The herbal tea arced from his nose in an impressive trajectory.
We all just sat there speechless. For Lex and me it was a combo-silence: aweticipation. His nasal display was so unexpected — sort of impressive, really. He scored high for distance. And when you witness something like that, sudden, startling, you almost can’t help but yearn for more.
For Mister Pettafordi, the silence was simpler. The guy was mortified. I mean, one minute he’s describing sunrise at the Acropolis, “the heady challenge in capturing life’s fierce vermilion pulse on canvas.” The next, Celestial Seasonings is coursing through his sinus cavity and — SPLASH! — he’s decorating his desk blotter. Talk about life’s fierce pulse!
Of course, in between Mt. Olympus and the schnoz-flume was Lex’s question. I’d chalk it up to cause and effect.
Hours later at the mall, I replay the moment in my mind. I’m at Full O’ Beans, Level 3, by the movies, at one of those leg-danglingly tall, Formica-top tables. Someone’s carved “Life blowz!” into the turquoise laminate, along with a crude rendering of a male sex organ. While the guy obviously never took human anatomy (or spelling), I have to agree with the sentiment.
It’s whirling snow outside, like in one of those Christmas globes. I stare out the huge window overlooking the lot and the highway beyond. People pick through mounting white to meringued cars. One old lady slips off the curb. Sprawling, she lies there, like she’s gearing up for the perfect snow angel, ’til mall security hoists her up, brushes her off, sends her on her way.
My stomach scowls; I won’t eat tonight. I’ve sucked down three Mochakoola Smoothies. Sadly, the resultant brain-freeze, full bladder, and caffeine hum still can’t quite erase the image of Raspberry Ripper spurting from Pettafordi’s snout.
It was a prime example of Lex’s complete disregard for discretion. I suppose I expected it. Maybe that’s even why I let her tag along. The question needed asking, and I doubt I could’ve done it. As he regaled us with his rendering of Grecian sunup, Lex fidgeted. When Mister P paused to sip, she lobbed the big one.
“Mister Pettafordi, were you and Evan’s dad lovers?”
It’s funny. In movies these things happen slow-mo, but not this time. The question, the tea-spray, the choking: rapid-fire. Ultimately successful struggling for air, Mister P next fought for composure. Dabbing the desktop, he seemed to ponder Lex’s question. Finally, he tried a shameless diversion. “So. I was going to fill you in on today’s assignment.”
It could’ve worked. We might’ve scored a magic ticket back, hopped on the Let’s-Pretend-This-Never-Happened Express. Alexis, true to form, was not about to board that train.
“The reason I ask — and believe me, I’m not about to judge you for a little teen same-sexploration — is that Evan has a right to know.”
He just stared. But Lex is nothing if not persistent. She shifted in her seat, the vinyl making a meek farting noise. Ordinarily, we might’ve laughed. Nobody was laughing now.
“So … is it, Mister Pettafordi? True, I mean.”
This time his reaction was more subtle, or drier anyway. His plum hue the only outward sign of unease, Mister Pettafordi’s eyes narrowed. He studied Lex with a mix of hurt and disgust. Then with a calm, Clint Eastwood sneer, he said, “You’d better go now.”
Up ’til this point I’d been fairly quiet, satisfied to surf the crest of Lex’s manic drive. But now, I found my voice.
“Sir, I really do need answers.”
The planes in his face seemed to shift as his eyes — they’d never looked so black — tore through me. He was suddenly all sharp angles, stabbing brows, but his tone remained reasonable as he said, “Well, then, you’ll have to ask your father. Oh, but that’s not going to work, is it?”
It was like getting the wind knocked out of me in fifth grade. I tried to speak, couldn’t.
“You can’t treat him like that, you creep!”
“Miss Bottaro, I suggest you go.”
Alexis stood. For a second, I thought she’d do the sane thing and abandon ship. Instead, she sang. Yes, sang, a tuneful plea to “stop hurting each other.”
