The Namesake (13 page)

Aunt Reg’s condo: 7:20. I stalled as long as I could, arrived unannounced, hoping surprise would work in my favor. Said I was “in the neighborhood”; feeble, really, considering she lives two minutes from our house. We’re at her breakfast table, chatting over soup-bowl-sized cocoa mugs.

I’m looking to delicately bring up the picture, to get as much info as I can without red-flagging her. My life’s starting to resemble some lame detective show.

“So, he’d confide in you?” I feign passionate interest in a wicker placemat.

“Evan?”

“Yes, Aunt Reg?”

“What do you want to ask me?”

Staring at the moon rising on my thumbnail, I search for words. It seemed so easy in rehearsal; reality’s different. Not only is the topic sensitive, but how do I raise it without spilling what I know — and how I found out?

I decide to tell her about the mural, and not a moment too soon. Aunt Reg is getting antsy watching me watching my thumbnail.

“You heard I’m working at Alberti’s?”

“Yes. Congratulations. How’s gainful employment?”

“Great, I’m learning a lot from Zio Joe. That’s what Mister Alberti said to call him.”

“Naturally.”

For just a second, her face shifts, giving the distinct impression she’s not too fond of Mister Alberti. I can’t explain why; it’s just a feeling.

Then she says, “I’m not too fond of Mister Alberti.” Disregarding my dropped jaw, she continues. “He’s not a bad guy, Ev, just a tad pushy for my taste. But your father was crazy about him. I’m sure you’ve heard he worked at Alberti’s, too.”

“Yeah, I found out the day Mister A hired me.”

“I suppose you’ve seen the mural.”

This is almost too easy.

“It’s amazing! Zio asked me to finish it.”

“Holy smokes!” Now she’s hoisting
her
chin off her lap. Clearing her throat, her forehead creasing, she says, “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? Cash for painting! How cool is that?”

“It’s just — you’re named after him. You go to Sebastian’s. You’ve got a job at Alberti’s. And now you’re finishing his painting? It’s a bit much. You can’t bring your dad back by becoming him. We all miss him, Ev, but be careful about following in his footsteps. That’s a dangerous path.”

She’s been talking to Mom. “Please, Aunt Reg. Don’t go all Intro to Psych on me, okay? I’m not trying to resurrect him — I get it. I was there when they sealed the crisper drawer.”

Saying this, I know, is flat-out nasty. I wait for her to play the respect card; threaten to call my mother; execute some typical, disappointed-adult display.

Of course, my aunt’s anything but typical. She laughs.

“You’re too much, Evan. Crisper drawer? Oh my Lord!”

“Sorry, Aunt Reg. I didn’t mean — ”

“Listen, it’s okay, you say what you need to. And you better know you can always say it to me. As for Mister Alberti, be wary. He’s got this Svengali sway over the Galloway men. Don’t take him too seriously.”

It was like she and Angie read the same chapter in the
Big Book of Cautionary Tales
.

“Okay. But I’m revved about the mural. Not for some goofy, symbolic reason, just … it’ll be cool to have a piece of work out there … and … yeah, it makes me feel closer to Dad.”

“Well that’s a good thing, right?”

“Sure. And the reason I brought it up — it’s … like, three weeks ago, I had no idea my father was even an artist and now — it’s just strange. I don’t understand why he hid it from me all those years. His talent, I mean.”

“I’m not sure. I guess he basically shut himself off artistically after — ” She takes a gulp, gets up, and crosses to the kitchen sink.

“After what?”

“Oh … after he got married. I guess he thought it was time to get practical. A shame, really, he had definite talent.”

Now I’m totally fishing. Running a finger around my mug rim, I speak ultra-casually. “So, you have any of his artwork?”

Aunt Reg’s brows skid into a furrow. She’ll need Botox after this visit. Managing a passable smile, she sits. “I have a few small woodcuts, some illustrations from
The
Quill & Barb
.”

“Anything else?”

“Um.” I imagine I hear her cranial sprockets whir as she weighs a reply. “As a matter of fact … yes. I have a painting he did years ago. It was odd. He gave it to me when he left for college, asked me to hold onto it for him.”

“What’s it look like?”

“Believe it or not, I have no idea. It was mummified in paper and duct tape. I got the feeling he didn’t want me to see it. So, I tucked it away, basically forgot it. Then, years later, just after you were born, he showed up, asking if I still had it.”

Nonchalance is getting progressively difficult.

“Oh, really? So you gave it back?”

“No. He didn’t want it, just wondered if it was safe. I teased him, asked if he’d stashed loot inside. He got all pissy, like, ‘Put it away somewhere, Regina.’ I knew he meant business. He only called me Regina when he was serious.”

“What’d you do?”

“Well, I debated tearing in, ripping off the back to see if there was something inside. But I figured that was silly — and pretty damn nosy — so I did what he asked.”

“Stored it away?”

“Since he wanted it hidden, I put it in a true low traffic area: my exercise room closet.”

