The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  “Evan, are you in there?”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’m pretty tired.”

  “Is it any wonder?” A familiar edge creeps in. “When did you finally go to bed, anyway?”

  “Not sure.” I turn away, taking a plate from the drying rack near the sink.

  She tsks me across the oak chef’s island. “You’ve been staying up way too late. In that room with the door shut, doing God-knows-what. It’s not healthy, honey.”

  “Suddenly insomnia’s a friggin’ crime?” I yank open the microwave and grab the pouch, burning my fingers on molten goo. “SHIT!” I fumble it onto the strawberry scatter rug. Snatching a length of paper towel, I squat.

  Mom commences her rant. “Nice language! Listen, I’m serious. It’s going to stop, this staying up ’til all hours. The brooding in your room. You’ll end up sick, for God’s sake. Or worse — like him. Well, I won’t lose you too!”

  “Mom, I’m fine.”

  I try to will her away by concentrating on the rug. Rubbing at the cheese-food-product, I grind it into the plush fibers.

  “No, you are most certainly not fine! You’re up to something, keeping secrets! Do you think I’m blind to what’s going on? Tell me the truth, Evan. Are you taking drugs?”

  I spring to my feet, waling my head on the microwave door. The force makes my teeth clack.

  I snap. “Look! I can’t sleep. Big freaking deal! Did you ever think, maybe, I have a lot on my mind? And, no I’m not on drugs! I didn’t inherit your talent for self-medicating.” A vein pulses at her temple. I move in for the kill. “Yeah, I know all about your Tylenol toddies! But thanks for the intervention, Mommy. I guess you do care!”

  Ignoring her gasp, I slam the microwave; the force knocks a Delft plate from the shelf above the sink. Striking the counter edge, it explodes. We stare at it, then at each other.

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll fix it.”

  “You can’t.” Her voice absolutely flat, barely a sigh, she leaves the kitchen.

  I stoop to survey the damage: a total loss. As I pick up the pieces, I realize it’s her swan plate, an anniversary present from Dad.

  January 20, 1976 (Happy birthday to me!)

  Dear Journal,

  Too bizarre. After the scene with Mom, I headed to the library. I’m in the stacks with his journal, reading Dad’s long-ago scribblings. It feels like trespassing, a familiar feeling being an incestuous Peeping Tom, like when I was nine and caught my mother with her top down.

  She was sunbathing in the backyard when I came out to get my bike. Alexis and I were planning to ride to Gardner Lake to meet her stepdad for waterskiing. I always felt a little unwelcome around Lex’s stepfather, like he resented sharing her. But she’d insisted I come, said it wouldn’t be any fun if it was just the two of them.

  Anyway, as I crossed the yard, the phone rang. Mom sat up to grab it, and her bikini top stuck to the beach chair. Guess she was going for a strapless tan; she’d unhooked.

  She didn’t realize I was there. Frozen midstep, jaw slack, not wanting to look, I was paralyzed by the sight of my mother’s boobies. I mean, I’d never really seen live breasts up close. A classic no-win situation: Move or speak, she’d know I’d seen. Stay put, be caught.

  As Mom talked, they began to sway. It reminded me of this TV hypnotist swinging a pocket watch. He put this guy under, made him do crazy stuff: act like a ballerina, gallop, and moo. It was funny at first, but I wondered how the guy would feel when he saw the show. He couldn’t help it. He was mesmerized — like I was now.

  I stood for what seemed like hours, unable to look away. Finally, bits of Mom’s conversation seeped through my boob-stupor, and I realized she was talking to Lex. That made it even worse. I felt really ashamed. I had to take action.

  As I made a break for the porch, Mom turned to call me to the phone. Our eyes locked, and she made this squeak of sound, like when Gramp sat on my hamster. Then, grabbing for her towel, she dropped the phone and fell off her chair.

  Some other kid’s mom might’ve laughed, or let the moment pass, pretended it didn’t happen — even used the occasion to discuss the importance of breast health. Not mine; she went ape-shit. She started screaming, “You should know better,” like I was a perv in a trench coat. Then she stomped into the porch, slamming the door.

