The Namesake (28 page)

Shit, this must be it! God, what I wouldn’t give to time-travel back there and save him.

You couldn’t, Dad. He knew how to control you, like you belonged to him.

Closing the journal, I jump from my bunk. “Oh God. I can’t read anymore.” I pace the room, trying to walk his words from my brain. It’s no use. I pull the journal down, crawl into the bottom bunk, a frightened animal in a cave.

“Attention: We’ll be meeting in chapel for nightly prayer and reflection in ten minutes. Remember, this is NOT an optional activity. All candidates are expected to attend. Thank you.”

Great! The last thing I want right now is to put the journal down and freaking mingle. But I have no choice. Hopping down, I look in the mirror — UGH. I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. Then I gargle with hot water and antibacterial soap, attempting to rinse away the imagined taste of spearmint.

As I step out of the bathroom, I catch Spiotti coming from my room. He hesitates for just a second, a stutter-step; then he continues toward me.

“Galloway, I was looking for you. Thought we could walk down to chapel together. Since we both lost our roomies.”

My old sensors kick in, but he seems sincere. “Just a sec. Let me … turn off the light.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’ll have to do. I scoot into 214, quick-scan for damage. Looks okay. The journal’s still open on the bottom bunk. Folding loose pages together, I slip it into my duffel.

When I turn around, Randy’s standing behind me. “What’s that?”

“Nothing important. Just some notes I’ve been writing to myself.”

“Like a diary?”

“I guess.”

“Cool.” As we walk down the stairs toward chapel, he says, “Some weekend, huh?”

I smile and nod, thinking,
This is too strange
.

At the bottom step, Nealson appears, running in the wrong direction, heading
up
stairs. Randy stops him. “What’s up?”

Kenny pauses, looking at me, then he says, “Forgot something.”

“You better mojo.”

“Yup.”

Randy sits with me in chapel. I can’t help thinking,
Is this real
? or wincing instinctively whenever he shifts in the pew. But after a few minutes, I allow myself to visualize a life where Spiotti is NOT my mortal enemy.

During the closing prayer, Nealson slips into the next pew. Breathing heavily, he grins, flashing Spiotti a thumbs up. Randy turns to me; rolling his eyes, he mouths, “What an a’hole,” just as Brother Lucius bids us a “restful good night.”

I’m finding this transformation hard to accept, but no matter. It’s not like I’m shopping for a new best friend, regardless of the state of things in Lexland. Besides, if I was, Spiotti certainly wouldn’t make my short list, metamorphosis or no.

He lingers with Kenny when prayers end, and I quickly return to 214. There’s a moment of abject horror when I see Dad’s journal on the desk and realize someone’s been rummaging.

Snatching the bag and journal, I do a rapid inspection. Everything seems to be intact, but I’m sure I didn’t leave it out. I examine the rest of my stuff, but nothing’s missing. Well, if it was Nealson snooping, he didn’t steal anything. Still, it’s a good case for installing freaking locks.

The sign really read, STAFF ONLY, but I suspect that means DEEP, DARK STUFF HIDDEN HERE.

I’m night-wandering again. Only now, freed from the constraints of Casa Galloway, I’ve got the entire Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center to explore. I spotted this door tonight after chapel. We had a free period before lights-out; well, officially, it was for silent reflection, but nobody said we weren’t allowed to reflect while prowling. I’m headed back there.

I was initially attracted by this giant potted tree — a fig, I believe. It seemed to call to me like Moses’s burning bush. I didn’t hear an actual voice; I’m not that far gone. But it sort of glowed, in a shaft of February starlight. As I approached, I half expected to find an orangutan or lemur scaling the trunk. A sloth maybe. No wildlife was evident, but something did seem odd: the tree was shoved into the middle of the hallway. Like a roadblock. The only thing missing was a sign saying, “I’d turn back if I were you.”

Peeking past it, I saw three doorways, and I got this immediate sense I’d found it: the entrance to Father Fran’s old office. Judging from its nearness to the chapel, it had to be.

I was about to take a closer look when this brother emerged from a heavy wooden door down the hall behind the fig. He looked over his shoulder in a “coast clear?” way; then he double-checked the lock. He didn’t notice me drop into prayerful pose beside the tree, forehead to windowpane. He passed right by.

So anyway, Fig Tree Hallway seemed ripe for exploration. I waited about thirty minutes past lights-out to flip the bedside lamp back on and try to do some reading. But I kept having this creeping sense the fig was calling.

Now I’m in full Hogwarts mode — well, minus the Invisibility Cloak — sneaking through darkened stone passageways in search of answers. Making my way down to the first floor, I’m zeroing in on Fig Hallway now.

It’s mine-shaft dark with just the moon and exit sign aglow; when they say “lights-out” they mean it. Kaleidoscope Corridor’s gone dank, and the moon’s casting grotesque shadows through the stained glass. Pale saints, distorted, stretch up the wall like tie-dyed ghosts.

