The Namesake (19 page)

Six words with the power to deflate. I pause long enough for Angie to shove me backwards, into the hall, outside Zio Joe’s curtain corral. He doesn’t have a real room; no one does in ICU, just these plastic, floor-to-ceiling drapes partitioning each patient from the others. I try to slip past, reenter the little rectangle where Mister A floats in his metal bed. Angie blocks me like a vicious goalie.

“But Angie, I — ”

“No buts! Except maybe butt out, okay? My father is dying, kid, and whether or not he knows who the hell I am right now, I intend to be with him ’til he goes — ALONE.”

As she says it, Angie jerks the drape shut in my face. She reminds me of Mister Alberti pulling back the curtains to reveal Dad’s mural. Or a really angry magician’s assistant. If not for her furious expression, she could be performing some magic back there; I’d vote for making all those tubes and machines disappear.

I was only with the old guy for about ten minutes before Angie returned (probably from the ladies’ room) to eject me, but from what I saw, things aren’t good. He just lay there, machines huddled around the bed, tubes in both arms, this snorkely thing in his mouth. His hair was off to one side on the pillow, but he was in no shape to care.

He looked like a husk, what’s left when a beetle molts its skin: an exoskeleton. I remember finding one on the windowsill when I was a kid and trying to get it to walk, or fly, before realizing it had nothing inside. God, why was I thinking of that?

The curtained pen lacked a chair, so I sidled up, half-cheeking it on his waffle-blanketed mattress. I felt like I should say something to Mister A, in case he sensed me there. Fingers trembling across his pillow, I tried to reposition his comb-over. As I did, I whispered, “It’s me, Zio. I promise you’ll be out of here soon. And when you come home, I’ll have the Last Supper finished.”

I’m not sure he heard me, but right then, as I made an impossible promise, his eyes fluttered open, meeting mine. I swear he tried to say something; the hand nearest me flopped on the blanket like a speared fish.

I leaned toward him, asking, “What do you want to tell me?” like he could form a word with that vacuum hose in his mouth.

Then Angie appeared, to catapult me from their lives. As I stand, staring at the beige barrier, I begin to realize she’s probably right; Zio
wouldn’t
want me to see him in this condition. I remember at the restaurant how he hugged me when his brain rebooted. He seemed desperate, ashamed even, of being so out of it. Safe to say he’d be humiliated to be seen this way: feeble, drugged, and tubed.

I feel guilt for even coming here. What was I hoping to do, pump him for some deathbed revelation before he went? Nice. I finally understand this isn’t about me. However much I’ve convinced myself I’m a member of the clan — and despite what I told Info-desk Iris about being Theresa’s son — the Alberti family really doesn’t include me.

Backing down the hall, past the Ladies Auxiliary gift shop, I poke my head into the family waiting room, the perfect brooding nook: dimly lit, vague piney aroma, dilapidated sofa. I’d hoped to find Lupo here, but no sign. Maybe he’s in the cafeteria. Or else Angie sent him to notify the rest of the family about Mister A. That’d be interesting. I picture relatives cross-country, jiggling silent receivers, asking, “Lupo, that you?”

I think about calling Mom or one of the aunts for a lift, but can’t face another Galloway Gal car ride. Walking out the main hospital entrance, I taste snow in the air. Luckily, Grandmother’s house isn’t really over the river and through the woods, because I’ve decided to hoof it.

I’ve already had two pieces, but the tart goo somehow soothes. Gran hoists another meringued slab onto my plate, then heads back to the kitchen.

I guess it’s ironic, ending up here with the Queen of the Galloway Gals, after nixing the lure of a warm car ride to avoid interacting with one. But, post-hospital, I craved familiarity — the comfort of brown linoleum, that faint mothball scent, a no-questions-asked hug, and dessert. Major dessert.

I was really looking for Gramp, hoping to clear up some stuff about the dead Evans and the whole “you done her dirty” thing, but Gran said he’s “at the depot.” That cracks me up, like he’s living this second life as a conductor, when really he’s at
Home
Depot, probably salivating over dangerous power tools.

Gran’s back, leaning over the coffee table with her big ceramic cow pitcher. I never understand why she can’t just serve milk from the carton like normal people.

She fills my glass, claiming, “That crust’s a little on the dry side.”

There’s this slight buzz in my head, and I can barely keep my butt on the couch. I’m ready to bust. Not just from pie either — it’s Alberti stress, and of course, Father Fran. Gran, perched on the La-Z-Boy, seemingly oblivious to my agitation, grins across her coffee cup. Emboldened by sugar, I plunge.

“I’m going on encounter, but I — ”

Making this exaggerated, stick-out-your-chin face, she leans across the table, dabs me with a dishcloth.

Through the damp fibers, I continue. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it, Jun — ?” She catches herself, “Evan?”

An image of cliff divers pops into my head as I say, “I was hoping we could talk about Father Fran.”

Bracing for the dropped cup, the hurled pie server, I expect her to scream. Faint. Something. But she just looks at me with a strange nonexpression and says, “That’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Your grandfather brought him up just last night.”

