The Namesake (25 page)

Finally, at 3:28, I’ve started to feel exhausted and decide to make my way back to bed. Twisting the covers around myself for warmth, I say, “Thanks.”

His only reply’s a nasal grunt; I realize he’s snoring.

“Pleasant dreams, furry one.”

I hate to say I’m happy, because, obviously, someone going mental and being forcibly removed from HFMWC is not a good thing. And after last night — the way he listened — I’d started to think of him as a friend. Potentially, anyway. I mean, he seemed to care. And the best thing was he knew not to bring it up in the light of day.

Nope, this morning he seemed to have no recollection of last night, didn’t moon over me or act too careful. Instead, he just pushed by me heading for the bathroom; edged me out of line at the urinal; took the last towel. It was nice — like he wasn’t afraid I’d break. I sort of miss him.

But I have scored the top bunk as a result of his expulsion. And the back hair quotient in 214’s way down. I’m trying to focus on the perks of having the place to myself. I’ve got Dad’s pages lining the top bunk right now. I’m considering this my reading loft, and I plan to sleep on the bottom. I’m accustomed to it. Plus, now that there’s no longer 350 pounds overhead, I can relax in burrow-like coziness without fear of a cave-in.

“The Incident,” as they’re calling it, occurred at breakfast. We got a loudspeaker wakeup at 6:45 with orders to report to chapel for morning Mass. It was mercifully uneventful. I managed to avoid Spiotti, losing myself in a clump of Holy Ghosters.

After Mass, I caught up with Bigfoot in the dining hall. I decided to join him; figured it’d be wise to show solidarity with the largest guy here. Hoped it might keep Spiotti at bay. And I wanted to get to know him better, to bond a bit over muffins and eggs. Still, I tried hard to limit our conversation to talk of the small variety, give us both a break before the day’s relentless soul-baring.

He seemed to appreciate my casual topic menu: TV, favorite cereals, that old standby, the weather. I was hitting all my marks, ’til I introduced a subject I couldn’t have known was taboo: pets. It went like this:

Evan (careful to use his real name): “So, Kevin, got any pets?”

Kevin (going purple, coughing out eggs): “
What
did you say?”

Evan (stupidly repeating): “I asked if you have any pets.”

Luckily, by this point, the two brothers serving breakfast noticed the disturbance at table nine. As Kevin lunged across the oak surface, a brown-clad savior grabbed each arm and led him out of the caf. All heads pivoted toward the swearing for just a moment, ’til the double doors swung shut. Then there was a collective shrug as everyone went back to eating.

This little guy one table away went “Pssst!”

I looked up, and he waved me over. Leaving my tray — which now contained a mouthful of my attacker’s chewed eggs — I joined him.

Evidently, not all Catholic schools have a dress code as strict as ours; this kid’s personal style would definitely not fly at Sebastian’s. Even allowing for the hour and probability of bed-head, he had a seriously wild coif: a question mark shaved over each ear, his brown hair, switching to Kool-Aid orange, stood up five inches off his head. He wore an Urban Care Bear tee and a lobe-stretching disk in each ear.

Offering his hand as I sat, he said, “Hi. I’m Lovable.”

“Aren’t we all?”

He smirked. “Debatable. I’m Jeffrey.”

“Hey. Evan.”

Flash!
Roving nun winked.

I smiled and said, “I’ll take twenty wallet-size.”

Looking puzzled, she giggled in a squirrelish way, then took off.

“So, what the freak did you say to Kevin, man?”

“You know him?”

“Sure, we go to Bernie’s together. He’s a real nut.”

“I noticed.”

“So, what’d you say?”

“I was just making conversation. He didn’t seem bothered by weather talk, or game shows, or even my running debate over flakes versus loops.”

“Those
are
pretty hot button.”

“Then I asked if he had a pet and — ”

“Oh, shit, man! You didn’t! What’ve you got a death wish?”

