“Mister Galloway, this is a school. Please restrict your speed.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll be more careful.”
“See that you are.” He smiled, glancing at the paperwork in my hand. “Is that an encounter application, Evan?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to go in March.”
“Excellent. Encounter is quite powerful, a prayerful weekend focused on your relationship with the Lord, but I didn’t think you had any interest in attending.”
“Well, I found out my dad went, so I thought it might be good for me. You know, follow his footsteps, maybe understand him a bit better.”
I saw a brief flicker of something in his face. Removing his glasses, he inspected them, pointedly not looking at me. “Consider your motives, Evan.” Inhaling deeply, he seemed on the verge of something important, then said, “Have you discussed this with anyone else?”
“I’ll mention it to my mother tonight.”
“Yes, your mother.” He put his glasses on again and said, “Excuse me, I must be going.”
Will following Dad’s footsteps really help? Maybe it’s nuts, this whole detective act. I mean, Dad’s encounter was over thirty years ago. It’s not like I can relive his experience. What am I expecting to learn, anyway?
Lex’d say, “The truth, Evster, nothing but.” And this does feel right, like I twirled the spinner on God’s board game and got Follow Dad’s Footsteps on Encounter. Who am I to argue?
Besides, they say a place can hold an impression of a past event, like an emotional echo. True, they generally say this only in bad horror movies. Then again, my life has become one scary-ass flick. And maybe they’re right (whoever they are); maybe I’ll find traces of Dad lingering at the Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center. Hopefully, in a phantom-free way.
Slurping my last, I sign the form. Actually, Mrs. Teague’s attempted comfort came in handy. Section E of the application says: Briefly explain what you hope to gain through encounter.
My answer: I hope encounter will be a healing experience.
On the escalator to the main floor, I catch myself humming “Hurting Each Other.” I wonder what Lex will think about encounter. Before stepping into churning snow, I take a last look at the completed form, fold it, and slip it into my backpack. All I need is parental permission.
Easier said than done.
I wasn’t fool enough to expect it’d go smoothly. Even before Dad’s rope trick, my relationship with Mom was what you might call strained. We love each other. It’s just that interacting with her is akin to emotional maneuvers: Hide the flag, look out for landmines.
So when I got home, I’d hoped to slip in under her radar. And I was so close. But then my cloaking device failed. Miserably. She intercepted me at my bedroom door, salad tongs in hand.
“Where’ve you been?”
I knew not to divulge. If she caught wind of The Pettafordi Incident, she’d detonate. So I employed a classic evasion.
One part apology: “Sorry, Mom. I should’ve called.”
One part explanation: “Lex and I stopped by the library.”
Mix well and finish with a subtle challenge: “You always say I spend too much time holed up in my room.”
I went for the doorknob. Tongs to the sternum made it clear our chat wasn’t over.
Head tilted, eyes narrowed like a stalking cat, she said, “The library? How odd.”
Her whole manner said I was toast. Ordinarily I’d have buckled, spilled my guts, but I thought I might have a chance if I stayed calm. Ignoring the frantic inner voice screaming, “Run away,” I attempted Lex’s supernatural cool.
I oozed innocence. “What? You expect us to make High Honors without studying?”
Mom grabbed hold of my shirt collar with the tongs. Impressive dexterity. “No. What’s odd is that Alexis called for you this afternoon. Twice.”
Gulp.
“So,” a tong twist punctuated her question, “want to take another stab at it?”
“Uh … okay.”
“And Evan, a friendly suggestion: the truth.”
It’s scary how, in such moments, the human mind kicks into hyperdrive, like there’s an extra lobe, independent of the conscious brain. Miss Delateski never mentioned it, but it must be there, and apparently its purpose is rapid deception. Before I could even react, my auxiliary lobe, my “fabrication station,” took over, constructing the ideal response. Brief, touching, believable, it was the perfect lie, because it was built around a grain of truth. I could hardly believe I was saying it.
