The Namesake (11 page)

Creepy, yet comforting. Shoving my backpack to the floor, I shut out the light.

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.”

She’s so earnest as she flips back a sheet of ginger hair, I’m intrigued.

“Tell me.”

“Well, obviously all our products are completely natural — never animal-tested! — and our packaging is Earth-attuned. You have to love that.”

“Absolutely.”

“Plus, we’ve got the most kick-ass combinations. Our wheat grass and pomegranate pore reducer is a miracle.”

“No kidding?”

“Seriously. There’s such stress in the world,” she makes a pouty face, “but we’re doing our part to alleviate the bad, through beauty and wellness.”

As she talks, I bask in Glade’s serenity.

She touches the back of my hand with petally fingers and says, “Our goal is to accentuate the nature aspect of human nature.”

I’m sold. I drift, thinking,
How did her eyes get so green?

We’re lying in a field. Glade braids forget-me-nots into my organically coifed locks. Sipping beet tea, I dab geranium toner on her cheek, nearly drooling as she discusses the benefits of Body Barn’s potions. It all sounds so right; I can almost see each word float from her perfect lips, rimmed in mango gloss.

Then I do drool. My leg does this involuntary flinch; I realize I’ve been dreaming. Glade seems not to have noticed. Lit from within, she’s still reciting the Body Barn philosophy. I crash back to reality as she says, “Mother Earth aches to share her secrets. Our ultimate goal is spiritual. Fulfillment, self-realization through devotion to botanicals. It’s goddess-oriented. Open your mind to possibility.”

“Huh?”

“I need to know if you’re prepared to join us. Are you ready to become one with the Body Barn family?”

I’m unsure how to answer. What does it mean, “becoming one with the Body Barn family”? Does it require a vow? I scan the store. The employees seem to glide toward me, smiling. Serenity’s definitely morphed into something else. And Glade’s eyes suddenly look a little too green.

I stammer, “Uh … I’m … Catholic. We don’t really go in for the whole goddess thing. Besides, I’m mostly just looking to make some cash.”

Glade’s expression sours. She snaps her leaf-embossed interview binder shut. “That is just so WRONG! Disrespectful. Body Barn is not about
making some cash
. We’re promoting a path to wholeness. A solution.” She clasps the binder to her chest and tsks. “I’m sad for you, closed-minded, little boy.”

I feel awful — and a little relieved. Sure, I’ve offended her, but what kind of freak show are they running?

“Glade, I didn’t mean to … ”

“We’re through,” she spits. Color rising, she stalks off.

I notice the other employees; they’re still advancing on me — no smiles. “Well, bye.”

Fleeing the chamomile-infused air, I nearly mow down a pregnant woman at the Body Babies display. She’s eyeing a tube of Boisenbaby Butt Balm “guaranteed to lift your newborn to a higher realm.”

I whisper, “Get out while you can.”

Dashing, mindless of destination, I picture a fragrant mob in pursuit. God, I’m losing it! I’m finally stopped by the lump of dripping chicken thrust in my face. A sample-pusher. I’m not sure whether he’s from Teriyaki Jack, China Gourmand, or F&D BBQ. But it’s no mystery I ended up in the food court. Once again, the human spirit seeks salt and grease in times of confusion: Mighty Cholesterol, Balm of the Soul.

Ogling the prefab buffet, I remember I’ve only got $1.16 in my pocket. I’ll skip the junk munch, grab a seat, plot the rest of my job search. I refuse to leave ’til I’m hired.

I study the mall map, drawing thick Xs through rejection stores. Flipping the brochure to check other options, I notice it. In classic fine print, bottom left corner, it says, “All potential employees of Foundry Hill Commons are required to undergo mandatory drug testing. Minimum age for employment: 16.” SIXteen? SHIT!

That’s it. My employment plans just joined the rest of my life in the crapper. I may as well admit defeat, tell Mom I’m bagging encounter. Resign myself to growing bitter in my bedroom, a pasty middle-ager in suspenders and horn-rims, who lives with his dilapidated mama.

Freaking Dad, all embalmed and cozy; screw Mom and me! He had no right to do this. I wish he’d taken us with him. Double murder/suicide — that’s the ticket. At least in my own little drawer I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit.

Wow. That must be what they mean by teen angst. Well, before I head home to take a plunger to the septic clog that is my existence, I can at least score some sample chicken. As Gramp would say, “It’s cheap and filling.”

I approach the Teriyaki Jack guy, authentically Japanese, startlingly blond. I barely make eye contact, and he’s jabbing a toothpicked chick-chunk at me. “Very fresh! You’ll love!”

