The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  “With your very soul. But you must promise not to breathe a word about the things we’ll do. If you tell, if you break this trust, it will be a grave betrayal to God. You’ll be just another Judas then, and He’ll punish us both for your weakness. Understand?”

  All I really understood was I’d done something wrong, and I was about to lose Father. So I said, “Yes, Father Fran. Please don’t tell my parents. I’ll do everything you say.”

  “You bastard.” I lean against the car window, stare out; the garage swims like the windshield’s rainy. I stop the tape. I can’t process what I’ve heard. How to reconcile this poor, betrayed kid with the guy who taught me to tie my shoes, tweezed out my slivers?

  I haven’t recalled that stuff for so long — the goofy rhyme he sang to help me make a bow, how he’d distract me with multiplication tables as he loosened a splinter — and now every thought of him’s linked to this freakin’ painting and what I’ve learned. I hammer a fist against my thigh, masking emotion with physical pain.

  Pages of his words go with whatever else is on the tape, but I can’t take anymore. Mister Alberti said I’m not ready to carry his weight.

  “You were right, Zio Joe.” I grimace saying it, wiping my nose on my sleeve, too gouged to reach for a glove compartment napkin.

  A sudden realization: Mister Alberti knows. Dad must’ve told him about Father Fran. Maybe I should bring the tape to the restaurant, ask him. See if he can tell me what happened on encounter. But first I need to hear the rest, read his pages, exhume his misery. There’s no going back; God, I wish I could.

  After that, things changed. We still got together most Saturdays, but stopped going to B.A.R.K. Usually we’d stay at the rectory, or ride in his car. A couple times we went to the movies.

  Dad was pissed I wasn’t around to help at home, but Mom said it was good I spent time with Father. She said he was “so good to take an interest in the kids like he does.” No one noticed his special interest in me, or questioned when he’d pull me from class to “help with a little rectory project.” Or when he’d give me presents: Wrigley’s gum, comic books, religious medals.

  His voice starts to break. I can’t tell whether it’s emotion or the crappy tape. I lean close to the speaker.

  Reggie, I don’t know how to say the worst. Some of it’s locked in this drawer in my head I don’t dare open. Because what I do remember … let’s just say it’s … um

  His voice gets even quieter.

  … it’s real bad.

  There’s a long silence then; all I hear is faint crying. I crank the volume to MAX; static fills the Tahoe, crackling dead air. I’m thinking that’s all, when his voice blasts, reverbing in my head. I twist the knob to normal and freeze as I hear,

  I thought of killing myself. The stuff he did … I get flashes. The journal poems, that’s mostly what they are, images: the pinprick pattern on the ceiling of Father’s station wagon. I’d count dots as he … I, I can picture diamond shapes on the hall runner in the rectory. I see it in dreams, but worse, when I’m awake …

  He used to lay me on that rug and he’d … he’d put his hands and … mouth … on me. He’d say not to look, to keep my eyes closed or study the stained glass Saint Agnes and her lamb. Sometimes I thought I’d hear her whisper, “Sweet boy, be still,” but really it was him I heard.

  The worst part is … there were times I liked it, Reg, the way it felt. And I know God will never forgive me for that.

  He’s crying again — not faint now, bawling. I join him in his fear and shame. When he starts talking again, his voice is different, mechanical.

  He gave me wine, “blood to seal our covenant.” I needed it, Reg. It helped blur time. After, in the confessional, he’d make me “unburden myself,” describe things we’d done. Sometimes as I talked, I’d hear him breathing, and I knew what he was doing.

  Reg, so many times I wanted to just let it gush out to you or Mom. I even came close to telling Ro once. But I was so scared.

  Father said we’d go to hell if I told, but if I stayed the course, my reward would be great. He said, “Each time we partake of the flesh, we’re closer to conquering the demon, nearer God.”

  He said we were “purging my evil urges by acting on them.” When I told him I’d never had those urges, he said the demon was trying to destroy our progress.

  So I decided it must be God’s will. And if He allowed it, so should I. Sometimes during Mass, when Father’s hand would stroke mine as I handed him the chalice, I wanted to scream and scream. But I never did.

