Memorial(40)

The neighborhood was quiet. All you could see were the tops of houses. And then there was the moon in the sky, bare up there, something you’d never catch in Houston, and Eiju cracked open our beers, leaned on the railing, and I already knew how the conversation would go: He’d ask how long I was staying. I’d say I wasn’t leaving him the way that he left us, and Eiju’d reject that statement, cursing me for it, swearing that I deserved it, or that Ma deserved it, or that we deserved each other, and then I’d leave him to himself on this balcony in his bar, and I’d make the walk back to his apartment, in this city that I didn’t know, on this fucking island that was both mine mine mine mine mine mine mine and the furthest thing from anything I’d ever known, but what I did know is that I’d pack my bags, stuffing everything back into the tiny fucking duffel, bringing this whole misguided fucking trip to an end.

I knew that this would happen, because I knew how Eiju argued.

Because I knew Eiju.

Because I was still the fucker’s son.

When I opened my mouth to start us off, he put a finger to his lips.

Do you hear anything familiar, he said. Anything you might recognize?

I shut myself up. Despite everything, I strained my ears.

But there was nothing to listen to.

So we stood there, listening to nothing.

As if he’d heard my thoughts, Eiju said, Silence is a sound.

You’ll miss it when it’s gone, he said, drinking.

I’ll miss it when it’s gone, he said.

Or maybe it’ll all be silence, he said. I don’t know if that’s something to look forward to. Maybe I’ll still be able to listen.

Eiju took another pull from his beer. He glanced at me.

Maybe, I said.

Probably not, said Eiju.

He said, The bar’s still gonna be here. I know I haven’t given you much. I’m aware. But it’s yours if you want it.

Oh, I said.

Wait, said Eiju. Hear me out.

If you don’t take it, he said, I’m giving it to Kunihiko. He’s young, but he knows what he’s doing. I know he’ll treat it well. It’ll be in good hands.

And you don’t know what the hell I’d do with it, I said.

I don’t, said Eiju. Because I don’t know you. I really, truly don’t. But you’re my son, and what you do with it would be for you to decide. If you put your mind to it, I think you’d probably do all right. And if you decided to fuck me one last time, you’d make a nice chunk giving up the property.

The two of us leaned on the balcony. Couples walked quietly down the side streets below. Stray bikers pulled into the road, dodging deliverymen on mopeds, and some young women walked home by themselves, clacking in heels down the steps toward the local station.

Eiju said my name, and I ignored him. Then he called me by my Japanese name.

Don’t fucking do that, I said.

That isn’t your name anymore?

It isn’t yours to spit out like I’m a fucking kid.

But you are my kid, said Eiju. And that’s your name.

It’s a little late for you to come back around to that, I said.

And then we were silent again. Osaka continued to unwind underneath us. My father and I watched a salary dude sprint after a bus, which he’d missed. But then the bus stopped, and the man climbed inside it, laughing and waving his hands.

You’ll have a little while to decide, said Eiju. The rent will be paid for the first six months afterward.

Afterward, I said.

Afterward, said Eiju. You can make arrangements in America and fly back, if that’s what you need to do.

It doesn’t matter to me what you choose, said Eiju.

Sure it does, I said. Or you wouldn’t be telling me this.

Don’t be simple, said Eiju. I’m saying that I know it’s a choice. But I want you to know that it’s there. That this is an option. That’s the important thing.

Once he’d finished, Eiju exhaled, shivering a little. He turned his body toward mine, tapping at his bottle. I knew it was my turn to say something.

I didn’t tell him not to give up so easily, because he’d already made his decision.

I didn’t tell him that we didn’t know he was going to die, because everyone dies.

I didn’t ask him why he’d already given up, because I didn’t need to know.

I didn’t tell him that it was too little too late, that forgiveness isn’t something you just hand out whenever you feel like it.

I said, Okay.



* * *





A car alarm popped off behind us, breaking the quiet. I nodded, for no reason at all, and Eiju did, too. He watched me drink, silently, and he started to open his mouth, and I started to open mine, but then Kunihiko yelped from the bar.

Eiju gave me a look, like, What can you do? Then he turned around, yelling the kid’s name, heading back inside, already gone.



* * *




? ? ?

Ma was the one who told me he was sick. We hadn’t spoken in weeks, not even our usual check-ins, and those had only lasted something like twenty seconds apiece. She told me she’d been busy with work. I’d been busy with Ben. We’d been too busy for each other.

But this time, my mother called.

We talked.

After Ma said the words, she lingered on the phone.