“Huh?”

“He almost got sent to Quaker Lane for beating up his old man.”

“Quaker Lane? Isn’t that like a special hospital for juvenile offenders?”

“Yup.”

“Well … why’d he do it?”

Jeffrey sipped his juice, trying to build suspense. “Bastard shot Kevin’s Yorkie.”

“What?” I don’t know whether I was more shocked that Kevin’s father had killed his dog or that the Sasquatch had owned a toy breed.

“Yeah, apparently Corky puked on the sofa once too often. Broke the camel’s back.”

“So, when did this happen?”

“Couple months ago. Kev’ was out for a good two weeks.”

“That’s terrible — about the dog I mean. His father must be a real psycho.”

“Not particularly. I mean, I saw him get in a screaming match once at a ballgame, but they seemed like decent people. Guess you never know what’s going on inside someone’s family.”

This line of conversation was making me nervous. I mean, I’m sure people said the same thing about the Galloways. “Well, I guess it’s nobody’s business why.”

He grinned, picking at a corn muffin. “What’re you kidding? This is encounter, dude! It’s like open season on family secrets. So what’re
you
in for?”

Jiggling the salt, I shook my head. He seemed a mite overeager for my story. “You first.”

“You name it: abandonment issues, low self-esteem, an affinity for self-destructive behavior. Nothing major with that last one. I just pull out my toenails sometimes.” He hoisted a flip-flopped foot onto the table for proof.

“Eeeuw.”

“I’m a frequent flyer — the folks bought a season pass.”

“Well, I can’t top that.”

“I don’t know, Death of Parent is pretty major. I think you get bonus points for suicide.”

“What did you say?”

“Your dad. He killed himself, didn’t he?”

“How did you know that?”

“Oh, hey … sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He gulped, nervous, like he expected me to follow my roomie’s lead and dive over the table. I thought I might.

“Who told you?”

Returning his creepy nail-free foot to the floor, he said, “Your friend Randy.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have a ‘friend’ named Randy.”

“Well, I have a roommate named Randy,” voice dropping, he looked over his shoulder, “whose only break from tormenting me was talking about you.”

“Great.”

“Yeah, it was some night.”

“So you’re the human window shade?”

He laughed in spite of himself. “I guess so. Look, I’m sorry. I should’ve kept my mouth shut about your father. Obviously, Randy was setting me up. He told me to ask you about him.”

“What for?”

“I really don’t know. But I didn’t feel like I had much of an option not to.”

“I know what you mean.”

Just then, I spotted them across the caf, obviously tuned into our table: Nealson, bright red, snorted behind a copy of the
Saint Hubert Herald
. Spiotti glared at me with that intense-Malamute stare. I was about to embrace prey mentality, seek shelter in the nearest thicket, when Father Brendan’s voice boomed over the PA.

“Amen. Amen. Good morning, gentlemen. Pleasure to see you at Mass this morning. I’m delighted to welcome you to day one of our spiritual journey. We’ve a fine group in attendance, and I assure you the incident which occurred moments ago has been resolved and will have no bearing on our time together.”

“Resolved? Wonder what that means,” I whispered.

“Oh, it’s not that unusual. They probably just locked him in the dungeon.”

“Are you serious?”

“Uh … no.”

Father continued, “I would ask that you join me in a moment of silent reflection for one of the Saint Bernard lads who has reconsidered taking part and will be leaving shortly” — brief bowing of heads — “Now, on to today’s activities. Father Calvin.”

A shrill warble as they shuffled the microphone, then Father Cal’s mellow tone. “Today, our focus will be trust-building through a series of explorations. All activities begin in exactly forty minutes. We’ll split into three groups. Group one will experience rigorous reflection as Brother Cyrus leads an outdoor rosary walk through the Stations of the Cross. It’s a beautiful devotional exercise; the stations, larger than life, are set into the hills. Those wishing to participate should meet in the foyer. Be advised the trails are unplowed and it is quite chilly. Dress accordingly. Those suffering respiratory ailments are strongly discouraged.”