It’s really quite good, tender with a tangy zest. I give it an 8.5. I’m a little guilty just walking away without ordering. Oh well, tough nuts.

Next stop: China Gourmand. This time a pimply, red-haired dude, defiantly non-Asian, is handing out samples. I hesitate; the chicken’s as greasy as his face. His apron’s filthy; fingernails match. I nearly pass; then I think,
Who cares? It’s not like I have anything to look forward to. So what if I check out early from E. coli?
I eat the chicken. Not half bad.

I walk toward F&D (Fred and Darla? Fat and Dumpy?) for my next chicken hit. There’s a commotion. Some geezer’s arguing with the sample handler, letting her have it. Something about “substandard slop” — as if slop should have standards.

Way past caring, she’s ditched nicety. “Listen Hemorrhoid, I’m just tryin’ to earn my minimum wage. You don’t want to try the chicken? Fine. Bend over, I’ll give it a proper burial.”

“No, you listen, you representing the food service industry! You should be proud. Give you customer respect. Not peddle you garbage, with you nasty face!”

This looks like a potentially interesting scenario. I hang back to avoid the inevitable flying BBQ. They’re evenly matched in vehemence, if not physicality.

The guy’s short and scrappy in a white shirt and pinstriped pants. From my vantage point, he looks like an unstrung marionette, all spindles and joints. His hair cups his skull like a misplaced Scooter Pie.

She’s about a foot taller, outweighs him by at least ninety pounds. Plus, she’s armed with a bowl of toothpicks. Beginning to fear for the old guy, I consider going for mall security but notice a guard nearby, smirking at the spectacle.

It’s about to come to blows when a woman sweeps to the rescue. She’s around thirty, with a Subway bag and a bemused look. It appears she’s done this before.

“Pop, can’t I trust you for a minute?”

Taking his elbow, she maneuvers past Chicken Girl, giving her a “What can I say?” shrug. The Fowl One’s jaw loosens, but I still wouldn’t turn my back on her. As they settle at a vacant table, I notice two things. One: The old gee is Mister Alberti. Two: He’s waving.

I wave back, feeling awkward. I can’t pretend not to have seen his near knockdown. Then I figure,
Well, I guess we’re even
. After all, last time I saw him, Mom and Gran were going toe to toe and I was delivering the world’s worst singing telegram. I shudder at the memory.

“Evan, she called me a hemorrhoid!” He’s beaming. “What you think of that?”

“Well, Pop, you are a pain in the ass.” She kisses his forehead. “How you doing, Ev?”

“Don’t mind Angela, Evan. She’s got a mouth just like her mother, God rest her.”

“And Mom wouldn’t approve of you wrestlin’ girls at the mall, neither.”

“That was no girl. And the crap that
balena
was dishing out, I think it was squirrel.”

Their conversation is rapid-fire, animated, very Italian. I struggle to keep up.

“I’m fine.”

They both pause, look at me, doubtful.

“You don’t look fine. You haven’t been eating that chicken?” He laughs. “You want real food, you come by the restaurant. I’ll fix you such a cacciatore, you’ll want to make love to it.”

“Pop, you’re embarrassing him.”

“It’s okay. He does make great cacciatore. It was my dad’s favorite.”

They exchange a look, then Angela says, “Well, he’s embarrassing
me
. Always pickin’ fights. I swear he’s got a death wish.” Awkward moment number three. “Oh jeez, Evan, I can’t believe I said that.”

I start to say “Don’t worry” but Mister Alberti stops me.

Clapping a bony hand across his daughter’s mouth, he says, “Angela, she has a runaway tongue, but she means well. How is you mother?”

“Okay, I guess. This past year’s been pretty tough on her.”

“Is she here at the mall with you? I’d like to give her my regards.”

“Um, no. I came straight from school.”

By now, Angela’s managed to pry her face free from his grip. She gives me a guilty smile and says, “How long you been driving?”

“I don’t. I walked here from school. It’s only about a mile.”

“In this weather? Well, you’re not walking home. Pop and I’ll drop you off.”

“No that’s okay, really.”

“Angela’s right. You ride home with us. Are you through with you shopping?”

“Oh, I’m not here to shop. I need money for a school trip. I’m looking for a job.”

“Any luck?”

“Yeah, all bad. Turns out I’m a year too young. They wouldn’t even trust me to hand out squirrel nuggets.”

Mister Alberti laughs and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s no coincidence, Angie.”

“What’s that, Pop?”

“Wasn’t I just saying we need somebody to help at the restaurant?”

