The Namesake (26 page)

Laughter from the crowd, even Father Cal.

“Wait, but it wasn’t. It was sort of cool. My partner was Evan Galloway, this kid from my school.”

I feel sudden heat in my face.

“We’ve never really been friends.” He looks up from the pages, an apparent departure from what’s written. “Actually, I’ve always been a dick to him.”

When Nealson laughs, Coach Novack cracks the back of his head with his clipboard.

Spiotti continues, “But sitting here staring in his face, I guess I realized something. I stopped seeing him as this weak, doofy, little brainiac brownnoser.”
Wow, I’m touched.
“I started seeing just another kid.” Folding his papers, he’s about to sit back down.

I’m thinking,
That’s it?

Father Cal must sense Randy has more to share. In this soft voice he tells him, “Go on.”

And — BINGO — he does!

“Just … I’ve always been kind of … people look up to me. And that’s great, but … sometimes, like I said, I’m sort of a dick — sorry — a bully. And this Soul Search made me see a little better why I act like that. And now I feel like, maybe, it’s time I change. That’s it.”

The room’s silent. I spot Nealson; he’s wearing this queasy look, like he’s discovered pudding in his jockstrap. I feel my own jaw slightly unhinged in disbelief and, closing my mouth, look across the table at Spiotti. He smiles and offers his hand. It’s a real Hallmark moment.

Father Cal leads the applause that engulfs the room. Then we break for lunch. It seems I’ve become an object of curiosity; no doubt, due to Spiotti’s little interlude, everyone’s eager to get a look at the brainiac brownnoser. Happily, there’s no sign of Spiotti himself. Small favor.

As we tuck into our Sloppy Joes and baked beans (only later, in the confessional, will I question the wisdom of serving such flatulence-inducing fare to a herd of teenage guys), Jeffrey still looks shell-shocked. Head down, he rocks slightly, keeps rubbing his wrist.

“Are you okay?”

He looks at me — eyes sad, red — but he only shrugs. “Just tired. Listen, we got almost an hour ’til confessions. And I’m totally wiped from Soul Search. I think that Nealson scumbag may have extracted mine somehow.” This foggy look returns, but when I clear my throat, he offers a smile and says, “I think I’ll grab some Zs.”

“Okay.”

Somehow, watching his back as he trudges down the hallway starts me thinking of Lex. I briefly consider breaking rule #1 — no outside contact — and giving her a call. Instead, after dropping my tray onto the waste conveyor, I decide to spend the free time reading. But I don’t feel like sitting in my room; I plan on the chapel. It’ll be quiet there, and private.

I’ve gathered some stuff from 214. The journal’s in my hoodie pocket and I’m heading to the chapel when I happen to glance out the big glass doors overlooking the back hill. This glorious valley view glints through bare trunks, the ice stained like fruit sherbet by the waning sun.

Staring out, I imagine I can see my house from here (like I know where
here
is). A pop of red catches my attention as a cardinal shoots from a pine, landing on a half-buried stone wall. The movement draws my eye to a figure huddled against the wind, partway down the hill. Thinking it’s a brother — he’s got that shapeless-brown-lump quality they share — I tap the window. No response. Curious, I put my hood up and step out, feet sinking, toes instantly damp.

As I approach the brown-clad form thinking,
Why am I out here in slippers?
he turns. First thing that registers: the buttons, his robe’s really a corduroy trench coat. Then I see the cigarette. I’m close to an about-face when he calls me.

“Galloway!”

Terrific.

“Hey, Randy.”

“So, if I embarrassed you before … sorry.”

I’ve begun backing toward the double door. “No big.”

“But … it is.”

I’m almost to the doors when my heel catches the ridge of snow-caked walk and I topple. Luckily, the drift buffers my head as it hits stone.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Fine.”

Randy tries to lift me, but I shake loose of his grip.

“I said I’m fine!”

Standing, I get my first good look at his face, and can’t help asking, “Are
you
okay?”

Snorting a last clot of smoke, Spiotti flicks his butt into the snow with a tiny
sizzz
. “I’m great.”

Unsure why I even care, I pursue it. “You don’t
look
great.”

“Yeah, well, I been thinking.”

“What about?”

I shudder when he says, “You, me. We’re not that different you know.”

“Gulp.” Oops, didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sorry. Just a joke.”

“Whatever. Look, I been realizing we have some shit in common.”

“What type of shit?”

“Your old man, my mother.”

“What about your mother?”