“I was at the mall. By myself.” Awkward pause/shoe scuff. “This is embarrassing … I couldn’t tell Lex, because … I went to buy her a Valentine’s gift. I like her, Mom … as a girlfriend. But I haven’t told her yet.”
I was immediately awash in emotion — chiefly guilt. Not for the lie, but the truth at its heart. It was like cheating on Lex, using her as escape hatch. But the story, or my flushed face, did the trick. Setting the tongs on the hall table, Mom pulled me into a stiff hug.
“Oh, Ev. That’s sweet. But be careful. I’d hate for you to get hurt.”
“Okay, Mom. Look, it’s no big deal. I didn’t even buy anything. I’m not sure. Maybe it’s better we just stay friends.”
“Friends is good.”
“Yeah. Um, homework.”
“I’m about to put dinner on the table.”
“I’m really not hungry. I had something at the mall.”
“Evan, mall food’s not sufficient. I stuffed a chicken. Wash up.”
There’s no arguing when she’s in Betty Crocker mode — or ever, really — and I figured if I played the obedient son card, the encounter thing might go easier. I washed up.
Now we’re at the table. She’s measuring out a dose of ranch as I put the salad tongs to their intended use. Maybe I’m emboldened by so easily ducking interrogation. Perhaps the success of Operation Pettafordi’s got me feeling cocky. Whatever the reason, I go for broke.
“I’m thinking of going on encounter. There’s one scheduled for the third week in March.”
She pauses midchew, waits for me to continue.
“I’ve already finished the paperwork. I just need your signature.”
“You’re not going.”
“Come on, Mom.”
“This is not open for discussion, Junior.”
“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t call me that anymore.”
Her volume ticks up a notch. “Sorry, it’s not open for discussion, EVAN. Better?”
I hate when she’s sarcastic.
“Why can’t I go? It’s a chance to work through things.”
“You can work through things at home. I don’t intend to have you traipsing off on encounter, airing this family’s laundry.”
“Mom, it’s not like that.”
“You think I don’t know what goes on? A weekend of complaining about parents. Just because they include prayer and communion doesn’t justify the self-absorbed nonsense. You don’t need it. And Father Brendan agrees.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Teague called earlier. She said Father’s concerned you might not be ready for encounter. That it might be too much right now.”
I can’t believe this! Father B’s sabotaging me? What if he spoke to Pettafordi? My cheeks reddening, I try to swallow my temper.
“Mom, it might help me to talk about … things.”
She tsks like I’ve said a dirty word. “Help? I’ll help you. You need to talk? I’m listening.”
“Yeah right, like it’s so easy to open up to you. Every time I even mention Dad, you shoot me down. It’s like you want me to just forget him.”
“Good God, of course I don’t want you to forget him. But I need you to get over him — for both our sakes. I’m scared, Evan. I couldn’t survive if I lost you, too. It’s all I think about.”
“You’re not going to lose me, Mom. I’m talking about one lousy weekend away.”
“Great, I’ll sleep easier knowing you only
want to get away from me for a few days. You know, your father started out spending a few days at your gran’s house ‘to figure things out.’ ”
“This is different. Can’t you see I’m not him?” I bang my fist on the table. My glass tips, splashing soda.
“That’s it! I am so sick of your attitude. The world does not revolve around you, Evan!” She slaps her cutlery onto her plate. “I am not signing any form. You are not going on encounter. End of story. Now eat your supper.”
Pushing off from the table, she dumps her plate in the sink. With a sickening grind, the garbage disposal goes to work on her chicken. Dish, knife, fork clatter into the basin, and she stomps down the hall to her bedroom.
“Mom — ”
Her door slams shut. I’m left sitting with the unfortunate fowl. I prod it with my fork. “That went well, don’t you think?” The bird declines comment.
I clear the table, gnawing a breadstick despite total lack of hunger. Dumping salad into a zip-bag, I stow it in the crisper drawer and think of Dad. I shovel potatoes into a plastic bucket, plop green beans on top, burp the lid.
As I swaddle the chicken carcass in a foil shroud, it occurs to me: I can just as easily pack away my curiosity, that stupid need. Saran wrap the Dad-quest and move on. I was smart to throw the journal away. Mom’s right. I should just get over him. Let life be normal.
