The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

“To pay our respects.”

  “The cemetery?”

  “Yep.”

  We pass the space where Mom’s Outback was parked. She must’ve bailed after calling the cavalry. I’m relieved not to have to face her.

  I dread this; I have zero interest in a crisper pilgrimage. Wish he’d skip it. Opening my mouth to say so, I really see him: eyes cemented to the road, hands clenched so tight his knuckles threaten to split the skin.

  He reminds me of this statue. We went to Gloucester, Massachusetts one summer, and there was this huge figure of that guy from the fish sticks box, gripping a ship’s wheel for dear life. That’s how Gramp looks now, like he’s steering through a squall. Only the squall’s inside him. If I break his concentration, I think he might capsize us, send Dad’s SUV off the road. However much I don’t want to visit my father, it seems Gramp needs to even more.

  Wish I could turn on the radio to break this tension. But, afraid to draw his attention to the cassette, I don’t dare. So we ride mute. It’s a relief when I spot the cemetery. At least I’ll get to vacate this freaking car.

  “Hey,” I tap his arm, “you missed the turn.”

  “What?”

  “The cemetery. You passed by.”

  He looks at me, features askew with focus and puzzlement. Then he says, “Leave the driving to me, Junior. I know where I’m going.”

  Heading left at Saint Anne’s, straight onto East Main, he keeps going past the plaza. I notice the Applebee’s sign; used to be Burger Shack, where Mister P freaked out at lunch. The Card Shoppe’s still there. Clerk’s about a hundred; probably the woman from his journal.

  He turns onto Colonial Ave. I’m afraid to ask where we’re headed. That look on his face — spooky. I try convincing myself it’s one of his crazy “shortcuts” that take you miles out of your way.

  We’re leaving town now, past the old Tri-bury Drive-in. He slows the car, and I gasp, “Omigod.” There’s a faded wooden sign to my right. It says B.A.R.K.

  “Why are we here?”

  He snaps, “I said, let me do the driving.” Then he looks at me and adds, “You okay? Look like you seen a ghost.”

  About to answer, I see he’s making a left onto Avalon Hill. He’d just been waiting for an oncoming car. But I mean — HOLY SHIT! — it’s the place. I have to ask.

  “What’d that mean, B.A.R.K.?”

  “Oh, like the sign said, it was a humane society place. Stray dogs, mostly. Your father volunteered there Saturdays — de-crapping kennels and stuff — with Father Fran. Couple of regular Assisis, those two.”

  He slows the car again, and I guess we’re here. There’s an iron gate set into the stone wall. The sign says Avalon Hill Memorial Park. As Gramp drives through the gate, he heaves a mondo sigh that turns into a sequence of coughs, forcing him to pull over. He opens the window and hacks one into the snow. Then, he says, “Ready?”

  I nod, but my gut’s a bowling ball of second thoughts.

  We climb twisty hills, the car occasionally fishtailing on scuds of ice. Trees overhang the narrow road, branches weighted down.

  I’ve never been in this cemetery before, even though it’s only a few miles from town. The Galloway relatives are in All Saint’s, Home of the Crisper. I look out over rows of headstones half-buried in snow, wondering who’s here.

  In answer to my unasked question, Gramp eases the Tahoe partway off-road, into crusted snow, and says, “Here’s the place.”

  I wait for him to cut the engine, but he just points. “It’s about twenty yards straight beyond that big tulip tree. You better take my jacket, or you’ll freeze.” Twisting to shuck his coat, he winces at bursitis in both shoulders.

  I shrug into warm flannel, breathing its Gramp smell. “Aren’t you coming?”

  He’s focused straight out the windshield, but I can still see tears as he replies, “I can’t.”

  Stepping into bitterness, I slam the door. My feet skid on frozen slush. Still, I can’t resist heel-punching the skin of puddle ice near the car. It makes that seal bark shatter. Then, picking through deeper snow, I hear the automatic window. Gramp leans toward the passenger side. For a second, I think he might tell me to forget it. I wish he would.

  He struggles to speak; I strain toward his voice as he says, “Evan, there’s an angel on the headstone. A baby angel.”

  “I told the girl no onions. Do you people need written instructions?”

  The woman brandishes a forkload of slimy rings like a challenge.

