The Namesake (29 page)

“Oh.” I hadn’t considered that. Anything he learned during the Sacrament of Penance is off-limits.

“Your father was a very special young man, Evan.”

“Father, wait. If one more person tells me that, I think I’ll scream … I’m sorry. It’s just. If he was so special, why didn’t God protect him?”

He looks like I’ve hurt him personally, just for a second. Then he says, “Ah, yes. The big questions: If God is all-powerful, why is there evil in the world? Why does He allow bad things to happen to good people? I’m disappointed, Evan. Haven’t you been studying your catechism?”

I blush. “Well, sure, I understand on an intellectual level, but … this is my dad.”

“Of course. Perhaps it will help clarify things if I tell you what I found particularly special about your father.”

“What?”

“Forgiveness.”

“Why forgiveness?”

“Let me explain. As you’ve learned, Father Fran’s acts were especially grievous — ”

“He was a sick bastard. Forgive my language, Father, but he was.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“How can you say that? If you’d read the journal … understood everything he did!”

“Sickness can surely cause a man to do horrible things, Evan, but in Father Fran’s case, I believe we were dealing with something else.” He picks up a Holy Family snow globe, shakes it, causing a captive storm.

Silent, he studies the globe ’til I say, “What, Father? If not sick, what?”

“Evil. Father Fran was evil, plain and simple. And there is a sharp distinction between sickness and evil. I only wish I had recognized that at the time. Perhaps then, I’d have dealt with him in a more suitable manner.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father came to me just after encounter, and told me Father Fran had hurt him. It was extremely difficult for him to confide in me. And — ” Removing his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What is it?”

“My greatest failing, Evan, is that I did not take him more seriously.”

“What are you saying?”

He just looks at me, his color rising. “The things he was telling me, I think my own arrogance prevented me from believing him. I felt if I were right with the Lord, Father Fran could not have deceived me.”

“Deceived
you
? So your pride was more important than my father? Than the truth?”

He has no answer for that, can’t even meet my gaze.

Flashing with rage, I see myself punch him. Instead, I push back my chair, stalk to the office door.

“Evan, wait.”

I stop, exhausted. When I turn around, I really see it: He’s just an old man.

“He came to you?”

“Yes.”

“And you didn’t help him?”

“No. I did not.” His eyes finally meet mine.

As if he’s punched me in the gut, I steady myself, sink back onto the chair. “What did you tell him, Father?”

He doesn’t struggle, just says this flat out, maybe because he’s had years to mourn these words. “I told him he must have misunderstood.”

“And what did he say to you?”

“I’ll never forget it. He said, ‘Father, I forgive you, for you know not what you do.’ It was more than a clever paraphrase, Evan. It was the essence of who your father was.”

“And then what?”

“He vandalized the art studio. And then I was convinced. By Father Fran’s reaction, partly. But also by the corroborating evidence Miss Solomon offered.”

“My father’s poems?”

“The poems. May I assume you’ve read them?”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“Well. They say ‘the truth shall set you free,’ but often it feels like a burden, no?”

“So you knew. Mrs. S-B-C knew. On some level, Gran even knew. And no one helped.”

“Father Fran
was
sent away. At that time, it was the protocol. He received counseling and a reassignment.”

“And then he died?”

“Yes, he did. Around the time you were born.”

“Good. And I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

“You mustn’t say that, Evan. He may well be in hell; his sins were very grave. But our Lord is merciful.”

“And what about my dad? Who had mercy on
him
? Why didn’t anyone make sure
he
got counseling?”

“Your father came to me privately. He apologized for his actions in the art studio, saying he just wanted to ‘put it all behind him.’ He was very convincing. And,” he lifts the globe again, taps it with his finger, “I suppose I wanted to get past it as well. It was Saint Sebastian’s fiftieth anniversary gala. I was hoping to avoid any unpleasantness.”

“I see.”

“I’m not proud of that, Evan. But, at the time, I felt I was doing the right thing for all involved.”