Looking back, Lex might agree invoking the Carpenters was perhaps not the wisest choice, but at the time, I guess it seemed appropriate. Regrettably, her performance did nothing to improve Pettafordi’s mood. This twitch lifted the corner of his lip and one plump tear hustled toward the tea stain on his desk. Then, what can best be described as a bellow shook the office.
“GET OUT, YOU CRAZY LITTLE BITCH!”
It was maybe not his finest hour as an educator. But who could blame him? Lex does have a way of pushing buttons.
“Well, okay then. I should probably get going.” She stood and, turning toward me, mouthed, “He’s all yours.”
We watched her leave, so cool and conversational, as if we’d been debating the merits of matte versus gloss fixative. I totally envied her. I, on the other hand, seriously thought I might’ve soiled myself.
“Listen, Mister Pettafordi. I’m sorry. I — ”
“No, Evan. You listen. I owe you and your friend an apology. My language was inexcusable. It’s just … this is all very painful.”
“Forget it, sir. You don’t have to say anymore.”
“But I do, Evan. Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs warned me you’d been asking questions, but I never quite expected this. And although Miss Bottaro’s brazenness was … shall we say, disconcerting, she was correct on one count. You do have a right to know.”
I was tempted to clap hands to ears and run screaming from the room. Could I stand to have the sordid details spilled? I mean, Mister Pettafordi can really paint a picture.
My mind ricocheted. I saw them draped in togas, Mister P feeding my dad olives beneath the Athenian sun. Then they were at the Burger Shack, sitting on the same side of the booth, Pettafordi wearing Dad’s letter jacket. Finally, I pictured them rolling naked in the wave pool at Sesame Place. I have no idea where that one came from.
“Evan, are you listening?”
“Uh … yeah … sure.”
“As I was saying, your father and I were best friends, nothing more, though you and Lex are not the first to assume otherwise. His teammates gave him a tough time about me, I’m afraid.”
“But you were just friends.”
“Yes. For a while, he was the closest friend I had. Hell, he was my only friend. Evan, your father was probably the most important person in my life. I did love him, but I was never in love with him.”
Luckily I have more self-control than Lex, because at that moment I felt like bursting into song myself. Anyone for a verse of “The Halleluiah Chorus”? Then it struck me.
“Mister P, if you guys were so close, what went wrong?”
“We just grew apart, Evan. Not so unusual.”
But his lip twitch said otherwise.
“I don’t believe that, Mister P. If you’d just drifted, or whatever, your friendship wouldn’t be such a secret.”
“I don’t follow your meaning.”
“My father never mentioned being friends with you. Not once. And you never brought it up either. Why?”
He stood and walked to the window, gazing through the venetians.
“There was no need for you to know.”
“Well there is now. Please, Mister Pettafordi, tell me the truth.”
He turned toward me, his face like a reluctant skydiver’s.
“You want the truth? Well, the truth is, I’ve never really been sure what happened. We were pretty inseparable, your dad and I. Being his friend was like winning the lottery.”
“Meaning?”
“He made people feel special, but the fact is he was the special one. He had it all: perfect grades, perfect girl, trophies. And it all seemed effortless.”
He stopped, lifted the mug, reconsidered. I think the Ripper had lost its allure.
“You’d almost say he had too many gifts, Evan. Yet there was something else, like a dank corner he’d never let me into. I�
��m not sure even he knew what was in that corner, but it seemed to drag on him.”
“In what way?”
“We talked for hours. And he’d always end up saying the same things: He never really felt worthy, and the good people saw in him was all a lie. I think I’m the only one he told.”
“What was it? What made him feel that way?”
“I wish I knew.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Well, I had theories, but he never gave me the chance to find out. I think I finally got too close, and he just pulled away.”
“Was this when you had art class together?”
The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d blown it. I could almost see them thud onto the desk. I wanted to scoop them up and cram them back into my big, dumb face.
But it was too late. Mister P looked like he’d guzzled a gallon of wasabi punch. The lip twitch was joined by an assortment of tics: nostril flare, finger drumming, and the ever-popular, free-flowing flop sweat. I’d hit a nerve.