He starts downhill toward this stone gazebo. Ignoring my better judgment, I follow.

“Wait up.”

I join him in the gazebo. He clears snow off one of the benches — these big, carved granite slabs — and sits, head hanging, hands between his knees. I shove the snow, like a big, white sheet cake, off the bench opposite him and sit.

“She … uh … bailed on us. Just like your father.”

“Wait, you mean she killed herself?”

Staring at the painted gazebo ceiling — Blessed Mother, serpent crushed beneath her heel — he sighs. “Might as well have. She’s dead to me.”

“Oh.”

“The bitch walked out on my old man and me when I was six.” The way he sneers, like he’s auditioning for a movie, he almost convinces me he’s angry, not hurt. I wonder, has he convinced himself?

“That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Actually it was the day before I turned six. Some birthday, huh?”

“Wow. I’m sorry.”

He stares at me for a long time, puzzled. I’m beginning to feel like a specimen in a museum case when he finally says, “Shit, you really are, aren’t you? Sorry.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Uh … I guess … I just feel bad for you. That must’ve been — ”

Suddenly he’s looming. “Who are
you
to feel sorry for
me
?”

I try to stand, but he pushes me back onto the bench. Certain he’s about to hit me, I sink in defensive posture, hands over face, shoulders hunched. I’m cringing for a good thirty seconds, braced for contact, when I hear it: a blubbery exhalation.

Slowly opening my eyes, I’m stunned at the sight of Spiotti hunkered on the far side of the gazebo. He’s crouched, leaning against the bench, face pressed into the remaining snow. His whole body shakes, like an elastic stretched to snapping.

“Randy?” Stepping closer, fawn approaching rabid wolf, I ask, “What is it?”

He mumbles something I can’t quite understand. When I put my hand on his back, he tenses as if I’ve delivered an electric shock. I pull back.

“I said, just go!”

“Maybe I can help you.”

“No! I don’t need your help. And if you don’t go now, I’m afraid what I might do to you.”

I have a horror movie flash: this guy transforming into a werewolf warns his friend to run. He’s snarling, “Save yourself,” and just like the friend, I’m stupid enough to refuse.

“Just talk to me.”

“Evan, I swear, you better get away from me right now.”

But he’s shaking as he says it, and I sense a part of him, at least, wants me to stay. I sit next to him on the icy stone floor. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists; I honestly believe he might pummel me. But I see something else in his face, something new. His lip trembles as he talks, and I realize what that new thing is: Spiotti at six. Motherless. Broken.

“I’m scared, man.”

“Why?”

“This shit! All this ‘I’m lovable’ bullshit. How am I supposed to accept that? How does that apply to me? If I’m so lovable, why didn’t my own mother think so?”

I truthfully don’t have an answer for him, but I realize he’s not really expecting one.

“Oh forget it! This is all homo bullshit anyway. What’s the point? Like any of this shit applies when we get back to school on Monday.”

“Maybe.”

“What, you think things will be different because some friggin’ celibint — ”

“You mean celibate?”

“Celibate, right. Some celibate asshole sticks a pin on my shirt and all of a sudden everything’s perfect? Bullshit! You think that pin will bring my mother back? How ’bout your father? Some pin on your shirt going to bring him back to you?”

I’m pissed, but manage a monotone, for safety. “I don’t think that’s the point.”

“Then what is?”

“Maybe just the fact that you and I are talking to one another like human beings, maybe that’s reason enough to have come.”

Randy’s about to answer when we hear the siren, faint at first. I almost believe it’s just passing by. But then I see the ambulance speeding up the drive, lights flashing among evergreens as it draws up to the Center’s front doors. Spiotti and I look at each other, then back to the building. There’s a commotion, a cluster of bodies in the hall, just visible through the glass doors.

We freeze, uncertain. A part of me wants to stay in the gazebo, pretend nothing’s happened. Then I picture Jeffrey, eyes empty, as he said, “I think I’ll grab some Zs.”

With a twinge in my gut, I run for the building. As Spiotti and I reach the double doors, I notice most of the guys clogging the hallway are from Saint Bernard’s.

I shove through the group to the center of the hall, wet slippers skidding. I’m about to ask what’s going on, when two EMTs round the corner. They push a stretcher, leaning to talk to their passenger. I see his face, pale, waxy; his Kool-Aid hair’s like a pumpkin nest on the pillow. The last thing I notice as they push Jeffrey past is his bandaged wrist.