Spiotti and Nealson practically fell over each other racing out the door; several other jockish types followed. I guess they were into the allure of the frigid hike.

Jeff and I looked at each other. Eyes rolling, he said, “Chilly AND unplowed? Tempting.”

“I know. I wonder what our other options are.”

Father Calvin continued, “We’re also offering a lecture and stream-of-consciousness writing with Father Saint Martin. It is entitled ‘The Dove Within: Seeking Inner Peace through Self-Love.’ There was a wave of snickering, probably set off by the term
Self-Love
. “This superb event will be held in the auditorium.”

Some of the more artsy types left their tables and filed from the hall.

Jeffrey was shaking his head. “Been there, done that. Boring AND freaky.”

“Finally, a mirror exercise, called ‘Soul Search,’ in the solarium. I will be facilitating this activity, and look forward to working with all those interested.”

“Mirror exercise?”

“Yeah, it’s pretty easy. Two people sit at a table and basically try to communicate without talking. Something like that anyway. It involves a lot of staring.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“I think I fell asleep last time.”

“I’m not surprised. What’s the point?”

“It’s supposed to encourage the stripping away of the masks we all wear. They say that’s key to uncovering the truth within.”

“The only truth within me right now is I truly need to whiz before I hit the solarium.”

“Me too.”

At the urinals, we stuck to the established, eyes-forward policy. Jeffrey was, however, a john-talker; it did nothing for my already reticent bladder.

“Want to be my partner?”

“Uh … ”

“I’m talking about the mirror session.”

“Oh, that. Sure.”

“Great, let’s go.”

“Right. Look, I’ll catch up, okay? I just need to stop by my room for a bit.”

“No prob. Solarium in twenty?”

“Got it.”

Once he left, I was finally able to pee instead of just standing, thinking liquidy thoughts. Then I practically ran to my room, climbed up to the reading loft, and broke out the poems.

It almost feels wrong to read this stuff in the light of day, but after today, I’ve only got one more day here. Bus leaves for home at 4:30 sharp tomorrow, Sunday. So far, I haven’t made any big strides in Dad knowledge, so I have to keep on task.

The first poem’s called “Lazarus Eyes.” Cool thing is it’s a work in progress. He’s annotated the page with little notes to himself in the margins.

Holy shit, he was planning to share them with Mrs. S-B-C. Wonder if he ever did. I hear a tap on the door; it’s Jeffrey. Rushing to hide the poems, I fold them into Dad’s journal.

“Hey, you better hurry. The exercise starts in five, and they hate it when we’re late.”

Slipping the journal under the covers, I jump down. “Okay, let’s play the mirror game.”

“Just don’t call it a game in front of Father Calvin. He takes this stuff very seriously.”

Walking to the solarium, I take a moment to admire the surroundings. The stained glass lining the hall is astonishing; with the sun streaming in, it’s like walking through a kaleidoscope. My mood’s noticeably brighter too. Just knowing Spiotti and Crew have left the building has lifted my spirits. I picture them struggling through waist-high drifts, yelling for help. I suppose someone would be sent to look for remains if they disappeared on the snowy trails. Still, I can dream, can’t I?

That would be a fatal error, an admission of weakness. Of defeat.

Six minutes have passed. My eyes feel on the verge of bleeding. I never knew it was possible to keep from blinking this long.

I try to imagine a less comfortable situation. Orthodontist chair, melon-fisted Dr. Hanrahan wrist-deep in my mouth. Movie with Tyler and Lex: “Ty, could you take your hand off Lex’s boob and pass the popcorn?” Unpleasant scenarios, for sure, but rosy compared to reality. From the minute he got on the bus, I’ve been expecting something like this.