“Were you?”

“And young Evan, he shows up just like that. Our Lady, she provides.”

Angela rolls her eyes. “Yeah well, no disrespect to your celestial employment service, but traffic’s honestly been pretty slow at the restaurant, now the holidays are through.”

“You start tomorrow.”

“Jeez, Pop. Give the kid a chance. Maybe he doesn’t want to schlep pasta.” She grabs my hand. “And he’s a miserable boss, Evan. He never stops talking!”

I can’t tell if she’s serious; I think it’s just part of their act.

“Nonsense! If Alberti’s was good enough for the father, it’s good enough for the son.”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“You call me Zio. That means uncle. Zio Joe, all right? That’s what you father used to call me when he worked at my restaurant.”

“I never knew he worked for you.”

“Even a genius can’t know everything, Evan. But you keep you ears open, Zio Joe will teach you a thing or two before we’re done.”

We shake on it, his hand surprisingly warm in mine. They drop me in front of my house, a fine sleet falling. As I negotiate the slick walk, I remember that saying:
When the student is ready, the teacher appears
. I wave to Mister Alberti, watching from the car.

School’s in session.

The Bad Disciple had Dad’s whole face, but those ears really rocked me.

It’s Saturday night; just hung up with Lex. She leaves tomorrow for her annual winter break at her Great Aunt Bert’s. I’ve learned not to envy her.

Sure, Citrus Streams’ average winter temp (60.2 degrees) sounds appealing, but according to Lex, that’s the single draw of Manatee Village. Their website says “This picturesque adult community was named for its resident wildlife: the largest herd of these delightful, endangered marine mammals in the Sunshine State.”

Lex insists the place got its name because most of Aunt Bert’s neighbors look like lumpy sea cows lured ashore by monthly perms and Canasta. She says watching them pilot their Cadillacs and walkers and oxygen tanks through the moss-draped trees is like witnessing some disturbing migration ritual, and that the only things worse than the humanatees are the leeches in the nearby Withlacoochee River, “big as yer freaking arm — and feisty.”

Even though she complains, I think Lex secretly grooves on life among the Ancients; she’s like the Jane Goodall of the Elderly. Last year, she organized a low-impact, midmorning stretch to the Captain & Tennille. It could not have been a pretty sight. All I know is she came home with a load of great stories and some mighty unattractive vacation pics.

Her week’s bound to be an adventure. But this year, I’ve got Lex beat. Working at Alberti’s, I’ve already developed a huge repertoire of Italian swear words —
Scassacazzo!
— and a palpable garlicky aura. Plus, Mister Alberti wasn’t kidding about teaching me a few things. I’ve learned how to stuff ravioli, sculpt foil into a decent replica of Italy’s boot, and when to duck to avoid flying prosciutto. Tempers flare hot and often in the Alberti kitchen.

They’re your basic, everyday family, but louder and with more sauce. It’s usually just me, Angie, and Mister A in the kitchen, but you’d swear there’s a crowd when they get going. Oh, and there’s this other guy who never talks. Angie’s mother’s second cousin, Lupo. Angie says he’s “straight from the old country, and none too bright.” He mostly makes antipasto and scrubs the sauce pots. I’ve never seen him smoke, but he always has a cigarette behind each ear.

The past three days have been a whirl. I reported for my first shift on Thursday, right after school. Had no choice; Angie was idling outside Sebastian’s. She chauffeured me home, waited while I changed, then drove me to the restaurant. It was a little odd, sitting next to her in the car, like an ill-advised blind date. But once I realized she’d do all the talking, I relaxed.

“So Ev, how you like school?”

“It’s okay. I’ve been — ”

“That’s good. ‘Nothing like an education,’ Pop always says.”

“Yeah, I’ve started — ”

“Then again, Pop says lots of things. You’ll find that out soon enough.”

“Oh, yeah. My Gramp is — ”

“ ’Course, when I wanted to go to NYU for acting, that was a whole ’nother story. College was good in theory, but no daughter of his was about to waste money on some pipe dream.”

“Wow, that’s too b — ”

“But it don’t matter. I know he had my best interests at heart, so. Anyway, I can’t picture doin’ anything ’sides what I’m doin’ now. The restaurant’s like my skin. And you don’t change your skin. Unless you’re a snake, am I right?”

“Uh right.” By the time we arrived, I’d perfected a system of grunts: “Uhnuh, hmmph.”