In front of the open fridge, I offer a silent goodbye to my father. I’m through. This’ll seem like a good decision in the morning; now all I feel is hollow. The weight I’ve carried in my gut for the past ten months is gone.
I’ll have to call Lex. She won’t be happy, but I’ll explain. I’m giving him up for the right reasons. And if she can’t understand, tough. Game over.
Sitting on the floor, the chicken on my lap like the world’s greasiest housecat, I pull a jar of sweet baby gherkins off the refrigerator shelf. I wolf six before the tears start. Pinching my forearm for focus, I wipe my eyes, slide the jar back, and grab a package of American cheese food product. Removing five, perfect, yellow squares from their plastic jackets, I wad them up. Snuffling, I shove the ball in my mouth.
A squeezable jam bottle swims into focus. I tip my head back, feel the marmalade flow cross my tongue. Mingled with salt tang at the back of my throat, it tastes oddly like vacation taffy. My stomach lurches; I ignore it. I won’t let this sudden emptiness overwhelm me. Ripping into the shrouded bird, I begin to feed.
“Ev?”
Midturn, I catch my reflection in the oven door, like something from a zombie flick: face puffy and lopsided, eyes sunken red, nose a gloogy mess. I drop the mangled poultry.
Mom gawks as if she’s stumbled on a rabid wolf in her kitchen, then she goes for levity. “I guess you were hungry after all.”
I try to laugh, but it comes out a gurgle. I sob, close to choking on the mouthful of food.
“I’m sorry I blew up, Evan. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She can’t look at me. Whether it’s my raw emotion or disgusting appearance, I’m not sure. I get up, spit a clump of chicken in the sink, flip on the disposal. Running water, I rinse grease and spittle from my chin.
As I dry my face on a dishtowel, she speaks, gently, like I’m on a ledge. “You’re right … I haven’t been there for you … and I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I’m surprised by my own voice, a little boy’s.
“No, it’s not. People always say they survived tragedy by being strong for the kids. That they’d have given up if not for their children. But that’s not me, Evan. I can’t be strong for you.”
She kneels on the strawberry rug to clean up my debris. I join her. As she reaches for a piece of foil, I touch her hand, and she looks into my face for the first time.
God, she’s aged since Easter. She’s stopped coloring her gray hair, and there are purple sacks I don’t recognize below her eyes. Her face is a map of worry.
“It’s all I can do to get myself out of bed. I don’t think I have what it takes to help you. But I want to try, Evan. What do you need from me?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I just … I really miss him.”
“I do too, honey. I do too.”
We cry for him together for the first time, slumped on the kitchen floor. I’m not sure who’s doing the comforting; we sit, rocking one another. And I almost feel Dad there, too.
I know it sounds cheesy, but picturing him watching over us sort of helps. I risk the moment by bringing up encounter again.
“Mom, I’d appreciate if you’d reconsider. Encounter, I mean.”
She hardens, draws away. “Evan, I said — ”
“Please?”
My mother inhales, folds her hands as if praying. Words seem to leak from her like air. “A weekend of wallowing … might do more harm than good. I agree with Father Brendan. I’m afraid it’s a bad idea.”
I hold her gaze. “I think I’m old enough to make the decision.”
She sighs, brushing a hunk of hair from my eyes, quiet for a long time. Finally, she says, “I hate to admit it, maybe you are. Okay, if it’s so important, I won’t forbid you to go.”
“Thank you, Mom.” I hug her.
“Wait, Evan. I don’t intend to make this easy. If you insist on going, it’ll be your responsibility to pay your own way.”
“But Mom, it costs like two hundred bucks! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money?”
“You’re a smart boy. You’ll find a way.”
“Well, I have some birthday cash I could put toward it.”
“Fine.”
“And I’ve got money in the bank.”
“Nice try. You are absolutely not to use your savings.”
“Okay, okay.”
I’m thinking of Gran and Gramp as she says, “And don’t even think about hitting up your grandparents for the money. Understand?”