We’re at a little table near the window, just the two of us. Spiotti faces me, seated directly beneath this larger-than-life crucifix. It’s the post-resurrection type, where Jesus sort of hovers in front of the cross, arms outstretched. From where I sit, it appears He’s coming in for a landing on top of Randy’s pointy head. Hope He’s heavy.

Jeffrey and I got to the sunroom just in time. Father Calvin was about to explain Soul Search. Because Jeff’s been through it before, I guess he seemed like the perfect demo partner.

Father Cal took his arm as we walked through the archway, led him onto this platform near the French doors overlooking the courtyard. As he talked us through the exercise, he and Jeff demonstrated. It looked a little like this Harpo Marx routine: the pair face to face, Jeffrey following Father Cal’s every move, mirror-style.

After a few minutes (and about seven shots by Sister Shutterbug) you couldn’t tell who was leading; I guess that was the point. They’d keyed into each other. When he explained that was just the warm-up, there were groans from the group.

Father Cal said, “Come on, now, bear with me. Jeffrey, you know the drill. Ready?”

Jeff said, “Sure, Father,” and they sat at this table facing one another and just stared.

It went on like that for about five minutes before Father said, “Okay, you get the idea. Team up, warm up, grab a seat. Really study your partner’s eyes — they don’t call ’em windows to the soul for nothing. Embrace the experience. You may be surprised what you learn.”

Just then, the door at the end of the room banged open, blasting us with icy air. Brother Cyrus stomped in, snowy boots pounding flagstone. Spiotti and Nealson, wearing their penitent choirboy looks, tromped behind him.

“These bozos are
your
problem now, Calvin! I’m through! We no sooner got to the first station than I caught them making a snowman near the path — an anatomically correct snowman.”

Some of the guys laughed and, behind Brother Cy’s back, Spiotti did a WWE pose.

Father Cal caught it and said, “All right, enough. I’m glad you brought them in, Cyrus. This will do them a world of good.” Turning to Randy, he said, “We’re about to begin. You’ll need a partner.”

Before Spiotti could suggest Kenny, Father Cal grabbed Nealson and said, “You’ll be paired with Jeffrey here.” Then he put his hand on Spiotti’s shoulder and, as every nerve in my body fired, pushed him toward me, saying, “And you will team with Mister Galloway.”

Randy smiled in a way that can only be described as Grinch-like and said, “Perfect.”

It’s just typical I’d get paired with Spiotti for an activity called Soul Search — as if he has one! So we’re supposed to silently stare into each other’s eyes for a full thirty minutes.

So far about 360 seconds have elapsed. I know because I’ve been counting Mississippis in the face of Spiotti’s glare. Oh, and there’s a clock next to giant Jesus.

It’s gone from spiritual exercise to battle of wills. Neither of us has changed expression, looked away, or blinked since this started. He’s like a sphinx, only meaner; doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. His upper body remains perfectly still, betraying none of the movement beneath the table.

First, I think it’s an accident as his boot presses on my slippered toes. I flinch, just slightly, and move my foot away, like you do when someone stands a little too close in the checkout line: a minor adjustment.

But when it happens again, I know it’s deliberate, can almost see his foot seeking mine on the nubbly stone floor. There’s more pressure as he grinds my foot beneath steely treads.

I will not blink. Will not speak.
I allow myself another shift, this one larger. Lifting my foot, I drape it across the other leg, my eyes never breaking from Randy’s hate-filled gaze.

We study each other like gunslingers. Then his boot connects with my shin, and I buckle in my chair, releasing a sharp chuff of air. Bending, I rub the egg already blooming from the blade of my shin. When I look back up, Spiotti’s grinning.

“Sorry, Gal’.”

“No talking.” It’s one of the monitors, some brother I don’t recognize. They tend to meld, in their dull brown robes, like a flock of giant sparrows.

Spiotti looks at Brother No-name and, innocence embodied, says, “I kept telling him to be quiet.”