I heard sporadic sleep murmurs as I slid by the other retreaters’ doors, but here on the main floor it’s almost perfectly silent. I toe-heel past the chapel and reconciliation rooms. The fig shimmers ahead like that heat wiggle that comes off the road in summer.

It feels like I’ve been walking for hours, but the tree’s no closer, like the hall’s stretching with every step. I imagine a team of tiny monks laying a stone path to infinity. Then, as I’m about to speed to a trot, I hear it — sudden, shocking in the hollow quiet — a guttural howl from behind the massive fig. My mind jumps to Kaspar, but that’s not possible; he’d be, like, forty years old. Besides, it repeats, and I realize it’s more human than animal. Just barely.

Skin prickling, eyes bulging, I stop, feeling the stucco wall for a light switch. No dice. I’m debating running to my room and burrowing beneath the covers when —
creeeeaaa
— the STAFF ONLY door swings slowly inward. My jaw clicks as I grind my teeth, twisting my pajama shirt into a knot at my waist.

Alarmingly, though I should bolt back to 214, I glide forward ’til I’m nose-to-bark with the fig. Before my brain can question the wisdom of proximity, my feet carry me past the braided trunk, the canopy of waxy leaves. In the entry, shivering lightly, I face the forbidden door. Ajar, flickery yellow light visible within, it looks even less inviting.

I continue toward it, like I’m magnetized or caught in a riptide. I can hardly feel my bare feet skimming stones.

There’s a door on each side of the hallway. The one to my right has a pebbled glass window and plaque reading OFFICE, but there’s a table in front, barring entry. It’s stacked with hymnals and pamphlets. A sheet of paper’s taped to the glass: Water Damage. Do Not Use.

The door across the hall — door
way
really — is just an alcove. Inside’s a metal chair, and the pay phone Dad mentioned, mounted to the wall. I have an overwhelming urge to call my mother, blurt into the receiver, “Mommy, come get me. I’m scared!” But then I remember I’m not five years old; this isn’t a sleepover, and I don’t generally carry coins in my pajamas.

Instead, I pause at the table. Not that I’m especially interested in new reading material, it’s just, suddenly I’m less than eager to look behind door number two. I grab a booklet, glance at the front, nearly drop it when the Jesus on the cover turns to look at me. Laughing tensely, I realize it’s a hologram.

“Okay, enough,” I whisper outside the door.

It’s only open a fraction of an inch, but I can hardly believe it. I was expecting locked. Now I have no choice but to keep going.

Leaning against burled wood, I press my palm to the door — just above the brass faceplate — and tilt my head, squishing one ear to the wide panel. The door seems to throb against my cheek; really it’s my heartbeat, pulsing in my head.

Gripping the knob, I tighten my fingers around it. Eyes closed, I can almost read the filigree pattern like Braille. The handle’s so chilled I shudder, feeling urgency fire up my spine.

“Is someone there?”

I nearly scream when I hear the voice, soft, fearful. It’s a minute before I can answer.

“Yes, it’s me, Evan.”

Pushing the door, I reveal a room, maybe 10 × 10 feet, windowless. A candle burns on the small oak desk, near the bed. These are the only pieces of furniture. Above the bed hangs a large, wooden crucifix, the candle flicking liquid shadows onto Christ’s anguished face.

I hesitate; touch one foot to the stone floor, like testing water. The temperature inside the cell seems even chillier than in the hallway. I expect to see my breath.

“Come in, come in. I’ve been waiting for you.”

Taking the smallest steps possible, I venture in. Fully inside, I keep eyes fixed to floor, to candle, anywhere but the form on the bed.

“Close the door and sit, so we can talk.”

Never one to defy the Ancient, I comply. The door squeaks in reverse —
aaaeeeerc
— and as the candle spits, casting silent-movie shadows, I look for a place to sit. I’m momentarily baffled by the lack of a chair.

Then the figure says, “Here,” patting the mattress with one clawed hand.

I have this flash of absolute stranger-danger clarity. Then, almost as if observing from afar, I’m aware of myself dropping onto the bed.

“It’s good to see you again.”

So far, I’ve avoided eye contact, but now I engage. I study the leathery face. Candle sparks against the tortoise-rimmed lenses obscure his eyes.

“Sorry, have we met?”

He just chuckles — this dry husk of sound that prickles the flesh on my neck. I mean to get up, to bolt, but I’m bound to the mattress by curiosity and fear.

“How are you enjoying your stay with us, Evan?”

“Um … it’s … fine … I’ll be glad when the weekend’s over, honestly.”

“And why is that?” He seems to have gotten larger (closer?) in the moment I’ve sat here, like a balloon inflating. But that’s just nuts.

“I … uh … I learned some things.”

“Troublesome things?” He grins, and I notice how yellowed, somehow dangerous-looking, his teeth seem by candlelight.

“Yes.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes, Father.”

“That’s better. I’m here to listen. Share your burden with me. Lay your burden down.”

“Like the song says?”

“Yes, Evan, just like the song.”

“Um … I think, maybe, I should get back to my room.”

“Nonsenssse! You’ve only just gotten here.”

“I know but — ”

“Our party’s just beginning!”

