“Damn! I promised myself I wouldn’t do this!”
“It’s okay, Gran.”
“No! It’s not. IT’S NOT OKAY! TEARS CAN’T RAISE THE DEAD!” She clears her throat, stands, speaks into the fridge. “If your grandfather comes in and finds us crying — we’ve got to be strong for him.”
“That’s the Gallo-Way,” I say, wondering for the zillionth time whether everyone’s family has such lame jokes.
“I miss him, Gran.” It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud.
“We all miss him, Evan. That’s the reason I wanted you to have something. Something of his.
“A key? Gee, thanks.”
“Not just the key, Smarty-pants.” She dabs the corner of her mouth, surprised at the smile there. “Come with me.”
I follow Gran down the narrow hall to the guest room. It was Dad’s bedroom as a boy, and again, before he died. He moved back in during the trial separation that became way permanent. I avoid eyes staring from old school portraits lining the wall. A glance: Auntie Ro, front-toothless, lavender hair band — Grade 3. Next, Aunt Reg, crooked glasses on crooked nose, same wide open smile as always. Finally, a picture of Dad, about age nine. He’s got a scab on his forehead. Very large ears. And a telltale redness around his eyes. Why was he crying?
“Evan.” Gran’s voice is like an alarm clock through a thick dream.
“Yeah, Gran?”
“I know. It’s almost like looking in a mirror, isn’t it? Thank goodness, you have your mother’s ears, but you’re definitely your father’s son.”
Terrific, I think.
“Well, let’s take a look-see.”
Following Gran into the room where Dad grew up, I’m hit with a mix of feelings. This is so wrong. Dolls. There are dolls everywhere, staring from shelves, peering from the floor, pale-faced dolls with big hats, bigger pouts. And floral wallpaper, rugs, pillows, curtains, quilt, and lampshades. It’s like someone vomited Laura Ashley. I cannot believe my father’s final weeks were spent lying on a daybed surrounded by frills. That alone is tragic. Why’d she bring me in here? To show me the décor that pushed him over the edge?
Then I notice it: the one object so totally out of place, it has to be his.
“Evan, help me, would you? Your grandfather nearly ruptured himself dragging this up from the cellar.”
“Sure, Gran. Is this my legacy?”
“Ooh, you’re clever. This is what I want to give you, yes. I don’t know from legacy.”
As I drag the footlocker past the wicker rocker, I snag the hooked rug, toppling a dolly.
“Careful, Evan! Don’t be a bull! You’re just like your father!”
I wince. “Sorry, Gran. What’s inside?”
She runs a hand across the scratched lid, her thick nails tapping the burnt-orange surface, and briefly fingers the brass lock. “Find out.”
“You mean you haven’t opened it?”
“That’s your job, Junior. It’s just old things, his school trunk, from Sebastian’s. I thought it’d be fun for you to have. Who knows, maybe he hid a fortune in here.”
“Well, if he did, I’ll split it with you.”
“No, honey, whatever he left in there is yours now.”
“Thanks for the early birthday present, Gran … He loved you, you know.”
“It’s nearly four, it’ll be pitch dark soon. God, I hate January! Let’s wake your Gramp and have some cake. Then we’d better get you home. They’re saying snow.”
I wave as they pull slowly from the curb, then slide the footlocker over snow-dusted grass. “It’s just old things.” But what? Secrets, answers? In my room, I shove the trunk to the back of my closet, afraid to know. Flopping on the bed, I open my fist. In it, I hold the key.
Yesterday was January 19th.
That makes today the 20th. Okay duh, what I mean is, today would’ve been my father’s birthday. It’s funny. I woke up sweating at 3:18, panicked, thinking HOLY CRAP! I forgot to get Dad’s present! It took several minutes blinking at predawn blackness for reality to come tap-tap-tapping on my windowpane.
Once it did, I thought, Whoa, this year, it’d be especially tough to find him the perfect gift. I mean, what do you get for the dead guy who has everything? I guess I could pick up a little something for the cemetery, to jazz things up a bit. Maybe a “World’s Greatest Dad” magnet to put next to his name. I wonder if a magnet would stick?