It went that smoothly. And given the level of efficient cool with which they handled the situation, I’m guessing attempted suicide’s not exactly rare in these parts. Not that I’m surprised. I mean, take the emotional issues of your average teenage boy; multiply by sixty-six attendees; mix in the stressors of forced intimacy and dorm-style accommodations; sprinkle generously with bullying cliques; and stand back. Somebody’s bound to blow.

Seriously. In spite of the soothing poster selection — rainbows, doves, loads of smiling Jesuses — and the “man-who-stilled-the-water” musical stylings, this place is an emotional crock pot. It’s impressive we made it all the way to Saturday afternoon before EMTs were summoned.

Rolling past on the gurney, Jeff swam in and out of awareness. Still, I wanted him to know I was there. Trailing the paramedics, I called his name. As his eyes rolled my way, I said, “It’ll be okay.”

He didn’t answer, just lifted a gauzed wrist and, hand-to-ear in a phone gesture, mouthed, “Call me. ”

When I tried to follow them out the front doors, Novack pretty much body-checked me back into the lobby. He said, “Leave this to his folks, Galloway.”

Following his stretcher’s bumpy progress down the stone steps, I saw them: Jeff’s parents, at the curb. They didn’t rush to meet him or get in the ambulance; just waited alongside for the guys to load him in. Then they got back in their car and tailed their son’s emergency vehicle down the drive.

I had barely a minute to process it before we heard Father B. “We will convene in the chapel in ten minutes for a brief prayer service. Please proceed in orderly fashion.”

I expected a major change of plans: an announcement that buses would be coming to take us home; cancellation of the rest of encounter; at the very least, suspension of the remainder of today’s activities. Didn’t happen. Instead, we said a rosary in honor of “young Mister McAlister.” Funny, I hadn’t known Jeffrey’s last name, even though I’d begun to consider him a friend.

Then, after a brief free period (during which I did a little reconnaissance work, with some promising results), it was on to business as usual, though the Bernard boys had the option of calling their folks and leaving right after the prayers. I was surprised none of them did; then again, Jeff didn’t seem particularly close with any of these guys.

Confession came next, and it was a “Bless-me-Father” blur. I seriously can’t even recall what I said. I was just relieved it was some priest I didn’t know. I’d been dreading getting Father Brendan. It’s impossible to withhold anything from the guy, and I really didn’t feel like divulging everything I’ve been going through these past few weeks.

Now we’re back in the cafeteria, and suppertime brings a small concession to the awful events of this afternoon. Father Cal clinks a spoon against his water glass, wedding reception style, and stands to announce, “In order to lift our spirits, and get encounter back on a positive track, you’ll be receiving your palancas a day early.”

Apparently this is a big deal. Father explains the strict protocol governing dispersal of palanca letters. They’re traditionally handed out on Sunday afternoon after the Promise Ceremony, prior to closing Mass.

“But,” he says, “I think Jeffrey would want us to forge ahead with spiritual growth, to recapture joy. And one way to do that is to hand out those babies. A palanca,” he explains, “is an act of sacrifice: fasting, abstinence, or prayer. The letter or gift is NOT the palanca; the letter or gift is a physical representation of the sacrifice. The palanca means someone has promised to join with you spiritually, to partner with you through prayer. The palanca shows you are not alone; you are part of a community.”

He says we should head back to our rooms, promising we’ll find the “physical representations of sacrifice” there. Wow, I’d have settled for a mint on the pillow.

We file out of the cafeteria. When I enter 214 it’s apparent the encounter elves have indeed made a delivery. A cardboard box sits on the desk with “Galloway: RM 214” scrawled on the side in black Marks-A-Lot.

Hefting the box, I swing up to the top bunk. When I pop the lid, I discover a bunch of envelopes inside. I can tell who most of them are from just by the size, color, and handwriting.

• Flower Fairy: Mom, obviously;
  
• Neon green, SpongeBob sticker: Aunt Reg;
  
• Large manila, Little Sisters of Infinite Hope logo: Aunt Ro;
  
• Plain, white #10 utility: Gran and Gramp;
  
• Purple craft paper, silver ink: Has to be Lex;
  
• Square, green vellum: Could it really be Mister P?
  
• Heavy buff with an S B C monogram on the back flap.
  