“He did?”

“Yes, and it’s not like we talk about him that often. Such a good man.” She winks. “And so good-looking, like a television star.”

Eeeuww.
“Father Fran was Dad’s art teacher?”

“That’s right. But even before, when your father was maybe nine or ten, he recognized your dad’s talent.”

I suppress a cringe. “He did?”

“Yes, your father made a poster for Catholic Schools Week. Oh, I was so proud they chose it to hang on the altar.”

“That’s great.”

“Father complimented his artwork — your dad was an altar boy then — and asked if he could treat ‘the budding artist’ to some supplies. Well, I knew your Gramp would never allow it, but it seemed like such an opportunity. Private lessons! So I agreed it’d be our secret.”

It’s killing me to not just blurt what really happened during those lessons. But what good would that do? What could I hope to achieve other than making her feel as bad as I do? Worse, because obviously she’d blame herself.

“So, he and my dad were close?”

“Well, yes, Evan, they were. But how’d you find out about that?” She looks a little puzzled, nothing dramatic.

I risk gliding on half-truth. “I found some pictures in Dad’s trunk.”

“Wait a second.” She crosses to the corner curio. From the bottom shelf, where it’s sandwiched by Hummel figurines, she pulls a brass frame: a yellowed photo of Dad, altar-robed, next to a priest. “This the picture you found?”

“Uh … yeah.” I feel dizzy, staring into the eyes of my father’s monster. He does look like some actor — really tall, broad shoulders, the dad in that old ’60s Disney movie,
The Parent Trap.

“And what else did you find?”

“Nothing much. Bubble gum cards, cassettes, junk like that.”

“Junk? Too bad. I was hoping you’d find something good.”

Scooping a final lemon gob, I prod the last hunk of crust and push my plate aside. “So, whatever happened to him?”

“Hmm?”

“Father Fran.”

“Oh, he passed.”

“When?”

“Just after you were born.”

“Must’ve been tough on Dad.”

“Now you mention it, it was. Your father took it surprisingly hard. It’d been years since he’d seen Father. Of course, they had been close.”

“Why hadn’t he seen him for so long?”

“Well, priests, they have no control over where they’re sent. Father Fran was reassigned out West when your father was in high school.”

“Did they keep in touch?”

“No, and that puzzled me. I remember your dad was very upset, like he’d lost his best friend. It was only natural, I suppose. It was sudden. And he’d really come to rely on Father. You know, for a time, I thought he might follow in Father’s footsteps.”

“How?”

“Well, he confided in me he was considering becoming a priest. I think it was mainly that he and Father had become so close. He was a wonderful influence on your dad.”

I stifle a shudder.

“What is it, Evan? You look a little green. Was three pieces too much?”

“No.” I worry my cheeks may split from the effort to smile. “I’m okay. What do you mean ‘a wonderful influence’?”

“Well, your father could be … ” She struggles, twisting dishtowel fringe as her eyes pool.

“You okay, Gran?”

“Yes, honey. It’s just … it’s hard to talk about.” I nearly do a Pettafordi spit-take as she finally says, “Your dad could be a little moody.” She spots my eye roll. “Okay, you’re thinking that’s a bit of an understatement, right?”

“Sort of.”

“Look, Evan, you never exactly got the best your dad had to offer, but,” stopping herself, she picks at coffee table crumbs, “that’s not what I mean to say.”

“Gran,”

“No, let me finish. He gave all he was capable of. I’m sorry it wasn’t quite what you deserved.”

“It’s okay, Gran.”

“You’re a good boy, Ev. And I guess the father he was is the father you were meant to have. But if you could have known him,” her voice weakens, “before.”

“Before the baby?”

Biting her lip, she smoothes my hair. “I’m not sorry your grandfather took you to the cemetery, Evan. We always felt you had a right to know.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you ask your mother about it?”

“Yes.”

“And did she talk to you?”

My voice comes out papery. “Yes, she showed me some pictures.”

“That’s good. She was very strong when it happened, stronger than your dad. But it’s something no one should have had to go through.” She inspects the porcelain server. “Finished?”

When I realize she’s talking about pie, I nod. Gran scoops my fork/glass/plate and bolts for the kitchen in one quick movement. We pretend the running water masks her sniffling.

Joining me on the couch, she clears her throat and says, “He was never really the same after. I’m afraid you got sloppy seconds.”

“I always felt a bit like I
was
the sloppy seconds. I guess now I know why.”

“No, honey. You mustn’t feel that way. He really did love you.”

“Okay.”

“But even when he was a child, it was almost like there was another world inside his head.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, he was a very gentle boy. Your Gramp was always worried there was something wrong with him, that he was weak.”

“But Dad was this big sports star. How could Gramp think that?”

“This was before, when he was a skinny, little kid. But I always knew. He wasn’t weak, Evan. He was special.”

“Special how?”

“It’s hard to explain. Sensitive. Kind. He’d cry over little things. We had, I don’t know how many, road kill funerals when he was five or six. And he worried about people. I remember, when he was eight, he didn’t want to keep his Christmas presents.”