Taken in by Randy’s saintly expression, the bro says, “That’s fine, son.” Then he turns to me, frowns, says, “See it doesn’t happen again. The spiritual benefits of this exercise truly depend upon your silent cooperation. Understood?”

Hand clapped to mouth, I offer a serious, slow-mo nod. The brother, satisfied, moves on.

When I face Spiotti again, his eyes are crossed, mouth slack: personification of “Duh.” God, I hate him! I’d love nothing more than to reach across the table, grab his lolling tongue, and yank it clear off his face.

Instead — in what proves a seismic shift in the nature of our relationship — I uncross my leg, ratchet my foot back like a slingshot, and ram my heel squarely into Spiotti’s balls.

For a second, I’m not sure I’ve connected. Randy just sits there: no reaction. Then his eyes widen and all color drains from his face. Slumped onto the table, he emits a tiny, wounded-kitten mewl. Hand over his mouth, he retches softly.

I feel a ripple of guilt, not to mention fear. I certainly didn’t consider the consequences. I’ll be lucky to make it out alive. Glancing over my shoulder (mostly to map an escape route) I notice Kenny Nealson looking our way. Awesome.

In attempted self-preservation, I whisper, “Look, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

Randy speaks with great effort. “Don’t … pretend … you’re … sorry.”

“No, I am!”

“Bullsh … it.” He manages to gain his breath, sits a bit straighter in his chair. Pointing a finger in my face, he says, “Okay, I had that coming.”

“But I — ”

“Just shut up. I’m letting it slide.”

“Really?”

“Really. But you tell anybody about it, I’ll
kill
your ass.”

“Deal.”

The brother glides by our table, and we go into limpid pools mode. All I can think is,
It’s a good thing this is a silent process
. What if we had to talk to each other? I glance at the clock; we’re halfway through — another fifteen minutes.

My eyes keep focusing and unfocusing (maybe I should get checked for astigmatism) as I stare into Randy’s. It’s probably a defense mechanism, since I’m seriously not into the idea of seeing past his surface. And it could only be a bad thing to allow him access to my deeper self.

Hmm, I never noticed that. Spiotti’s got a hairline scar looping around the tip of his nose; it sort of skids off his left nostril, forming a pucker on his cheek. Wonder what it’s from. I’m staring at it, instead of looking into his eyes. Randy must notice; he lifts his hand from the tabletop and hooks his index finger over his nose, covering the scar. It’s funny; I think I’ve seen him make that gesture before.

I look into his eyes again and see something totally foreign. Could it be? Vulnerability? It scares me, but now I can’t look away. Not because of some battle of wills, but because I’m stunned. Is there really more than just another layer of evil beneath Spiotti’s mask?

He blinks and — Holy Crap! — a single, perfect, chick-flick tear slips from the corner of his eye, trailing down his face. When it hits the glitch on his cheek, it changes direction, meandering onto his upper lip. Very slowly, Spiotti’s tongue emerges to receive the tear, guiding it into his mouth.

I know better than to react, and Randy’s expression never changes.

“Time’s up,” says Father Calvin. He’s on the little platform, looking at a stopwatch.

Everyone sighs and stretches. You’d expect noise — talking, laughter, something — after thirty minutes of intense silence, but the group remains quiet. There’s a sense of fatigue.

“Okay, everybody stand up. Shake it off.”

Now there’s a cacophony of chairs scraping the stone floor, feet stamping, chatter.

“Next we verbalize. I’d like you each to get a couple sheets of paper and a pencil. You’ll find them on the monitor table. Once you’ve gathered supplies, return to your seats and record your impressions of the previous thirty minutes.”

A hand shoots up; it’s a track dude. “What do you mean impressions?”

“Thoughts. Feelings. Insights you had into your partner.”

“Are we being graded on this?”

Father Cal looks a tad miffed. “No. You won’t be graded, but I expect you to take this seriously. You’ll be sharing these thoughts in group. Now gather paper and pencils, and spend the next twenty minutes writing.”