  “I just deliver the friggin’ bread, crotchety bat.” That wasn’t meant to go beyond thought stage. But either she’s a major clairvoyant or I blurted; the lady looks pissed.

  She drops her fork. Onions fly. “What did you say?”

  Her dining companion, pin-striped, fiftyish (nephew?), eyes me with panicked wonder. Did I pick up on his secret name for Auntie? Maybe I’m the psychic.

  Thinking fast, speaking slowly, I overdo enunciation. “I’ll … just remind her what you said. Sorry ’bout that.”

  It’s a classic TV-style verbal diversion, but it seems to work on manners-impaired patrons. She triple-dabs, like she’s applying a smile with her napkin, anger deflating.

  “Oh, all right then, dear. No harm done.”

  Swapping bread basket for offending salad, I escape. Back in the kitchen, I lean against the walk-in, wishing I could live inside. Leaving the world behind, I’d wallow in frosty solitude and chocolate torta.

  But the restaurant’s a nuthouse. I haven’t had a minute to think, or stop thinking, since Dad’s car. My brain’s on overload: the journal, the tape, the fear there’s worse to come.

  And Gramp’s bombshell. After my cemetery revelation, I think Father Fran may be a dead end. It was so long ago.

  “Hey, Renoir! You going to just stand there, or bus me some tables?”

  Since I started on the mural, Angie’s been on this famous artist kick, like, “Will Matisse kindly water table two?” or “Yo, Vincent, step away from that bread knife!” It’s about a seven on the irritation scale, somewhere between bleeding gums and SATs.

  “Sorry, Ang’.”

  I feel guilty for hiding out. Time check: twenty-five minutes gone. Whoa, these gaps are out of control. Maybe I’m a werewolf; they’re always losing time. I growl at my steel-door reflection. Yeah, I’m overtired.

  In the dining room, the crowd’s finally thinned. Only Onion Lady, her escort, and two other couples remain. Lupo and I start the nightly ritual. It’s barely 9:15, but with luck his vacuuming/my table wiping will hint the stragglers out, and I’ll be home by 11:00.

  Mister Alberti hates when we rush the customers. He says a good meal’s like a Mass; it’s wrong to chase people out before the final blessing. Of course, he also claims his peach gelato’s “sweeter than a virgin’s tit” and “breaking wind is the body’s way of praying.”

  But tonight, Angie’s in charge. She persuaded Mister A to take a night off. She said he’s been rundown, and since the History Channel’s running a Mussolini bio, she convinced him to stay home, put his feet up, and jeer.

  It sucks, majorly, him not being here. I’m desperate to discuss what I’ve learned: Pettafordi, Father Fran. Why I’m really not a junior. Maybe tomorrow; I can’t wait to just collapse tonight.

  I called Mom earlier, apologized via machine; figured it’s my only hope of avoiding a scene later. Wise move, because I’m not sure what I might say.

  Even though my discoveries have slammed me, they’ve also made me feel bigger somehow. Wiser. Like knowing’s given me this magic energy: the strength of not caring. It’s bizarre, everyone hiding the truth from me for so long. What for? They thought I’d break?

  I mean, sure I’ve felt like my guts are on the outside since hearing Dad’s tape, and yeah, I heaved at the cemetery. Curse you, Slim Jim! But that was just physical. Mentally I’m okay.

  I’m not saying it’s not a big deal. The shit my father went through will provide nightmare fodder for-like-ever. And what
I learned at the cemetery, I can’t deny it’s changed everything.

  But despite all that, nothing beats knowing. It’s the next step that’s tricky. All I’m sure of is encounter is crucial. It was obviously his turning point. On the tape, he said everything came back to him after what happened on encounter. I have to go, learn what that means. It matters. Even though it has the capacity to detonate what’s left of the Galloway brood, I need to know. Maybe that’s selfish, but —

  Lupo hauls a loaded dish bin to the kitchen. I scan the dining room. Our noisy housekeeping’s driven out the lingerers. It’s just past ten. I know I should put in some mural time while they finish shutting down, but somehow I just can’t face Dad — even in painted form.

  It’s so tempting to redo his Judas face: shrink the ears, add a nose ring, anything to make him less Dadlike. But I don’t think it’s the right thing to do. Now that I understand it’s an illustration of his betrayal, code for what Father Fran did, I guess I should leave it alone. Let it stand as a sort of memorial to Dad’s pain. Still, it’s hard to look at.