“Why?”

“He’d seen a TV program about orphans and he wanted to send them all his gifts. Said we all should. Well, Rosemary, she was furious, thinking she’d have to give up her Chatty Cathy.”

I can’t help laughing. She joins me. “I know, it was priceless.” Then we look at each other, wondering if laughter’s okay.

“Was he
ever
happy?”

“Sure he was. And when he was happy, he glowed. People stopped and smiled wherever we went, drawn to him like moths. Even though he was shy, if someone paid attention a light switched on. He could be so … articulate and, I guess you’d say, charming.”

I try to steer the conversation back to Father Fran. “And talented.”

“Yes, he was that. I always encouraged his artwork, even though your grandfather had misgivings. We did projects together: paint by numbers, decoupage. Sweet times. How we’d talk! But your Gramp said I babied him, made him soft. He was never one to talk about feelings.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I know. The more things change … but your father craved — now what’s that Oprah word?”

“Validation?”

“That’s it. He needed a reminder that he was loved, was worthy. And the artwork seemed to give him that — it was like food. But I guess your Gramp had a point.”

“About what?”

“He claimed your dad was too attached to me. Maybe I
was
a tiny bit overprotective.”

Just not when he needed you
. I nearly say it. Instead, I swallow hard. Stomach lurching, I almost feel the words congeal in my belly with her lemon pie.

“Not that he was a mama’s boy — I always hated that term. But it was time for him to stretch a little. That’s why his friendship with Father was such a godsend.”

I will not scream.

“I’d prayed for it, for someone else to recognize his gifts. And Father Fran was just what that sweet boy needed.”

Could she have really been so blind? It’s almost a joke. How else to explain her tickling the edges of what really happened? I’ve stopped listening; I picture her skimming this sparkly surface, a Great White coursing just below.

“Sorry?”

“I said, it’s not nice, but I wanted God to give your Gramp a big, fat I-told-you-so.”

“And He did.”

“Yes, He surely did. Your Gramp resented the time your dad spent with Father Fran, not that he’d admit it. He’d just complain about your dad ‘gallivanting whenever there was work to do.’ Of course, he didn’t know what was really going on. We said your dad was volunteering. Your grandfather never would have gone for it if he knew what they were really doing at the rectory.”

I can’t take it. I don’t know what’s worse: that she was totally, freaking oblivious to what he suffered, or that everything she says is sick with double-meaning. She’s like some horrible stand-up. Next she’ll say, “Father really knew how to make that boy smile,” and then I think I’ll have to stab her in the neck with the pie server.

God, what is my problem? Am I mad at her because my father was too good at keeping secrets? Because she was too stupid to see what was going on? I need to change the subject. She’s clearly a dead end. And I’ve got to leave it alone, say my goodbyes, get out of here.

“Gran, I found Dad’s journal in the trunk.”

Once again, I seem to have propelled a grandparent toward cerebral hemorrhage; I’m becoming dangerous to know. Gran’s face is slack. Fidgeting on the couch, she picks up a magazine. Replaces it.

“Gran, I said — ”

“I heard you.”

Okay, she’s not stroking out. Still, like a cuttlefish, her color wavers, white to pink to purplish, as if she’s attempting to blend with the afghan. She opens her mouth, but no sound emerges. Then she literally runs for the kitchen.

Indecision bolts me to the couch. When I finally follow, she’s slumped against the sink, a soaking rag to her forehead.

“Gran?”

“It’s not true.”

“What?”

“Whatever you read in that journal. It’s not true.”

“Have
you
read it?”

Glaring like a cornered animal, she twists the dish rag. Her knuckles are bulgy-white, like baby onions. “I never saw it, but I know what it says.”

“How?”

“You better go now.”

“Did you know, Gran? Did you know?”

“I said GO!” Snatching a plate from the sink, she raises it high, ready to, what? Attack?

“Gran?”

She slides the plate back into the sink. Then, buckling, she leans against the counter and moans, “My God, my God!” I reach for her, but she shoves me back, slouches onto the telephone chair. “I would have done anything to protect him!”

My only hope is to calm her. “Yes, that’s what mothers do.”

She takes a monster breath, exhaling quick huffs as if she’s in labor. When she looks toward me, she’s eerily calm, like in a trance. “I can’t.”

“Yes. You can. I need you to tell me what you know, Gran.”

“I never wanted to believe it. I prayed it was just a dream.”

“What?”

“He came to me once. In the middle of the night. He’d always sleepwalked, but — he was about ten — he’d started wetting the bed. Your Gramp would’ve been furious, so we kept it between us. I figured he’d just outgrow it, you know?”

“Uh huh.”

“So I took him to the bathroom to clean up, and he was very upset. He kept saying he was bad. So, so bad. I held him, and I said, ‘It’s okay, sweetie. You’re still my special boy.’ ”

“And then?”

“He started crying, and he said, ‘That’s what Father Fran calls me.’ ”