Aiming for casual, he asked, “How’d you know about that, Evan?”
A lot rode on my response. Praying he wouldn’t notice my own stress indicator, rapid foot jiggle, I lied, “Uh … I … it must’ve been something Mrs. S-B-C mentioned.”
Good answer. He nodded, satisfied. With a slow brow mop, he said, “Oh. Okay. It’s just strange, you bringing that up. Father Fran’s class was one of the last things we ever spoke about. I’m afraid I said some rather unkind words.”
He stared into the middle distance, the way a spooked dog will fix on a vacant spot, almost unaware of me.
Like a therapist coaxing his patient, I said, “Why don’t you tell me?”
“It’s foolish, but he was good at so many things. I guess I wanted art to be all mine.”
“So what happened?”
“I’ll be damned if he wasn’t a better artist as well. This is pointless. It was so long ago.”
“But it destroyed your friendship. It must’ve been important.”
“It certainly seemed important then. Now it just seems petty. I was used to being the most talented one in Father Fran’s class. I lived for his attention. Then your father usurped my status as teacher’s pet. And I was jealous.”
“Yes?”
“First, I gave him the silent treatment, avoided him, that sort of thing. He kept asking what was wrong. I wanted him to suffer, I guess. He finally forced me to talk … and … I said some things … I shouldn’t have. I just went too far. It’s funny because you always think a real friendship can weather any storm, but human relationships can be as flimsy as paper boats in a tsunami.”
I waited for him to continue, but he just sat there as if someone pressed Pause.
“So that’s it? One fight and your friendship was over? What did you say to him?”
“Nothing earth-shattering, just the sort of thing you say when you want to hurt someone. I’m afraid, Evan, I’ve always been rather too good at that.”
Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes. As minutes crawled by, I considered gambling on narcolepsy, hightailing it. With luck, he’d think he dreamt this whole thing. Then his lids rose; he’d been gathering strength for the rest.
“I told him it was pathetic, how he needed everyone to love him best. He already had a girlfriend. Did he need to steal Father Fran, too?”
“What did you mean, ‘steal Father Fran’?”
“I don’t know.” The lip twitch was back. “I just lashed out, tried to knock him down a peg. But I was too successful at hurting him. His reaction was fairly strong.”
Fairly strong, my left nut! My father’d nearly strangled him!
“I was ashamed. I practically ran to church to confess. Father Fran actually sounded angry. He said I should apologize immediately, that my jealousy was ungodly and I should think about my intentions toward your father.”
“Sounds like a take-no-prisoners confessional style.”
“Yes. Father Fran said one other thing I’ve never forgotten: ‘He has a special grace you mustn’t impede.’ He said that was why he and Evan were especially close — he was your father’s spiritual advisor.”
“Did you talk about any of this with my dad?”
“I tried. I called his house so often that afternoon I thought your grandfather would throttle me. Your father never returned my calls. The following week, when I approached him, he wouldn’t listen. And he seemed … grayed down, emotionally monochromatic. When I tried to apologize, he said, ‘No sweat.’ But everything was different.”
“Different how?”
“He began avoiding me for starters. Clearly he didn’t want to deal with me. I followed him to his locker Thursday and asked if he wanted to come over that weekend. He said he couldn’t, he was going on encounter. That was really odd. He’d always scoffed at going. But I thought it might be my chance to resolve things. I decided to make him a palanca.”
“That’s like a ‘Good luck on retreat’ kind of thing, isn’t it?”
“Oh no. It goes deeper than that. A palanca’s a pledge, a promise to pray or even fast for the encounter candidate. I spent that entire night working on the letter. It was exceptional. I laid my feelings bare, explained how remorseful I was. I told your father how much he meant to me. That I knew we’d work things out.”
“Did he accept your apology?”
He scraped with his fingernail, scribing the damp blotter, breath rasping like paper. “I don’t know what happened on encounter, but it changed him. After, he was like a pod person from that movie.”