“Did you know about Tony … Mister Pettafordi?”

Frowning, he gives the snow globe a sharp swirl. “Evan, your father did make some unfortunate remarks about Anthony at the time. He seemed determined to discredit, if not destroy, his friend. I’m not sure why.”

“You mean, you don’t know?”

“If you’re referring to Anthony having feelings for your father, I — ”

“No!” He’s surprised at my reaction. “I’m sorry, Father … to cut you off. It’s just, that stuff about Tony being in love with Dad, it was like camouflage.”

“Camouflage?”

“Yes, my father made it up. And, after what I read in his journal, I think I understand why.”

“And would you care to share this information?”

“He was trying to protect him. At least, I think so.”

“Protect whom?”

“Mister Pettafordi. My dad was trying to protect his friend from Father Fran.”

“Protect him? I don’t see how he intended to protect him by claiming — ”

“In his journal Dad said Father Fran was after Tony. He was pressuring my dad to … recruit him, include him … in the things they did together. He wanted him to invite Tony to ‘join their circle.’ That’s what he said.”

“That filthy son-of-a-bitch!”

After all I’ve heard lately, you wouldn’t think anything could surprise me, but
that
I do not expect.

Father B clears his throat and says, “Beg pardon.”

“No argument here.”

“This does answer some questions. It couldn’t have been an easy thing for him to do. He and Anthony were very close.”

“Well, I guess he figured Tony’s safety was more important than their friendship.”

“Yes, it was a substantial sacrifice.”

“So you honestly never knew about Father Fran’s interest in Tony?”

“I had no idea.”

“Then did you know my father intended to kill himself in the art studio?”

After a protracted pause, he says, “Not until Miss Solomon shared his note.”

“Note?”

“Along with the poems, he’d left a suicide note. Thankfully, Miss Solomon found them sooner than he’d anticipated. That’s how she was able to catch him in the act.”

“The act of trashing the studio?”

“Yes.”

“So, you
knew
— and
she knew
— he was suicidal.”

“As I explained before, he was very convincing when he came to me. He said he’d never really have gone through with it.”

“Well, we know that’s not true.”

“Yes. I suppose we do know that now, but at the time — ”

“You had a gala to focus on!”

“Evan, I do appreciate your frustration, but — ”

“I’m sorry, Father. I really am. I’m just trying to understand why no one helped.”

“But we did try. When I suggested holding a conference with his parents, he begged me not to tell them.”

That I can understand.

“And after the business with the art studio, after Father Fran left, he truly seemed to put it all behind him.”

“Yeah, he seemed to. Just like he seemed happy about having a wife and son. I guess he was good at convincing everybody. Except himself.”

“Well, that’s sometimes the hardest task, isn’t it? Convincing oneself. The only thing that may be harder is to forgive oneself.”

“What do you mean?”

“I said before your father’s special grace was an ability to forgive. He displayed this quality many times. He forgave me for my blind inaction. And he forgave Father Fran as well.”

“What?”

“Yes, when Francis was diagnosed with lung cancer, he contacted me. I was unreceptive. I told him I found his belated remorse pathetic. His apology struck me as a desperate attempt at spiritual whitewashing. It reeked of death row conversion. I doubted its authenticity.”

He twirls the snow globe.

“But he swore he was sincere, he’d changed. He begged me to put your father in touch.”

“And you did?”

“I spoke with your father after Mass one Saturday. He’d returned to Saint Anne’s by then. He was our star lector.”

I smile at the image of Dad at the podium.

“I expected him to be upset at the mere mention of Father Fran. And he was, but after explaining Father’s illness, and his desire to apologize, I told your dad to take a day or two to think about it. And do you know what he said?”

“What?”

“He said, ‘I don’t need to think about it, it’s God’s will. It’s always been in my heart to forgive him. I’ve just been waiting for him to ask.’ He called Father the next day. And he forgave him, Evan. He even promised to pray for him. Do you understand what a powerful grace that is?”

