Memorial(42)

Eiju was entirely inhospitable with these folks. Kunihiko did his best, but his English sucked. His boss sent him off on errands whenever they came through. Mieko would call Eiju bigoted, and Takeshi called him an asshat, and Eiju said that had nothing to do with anything, and he wouldn’t tell them why he acted the way he did, but of course I fucking knew.

So they became my responsibility. All of the people passing through. The second I spoke a lick of English, the Americans locked on to me, slapping my shoulder, getting all excited, telling me my English was so good, and was I from Los Angeles or San Francisco or Portland or Brooklyn and why was I in Japan and tossing high-fives and thanking me. Eiju would disappear, claiming he needed a cigarette. Sometimes, he’d just leave, silently, immediately. None of the other patrons said anything about it. But they didn’t have to. I got it. There was a degree of separation, this sort of wall that popped up, because I was one of them, but I wasn’t, and I never would be, and that’s just how it was.

But I dealt with them. This was never something Eiju and I talked about or decided or anything like that. Shit was just easier that way.



* * *





One afternoon, Eiju woke up feeling weak, stumbling all over the living room, kicking away my futon. I asked if he had a problem, and he groaned, stumbling back into bed. He stood to make some tea and changed his mind after he’d steeped it. Once he’d dropped his mug on the tile, I told him to take the night off, to just stay inside.

You’re drained, I said. Go back to sleep.

Bullshit, said Eiju. Don’t talk to me like you know how I’m doing.

And that’s when Eiju grabbed his stomach. I followed as he hobbled toward the bathroom, and my father barely made it to the toilet before he started dry-heaving, knees spread on the tile.

It’d been happening for a few days now. Sparingly. Just enough to say the tide on his illness wasn’t turning.

The second time, I’d called Taro in the middle of the night. He showed up like fifteen minutes later. And he stood, watching over Eiju, rubbing his back, asking me if anything else had been amiss. Had Eiju been finishing his meals? Was he having diarrhea? Sudden loss of control in his joints? Or did he ever feel his legs going out from under him or did he— At that, Eiju turned around to smile at his friend.

It’s all of the above, he said, but it’s not as bad as all that.

And Eiju grinned again before he yakked all over the floor.



* * *





We’d already put my father in bed, watching him snore from the doorway, before Taro walked me out to the living room. I asked if he wanted anything to eat, and he surprised me by saying yes.

There was some udon left in the fridge. I set a pot to boil, salting the water. Taro sat on my futon until I walked the noodles out, stir-frying them, blanketed by some broth-covered tofu, and crowded around some scallions.

Sorry, I said. This was all we had around.

You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, said Taro, already chewing.

All of this is normal, he said. Everything with your father. It’s all expected.

Expected for death, you mean, I said.

Expected for a man in Eiju’s condition refusing medicine, yes.

Cross-legged on the floor, in a hoodie and slacks, Taro was a handsome guy. Most of his hair had slipped into a shining gray. Slithers of black jutted in between. A patch of skin glowed from his waist, by his hip, between his shirt and his pants, and I tried not to stare, and I put the thought away.

And yet.

Still.

It’d been a few weeks.

I let Taro eat a bit before I asked what I could do. He poked the scallions with his chopsticks, stuffing a fingerful into his mouth, and he looked at me, a little pityingly, I think, with this smile that said, What could you possibly do? But he was gracious enough not to say it.

He scooped more udon instead.

Just stick with the usual routine, he said. No big trips. Nothing that’ll exert him too much. But your father should listen to his body, now more than ever. If it tells him to sit, he needs to sit. If it tells him to lie down, Eiju should do that.

I should tell a dying man to spend his last days in bed.

You should tell your father to take care of himself, said Taro. That’s what we’re here for. At this point, it’s all we can do.

Well, I said. Thanks for coming.

My pleasure, said Taro, grinning, and there was something in his grin, and for a moment, I felt warm, from my cheeks to my toes, and the air in the room felt electric.

So, I said, and Taro raised a palm.

I hate to ask you this, he said, but is there any more udon?



* * *





The night I convinced Eiju to stay home, I met Tan.

The bar was mostly empty. It was the beginning of the workweek, and I told Eiju he wouldn’t be missing out on anything. I’d hold down the fort, or whatever, just for one night, because it’s the only thing that made sense—it simply needed to happen—and before Eiju could protest or pick a fight or anything like that, he started coughing on his mattress, and he settled back into his pillow.

Our cops don’t carry guns, he said, so if you’re robbed give them the money.

Nobody’s gonna rob me, I said.

You never know.

I know.

If there’s a fire, the extinguisher’s broken. You’ll have to blow it out. But that shouldn’t be a problem for you.