  So is the painting in the backseat. When Gramp dropped me here, he promised he’d put it in the Tahoe’s wayback, under the old picnic blanket. I know Mom won’t look there, which is good; I’m afraid to think what she’d do with it. I need to protect it, like evidence. Maybe I should give it back to Aunt Reg. She kept it safe all these years.

  What about Aunt Reg? Do I tell her what I found? The cassette was meant for her ears, not mine. Would she be pissed, or hurt, that I listened to it?

  “ — okay?” Angie touches my forehead, checking for fever, I suppose.

  “What? Yeah, fine.” I swat her away.

  “Well, you don’t look fine. Your face is whiter than Lupo’s apron. Course, that ain’t sayin’ much. Remind me to bleach that rag.”

  “Hey look, if you don’t mind, I’ll just bag the painting tonight. I think you’re right. Maybe I’m coming down with whatever your dad’s got.”

  Her eyes puddle. “I don’t think so.”

  “What is it, Angie? What’d I say?”

  “Nothin’. I’m okay. It’s just … my dad. They think it’s Alzheimer’s, Ev. Don’t it figure? He’s about to stick me with this friggin’ place, and he won’t even realize what a great job I’m doing runnin’ it. Ah well, that’s nothin’ new. Bastard never appreciated me anyway.”

  She breaks, and I hug her; her fist’s a tight ball against my chest. We’re still pressed close when the sleigh bell on the front door jingles. Our heads snap toward the sound.

  Mister Alberti’s like a spectral version of himself. He stands in striped pajamas and corduroy slippers — no coat, no gloves. His comb-over’s undone, the slack brown fringe plastered to the side of his head, hanging below his ear.

  The three of us stand for a minute, speechless. Then, realizing she’s still in my arms, Angie clears her throat, moving away. She’s about to speak when Mister Alberti launches like an elderly attack dog. He must’ve misinterpreted our embrace, because he’s yelling at Angie, alternating between calling her a puttana and saying, “Theresa, how could you do this?”

  It’s scary; there’s this fire in his eyes as he yanks her apron, swings her away from me, nearly flinging her into the specials board.

  He comes for me next. I shield my face as spindly arms wheel and strike. He packs a wallop for an old guy, but more painful is the look on his face as he says, “Evan, you betrayed you Uncle Zio. My Theresa. Voi fatti lei sporca.”

  Finally, Lupo runs in from the kitchen. Embracing Mister Alberti carefully from behind, he hums softly in the old man’s ear, until Mister A’s breathing returns to normal. I recognize the tune, “You Are My Sunshine.”

  Singing along in Italian, “il mio soltanto sole,” little by little Zio returns, that odd flame flickering out.

  Once he’s quiet, Angie goes to him, strokes his cheek, and lifts the flap of hair, smoothing it into place.

  “Pop, you feel better now?”

  “Theresa?”

  “No, it’s Angie, Pop. Theresa’s … gone,” she looks at Lupo, “up to bed.”

  “Oh, sure. Sure. Angie. Did they deliver the chianti?”

  “Yeah, Pop. No worry; everything’s set.”

  “You’re a good girl, Angie. A motormouth, but a good girl.”

  She turns and whispers to Lupo. Kissing her father’s forehead, she says, “Okay, Buster Brown. Time to close shop. Lurch here will bring you home. I’ll catch up later.”

  He just stares, hands beginning to shake.

  “Did I say something wrong? Where are my shoes?”

  “Don’t worry, Pop. You were just sleepwalking, that’s all.”

  “Sleepwalking? Mama mia, like a baby!” Squeezing my hand, he says, “You take care of her. Promise me?”

  I look to Angie for guidance, and she nods slightly, so I say, “Yes, Zio. I promise.”

  He hugs me ’til a sob shakes his brittle frame. Choking it off, he lets go. Even before he speaks, I see he’s the real Mister Alberti again. Hand to heart like a pledge, he says, “He was just a kid then, you father. I shouldn’t have said the things I did. Forgive a pigheaded old man?”