See, my dad’s in a drawer. Maybe it’s just me, but I find that way worse than a hole in the ground. It just totally lacks the permanence of six feet of earth. You can see the mausoleum from the road where I wait for the bus every morning. It rises, like a ziggurat on the hillside, looking all mysterious and exotic, like some reject from EPCOT.
I never knew what to expect from a mausoleum; had no reason to think about it, ’til last year. I figured it’d be like a museum or something inside: cool, dark, whisper-quiet. Formal, with stained glass. But, it’s not like that at all. First off, it’s roofless, so there really isn’t an inside. The structure’s open to the sky, with outer walls surrounding an area like a patio — minus the barbeque. You descend into it, along this winding sidewalk.
When they wheeled him down, I swear, all I could think of was the Winter Olympics: one-man bobsled, his coffin picking up speed, ricocheting off walls, shooting sparks. I had to bite my cheek to keep from yelling, “Go, Dad, go!”
Once you hit bottom, the center of the maze, you’re surrounded by these sky-high walls. You face west toward normalcy. There’s a sliver of a view of the valley: houses, trees, the DB Mart on the corner of Edgewood and Aurora Avenues.
Then you study the walls covered with names and dates.
At first, it seems like they’re just plaques. Until you notice the handles. Fact is, it’s more like a giant filing cabinet than anything else. The funeral guy slides one open, and you realize it’s your dad’s new home. Too bizarre, as if you could drop by anytime, pop the latch, and there he’d be. It’s creepy, like keeping your father in a giant crisper drawer.
I had a hunch I’d be feeling morbid. Today clearly won’t be a typical, birthday type of day. To begin with, we’re heading to Mass first thing. Aunt Ro, in her infinite wisdom, thought a birthday remembrance would be just the thing to “help us soldier on through our grief.” She actually said that! I can hardly wait. I mean nothing against the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost. I’m just not exactly overjoyed at hauling out all these feelings on a cold Monday morning.
His birthday would’ve been tough enough without having to face the relatives, the friends, the blue-haired flock of daily Mass attendees. I’d anticipated a regular school day with its mundane distractions, even planned to hit chapel during study hall. Maybe I would’ve gotten a Peggy Lawton brownie at lunch in his honor. Now, instead of waiting for the bus, uniformed, backpacked, I’m here in the kitchen, wearing my funeral suit, contemplating a mound of pancakes and rough seas ahead.
“Evan, sweetie, finish your breakfast. It’s quarter to seven! They’ll be here soon.”
I don’t know how she can sound so perky, given the hour and the circumstance, but that’s my mother. She could stand on ceremony, even if her feet were repossessed.
“Okay, I’m done.” I down a last gulp of milk. “Sure you want to do this, Mom?”
“Do what, honey?”
“Ma! This whole Mass thing. What’d you think I meant, the dishes?”
“Tone, Junior. This is not an easy day for me either.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me Junior anymore, Mom. I never really was one, anyway.”
“Finish up. They’ll be here in ten minutes; your grandmother is always early.”
We’re going to Mass with Gramp and Gran. Should be a ride to remember. Gran hasn’t spoken to Mom much since the suicide. I suppose the fact that each blames the other isn’t exactly a chat motivator. Although Mom hasn’t spoken much to me either, not about Dad. She seems to be spinning this mom-cocoon.
It’s l
ike she thinks, by serving on enough committees, baking enough muffins, reading enough books to the blind, and perpetually vacuuming, she can make people forget her husband chose death over her. Or maybe she’s trying to forget, who knows?
As we wait for the silver Pontiac to materialize from the mist, I chip at the slush pile with the toe of my wingtip. Minutes pass. Ears tingling from the frigid air, I shift foot-to-foot, clapping gloved hands, exhaling clouds.
Mom bears the cold in silence, maybe because it matches what she’s become inside.
“God, it’s, like, arctic out here!” I chatter. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“I’m okay. Go in the garage, if you can’t stand it.”
“I can take it, if you can. Besides, I want to stay with you.”
She smiles.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Ev?”
“Why?” I try to put my arm around her shoulder.
She shrugs me off, pretend-searches in her purse. “Why what, dear?”