  I picked up the phone; Lex was still on the line. I knew she’d heard. When I asked if she still wanted to go to the lake, she said she thought we’d better not; then she hung up. Mom reappeared, a windbreaker over her bathing suit. She said I was grounded ’til further notice, and Dad would speak with me when he got home.

  He never did, but it was definitely a turning point. Mom acted vaguely uncomfortable around me after that, like she’d impaired my morals. She stopped sitting on my bed to say goodnight, and she insisted I wear a robe at breakfast, when I’d always been a T-shirt and underwear kind of kid.

  It was also around that time she stopped trying to hold my hand crossing the street. That was odd; it’d always seemed like a total instinct, like autopilot. As we stepped off a curb, her fingers would just automatically flex toward mine. Being nearly ten, I’d usually stuff my fist in my pocket. Her hand would flutter for a few seconds, searching. It really annoyed me. But then she stopped, and sometimes I still sort of miss it.

  Wow, poor me. I don’t know where all that came from. Besides, I didn’t come here to think about Mom; I’m Dad-excavating. It’s just, I’m afraid I’m about to see more of my father than I want to. Maybe more than I have a right to. Oh well, what’s life without a little emotional bungee-jumping? Geronimo.

  Dear Journal,

  No idea what to write. Miss Solomon’s making us keep a journal (swore she won’t read it) to “nurture our process” and “explore our thoughts in an evocative way.” (Yeah, right.) I feel pretty dense when she yaps about “creative intent” and “examining our psychical subtext.” HUH?

  Otherwise she’s cool (actually scorching in those ballerina tops). She twirled around my desk today, singing Happy Birthday in French. Father B would not approve. She’s definitely short-term.

  Well, Dad was wrong about that. Miss Solomon’s still here. But now she’s Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs. She’s abandoned leotards in favor of sensible suits. I guess gravity and years of experience finally got the better of her. She’s still a great teacher, though.

  I had Mrs. S-B-C for Myth and Meaning last year. Of all my teachers, she handled Dad’s suicide best. For one thing, she talked to me when I came back, invited me to come to her office if I needed to vent. She also encouraged me to incorporate the loss into my final project, creating my own myth. She said that was the chief function of myth-making: It was “man’s effort to grapple with and tame the unendurable.”

  I took her advice, creating the story of an island kingdom whose monarch ended his life, hurling himself off a cliff into the hungry sea, to save his people from a deadly typhoon. When he hit the water, his body dissolving into silver foam, the storm instantly subsided.

  Each dawn, the king’s children gathered on the shore to mourn. On the seventh day, foam swirled into the glistening form of a sea lion. It drew them into the surf, bestowing a gift on each. To the youngest, it gave a nest of seaweed, for hope. The middle child received a heart-shaped cockle, for love. And the king’s eldest was given a driftwood cross, for strength.

  When the sea lion swam off, singing their father’s lullaby, the children, amazed, returned home with their inheritance. Realizing he hadn’t left them, they accepted their birthright, ruling wisely. Each year on the anniversary of the monarch’s death, the sea lion returned, and the kingdom honored its ruler’s great sacrifice. And never again did the sea threaten the tiny island.

  I did this huge watercolor of the children on the sand, built a topographical map of the kingdom, and sculpted a crest showing the three gifts. For my presentation, I dressed in this robe I wore as the apostle Thomas in the school’s Passion play. I wore a coronet of s
eashells.

  Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs went gaga. I guess any teacher would’ve been impressed, but it seemed truly cathartic for her. When I finished reading my myth, she got up from her desk, applauded, then started bawling. She said, “You have succeeded in transforming pain into parable.” After hugging me, she excused herself and bolted.

  The class gaped. I just stood there, wondering what the heck had happened. She must’ve thought I believed my father had made a noble sacrifice. But he wasn’t heroic, like the king in my myth. And instead of an enchanted pinniped, he’d morphed into a human piñata.

  By the time Mrs. S-B-C returned, the period was almost over. As I started to go, she caught my sleeve. Once the class filed out, she repeated her invitation to stop by. I thanked her. She made this tiny, hiccupping nod when I asked her to keep my illustration. Bet she still has it.

  I did go to her office about a week later to talk. Taped to her door was a note saying, I shall return, toot-sweet! I took it as a sign; never went back.