“Party?”

He laughs again, that dry rasp, and says, “A joke. Forgive an old man his amusements.”

“Oh, sure. Look, I should really go.”

“Yes, I suppose you
should
, but you won’t leave me just yet, will you?”

I’m not sure why, but I say, “Not yet, Father.”

“Good, good! Splendid!”

He pats my knee, his nails thick, yellow-gray, like the talons of a hawk. When his fingers tighten just above my knee, it’s like static shock. I can’t help jumping as the current pulses through my leg.

“How is your mother?”

The question throws me. Before I can answer, he says, “Maureen was always a fine, a godly, woman. And a trusting friend to me.”

I’m about to say, “Maureen is my
grand
mother,” but he continues.

“She was instrumental in bringing us together.”

He’s beginning to skeeve me out. For one thing, I realize his hand is now on my thigh.

“Look! I don’t know who you are — ”

“
Don’t you
?”

I shove his claw away and stand, “Or who you think
I
am.”

He rises too and, like some creepy CGI effect, he’s taller than I thought, fuller. His face twists into a vulgar pout; voice deeper than before, he says, “You’re hurting my feelings. Would you deny me, like some Simon Peter? You’re my special boy, Evan. My own special boy!”

“Father Fran?” His head snaps back in laughter. “But Gran told me you were dead!”

He advances. The room’s so cramped, I’ve no place to go. He presses into me, jamming me against the door, and I cringe at his breath — smoke/mint/rot.

I try to scream, but he claps a palm to my face, silencing me, his other hand pinching my nostrils. When I open my lips to gulp air, he removes his hands, presses his eager mouth to mine. His tongue, rough as a parrot’s, probes my mouth like a feeler, pushing deeper, filling my throat.

I choke. He throws me onto the low, wooden bed, my head cracking the cinderblock wall. Screaming, I thrash on the filthy mattress. He overpowers me. As I continue to fight, his face appears/disappears above me like a neon skull, partially obscured by the metal rim of the top bunk.

“NOOOO!!!!”

Large hands shake me, gripping my shoulders. “Evan!”

“NOOOO!!!!”

“Evan, wake up!”

Opening my eyes, I see his flushed face, plaid pajamas … the age-spot Rorschach … it’s Father Brendan. I begin to weep, fighting my way out of the nightmare.

Father B keeps repeating, “It’s all right now, Evan. It’s all right, lad.”

I’m vaguely aware of figures in the doorway.

Father says, “Back to bed, Mister Spiotti, Nealson. Show’s over Mister Dunham.”

There’s a general murmur as they leave. I finally catch my breath, but disorientation’s tougher to shed. I insist I met Father Fran. Finally, a mix of frustration and concern, Father B agrees to investigate the room behind the fig.

It’s hours ’til dawn. He doesn’t want to wake the troops by turning on lights, so we travel with just my book light as a guide. No doubt, Father could navigate these halls blind.

He’s silent until we reach the corridor opposite the fig, then he says, “Nearly there.”

The tree looks smaller; though it’s in the middle of the entry, it’s not quite the obstacle I recall. Flipping on a light in the phone alcove, he fumbles for a key.

I say, “It’s not locked.”

Looking slightly perturbed, Father B jiggles the handle. It refuses to budge.

As he continues searching for the key, I say, “Forget it.”

“What’s that?”

“I said never mind. I’m obviously off my nut. Sorry I wasted your time.”

He doesn’t correct me, but I see by his eyes he doesn’t think I’m certifiable. “Here it is.” Opening the door, he leads me inside. It’s not the room I was in. Or, if it is, it’s undergone a rapid renovation.

“It’s a storage closet?”

“Yes, it is. Now.”

“But it wasn’t always?”

“No, it was once an office.”

“Father Fran’s?”

“Come with me.” He leads me to his own office, probably the very door Dad banged on all those years ago. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

I recount the whole thing. By the end, I’ve started calling it a dream because, obviously, it was one. Thank God.

When I finish, he’s silent for a good five minutes before saying, “How much do you know about Father Fran, Evan?”

For a second, I consider dodging; evasion’s been my tactic since I first discovered the journal. But — whether out of exhaustion or trust — I tell the truth about the journal and most of what I’ve learned since finding it. I end by saying, “So you can see I know quite a bit, Father.”

“Yes, I guess you do. And I think your experience tonight was more akin to vision than a simple dream. I think perhaps you’ve a bit of a gift.”

“Yippee.”

“The room you saw was, in fact, once Father Fran’s office. And I can only presume some of the evil he perpetrated against your father, and likely others, occurred there.”

“Whoa.”

“Whoa, indeed. So, as you said, you know quite a bit. My question is: How much would you like to know?”

I don’t expect him to ask that. Before answering, I stare into his eyes. They’re so kind, so incredibly sad.

“I’d like to know everything.”

He nods slowly, letting out a sigh. “None of us can know everything, son. And I’m not sure it would be good for you to know all I know anyway.”

“Please.”

“I’ll tell you what I can, given the limits of the confessional.”