Father Brendan’s on the edge of tears. I’m way beyond the edge. I’m blubbering.

“He gave Father Fran a great gift: the mercy of a victim soul.”

“A victim soul?”

“Yes, when Father Fran preyed on young Evan, he exposed him to hideous possibilities. He introduced the corrupting force of evil into his life. People don’t wish to talk about evil these days, Evan, except in a vague political sense: Neo-Nazis, terrorists. These are undeniably evil. But the capacity for evil exists in us all. It is a real force; it lives and breathes. We must be vigilant against it.”

He’s starting to freak me out. I feel like Frodo to his Gandalf.

“And your father could easily have succumbed to evil in his own life, steeped in it as he was by Father Fran’s wickedness. He could have become the next Father Fran. But there is a force stronger than evil. And we believe that it will inevitably triumph. That force is — ”

“Love?”

“Exactly. And your father displayed an immeasurable depth of love in forgiving, in praying for, Father Fran. The prayers of the victim soul are very powerful.”

“But not powerful enough to save himself.”

Father Brendan shuts his eyes, sits back in the chair, like he’s in his pre-class trance. Finally, he says, “I’m not sure any of us has the power to save himself.”

“I’m still confused. If he was over it — could forgive Father Fran — why did he kill himself?”

“We’re on spongy turf here. I cannot betray the sanctity of the confessional, but I will tell you he was never able to grant himself the same clemency he offered to Father.”

“So, he wasn’t able to forgive himself for being molested? But that’s crazy!”

“The molestation and … other losses … weighed heavily on his mind.”

“My brother?”

“I didn’t realize you knew. Yes, I believe he felt responsible for his son’s death.”

“So that’s why he did it?”

“Evan, you ask too much. One, because I cannot break the vow of the confessional, and two, because none of us really knows. It’s like the snow globe here.” He raises it gently without disturbing the flakes. “Still, settled, it is peaceful. It appears stable. But look,” he shakes it, “see how the smallest disturbance stirs up sediment?”

“Yes. I see.”

“Life is like that. Everything may appear settled, still. But one slight nudge — a memory, an unkind word — can cause that calm to shift, scatter. And you must realize sorrow is cumulative. Father Fran, your brother — who knows how many layers it took to undo your father? Or why that particular Easter it all became too much.”

“So you’re saying it doesn’t matter?”

“I’m saying you’ll probably never know for certain. May I ask a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you need to know?”

I don’t expect to have an answer. I’m hoping he’ll say, “You needn’t answer, just think about it,” like he sometimes does in class. But suddenly it’s clear.

“I just want to know it wasn’t me. I want to know he loved me.”

Father Brendan smiles and says, “You needn’t question that any longer, Evan. And I shan’t betray his confidence telling you this. Through all his doubts and fears, the anger he expressed, there was one constant in your father’s life. It was you.”

Walking through the doors at Sebastian’s, I imagine this flight attendant announcement. It sounds a lot like Father Cal.

Sunday was a total smear. After talking with Father Brendan, I staggered back to 214 and plowed through a grand total of two hours sleep. Then — GOOD MORNING, CANDIDATES! — it was time to start all over again. Prayer/bad cafeteria food/prayer/bad cafeteria food/Mass.

Then we had the closing ceremonies. No doves were released, but we did each get an encounter certificate: an angst diploma, showing we’d survived. Everyone had these satisfied smiles. It occurred to me at Mass: Most likely, I wasn’t the only one going through some big-ass drama. Kind of interesting to think sixty-plus diverse dudes had struggled through and were all now officially certified: Grade A Lovable.

The bus ride wasn’t even torture. Seemed everyone had taken love-thy-neighbor pills. Either we’d all been replaced by kinder/gentler clones, or encounter really worked. Tackling demons, facing fears, sharing troubles, and wearing snazzy buttons really did make for happy Catholic boys. I know it’s a little naïve thinking it’ll last beyond the weekend, but so far so good.

