A few days before the reception, I get a call from Omar.

He says, What the hell do people wear to these things?

Suits, I say, but this isn’t really a wedding.

That’s what I keep hearing.

It’s the truth.

But if we don’t treat it like one, says Omar, are they still married?

Of course, I say, although I don’t know how sure I sound.

So I say it again.

Awesome, says Omar. Thanks.

I’m going now, he says.

But he lingers on the phone. And I don’t hang up either.

Hey, he says, listen. I’m sorry.

We talked about this, I say.

But I am, says Omar. I didn’t know.

Or I only sort of knew, he says. Ximena sort of told me.

But you didn’t know know, I say. Not from me.

Right, says Omar. And now I do.

Then it’s all right, I say.

Isn’t that what they say? I add. That you’ve gotta try to find out for sure?

That only works for white people, says Omar.

We don’t have to tell any of them, I say.

Right, says Omar. It’ll be our secret.





31.



I text Mike in the evening, thinking he’ll just be starting his day, after Mitsuko and I finish an elaborate collaboration: udon cooked in a hot pot, beside abura-age and kamaboko and spinach and two chicken legs.

When Mitsuko cracks an egg into the pot, tasting a spoonful, she actually doesn’t grimace.

It’s edible, she says.

Really?

Really.

Once we’ve brought everything below a simmer, I take some photos. All of them are blurry. But when I send them to Mike, he responds immediately.

Nice! he says.

Mike has never, not once, used an exclamation point in our correspondence. Ever. He’s not one of those people.

I ask if he’s all right.

The next message he sends takes a little longer to arrive.

I’ll call soon, he says.

Everything will be OK, he says.

I promise, he says, and that’s what I take to sleep with me.



* * *




? ? ?

Mike’s never promised me anything. Only delivered or didn’t. He always said that promises were only words, and words only meant what you made them.



* * *




? ? ?

It’s late when I hear the front lock jiggling.

I slip on basketball shorts, some sandals, and dip into the living room. Mitsuko’s sliding into a jacket and her pair of graying sneakers. She gives me a look when I cough in the hallway.

You can come, she says, but keep your mouth shut.



* * *





We walk from the apartment to the next street over, and then a few blocks more. The air is mild for Houston. A little too crisp for February. Plodding behind Mitsuko on the sidewalk, I wonder what we look like to anyone peeking from their windows.

Eventually, we stop in front of what looks like a church. Something something Methodist. I look at Mitsuko, and then at the signage, and she waves me over to the building’s entrance, which is unlocked.

There’s a light on by the pulpit, but otherwise the altar’s empty. The aisles are cleared. The seats are clean. The church’s windows are stained with various highlights from the Old Testament.