I found out right off Mister Alberti’s not so easily appeased; conversing means exercise. He asks my opinion on everything, refusing to accept “Uhmwwhm” in reply. Whether discussing the whacking of a white ball (he was village Ping-Pong champ back home) or the eternal essence of the soul, Mister A seasons each topic with a perfect mix of formality and humor. He’ll amaze with tales of his favorite saints, Anthony and Jude, then ask which one I think would win in a game of lawn darts. I laugh, but he says, “No, Evan. It’sa no joke. You tell me tomorrow.”

It’s extreme, how he savors every word, and disconcerting being focused on so totally by an adult. He doesn’t half-listen, like Dad did. His concentration’s intense and it sort of makes me reach, like I’m stretching for thoughts stored on a top shelf. I’m expressing opinions I never knew I had. On topics I didn’t realize I care about.

I went home that first night exhausted — I’d spent most of the evening bussing tables and delivering fresh bread — but energized, too, like Zio Joe’s priming my mind for what’s next.

Friday was noon dismissal. I struggled to nap before work, but the journal hijacked my mind. I’m waiting ’til encounter to read more, to really steep myself in the Dad Experience, but sprawled on my bed, I couldn’t help replaying everything in my head, imagining these crazy scenarios for what’s next. I finally dropped off just as the alarm buzzed.

Mom dumped me at the restaurant. Literally. I’d barely cleared the car as she sped off, splashing plow juice. She’s sour on this whole Alberti thing, probably because of the brunch debacle. It took, like, UN-level negotiating to talk her out of the idea I was somehow trying to become Dad. She finally agreed I could take the job, provided I quit the minute I earned my encounter money. She also
forbid me
to “get attached to that Zio character.”

I met Angie on my way in. She’d clearly thrown in the towel. As she yanked off her apron, I waited for her to throw that, too.

“I’ve had it with him today! Nothin’ I do is good enough!” She shoved past me.

Mister A was in the dining room, sipping espresso, a bottle of Sambuca and his feet on the table, shoes off. He waved me over.

“That one, like a locomotive! Clear the tracks, boy.”

Angie shouted from the kitchen. Thanks to my enrollment in
Neapolitan Swearwords 101
, I understood most of what she yelled before the back door slammed. Yikes.

“Should I go after her?”

“No, Evan. She’ll be back. Friday’s a busy night. She just needs to blow off some steam. You want some?” He jiggled the bottle.

“Um, no thanks. I’m fifteen, remember?”

“Come on. I don’t try to get you drunk. Be a sport.” He poured, pushing the brown cup my way. “Salute.”

I sniffed the drink, eyes tearing. “I’m not sure about this.”

“Ah, your father used to tip a mug with Zio. The talks we had! He was a good boy, Evan, like you. A good man, too. And a
great
artist.”

I sensed movement onto vital turf, the Sambuca an initiation. Bracing, I gulped.

Apparently, I have much to learn where liqueur-based rituals are concerned. For instance, I was perplexed by the slippery pellet glued to my tonsil. Attempting to hack it up, I discovered my gag reflex, numbed, was incapable of expulsion.

Oblivious to my universal-choking-symbol gesture — hand clasps throat/tongue lolls — Mister A regarded me calmly. “Minda the coffee bean.”

As I tried to recall Miss Delateski’s Heimlich demo, a firm backslap dislodged the obstruction. Launched from my gullet, it skittered across the tabletop, glistening spit.

Cousin Lupo hunched behind me: my silent hero. I managed a weak, “Thanks.”

I would have said more, but a huge, black-Twizzler-scented belch rose like an eruption in the dining room. The Lupester plucked my spewed java nut off the table and, tucking it into his apron pouch, shuffled wordlessly back to the kitchen.

Grinning, Mister Alberti squeezed my hand and said, “Sip, don’ta gulp.”

Picturing Mom busting in, waving a breathalyzer and an arrest warrant, I slurped. No bean distress. And the stuff wasn’t half bad. I patted Mister Alberti’s wrinkled cheek and burped again. Shaking his head, he laughed.

“I’ma show you something, Evan, something you father left behind.”

Wobbling, I ran my hand across chair backs as he led me to the infamous banquet room, site of the Bereavement Brunch Follies. The décor was dinge-based, dark-paneled, and stuccoed, the floor worn to an uneven sheen by generations of dress-shoed gatherings: christenings, funerals, rehearsal dinners. You could almost smell unclaimed emotional leftovers — celebrations, mournings. I’m sure ours wasn’t the only fête to end badly. Melancholy hung as thick as the faded burgundy drapes covering the far wall.