Randy and Kenny sat across the aisle and, instead of assaulting me with snack packaging, Spiotti offered me a candy bar. Then, when I slipped exiting the bus, he caught my elbow, kept me from falling. When I thanked him, he shrugged.

“Least I could do. Guess I owe you an apology.”

I asked, “What for?”

He said, “The last three years.”

So, progress has been made. They told us the real test would be applying the lessons we’d learned — and remembering we were lovable beyond the buttons — in everyday life. And so far that hasn’t even been so bad.

Mom met me at the bus, and it was the first time in … let’s see … since I was fitted with a newborn ID bracelet … we were both genuinely excited to see one another. She invited R & R to a supper of all my favorites.

It was a nice time, though we were all prone to spontaneous crying fits and declarations of deep affection. For my part, it was definitely encounter honeymoon; I think they were just hormonal. Father Cal warned us about this phase. He said we might “feel more deeply” for a few days and advised us to “go with it,” but to “be prepared for mixed reactions.”

Mom had invited Alexis, too, but Lex couldn’t come. She called, though, to welcome me home. That was a little tough, not because things were awkward (they were a bit), but because she was the first person I consciously didn’t love bomb. Judging by her reaction last time I professed my feelings, it seemed inadvisable. But, really, I think things will be okay with her.

I thanked her for the palanca, and she said, “I meant what I said, Ev.”

When I told her, “I understand. And I respect your feelings,” she seemed pleased with the response, though I’m not sure exactly what I meant by it.

Last night, I got the best sleep, possibly, of my entire life. And there’s going to be a spirit rally this morning in the gym. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve been to them before, but never on the receiving end. It’s like a pep rally, but instead of being sports-focused, it’s a rollicking welcome home for the retreat group. The whole school attends.

Mom beeps as she drives off. We had a nice ride together, stopped for a quick bagel. As we pulled up to Sebastian’s, she surprised me by leaning across for a hug. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, she smiled and said, “Your dad would be so proud.”

The lobby’s bustling in typical Monday mode, but looks brighter, cleaner. I doubt it’s Mr. Moriarty’s maintenance; more likely, it’s altered perception, courtesy of encountered eyes.

The place buzzes with excitement. It seems everyone’s been choreographed into place; they’re practically in step. Several people wave to me. Two cheerleaders walk past and smile; it’s like I’ve wandered into a Teen Channel Original Musical.

Heading to homeroom, I pass this board, decorated in our honor. Beneath the words “Welcome Back!” are the names and photos of all the guys who lived through encounter. I’m a bit bummed they’ve used my freshman orientation photo, complete with mouthful of wire.

Post-homeroom, the whole student body — minus our group of returnees — reports directly to the gymnasium. We’re told to line up outside Mrs. Teague’s office for our grand entrance. Peeking through the doors, I scout for Lex. I finally spot her; she’s already up in the bleachers with Tyler. When she sees me, she waves like a maniac. Tyler salutes.

The gym’s mega-festooned. It’s an explosion of school color: green and gold streamers, signs everywhere. We make our entrance, to echoing chants of “LOVE-A-BULL! LOVE-A-BULL!”

Coach Novack leads us single file to a grouping of chairs at center court. Father Brendan sweeps in, microphone in hand, and I have this Ringling Brothers moment, expecting him to yell, “Laaadies and gentlemen, turn your attention to the center ring!”

Instead, he says, “Amen. Amen.” His mic makes this insane feedback squeal, and everyone groans, quieting as he says, “My dear family of Saint Sebastian, it is my distinct pleasure to present this group of fine young men. I can attest they have given their all this weekend in their quest for a deepened relationship with our Lord.”

Judging by the reaction, you’d think he announced free Rolling Rock in the cafeteria. There’s a gush of cheers and foot-stomping. It’s pretty glorious to realize it’s partly for me.

The next thirty minutes are an I’m-lova-blur. We sing the school song, “Archers Aiming Straight Are We”; the cheerleaders do a “Gimme an L/Gimme an O/Gimme a V” routine. After a while, Father B quiets the crowd, and Mister Novack steps up, takes the mic. At least this time he’s semi-prepared.