  Exhausted, I hit Function: AM radio, low and out of tune. I rub my forehead, glance at my watch: 11:54. Amazing how much shit you can slog through before lunch. I can’t believe I’m spending winter break huddled in a freezing garage, reliving the freak show that was my father’s childhood. I’d have preferred Cancun. I laugh despite not having experienced anything remotely humorous in, oh, eleven months.

  Catching my reflection in the rearview, I’m puzzled. I’m laughing, right? So why’s my face that sick gray shade? And what’s with the purple splotches where my eyes used to be? I look like laughing crap, Dorian Gray in reverse. Somewhere a portrait of me is looking GOOOOD. I laugh again; the sound makes me stop. Too much like Dad’s taped laughter: hollow, humorless.

  Suddenly starving, reaching for the center console, I lift the lid. It’s stuffed with typical Dad debris: napkins and sporks, thumb-smudged sunglasses, about fifty ketchups. I dig beneath crumpled sweetener packets, empty Funyuns bags, and a blank 1997 day planner. Pay dirt: half a pack of Hubba Bubba and an unopened Slim Jim.

  Always jerky-averse, I shuck wrappers, jam in three gum cubes. They’re powder sweet/rock hard, cold or old; not sure which. Beginning to work them, my jaw aches as they soften. Glancing left, I realize I’ve chosen the passenger seat, like I’d half-expected him. I’d offer him the last piece of gum; he’d spot the lump in my cheek and say, “Can you spare it?” Mourning his absence for the millionth time, I rummage again, face the fact: Jerky’s my only relatively edible option.

  My wrapper inspection reveals no expiration date. Gambling that “hydrolyzed gluten and mechanically separated chicken” probably can’t spoil, I peel the plastic sheath. Raising the zesty stick, I salute the painting. “This one’s for you, Dad.” Shifting gum-gob to my cheek, I gnaw jerky, gathering pages. I lift the book, open to the sliced section, and reinsert the sheaf. The cut edges match perfectly. Swallowing the salty, processed animal, I read,

  I’m ten years old.

  It’s my second dose of pay dirt: no missing pages. This picks up right where the chopped entry —

  We’re in the rectory at Saint Anne’s and

  — left off. I continue.

  I remember hanging at the rectory drawing. Who knows why I’m dreaming that — so long ago. Maybe because Tony’s acting so weird about Father. Still, there’s something else, a feeling. And a smell: Wrigley’s spearmint. And some dog. God, I’m going nuts. We never had a dog like this, just that beagle when I was little. This is a big, hairy thing — Wolfhound? Mental. Must sleep.

  March 3, 1976 (middle of night)

  Just woke with the raunchiest image: that dog, it only had one eye. I’m sure of it. And I think it was called … Cat (?) No that’s asinine. Who’d name a dog Cat? I still can’t remember who owned it. Why do I keep thinking it was Father Fran’s? Guess I could ask him about it after class tomorrow. I wanted to talk to him anyway, about Tony.

  “Don’t, Dad!” God, I’m like those people who yell at the screen during a slasher flick.

  Cripes! My head hurts. Wonder if I should risk sneaking to the kitchen. Mom’s got an open bottle of Fontana di Papa in the pantry. Tastes like horse piss, but if I choke down a cup, it helps me sleep. Mom’d brain me if she found out, but it’s not like I haven’t been drinking wine since I was — Whoa! I almost said “since I was ten.” But that’s crazy, isn’t it?

  So he didn’t remember it. How’s that possible? Some kind of shock or r
epressed memory? I wonder what brought it back on encounter. He said something happened there that made him realize his dreams were real.

  “Got room for an old man in there?”

  I scramble to hide the journal pages as Gramp climbs in the car. He doesn’t notice me shifting the stack of paper under my butt cheek.

  He avoids looking at me; probably thinks I’ll freak. Wonder what he’s heard from Mom. As he messes with the auto compass on the dash, minutes pass; finally he prepares to speak.