I follow Aunt Reg to the basement. It’s tricked out as a passable home gym: stationary bike, rowing machine, magenta free weights, most of it coated with a skin of dust.

“Convenient having the laundry across the hall.” She sweeps a tangle of bras off the Cardio-Glide. “I’ll just run this upstairs. Back in a flash.”

Staring at the louvered doors, I envision Dad crouched within the dark closet, arms outstretched. Ah, the blessing of a creative mind.

Breathing deep, I open the closet, triggering a video avalanche:
Glutes of Gold
,
Absolute Abs
,
Eat Bad/Look Great
. I’m squatting in the heap, trying to hide the mess, when she returns.

“Hey, sorry … had a little mishap.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve been meaning to reorganize those.” She hands me a cruller. “So, I sense you’re eager to see it.”

I blush.

“Scooch over, will you? Let me in there.”

With a loud cracking of knees, Aunt Reg squats. Shoving videos aside, she excavates the jumble of holiday decor and fitness devices. First, she hauls out Gran’s old tree — it’s fully decorated with crocheted elves and reindeer. A stray ThighMaster bobbles as I catch it.

Another landslide: plastic bins (silk flowers, willow wreaths, scrapbooking supplies) flood the room. Abruptly diving atop the pile, she pitches stuff out. Cupids and pilgrims, bunnies and leprechauns mingle on the carpet with Suzanne Somers and stacks of Deal-A-Meal Cards.

Then she strikes gold. Jammed against the back wall, the bundle’s about 3' × 4, swathed in craft paper and loads of duct tape. Not quite able to reach it, even stretched out on her belly, she does this ungainly breaststroke, dragging forward a few inches, and grabs the painting.

“Pass it to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’m stuck!”

“What can I do? Should I call someone?”

“NO!”

I enter the closet gingerly, planning to clear debris and unwedge her. Aunt Reg yelps as a box topples, sending hundreds of plastic eggs cascading. I freeze.

Gasping for breath, she says, “Ev, step away. Slow. You’re my only hope. Pull me loose!”

I back out carefully, the only casualty a ceramic leprechaun that makes a sickening crunch as my foot smashes it.

Having escaped the closet of doom, I firmly grasp my aunt’s ankles and, an obstetrician delivering the world’s biggest breach baby, haul her to freedom. Happily, the giant newborn has an equally strong grip. She’s held onto Dad’s painting.

Laughing, she says, “Success!” and shoves it toward me.

It weighs a ton. And that’s merely the physical heaviness. I shudder slightly, anticipating the emotional heft in store.

Before I can say anything, Aunt Reg hugs me. “Well, I’d better survey the damage to Ye Ole Storage Center. I’m guessing you’d prefer to look at his work on your own.”

“If you don’t mind.”

She winks and says, “As long as you split the loot with your old auntie.”

“Deal.”

Upstairs, we wrap the painting in trash bags to protect it on the walk home. After I zip into my winter gear, Aunt Reg hugs me again. This time, no wink/no laughter. She has tears in her eyes as she reminds me to be careful, to call if I need to talk.

I bungee cord the painting to her old toboggan and pull it along the frozen drive, turning back to wave. Aunt Reg blows a kiss, a cruller in her hand, worry on her face.

I slide my fingers under and tug, but it’s clearly not meant to tear. Stretching, it rolls on itself, nearly cutting my palm. I ease my art box from under the bed and use my X-ACTO to slice the tape, careful not to carve into the picture beneath. Peeling back a corner of the yellowed paper and bubble wrap, I hesitate. You’d think, by now, I’d have shaken this peeper’s guilt.

I know this frame. An antique, gold-leaf thing, gloppily ornate, it’s an exact match to one in Saint Anne’s rectory, behind Father Lessard’s desk. That one borders a routinely gruesome rendering of Sebastian. Tree-bound, he gazes heavenward, perforated by arrows. I always pictured him sipping water and gushing, sprinkler-style, like in a
Tom and Jerry
cartoon. Obviously, I never mentioned that to Father; it’s definite grounds for a spiritual ass-whupping.

All right, no more stalling. Mom will be home soon; better get on with it. I squinch my eyes like a kid birthday wishing, then eager for the big reveal, strip the remaining wrap. Eyes snapping open, I flinch at movement within the frame: Pupils stare back. Squinting for focus, I realize the eyes are mine, reflected by mirror shards. Still, I’m creeped by the image.

It’s another self-portrait, not Judas this time, but maybe more disturbing. I can see why this never showed up over Gran’s sofa. My father’s painted himself at about age eleven. The painting is acrylic on board with collage elements. Along with bits of mirror, he’s included old typewriter keys and what look like real oak leaves, cracked and brown.

The work obviously owes a debt to Sebastian imagery. My father stands naked, alone in a field of burnt grass, hands cupping his groin. A larger hand reaches in, covering his mouth. It bears a stigmata wound.