  January 22, 1976

  Hey Journal!

  I’m stoked! It’s love! Or GRADE-A LUST! Deena’s amazing! We’ve been lab partners for months and nothing. Today our fingers brushed over a dissection tray and — ZAP! Who knew slicing sheep eyes was such a turn-on?

  Practice was hell and I’ve got tons of homework. Later, E.

  January 25, 1976

  Howdy J.

  You know that saying “When it rains it pours”? Well, I got a chick monsoon. Tammy called. Her father’s job fell through, they’re back from Boston, and she wants to get together. Deena’s cool, but Tammy’s primo! Hmmmm … why not date both? Just kidding, journal. Sort of.

  Hornily, E.

  February 1, 1976

  Yo!

  This bunny-juggling’s intense! Came THIS CLOSE to calling Tammy “Deena” yesterday. Then at the movies with Deena, I ran smack into Tammy’s brother! He’s such a chump, he prob’ly didn’t know the diff. Better split! I owe Tammy a call.

  Evan, AKA “Love Machine”

  Feb. 2, 1976

  LIFE SUCKS.

  Tammy’s brother’s smarter than I thought.

  Tammy and Deena are cousins, and

  I am SHIT ON TOAST.

  E.

  Feb. 4, ’76

  Journal — FRIG IT! Tammy’s mother blabbed to Mom at Pathmark, so I’m really in the shit. Mrs. Granato told her everything. Mom said my behavior’s “indefensible.” Rosemary called me a “typical male pig” which made Reg laugh till she choked on her pot roast. (Dad actually looked proud.) Anyway, I’m off women. Maybe I’ll become a priest. E.

  February 10, 1976

  Praise God!

  Can you believe it? Right after the D/T fiasco I find THE ONE. Melody’s IT! She’s:

  stacked,

  a cheerleader, and

  stacked — definite girlfriend material.

  Her locker door sticks. I helped her open it, and the rest is hist —

  AAARRRRGGGGHHHH! I can’t take much more of this. It’s like a freakin’ comic book: The Adventures of Vapid Boy. I mean, I feel like I’m pouring over Dad’s stinkin’ bicentennial soap opera. The insights! The shocking revelations! My father was a shallow, sex-obsessed freak!

  So obnoxious. Maybe I should donate this piece of crap to the library. Wonder if there’s an Obnoxious and Deluded section? Oh hell, I’ll keep reading. Got nothing better to do. I’ll just finish February; it’s a short month. How bad could it be?

  February 18, 1976

  Dear Journal —

  Tried talking to Tony again. In study hall. Don’t know what his problem is. He’s acting real strange. I mean, best friends are supposed to talk and shit! Called him after supper. Mrs. Pettafordi said he never came home. She asked me to call if —

  HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL! MRS. PETTAFORDI? My father was best buds with Anthony J. Pettafordi, Art Teacher and Academic Advisor to the Intellectually Muddled Masses? How did I not know this? This is major info. All those times I talked about class, or said I had a meeting with my guidance counselor, and Dad never thought to reveal they were pals?

  And Mister P never mentioned growing up with my father. It’s got to mean something. For starters, it explains The P Man’s lingering at my Dad’s wake. Seemed a little excessive, staying through afternoon and evening calling hours. I recall wondering if the school paid overtime. And the way he blubbered graveside, he was more emotional than the relatives. I figured it had to do with artistic temperament. Now I find out they were best friends — unbelievable.

  But in a way it’s not. Ever since I started at Sebastian’s, Mister Pettafordi’s made himself a force in my life. Even before Dad died, he took an interest in me. His fixation on getting me a scholarship makes sense. He must think he has a responsibility to my father.

  I wonder why their friendship was so secret. Looks like I have another mystery to solve. Or maybe it’s part of the one big question. Who knows? I guess the only way to find out is to keep reading. At least it’s getting interesting.

  “So, what do you think it means, Ev?”

  Alexis has the loudest whisper ever. We’re in silent study, and Miss Delateski does not look amused. She glares over a stack of lab reports, makes a zipper motion across her lips.