A traffic jam forms at the supply table. I almost miss Jeffrey, but then some kid steps aside and I spot him. He looks haggard; probably the result of his extended Nealson workout.

“Hey!” When I tap his back, he jumps. The relief’s visible when he sees it’s me.

“Hey yourself.” He shoves up his sleeve to show me his wrist. It’s scarlet, classic Nealson Indian Burn. “You go to school with these psychos? How do you survive?”

I don’t have a chance to answer; Father Cal interrupts. “Please take an extra pencil and paper back to your partner, Evan. It seems he’s had a little breakthrough.”

I look at Spiotti sitting head down, face buried against his forearms.

“Wow. Break
down
’s more like it. What’d you do to him?”

Remembering Randy’s warning, “I’ll kill your ass,” I shrug and say, “Nothing.”

“If you say so.” Jeff grabs a sheet of paper and, shoulders slumping, he heads to his table.

Snagging pencils and paper, I rejoin Spiotti. A brother — Lucius, according to his name tag — squats next to Randy’s chair, checking on him. Praying I haven’t been ratted out, I sit down.

Brother Lucius smiles, says, “Good work, boys,” and leaves us.

We spend the next twenty minutes writing. I’m honestly at a loss, especially knowing I’ll have to read it out loud. Finally, I manage to fill a page with stuff like: “Focusing on someone else enabled me to find a quiet inside myself,” “It felt like floating in a peaceful place where I truly understood God’s love for me,” and assorted other groovy stuff I’m sure they’ll love.

Randy seems to have no such issue with writer’s block. He’s filled two pages front and back, and just before Father Cal calls “Time,” he asks if he can use my extra sheet.

“Sure.”

I slide the paper across the table, hoping he’s not detailing what it felt like when my foot made contact with his tender bits. Maybe that’s his plan: get me in trouble by telling the whole group I attacked him.

We spend the next hour listening to people’s Soul Search musings. Mercifully, it’s a voluntary situation; we’re not required to read our stuff out loud. Naturally, I opt out.

Father Calvin invites Jeff to begin, saying, “You’ve been through this before, and always seem to have such great insights. Feel like sharing?”

Jeff declines, barely looking up from the table, and I notice Kenny smirking.

Surprisingly, several people volunteer. The hour is filled with amazing testimonials: an even mix of touching and horrific. I’m stunned at the level of risk, the willingness to reveal darkness, speak the unspeakable, like Soul Search has woven this safety net of trust. One guy tells how his father repeatedly humiliated him in front of his Cub Scout troop. Another kid, Rickie from Holy Ghost, confesses the relief he felt when his brother finally died after sixteen months in a coma.

“All I could think was
Now we don’t have to spend another Christmas in this hospital
. ” Rickie can’t stop crying and keeps asking, “What’s wrong with me?”

Father Calvin guides the session beautifully; he knows just how to talk a kid down, when to ask him to delve deeper. He’s like some incredible umpire of grief. Just as the hour’s coming to a close, Father C asks if anyone else wants to speak. To my horror, Spiotti stands.

All eyes are on him, and I’m sure they expect some wise-assery; he’s already gotten a rep. Nealson and the rest of the track apes start chanting, “Ran-dy! RAN-dy!” ’til Novack yells, “Cut it!”

Spiotti clears his throat and begins. “Uh. I just wanted to say a couple things.” He shuffles his pages, brings them close to his face. He’s never exactly been an eager reader. “I didn’t come here by choice. Me and some of the other guys pulled some shit at school. Sorry, Coach.”

“No sweat, Randy. Just watch the language.”

That was obviously for the benefit of the robe-wearers. Novack’s language has been known to dissolve eardrums.

“Sure. Anyways, I’m glad I did. Come on retreat, I mean. And this activity, even though I thought it’d be total BS at first … ”