It feels like Halloween, dumping my pillowcase, surveying booty. All in all, a decent haul. I decide to open the Anonymous Three first. One’s just a folded and stapled sheet of pebble gray paper. I pull the staple free, drop it in the trash. Unfolding the page, I see the return address: Office of the Archbishop. Printed in laser jet script below, it says,

Great. Nothing like the warm fuzzies that come with a form letter from the archdiocese; “… success in all you
encounter
,” who knew the Archbish was a punster?

The next one’s from Mrs. Teague — really, Mrs. Teague! I expect another form letter, and it is. It says she’s dedicating her daily prayer to the intentions of the young men on encounter. Very nice. But at the bottom, she’s written a personal message. In her precise hand, it says,

“Oh my God.” I’m not sure why this hits me so hard, but I just sit for a few minutes, my stomach souring. Who’d have guessed we had such a weird connection?

The third envelope contains two sheets of paper. I unfold them, and a prayer card and “I’m lovable” bookmark drop on the bed. It’s a rate-your-encounter-experience survey. Quick-scanning, I see questions like, “Was support staff approachable and receptive?” and “Did you find any elements overwhelming?” Ugh. Wondering if Jeff will get one of these, I toss it aside.

Okay, on to friends and family. I put Lex’s envelope aside; whether because I’m saving the best for last, or out of fear of what’s inside, I’m not sure. I start with Mrs. S-B-C.

What could she mean by “I failed him”? It must have something to do with those poems. What if he did show them to her, like he said in the note alongside “Lazarus Eyes”? Would she have reported it — or did she fail him by not telling?

Pettafordi’s palanca’s next. I carefully fold back a vellum flap and examine the contents. It’s like a riddle. After repeated readings, I’m still not sure whether he’s trying to be philosophical and enlightening, or just plain confusing.

He’s sent four postcards: each a famous image. He’s numbered them. First up:
The Annunciation
by some Flemish Master. I remember it from Art History — the badly skewed perspective of Mary’s tabletop, Gabriel’s shiny wings. On the back, he’s written: Miracles must be measured in contrast with the ordinary. Knowledge resides in the small things.

Card two is a Hopper painting, that famous one of folks in an all-night diner. Night Owls? No, that’s wrong. I check the title:
Nighthawks
. This time he’s written: The human heart is capable of both extraordinary love and uncommon loneliness.

The third one’s a Muppet parody of Botticelli’s
The Birth of Venus
, but with Miss Piggy on the half-shell. Bizarre. And I have no idea what the notation’s supposed to mean: There is beauty in all, that which is given and that which is taken away
.

Finally, card four shows a huge waterfall. It’s a black-and-white shot by that famous photographer, Ansel Adams. On this one, Pettafordi’s written: And your tears shall purify you. Fascinating, but I’m getting a major headache. I tuck his philosophy flash cards back in their packet, wondering what he was smoking when he crafted this little care package.

Next, I open Aunt Rosemary’s. This I’m prepared for. An enormous Mass card from the Little Sisters, it looks like a diploma folder. The outer cover’s sky blue leatherette. Inside is this poem: “An Encounter Prayer.” She must’ve done some major searching; it’s the perfect accessory.

Opposite the poem, a page details my enrollment in The Little Way Society. She’s also written a note on the bottom: “You will be remembered in their daily Masses — in perpetuity. Love, Aunt Rosemary.”

“Wow, perpetuity.” That’s a long time. It’s sweet, especially knowing how important she considers that stuff. It’d be like Gramp enrolling me in the Young Republicans, or the Elks.

Thinking of Gramp leads me to the next envelope. I know it’s from them; it’s the type Gran uses for coupons. They buy them in bulk at Big Box. Probably have a case of 20,000 in the pantry next to the twenty-gallon jug of mustard.

The writing on the front clinches it: Personal for Evan G. Galloway, Junior, Saint Sebastian’s High School — DOB: Jan. 22. Yup, that’s Gran. Nothing if not thorough. I’m surprised she didn’t list my shoe size. Opening the envelope, I slide out a sheet of lined paper. In Gran’s slightly irregular, sloping script, it says,

He’s too much. I laugh out loud. Then picturing him in the Tahoe, stone-faced and struggling, I stop, refold the page, and slide it back into the envelope.

Aunt Reg is next; let’s hope the message is in keeping with the Sponge on the front, because I could use a laugh. This whole palanca thing’s a bit twisted, like a premature eulogy. It’s nice in theory, to know how people feel about me, but what’ll it be like seeing them? Will we treat each other differently now that they’ve revealed this stuff in print? Then again, I’ve always known they love me. Well, except for Mrs. Teague. That was a surprise.