It’s like she can read my freaking mind. There’s always Reg and Ro.
“Or your aunts, either.”
Dang! She’s too good. “All right, I’ll just have to find a job.”
“I suppose, but I don’t want your schoolwork to suffer.”
“Don’t worry.” I kiss her cheek, something I haven’t done in a long time. She looks pleased — and a little embarrassed. “Now that you mention it, I’ve got homework to do.”
I head down the hall, brain in word problem mode. Encounter’s in six weeks. I’ve got $26 squirreled. That’ll cover my nonrefundable deposit, but where can I get the other $174? All right, that boils down to $29 a week. With that, I could provide enough cornmeal, oil, and salt to feed a Guatemalan family for nearly three weeks. I immediately feel guilty for having just blown $12.69 on frozen beverages. Okay, I’m getting off track.
One hundred and seventy-four dollars. Not a fortune, but let’s face it, that’s a mess of returnable bottles and cans. If it were summer I could mow lawns. Shoveling? God, I hate shoveling. Anyway, there’s no guarantee of a steady weekly income shoveling. I need a real job.
Maybe I can sell Mochakoolas instead of sucking them down. I decide to head to the mall again after school tomorrow. This time with a mission: Evan Galloway, Employee.
I put on headphones — Suicide Songs — and crash on the bed with my Human Anatomy and Physiology book. I’m supposed to highlight Chapter 28, the male reproductive system. Oy.
Instead, I stare at page 117, an illustration of the brain, seeking that auxiliary lobe. I finally settle on the amygdala. Small, almond-shaped, it’s tucked within the white matter of the temporal region. The text says its primary concern is survival: heightened emotion, adaptive response, fight or flight, blah-blah. “Interpreter of stressful sensory input, THE AMYGDALA identifies emotional need, instantly initiating a protective response.” Bingo! I’ve located Falsehood Central. I ring the tiny cluster in red, cross out “fight or flight,” and pencil in “lie or die.”
Closing the book, I glance at my Mystery Machine alarm, another Aunt Reg gift. Only 8:15, but I feel like I’ve
slogged through a month since lunch. I shut my eyes. John Denver sings something about “Living and dying” being our “intimate friends.”
Creepy, yet comforting. Shoving my backpack to the floor, I shut out the light.
They say, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”
Hopefully the same is true of employers. Planning to hit the mall after school, I wake with purpose. I also have a stiff neck and Schnauzer breath from sleeping with headphones on, psycho food binge residue in my teeth.
After a blistering shower and lengthy tooth-brushing, I itch to conquer the world of retail. But I’ll have to survive Sebastian’s first.
School’s blissfully ordinary, at least compared to yesterday. I pass Mr. Pettafordi in the hall; he nods mechanically and presses on. At least he made eye contact.
At lunch, I tell Lex about my encounter plans.
Ever helpful, she says, “Oh man. Encounter? Kiara Landreth said they beat you ’til you cry, that it’s like emotional zip-lining.”
“Funny.”
“I don’t think she was joking.”
After school, I head straight to Foundry Hill Commons, an ironic name for a mall built in the giant crater on the site where they demolished the old iron foundry. I make my way around the consumer utopia’s top floor, doors slamming in my face. Figuratively. No store has an actual door, but I’m told repeatedly it’s the worst time to look for work. “Christmas rush is over. Things are dead.”
On level one, I fare better. At Country Candle, Bella, Mrs. Bottaro’s cousin, tells me they won’t be hiring ’til May. But she says they’re looking for someone at Body Barn.
Less than thrilled at the prospect of hawking lotions in green coveralls and a gingham apron, I mutter, “What the hell, it’s worth a shot.”
Glade, the assistant manager, stifles a laugh when I request an application, pointedly asking if I have experience with “aromatherapeutical essences.”
I lie. “A little.”
“Because we’re very committed to what we do here. It’s not just about smelling nice.”
“Obviously.”
“There’s a whole Body Barn philosophy our employees need to embrace.”
The Namesake Page 9
