Memorial(57)

I couldn’t make out his body at first, but Kunihiko was sitting on the railing. He held his head in his hands. He had a cigarette in a fist, burning at the tip, but I didn’t even know that he smoked.

When he saw me, he stood.

Where the fuck were you, he said.

Around, I said. Why?

You should’ve fucking been here, he said.

What?

We sent him to the fucking hospital, he said. Where the fuck were you?

Through the windows, the bar looked empty. Kunihiko must’ve kicked everyone out, shut everything down. I allowed myself to wonder if he’d washed the dishes before he locked up.

Then, I gave Kunihiko the most honest answer I could: I don’t know.



* * *




? ? ?

Whenever I made it back home after my shift at the gas station, or from fucking around out in the world, Ma’d be cooking rice with miso soup or beef and potatoes or mushrooms simmered in dashi over chicken by the stove, always after a full day of her own work. I didn’t have the grades for college, and of course we didn’t have the money to make that happen without them. Ma’d tried reaching out to Eiju about cash, once, after I’d told her not to, after I’d thrown a mug across the kitchen in protest, but she said it wasn’t my choice, Eiju owed that to me, and I didn’t get to refuse, and also we probably wouldn’t hear back from him anyways and even if we did, he probably wouldn’t have the funds, so, knowing that, why not at least try, and Ma was absolutely right because we didn’t fucking hear shit.



* * *





So that’s how we lived: I fucked around. Sold cigarettes and gum and brown-bagged beer and sacks of ice. Ma sold jewelry. I fucked around some more. I didn’t realize it, but Ma was biding her time. And she sat up for me after work, and we ate at the table together, not saying much of anything, kicking our feet underneath it, with our heels hardly grazing, but still. Afterward, I’d wash the dishes. We’d start over the next day.



* * *





Our constellation was, however briefly, restored.



* * *





Ma and I lived that way until I moved out, right before she took off. We talked when we could, but I just couldn’t put it out of my head: she’d gone and left me and flown all the way back to fucking Japan.



* * *




? ? ?

One day, right before I left for Osaka, during one of our worst fights, I told Ben the world didn’t owe him shit. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

At this point, we only touched each other to fuck: he’d set a hand on my shoulder, or I’d lean on him in the kitchen, and we’d make it happen right there, wordlessly, gruffly, and the moment we finished we’d go back to whatever other shit we’d been doing. It wasn’t like I didn’t know what was happening, or that I wanted us to be over, but it just felt like gravity—like I was slowly sinking into something that would eventually happen anyway and I didn’t know how to stop it or turn it around or what.

We stood on opposite sides of the living room. Ben held the doorknob like he was ready to rip it off and throw it at me.

You’re trash, he said.

Great, I said. That’s big of you.

You came from trash, and you’ll always be trash.

And what the fuck do you think that makes you?

That’s my mistake, said Ben, smiling. I fucked up with you.

Right, I said. And now you’ll just go back home, right? To fucking Katy? To your fucking money? Is that your plan? Do you even fucking have a plan?

You can go fuck yourself, Michael. Just fucking go away.

I should. That way someone can do it the way I want them to.

Really. Go fuck yourself.

And you’re obviously the best judge of that, right, Benson? Who to fuck and who not to? Worked out really well for you.



* * *





We never talked about Ben’s HIV status. It was just something he had. He took his meds over breakfast and I’d see him do that and that was it. But this was enough to end the argument. He swallowed his words right up, another first between the two of us.

Ben looked hurt, and I knew that I’d hurt him, and I wanted to hug him and apologize, but I couldn’t, so I didn’t.

I watched him step down the hallway, slowly. Heard him gently close the bedroom door.



* * *





That night, I slept on the sofa. Ben slept in our bed.



* * *





The next morning, we didn’t bring it up, and we kept on not doing that.



* * *





The next week, I left the country.

I didn’t know—don’t know—how we’d talk about it if we tried.



* * *





Either way, I didn’t try to find out.



* * *





I left.

Figured he’d be there when I got back.



* * *




? ? ?

Later, I found out that Eiju had collapsed from exhaustion. He’d thrown up in the back of the bar. Kunihiko caught what was happening. The kid dialed 119, but before my father blacked out, he said to call Taro instead, and the doctor showed up ten minutes later, in his pajamas and an overcoat.