  I brace for the force of his words. There’s melancholy in the clearing of his throat, in the slight clack of dentures as he does a slow exhale. “You tryin’ to kill the battery?” He turns the key to OFF. “Amazing there’s any juice left. When’s the last time you started ’er up?”

  Not what I expected. Then again, when it comes to communicating, Gramp makes Dad look like Mister Sensitivity. I decide to pass on car chat, get right to it.

  Mimicking his abbreviated way of talking, what I call Gramp-speak, I say, “She call you?”

  “No, I’m a friggin’ psychic. ’Course she called. And she was none too happy to have to.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Least your mother was able to save a little face. She didn’t have to get past my guard dog. Lucky thing Cerberus is on one of her bus trips.”

  I always laugh when he calls Gran that; she usually does, too, before smacking him.

  “So, what’s this all about?” He seems uncomfortable asking.

  Feelings are foreign territory for the old guy. He’s shifting in his seat, wearing an expression like somebody trying to pass a stone.

  “What did Mom tell you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think this would go quicker if you’d stop answering my questions with questions.”

  During the silence that follows, I seriously expect him to cuff me. Instead he asks, “You sure about that?” a sly grin crinkling his lined face. Then he does cuff me, but in a playful grizzly way. Twisting me into a headlock — the closest he’ll get to a hug — he spots the painting.

  He stares, color sapped from his jowls. A sweat pearl slips from under his cap, coming to rest in the crease above his eye. He doesn’t blink, just sits, fixed on the painting, face white as his hair. He’s starting to spook me; I hope this isn’t how a stroke looks. I’m about to remind him to breathe, when he says, “Where in hell did that come from?” his voice missing its gruff vigor.

  Then he coughs, a series of phlegmy lung-rattlers. I’m torn between ducking for cover and calling for backup.

  “You okay?”

  He waves me off, rummaging in the glove compartment. Hawking an alarming glob into a napkin, he says, “He painted that in high school.”

  “So you’ve seen it before?”

  “Not the finished product, but I caught him working on it in the attic. He tried to hide it from me. Guess you can see why.”

  “Well, I suppose it is a little disturbing.”

  “A little? That’s soft-pedaling, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.”

  “Son of a bitch painted one hell of a nightmare.”

  “I think that’s just what it is.”

  After glancing back toward the house for just a moment, he looks at me carefully and says, “You sound pretty certain. What makes you think so?”

  I know not to underestimate him. Gramp does an award-winning bumpkin act, but there are no flies on him.

  “I don’t know. It looks like a dream, you know? I mean it can’t be from real life. Right?”

  It might just be imagination, but he seems reluctant to look me in the eye.

  “I’d say it’s some kind of allegory. Looks like he’s telling a story. Not one I’d like to hear, I’ll tell you that.”

  “So, when you ‘caught him’ working on it, you didn’t ask what it meant?”

  “Hell no, but I did tell him to be damn sure his mother didn’t see it. Your gran would’ve blown a goddamn gasket. I’m guessing that’s what your mother did today, huh?”

  We both grin in spite of ourselves as I say, “I guess she did.”

  “I won’t ask where you got it, but how exactly did you explain that to your mother?”

  “I told her I painted it.”

  “Shit, boy! Why’d you do that?”

  “Well, she assumed it was a self-portrait, and it seemed easier to just let her.”

  “Whooboy. No wonder she was riled. She says you been acting out. That you been ‘distant,’ whatever the hell that means.” He studies his hands. “Junior, she says you been acting … like him.”

  He gestures toward the portrait, gaze lingering. I ignore the Junior (bigger fish) and count to ten before I speak. “You said he painted it in high school. Do you remember anything about that time?”

  “Like what?” It’s the tone he usually reserves for liberals.

  “I don’t know, did he seem upset about something?”

  “He was always upset about something. Your father was that type of kid. Sensitive.” He says it like a dirty word. “Your gran didn’t help. Always asking how he was feeling.”

  “What about you?”

  His sharp stare’s followed by a grudging, “What?”

  I don’t back down. “Did you ever ask how he was feeling?”