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”
He nodded. “Your father seemed diminished, bled dry. He shut everyone out, broke up with Melody, refused to speak to me. He even …” taking a brush from the vase on his desk, avoiding my eyes, he continued, “… became disruptive in art. Eventually, he dropped the class.”
“Disruptive how?”
“I’d rather not say. It was so long ago.”
“Did he ever mention your palanca letter?”
“Never. Finally, I decided to ambush him. I showed up at his house. Your grandmother was very kind. She must’ve fed me a dozen brownies while I waited for him to come out of his room. When he wouldn’t, she even gave me a ride home.
“As she maneuvered the station wagon, she said, ‘He’ll come around. He’s going through a tough time, is all. Barely leaves that bedroom. Thank God, he still has Father Fran because he’s stopped talking to us.’ She said they were ‘trying to give him his space.’
“I started up the walk, but she yelled, ‘Tony, I almost forgot! He asked me to give you this, said you’d understand.’ She passed me an envelope. As I leaned in the window to take it, she kissed my hand and said, ‘Be good, Anthony.’ And then she drove away.”
“What was it?” It couldn’t have been as interesting as the gift Gran gave me.
“I ran straight to my room and tore it open. Inside was a picture of Evan and me in a canoe on Gardner Lake, the copy of The Catcher in the Rye I’d lent him, and my palanca letter, still sealed. He’d taped a note to the envelope.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“Gee, I think so.” His lip lifted in a grim effort to smile.
Eerie. Suddenly I saw the sad kid he used to be. Staring at his hands, he recited my father’s words from memory.
“‘Tony, you’re a good friend. But I figured out some stuff on encounter. Not that I’m lovable shit. Bad stuff — about myself. It’s better if we stop being friends. I’m not the person you think. Not really. Don’t blame yourself. And please, don’t make it any harder by calling me.’”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? I respected his wishes. Kept my distance. Hoped for the best. For a while, I believed what your grandmother said, that he’d ‘come around.’ By the time I accepted he wasn’t going to, it didn’t seem to matter.”
I knew I should say something. Instead, I just sat there, mouth open, in what Dad wou
ld call fly-catcher mode.
“Well, Evan … I hope I’ve answered your questions satisfactorily. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to see to the kiln.”
I hesitated for just a moment, seeing an opportunity.
“I could stick around, Mister P — if you need a hand.”
He refused, politely. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a pang, remembering what he’d said about tsunamis. I was afraid I’d blown our friendship out of the water.
Lex met me by the flagpole after homeroom.
“So, that went seamlessly, wouldn’t you say?”
I couldn’t help being pissed, even though I knew it wasn’t fair. She’d done it all for me.
“Look, I don’t think I can talk to you right now, Alexis.”
“Don’t tell me you’re mad.” And she did this kick-line thing, singing, “Can’t regret what I did for Ev.”
“That’s what I mean. Can’t you ever be serious, just act normal?”
“Normal’s in the eye of the beholder. Besides, you got some answers, right? Somebody had to put it out there, or we’d still be hearing about the friggin’ Greek Isles.”
“Okay. I couldn’t have done it without you. That’s the thing — I wish I could be spontaneous, too.”
“Believe me, it takes loads of prep to be this impetuous.” Then she flashed that smile.
“Lex, I’m wiped. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Hey, are we all right, Ev?”
“We’ll always be all right.” I gave her a quick hug, tried not to think about paper boats.
So now I’m at the mall, draining the dregs of Mochakoola #3, dreading the walk home. I swear if these cross-town excursions continue, I seriously need a dogsled.
Before facing the cold, I put the finishing touch on my paperwork. The Pettafordi experience crystallized my next step, sent me straight to Mrs. Teague, School Secretary, Keeper of Forms. Along with an application for encounter, she gave me that “bless your heart, you demi-orphan” look. Then she went beyond the look, saying, “I hope encounter will be a healing experience for you, Evan.”
Her sudden dose of compassion seemed to surprise us both. I snatched the paper and sprinted from her office, nearly crashing into Father Brendan.
The Namesake Page 8