  I try to look calm as my stomach churns. Lex’s feet twitch so fast it appears she’s dealing with a fire ant infestation. I wonder if anyone’s ever died from having to stay silent for five more minutes. The suspense is definitely getting to us; I swear the clock just ticked backwards.

  I called yesterday from the library, told Lex about the journal, asked her to meet me. She couldn’t come, so I read a couple entries over the phone. I know that seems tacky, but it feels right to share Dad with my best friend. So it’s the first face time we’ve had since my discovery, and now we’re hostages to high school structure. Forced mutes. Two minutes ’til period’s over. I doodle in the margin of my soc book; Lex gnaws her gel pen, sighs.

  Finally, the bell rings; changing of the guard. Miss D gathers her stuff. The new monitor waddles in. We luck out: Sister Dolores, old and enormous. Swathed in traditional black and white, she looks like a penguin that’s turned the tables, swallowed a leopard seal. Lex always says Sister’s bosom’s large enough to support the original cross. Obviously, that’s sacrilegious, but I can’t help laughing.

  Old Dolores strains into the creaking desk chair, closes her eyes. Uncorking a Wonder Ear, she deposits it on the blotter. For her, it truly will be a silent study. We’re home free.

  Lex clears her throat extra-loud and repeats her question full volume. “SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT MEANS, EV?”

  Sister doesn’t budge, but the three cheerleaders in the front row turn and bad-eye us.

  “Ooh, Evan! I’ve disturbed the Ambers. Mea culpa, ladies! That means ‘sorry.’ Really though, keep up the good work. You inspire me. Rah rah, now!”

  They perform a perfectly synchronized hand gesture that’d never fly at a Catholic pep rally. Lex feigns horror. Sneering, the three collect their matching designer backpacks and, risking detention, cut out of study hall early.

  “Thought they’d never leave. So, now that we’re alone … ”

  Sister Dolores sleep-grunts loud enough to startle us both.

  “Well, almost alone,” Lex smirks.

  “Yeah, about my dad’s journal. I don’t know what to think.”

  Lex’s eyes take on that laser focus she gets when really concentrating. “It’s wild, Evan. I mean, Pettafordi and your dad all buddy-buddy — so what happened to bust it up?”

  “No idea.”

  “Well, what’s his journal say?”

  “I haven’t read anymore since yesterday. I just got freaked out, you know?”

  “I guess, kind of like being in the confessional with my mom. She used to do that when I was little, bring me in with her. I had to listen to her sins. Truly creepy. So, do you have it?”

  “The journal? Obviously. I can’t leave it home. Mom would
root it out. She grilled me about drug use yesterday. If she found his journal, she’d pull a Krakatoa.”

  Slipping the journal from my binder, I half-expect an alarm to blare. I picture Sister Dolores in a warden’s uniform. Screaming: “LOCKDOWN! GALLOWAY’S GOT EMOTIONAL CONTRABAND!”

  I hand Dad’s chronicle to Alexis. She holds it with such care, reverence almost. It’s a relief knowing she’s here to share the weight.

  “Are you scared, Evan?”

  “Yeah. So I want us to read it together. Let’s start where I left off, February 20th.”

  February 20, 1976

  Hey Journal —

  This Tony thing’s really bumming me out. He ignored me in art again today. And when Father Fran called my watercolor “luminous,” Tony looked like he’d puke.

  “I didn’t know your father was an artist … Evan?”

  “Me neither. He was never interested in my painting, that’s for sure.”

  “Well, that’s his loss. You’re really talented, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Ev?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Turn the page.”

  February 21, 1976

  Journal,

  Today was bad. Definitely not how I planned to spend Saturday. Tony said some stuff.

  I cornered him yesterday. He promised to meet today at Shoppers’ Plaza. We dropped a pile on art supplies at Koenig’s, had patty melts and Cokes at Burger Shack.

  Tony was real quiet. When I finally asked what’s bothering him, he said he’s trying to figure stuff out — like our friendship.

  Then he said sometimes he hates me. I have it so easy. I’m great at sports, the perfect student, good-looking. He just went on and on, getting redder.

  He’s tired of hearing about Melody, too. Said I don’t give a shit about him anymore, that she’s taken me away from him. I told him that’s nuts, he’s still my best friend. Then he started crying. I felt like decking him, so I went to the john.