His scrawny body’s too much like mine; I concentrate on the landscape. Beneath deepening skies, the field’s littered with branches, gum wrappers, and — in exceptionally gross detail — piles of dog shit, likely from the beast at Dad’s feet. It’s visibly male, some type of shepherd maybe, splayed on its back. Dirt-sprawled, tongue swollen and hanging, its paws are tinged red. I follow the stain trail from the dog’s feet to its source: a blood pool on the grass.

Looking at my father, avoiding his face, I check to see if the blood is his. It’s not, but I realize that, like Sebastian, he’s tethered. The collar around his neck’s attached to a leash that winds his torso, binding him to a thick, gold pillar. Blood flows down the pillar, pooling at his feet.

A microscopic inscription wraps the column’s base. I can only read what curves around front: “is in memor.” Touching the words, I feel a bolt of recognition. On the altar with Father Greg, holding the cup, I read the words circling its base. “Do this in memory of me.” It’s not a pillar my dad’s lashed to, but a giant chalice. Why?

Scouring the portrait for clues, I forget my real objective: the pages within. I stare at the typewriter keys. Scattered throughout the composition, they’re seemingly random. But they must contain a message. Top-to-bottom, left-to-right, it’s gibberish:

L – C – O – N – H – Y - U – V – E – A – T – N – N - O

I’m tempted to pry them up, rearrange them on the rug. But I just can’t mess with Dad’s image. Grabbing a charcoal pencil from my art box, I scribble on the floor.

T H E N O U N C A N — I doubt it’s a grammar lesson.

C A N Y O U N O T H A V E — Shoot! Only one A.

C A T L U V H O N E Y — Plain stupid.

Swiping coal marks, I smear out C A T and scan what remains. A few minor shifts, and the letters start making sense.

Not HONEY. HOLY. And if I add U and N it becomes UNHOLY

A definite possibility! But unholy what?

What’s left? C – V – E – A – T – N – N – O

UNHOLY N E A T O C N V — Doubtful.

UNHOLY V A N E C O N T ?

A N T C O V E N — Nasty, an ant coven on teeny broomsticks. Hold it. Ant. Coven. I flip the words. Insect witches become something else: COVENANT. That’s it,

UNHOLY COVENANT!

“My God.”

For an instant, I’m confused, convinced I spoke aloud. Then it dawns: It wasn’t my voice. Mom stands in my doorway, gaping at Dad’s painting. Taking advantage of her stupor, I slide the journal toward me, tuck it into my waistband.

“Um … you’re home early.”

Moving mutely, eyes glued to the image, she nearly lands on the art box as she crouches. For an eternal minute, she’s frozen. With her behavioral track record, anything’s possible.

Mom finally speaks through a fist. “When did you paint this? And who else has seen it?”

I’m not sure why I lie.

“In the fall. I only showed it to Lex.”

“Evan, what does it mean?”

“I don’t know.” That’s the truth.

Her whole body shakes. “I think we should talk over these feelings, honey, because you’re frightening me.”

“Mom, it’s not like that.”

“Don’t try to tell me this is normal, Junior.”

I frown at the nickname.

Noticing, she corrects herself. “I’m sorry.
Evan
. I just don’t get what you’re trying to prove. If this is some sad attempt to identify, to climb inside his pain or something, I can tell you it’s not healthy.”

“Mom, listen — ”

“No. You listen.” Now she
is
crying, and I can see where we’re headed. “This,” she jabs a finger toward the painting, “is not the product of a normal fifteen-year-old. You expect me not to worry? I find you scribbling on the floor, gawking at a picture of yourself being tortured. Am I supposed to ignore the strap around your neck? For God’s sake, what are you thinking?”

So she thinks it’s a
self
-portrait; Dad did whittle the ears a bit. I aim for damage control. “It’s a painting, Ma. Mister P showed us this religious art, asked us to do a portrait inspired by one of the images. It doesn’t
mean
anything. Lex did one too — she painted herself as Joan of Arc at the stake. That doesn’t mean she’s intending to spontaneously combust.”

“Well I think I need to speak with Mister Pettafordi. This seems terribly inappropriate.”

“NO!”

Rocked back on her heels, she nearly tips from the force of my response. Guess I could have scaled it down a few decibels. Steadying, she moves toward the painting.

“What’re you going to do?”

“I’m taking it.”

“Mom, you can’t do that.”

“Watch me.” She reaches for the frame. “And you can forget about encounter and working at Alberti’s.”

About to lose it, I snap. “I swear to God, you touch it, and I will make you sorry.”

She’s never seen me like this; doesn’t know what to say.

“If you’re so afraid of me doing what he did, why are you pushing me to it? Take that picture from me, and I swear I
will
hurt myself.”

Hands to mouth, she smothers a moan. Hugging the painting, I run from the room, down the hall, to the garage. Dad’s Tahoe’s still there, silent since he died. I climb in.

Painting cradled across my lap, I replay what I said about hurting myself. The scary thing is, in that moment, I think I meant it.