I hesitate, unable to spit out the words. Why does she need to hear them, when she knows damn well what I’m asking?
“Dad. Why do you think he … ?
“Here come your grandparents. No more of this.” She smoothes my eyebrow with her thumb — a maternal affection shortcut — and steps to the curb.
The Bonneville appears, a boxy, metallic ghost. Gramp glides to a stop, spraying a fine slush over our feet. As he lowers the window, an AM talk caller brays about welfare mothers. Gran switches off the radio, cradling a cardboard cup, mega-size. Java and memories sustain them now.
“Hop in, Sport. You look like you’re freezin’ your nuts off.”
“Fred!” Gran always pretends to be shocked by him.
“Katherine, top o’ the morning.”
“Good morning, Fred. Maureen.”
Gran nods, smiles vaguely. “Hello, Katherine. How are you, Junior, okay? Find any treasure?” She winks.
“Not yet, Gran. We’ll see.”
Mom looks at me quizzically, then back to Gran. Sinking into the backseat, I close my eyes as Gramp navigates the icy hills to Saint Anne’s.
I was an altar boy in middle school.
Served up through freshman year, in fact. I loved it: the solemnity of the Mass, the miracle of communion. I even considered being a priest for a while. It seemed cool to have that level of communication with God. Working for Him and helping people seemed magical.
But I doubted my capacity for such devotion: no sex, no family, no house, no stuff. Seemed like a tough road. I decided to talk to Father Greg about my possible calling. He was new to our parish, and I guess to the priesthood; in his late twenties, he wore Dockers.
I lingered in the vestibule after Mass, one Sunday in October.
“Father Greg?”
He was hanging vestments, shutting lights, closing shop. “Evan, what’s the scoop?”
“I wondered about you. I mean, about being like you, a priest,” I said, uncharacteristically inarticulate.
“Wow, Ev! That’s something! How long you been thinking about this?”
“Oh, a while, I guess. Do you like it?”
“Well, I’m not in it for the money, that’s for sure.”
“How’d you know it was definitely what you were meant to do?”
“Easy. It’s like love, Evan. You just, ultimately, know when the right one comes along.”
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t help much, does it?” He grinned.
“Well, it’s a pretty parentish thing to say.”
“Hey, they don’t call me Father for nothing!” he said, doing a decent Groucho Marx.
“It’s just, I don’t know if I’m perfect enough to do what you do.”
“If you judge yourself against God’s perfection, you can never hope to measure up, Evan. But God made you, so you have the potential to be pretty great. Look, we just have to live up to His plan for us — not always an easy task.”
“I guess I’m having some trouble unraveling His plan for me.”
“Aren’t we all, Evan? Aren’t we all? Talk to Him, trust Him. You’ll find your way.”
Not long after that conversation, Father Greg left Saint Anne’s. I ran into him about four months later at Big Y. He wasn’t wearing his collar. I called across the produce section, “Hey, Father Greg!”
“Evan Galloway, my favorite altar boy! What’s the scoop?”
“Father, I was just — ”
“It’s not Father anymore, Evan, just plain old Greg.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” That had to be a dumb thing to say.
“Don’t be; I’m not. Turns out, I was trying to live up to the wrong plan,” he said, a half-smile crossing his lips. “Well, I should go, Evan. Good to see you.” He placed a container of grape tomatoes in his cart, touched my shoulder, and wheeled off, beyond Baked Goods.
I started to walk away, sensing the world had slipped on its axis, just enough to feel it. What’d it mean, exactly? What about all the Masses he’d said, the Last Rites, the weddings? Were they somehow voided because he was now “just plain old Greg”? The sins I’d confessed in the darkness, did they still hang over my soul? But that was stupid, right? I just didn’t know. And that advice: “Talk to Him, trust Him. You’ll find your way.” Yeah, right, it had worked great for him.
That summer I quit serving Mass. I told our pastor sophomore year was bound to be really busy. Besides, I was outgrowing the altar robes. Most of the other servers were, like, nine or ten years old. It just wasn’t for me anymore. But I still went to Mass. And I confessed all the old sins, the ones I could remember, anyhow. Just in case.