  Before I can answer — or ask him to explain — Lupo herds Mister A toward the back door. I’m left in the empty dining room, spluttering like a stalled car, my brain in overdrive.

  What’s next? Is my father’s face going to appear among the to-go menus and scat sing a belated suicide note? Will I discover Kaspar’s head newly mounted behind the desk in Mister A’s office? Or will Angela levitate above the cash register, dispensing after-dinner mints from her butt? I swear nothing would surprise me.

  Speaking of Ang’, where the heck is she? I check the stairwell to the basement office. No lights, no sign of her. She’s not in the banquet room either. That leaves the kitchen. Heading toward the swinging door, I hear water running in the ladies room. I wait outside. Anxious, I press my ear to the door. I hear muffled sobs — and swearing — inside.

  My hand’s on the knob when it swings open. Everything I’d planned to say evaporates at the sight of Angie, her face a waxy mask, streaked with mascara. I finally manage, “So.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, just shoves past, toward the dining room. I trail her as she checks oils and vinegars. She’s plainly not planning to speak to me. I don’t care. I’m through letting people decide whether they want to deal with me. I stick to her like a shoeful of gum.

  Finally, admitting I’m here, she turns, blasts me, “What? What do you want from me?”

  Once my head stops echoing, I answer, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” All right, that’s not the-whole-truth-and-nothing-but. Still, it seems like a safe reply.

  “BULLSHIT! You be straight with me or get out of my face. I got work to do.”

  I expect her to plow through me again, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands, arms crossed, defying me to speak. So I do.

  “Who’s Theresa?”

  Her nostrils pulse, and I get the distinct impression she’d rather deck me than continue this conversation. Then she says, “Theresa’s my older sister,” and slips around me and heads for the oak buffet where they keep glasses and stuff.

  I follow. I know she can see me in the mirrored buffet back. Catching her eye in the glass, I say, “I never knew you had a sister.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I … it’s … just odd your father never mentioned her.”

  “Yeah well, he mentioned her tonight, didn’t he?”

  “Um, he did, yeah.” I’m thinking about him calling her Theresa and whore; I’m sure she is too. “What was that about?”

  She smacks her hand against the buffet hard enough to clink glasses. “It’s about time you stopped asking questions!”

  “Okay, sorry.”

  I’m halfway to the coat room when she says, “No … look … Ev, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  She’s crying again, but I don’t care. As I duck into the alco
ve — thwack! — something hits me hard in the back. Ready to fight, I spin, pick up Angie’s makeshift weapon, a jar of crushed red pepper. I’m tempted to wing it back, ’til I really see her.

  She stands pole-straight, yet somehow seems slumped. Defeated. I can’t muster anger. Instead, at the nearest table, I pull out two chairs. We sit.

  Angie stares as if trying to melt my face with her heat vision. “God, you look so much like him it’s scary.”

  “Yeah.”

  Suddenly blushing, she says, “I had such a crush on your father when he was young.”

  “Did you two ever — ”

  “NO! Jeez, I was a kid when your dad worked here. Besides, he only had eyes for her.”

  Sure of the answer, I still ask, “You mean Theresa?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So they dated or something?”

  It takes her too long to reply. And her voice trembles as she says, “Something.”

  “Angie, please tell me. What’d my father do? That thing your dad said, ‘fatti le sporca,’ what does that mean anyway?”

  I expect her to yell again, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t say a thing. And her eyes, they’re like pulled shades. Blank. Whatever Angie knows is locked behind amber eyes.

  Defeated, I hit the coat room, grab my jacket, kill the alcove light, and stand in the dark.

  From behind me Angie says, “You done her dirty. Voi fatti lei sporca. You done her dirty.”

  I’m struggling to reply when she whispers, “I better drive you home, it’s getting late.”

  She’s Lupo-quiet on the ride. I wrack my brain for some way to get her to talk. I’m desperate to know, sick with possibilities.

  “Angie, please … I just want to understand all I can about him. If you’re trying to protect me — or his memory — I’d, I’d rather hear the truth.”

  She chews her lip, wrestling tears, and says, “Ask your mother.”

  It’s ringing.

  After Gramp’s surprise and the scene at Alberti’s, not to mention Dad’s hellacious book-on-tape, I needed to reconnect with my True North. So the minute Angie dropped me off, I dialed Florida.