“I just have to say I’m real proud of you boys! You gave 120 percent back at the retreat house and, well, I’m just real stoked is all. I had my doubts about the whole encounter thing, but, I guess you could say I’ve seen the light.”

He hands the microphone back to Father. I notice Mister Pettafordi in the front row of bleachers, looking like the last pick in a kickball game. Father B does not offer him the mic.

Two freshmen wheel in an AV cart, and the big screen descends from the gym ceiling. The Sebastian community has always embraced this “Let’s put on a show” mentality. I suddenly picture Photo Nun and can’t help groaning, “Oh no. We’re in for it.”

Randy leans across Kenny, grinning, and says, “No, this is going to be great.”

The music starts — an “Amazing Grace” instrumental — and the lights dim. Projected on the screen is an exterior of the Center. Must’ve been taken in spring because forsythias are in bloom. Across the bottom of the screen it says “Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center: A Place of Heart.”

As songs continue to play — easy listening inspiration — images flash on the screen. In one, Brother Lucius and Father Cal pose with celery stalks hanging from their mouths like walrus tusks. There’s a shot of Spiotti with about a hundred “I’m lovable” pins on his T-shirt. It’s captioned, “Ain’t he, though?” This earns appreciative laughter. Randy and Kenny verge on hysteria.

Pictures of more reverent moments are included too: Father Brendan, arms raised in blessing; a couple shots of Jeff and Father Cal doing the Soul Search warm-up. I have to look away at that point.

When the picture of me getting pinned comes on, Nealson says, “Nice shot, Ev!”

I can’t help joining as they laugh. Randy turns back to the kid at the projector. I think he’s a sophomore; they must know him from track.

The slide show runs for a good fifteen minutes and — in a cool touch — features snippets of dialogue mixed with the music. We hear quotes from some of the attendees: “ … such a sense of peace … ” “ … friends I’ll never forget.” There’s a segment from one of Father B’s sermons, even a dash of Pettafordi’s speech, “… that love, the wonderful truth … God … lives in us.” I watch Mister P in the weak light, staring at his shoes.

I notice Randy gesturing to Projector Guy. I crane toward the cart, too, as Spiotti nudges Nealson and whispers, “This is it.” The brief, skittery clicking on the audio sounds like the sophomore’s switching discs.

Turning back toward the screen, I join the communal gasp washing over the gym. Above our heads, pixilated and slightly blurred, is my father’s painting. I sit in shock as the entire school population stares at my father — obviously thinking it’s me — naked and bound.

I never would have believed the image could get anymore horrible. But somehow, suspended in the gym on a 12' × 12' screen, horrible stretches to mythic proportions. Plus, there’s the caption. Scrawled below the picture, it says, “Evan’s Secret.”

Beginning to shake, I’m unable to pry my eyes from the screen. Above muttering and laughter, I hear someone scream, “OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD.” I barely realize it’s me. Then I hear something else, a fake-lispy voice that’s barely recognizable as Spiotti’s:

With a huge crash, Coach Novack sails into the AV cart. The sound cuts out as the projector flips backward. For just a second, my father’s naked body’s still a faint shadow against the corrugated ceiling. Then, just as Novack pulls the plug, the lights come on. The first thing I notice is Pettafordi’s face. He looks like he’s just returned from a guided tour of Dante’s hell.

Finally able to move, I scan the bleachers; a thousand eyes burn into me. Just before Novack grabs him by the collar, Spiotti steps forward and says, “Hope you liked the show.”

Afraid to collapse in front of everyone, I run for the doors. I’m vaguely aware of Father Brendan yelling, “Wait, Evan!” but I can’t stay here another second. Shoving through the crowd that starts pouring onto the gym floor, I race for the exit.

The last thing I see before crashing through the steel doors is Lex. She’s standing at the top of the bleachers, crying. Tyler’s stroking her hair, her head against his chest.