  He hesitates; when he does answer, I can tell the words grieve him. “Not my job. I was his father, not his friend.” His lip curls, an anti-smile. “Besides, he had someone to talk to.”

  “Father Fran?”

  Judging by his expression, Father’s as appealing as a rat omelet. Gramp glowers, his reaction involuntary, instantaneous. Silent.

  Ignoring his disgusted look, I repeat my question. “Was it Father Fran?”

  “Was it Father Fran,” he parrots in a pinched whine that sounds nothing like me.

  Face flushed, I reach for the door handle. I’m about to spring the latch and jump, when he clears his throat and touches my shoulder.

  Quickly sleeve-swiping his eyes, he says, “Sorry, Evan. I really am a nasty bastard.”

  “You really are.” I’m relieved when he smiles. “So, I get the feeling you weren’t a big Father Fran fan.” I resist the urge to say that three times fast.

  “Hardly.”

  Trying to project disinterest, I shrug. “How come? Did he do something?”

  Lifting his cap, he scrubs at his forehead with the balls of his fists. He’s about to divulge something big. Not that it’ll be a surprise after what I’ve learned.

  “It’s nothing specific, Ev. It’s just … he always had that not-of-this-earth attitude. Drove me nuts. And your grandmother! He just about pissed holy water where she was concerned.”

  “Gramp?” So much for disinterest; I’m shaking.

  “Yeah, Evan, what is it?”

  I’m so close to telling, it’s not funny. Why shouldn’t I? Who am I protecting? Besides, he said it himself. He wanted them to know. I’m about to punch the Function button; blast the cassette. Then Dad’s face flashes in my head and, like in the dream, he says, “SsssssssssssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHhhhhssssssssssssssssssssSSSHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhsssSSSSSSSSSSSsssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

  Snapping back to myself, I realize Gramp’s shaking my shoulders, leaning into my face, calling my name, “Evan, speak to me, Evan,” like in some old movie. All I can think is He must have had salami for lunch. I hope he doesn’t slap my face.

  “Ouch!” I rub my cheek. “Did you have to smack me?”

  “What just happened? One minute you’re asking me something, the next you’re having an episode! What’s the matter with you, Junior?”

  This time I can’t ignore it. “DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

  We’re both shocked at my sudden rage. I’ve never yelled at him before.

  “I’m sorry, Gramp. I just … do you know how it feels to always be compared to him? It’s like … everyone’s picking me apart looking for pieces of him.”


  “Nobody expects you to be like him, Evan, but there’s no denying you’re his spitting image. I guess maybe you’re our second chance — and we’re afraid of blowing this one too.”

  “Great. So you’re waiting for me to self-destruct. Or worse, you expect me to redeem the Galloways, like it’s my mission to restore the family glory. Well, either way, it’s not fair. It’s like … just being me is never good enough.”

  He just looks at me, no response.

  “Oh forget it. I’m not making any sense. It’s just … I know what made him do it.”

  The air’s sucked from the car, like a plane cabin losing pressure. It’s not ’til I look at Gramp that I remember to breathe. He does too. We take big gulps, like we’re about to dive.

  He’s first to speak. “Who told you about him?”

  “No one exactly told me.” I’m afraid to mention the tape or journal, feeling guilt for spying on the dead. “I just found out some stuff.”

  He grabs my wrist. “Your gran best not have told you,” his green eyes — a senior version of Dad’s — probe my own, “because we agreed to honor your parents’ wishes. They never wanted you to know.”

  My brain lurches, realizing Mom knows about Father Fran. And my wrist is starting to hurt; he’s not going to let go ’til I answer.

  “No, Gran didn’t say anything.”

  “Was it that snoop Alberti? He never could keep his trap shut!”

  “I said nobody told me! Jeez, what’s the difference how I found out?”

  I pull my hand away; the skin’s Indian-burn red. Waiting for what’s next, I don’t expect him to say, “Let’s drive.”

  Before I can respond, he hits the visor button, opening the garage door, and we’re backing into the driveway. Gramp clips the holly hedge with the passenger mirror, spilling a powdery curtain of snow.

  “Where are we going?”