Mister A steered me to a booth, cupping my elbow with his leathery palm. He reminded me of a rickety Webelo working on a merit badge. Sitting across from me, he fiddled with a foil noisemaker, remnant of some New Year’s party. His hand trembled.

“Evan. You father, he wore a coat of sorrow.” He let out a sigh that shriveled him. “But he always knew to come to Zio Joe. He told me things, secrets.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t, not yet. But I can help you find you answers, when you’re ready.”

“I am ready, Mister Alberti. Tell me.”

“Zio. Call me Zio.”

“Yes, Zio. I’m ready to know the truth about my father. Please tell me.”

“You think you ready, but this old man knows better. You’re not ready to bear his weight, Evan. Anymore than he was.”

His eyes — moist, round — held something between sorrow and fright. If I could swim those orbs, like a diver in an underwater cavern, I’d find treasure. But somehow, I knew not to push it — enter slowly, don’t splash — for fear I’d scare off what waited in the grotto.

“What is it, Zio Joe? What did he leave behind?”

“You father worked for me, Evan, when he was a little older than you. He spent hours here, cleaning up, making salads. School vacations. Weekends. Sat with me and shared a plate. This was before Lupo showed his ugly puss.”

As he continued, I recalled what Angie said: Mister A could talk your ear off. Waiting for him to get to the point, my mind flooded. He detailed Dad’s preference for fresh pepper on buttered bread, how he’d always yawn after a good meal.

I began to feel I’d taken a wrong turn in a sunken cave. Air running out, Mister Alberti’s words were white noise, surf slapping my ears. Staring, I tried to find meaning in the shapes his mouth made.

Whether from the booze or some ancient Italian hoodoo, my chin skimmed the tabletop. Feeling a twinge, I lifted my head to find a crab twisting the skin above my watchband. About to slap it away, I noticed its wedding ring. Realizing the crustacean was in fact my boss’s veiny hand, I looked from fingers to face several times before grasping his words.

“Will you finish his wall, Evan? Will you finish you father’s wall?”

“Hwubaah?” was all I could manage in reply.

For once, Zio didn’t press for a lucid response. He stood and solemnly left the table.

I panicked, knowing I’d blown my chance at revelation. Jolting up, I toppled my chair. How to stop him? I grabbed the noisemaker, blew a sharp burst. But the feeble, damp blat had no impact on Mister A’s steady progression. I was screwed; he’d reconsidered.

Stooping to pick up the chair, I said, “Fine. Skip it. I’ll just go.”

Riled disappointment sobered me faster than coffee could have. Knocking over the chair again — this time on purpose — I turned to leave.

Behind me, Mister A cleared his throat. Just above a whisper, he said, “Pick up that good-for-nothing chair and come over here, already. I have something to show you.”

He hit the dimmer switch, and flame-shaped sconces winked into faux-flicker. I felt I’d finally surfaced, cleared the water. As I stepped tentatively toward him, he lifted one bony arm. “This is what you father left for you.” With a magician’s flourish, he drew back maroon velvet.

I gasped. Honestly, this giant gulp of air, like an actor in a slasher flick, or a telenovela. I’m not sure what I expected behind curtain number one, but this was not it. The thirteen figures at table spilled gold, the painting somehow illuminating the restaurant’s dim recesses. I just stared, floored. My dad had truly painted this? I’d never seen him so much as doodle.

“It’sa the Last Supper.”

“I figured.”

He pulled back the drape, revealing the entire mural, the wall’s length. It was painted in the style of some Old Master, not that famous Da Vinci version, Tintoretto or someone. But my father included modern details. Through the archway behind Jesus’ head was Saint Anne’s steeple. I could also just make out the gas station on the corner of Hart and Branch. And beside the chalice was an Alberti’s menu.

There was a familiarity to the faces, too, just out of reach, not quite recognizable. Painted with something beyond skill, emotion palpable as technique, each was a study in reverence, humility, wonder. The apostles appeared mesmerized as Jesus broke bread. My father had captured the colossal awe they must have felt witnessing a miracle.

Then I noticed Judas and gasped again.

At first, it was like seeing my reflection, only a bit older, in Bible wear. But I often have this momentary confusion when I see his old pictures, like it could be me. I’m a passable Dad clone. But the ears, they were Evan Senior, all the way.

He sat to Jesus’ left, the most sorrowful Judas, eclipsed by this anti-aura, an absence of that glow. Instead of looking at the miracle, he studied his own expression in a water glass. The Eucharist eluded him, not like he was unworthy of salvation — worse, that it was a fraud. Seeing that face, I had a hint of the despair my father must’ve felt at the end. His eyes transfixed me.