It’s amazing how many people turn out for your birthday, after you’re dead.
I mean, my family’s always celebrated in an unassuming way: Cake, presents, the obligatory, off-key serenade; that’s the extent. And it’s always been just family: Gran, Gramp, maybe the Aunties, Mom, Dad, and me.
Today is totally out of control. The church lot’s packed; it has this traffic jam, clearance sale, parish carnival energy. Are they seriously expecting the guest of honor to show? Not likely; the crisper was locked tight this morning. I know because we swung by before Mass to say “Howdy.” I didn’t take him that magnet. We did leave balloons, Gran’s idea.
The church teems; it’s like everyone he ever met is here. I haven’t seen some of these people since the funeral; it’s mourner’s déjà vu. Same faces, same somber outfits, even the condolences are reruns. They each want to touch me, shake my hand, gauge my grief. Luckily, the intensity level’s scaled back, weeping and wailing distilled to their melancholy essence, like they’re finally resigned to the truth of his absence.
Father Lessard asked me to read. It’s strange because, ordinarily, I wouldn’t have wanted any part of that. That’s another thing I liked about being an altar boy: no lines. But Dad was a lector at Saint Anne’s: Vigil Mass, 4:00 P.M., Saturdays. Everyone says they loved how he “brought meaning to the words.” So I figure this could be like a present, my tribute to him. And it’s weird, I’m not nervous at all.
Sitting up on the altar, I scan the assembly, remembering stuff, little details, about Dad and the people here. Dancing the Alley Cat at some wedding with Great-Aunt Lucille. Discussing Impressionist art with Mr. Ayotte, the mailman. Mock-arguing with Mrs. Pinto about the merits of mulch. Seeing him in their faces, it’s like he really is here, after all. I feel close to him, maybe closer than before he was gone, swaddled in memory.
Suddenly, it’s time to read. At the podium, I sense Mom’s eyes on me; she nods slightly, hand on her heart. I adjust the microphone — like I’ve seen my father do a million times — and look down at the missalette. For a moment, I’m sure it’s printed in a foreign language; words backstroke across the page. I blink hard and look out. The crowd’s frozen, a painted backdrop. Clearing my throat, I stare at the book and begin.
After Mass, we meet at Alberti’s for brunch.
It was my dad’s favorite, a litt
le, family-run, Italian place. I’m surprised, yet again, by the rituals of grieving. Apparently, cannoli plays an essential role in the healing process; the mood’s visibly brighter after the dessert cart makes the rounds. I’m sipping a second cup of espresso, savoring it and the fact that things have gone so smoothly, when it begins.
“ — because you never put him first! That’s why!” Gran’s voice rises and breaks.
Forks stop midway to mouths; heads turn.
“How dare you accuse me? You can delude yourself as much as you please, Maureen, but don’t you try to pin it on me!” Mom shrills.
“Girls, girls, behave.” Gramp attempts a chuckling intervention.
But there’s no stopping. It’s full-steam toward an emotional train wreck.
“All I know is my son is dead! You drove him out, and now he’s gone!”
“I drove him out? As if I had any control over his decisions! He lived to please you people; Evan and I were afterthoughts! Your apron strings choked the life out of him, left my son fatherless!”
“MOM! STOP!”
She recoils, like I’ve hit her. Then she’s leaving, stunned silence in her wake.
Gran chokes out a sob, sits down hard. Gramp holds her. All eyes are on me, naked, powerless. What do they want? An apology, an explanation? In a quavering tenor, I sing.
“Happy Birthday, Dear Da-ad.
Happy Birthday to You.”
Not surprisingly, no one joins in.
When my aunts find me in Alberti’s walk-in, I explain I just needed to cool off. They like that. Auntie Ro says, “It’s emotionally very healthy that you can find some humor in the situation.” Aunt Reg just hugs me.
They tell me Mom took a taxi home; she asked them to drop me. Gramp’s taken Gran to a matinee; no lie. I guess they haven’t had enough drama for one day. Or, more likely, they couldn’t face going home. It must be hard for them, being in the house where he did it. You can’t avoid the attic forever.
The Namesake Page 2
