The Namesake (3 page)

Served up through freshman year, in fact. I loved it: the solemnity of the Mass, the miracle of communion. I even considered being a priest for a while. It seemed cool to have that level of communication with God. Working for Him and helping people seemed magical.

But I doubted my capacity for such devotion: no sex, no family, no house, no stuff. Seemed like a tough road. I decided to talk to Father Greg about my possible calling. He was new to our parish, and I guess to the priesthood; in his late twenties, he wore Dockers.

I lingered in the vestibule after Mass, one Sunday in October.

“Father Greg?”

He was hanging vestments, shutting lights, closing shop. “Evan, what’s the scoop?”

“I wondered about you. I mean, about
being
like you
, a priest,” I said, uncharacteristically inarticulate.

“Wow, Ev! That’s something! How long you been thinking about this?”

“Oh, a while, I guess. Do you like it?”

“Well, I’m not in it for the money, that’s for sure.”

“How’d you know it was definitely what you were meant to do?”

“Easy. It’s like love, Evan. You just, ultimately, know when the right one comes along.”

“Oh.”

“Doesn’t help much, does it?” He grinned.

“Well, it’s a pretty parentish thing to say.”

“Hey, they don’t call me Father for nothing!” he said, doing a decent Groucho Marx.

“It’s just, I don’t know if I’m perfect enough to do what you do.”

“If you judge yourself against God’s perfection, you can never hope to measure up, Evan. But God made you, so you have the potential to be pretty great. Look, we just have to live up to His plan for us — not always an easy task.”

“I guess I’m having some trouble unraveling His plan for me.”

“Aren’t we all, Evan? Aren’t we all? Talk to Him, trust Him. You’ll find your way.”

Not long after that conversation, Father Greg left Saint Anne’s. I ran into him about four months later at Big Y. He wasn’t wearing his collar. I called across the produce section, “Hey, Father Greg!”

“Evan Galloway, my favorite altar boy! What’s the scoop?”

“Father, I was just — ”

“It’s not Father anymore, Evan, just plain old Greg.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”
That had to be a dumb thing to say.

“Don’t be; I’m not. Turns out, I was trying to live up to the wrong plan,” he said, a half-smile crossing his lips. “Well, I should go, Evan. Good to see you.” He placed a container of grape tomatoes in his cart, touched my shoulder, and wheeled off, beyond Baked Goods.

I started to walk away, sensing the world had slipped on its axis, just enough to feel it. What’d it mean, exactly? What about all the Masses he’d said, the Last Rites, the weddings? Were they somehow voided because he was now “just plain old Greg”? The sins I’d confessed in the darkness, did they still hang over my soul? But that was stupid, right? I just didn’t know. And that advice: “Talk to Him, trust Him. You’ll find your way.” Yeah, right, it had worked great for him.

That summer I quit serving Mass. I told our pastor sophomore year was bound to be really busy. Besides, I was outgrowing the altar robes. Most of the other servers were, like, nine or ten years old. It just wasn’t for me anymore. But I still went to Mass. And I confessed all the old sins, the ones I could remember, anyhow. Just in case.

I mean, my family’s always celebrated in an unassuming way: Cake, presents, the obligatory, off-key serenade; that’s the extent. And it’s always been just family: Gran, Gramp, maybe the Aunties, Mom, Dad, and me.

Today is totally out of control. The church lot’s packed; it has this traffic jam, clearance sale, parish carnival energy. Are they seriously expecting the guest of honor to show? Not likely; the crisper was locked tight this morning. I know because we swung by before Mass to say “Howdy.” I didn’t take him that magnet. We did leave balloons, Gran’s idea.

The church teems; it’s like everyone he ever met is here. I haven’t seen some of these people since the funeral; it’s mourner’s déjà vu. Same faces, same somber outfits, even the condolences are reruns. They each want to touch me, shake my hand, gauge my grief. Luckily, the intensity level’s scaled back, weeping and wailing distilled to their melancholy essence, like they’re finally resigned to the truth of his absence.

Father Lessard asked me to read. It’s strange because, ordinarily, I wouldn’t have wanted any part of that. That’s another thing I liked about being an altar boy: no lines. But Dad was a lector at Saint Anne’s: Vigil Mass, 4:00
P.M.
, Saturdays. Everyone says they loved how he “brought meaning to the words.” So I figure this could be like a present, my tribute to him. And it’s weird, I’m not nervous at all.

Sitting up on the altar, I scan the assembly, remembering stuff, little details, about Dad and the people here. Dancing the Alley Cat at some wedding with Great-Aunt Lucille. Discussing Impressionist art with Mr. Ayotte, the mailman. Mock-arguing with Mrs. Pinto about the merits of mulch. Seeing him in their faces, it’s like he really is here, after all. I feel close to him, maybe closer than before he was gone, swaddled in memory.

Suddenly, it’s time to read. At the podium, I sense Mom’s eyes on me; she nods slightly, hand on her heart. I adjust the microphone — like I’ve seen my father do a million times — and look down at the missalette. For a moment, I’m sure it’s printed in a foreign language; words backstroke across the page. I blink hard and look out. The crowd’s frozen, a painted backdrop. Clearing my throat, I stare at the book and begin.

It was my dad’s favorite, a little, family-run, Italian place. I’m surprised, yet again, by the rituals of grieving. Apparently, cannoli plays an essential role in the healing process; the mood’s visibly brighter after the dessert cart makes the rounds. I’m sipping a second cup of espresso, savoring it and the fact that things have gone so smoothly, when it begins.

“ — because you never put him first! That’s why!” Gran’s voice rises and breaks.

Forks stop midway to mouths; heads turn.

“How dare you accuse me? You can delude yourself as much as you please, Maureen, but don’t you try to pin it on me!” Mom shrills.

“Girls, girls, behave.” Gramp attempts a chuckling intervention.

But there’s no stopping. It’s full-steam toward an emotional train wreck.

“All I know is my son is dead! You drove him out, and now he’s gone!”

“
I
drove him out? As if I had any control over his decisions! He lived to please you people; Evan and I were afterthoughts! Your apron strings choked the life out of him, left
my
son fatherless!”

“MOM! STOP!”

She recoils, like I’ve hit her. Then she’s leaving, stunned silence in her wake.

Gran chokes out a sob, sits down hard. Gramp holds her. All eyes are on me, naked, powerless. What do they want? An apology, an explanation? In a quavering tenor, I sing.

Not surprisingly, no one joins in.

When my aunts find me in Alberti’s walk-in, I explain I just needed to cool off. They like that. Auntie Ro says, “It’s emotionally very healthy that you can find some humor in the situation.” Aunt Reg just hugs me.

They tell me Mom took a taxi home; she asked them to drop me. Gramp’s taken Gran to a matinee; no lie. I guess they haven’t had enough drama for one day. Or, more likely, they couldn’t face going home. It must be hard for them, being in the house where he did it. You can’t avoid the attic forever.

I tell the aunts, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

I want to be alone for a while. Checking my watch, I realize all that turmoil was packed into an impressively brief interval. It’s only 10:55. The better part of the day lies ahead — hopefully. Once I persuade R & R I’m okay, they pile into Regina’s Fiat, beep, and drive off. I thank Mr. Alberti for the spread.

“Evan, you father, he was a good guy.” His milky-brown eyes swim with tears.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He takes my shoulders, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me. “You family will get through this, but it’ll be messy. That’s what family is. You mother, you grandmother, they trying to figure out who they are without him, you understand? They come around, you see.”

I hope the old man’s right. As I walk toward the cemetery, the January wind pinches my cheeks, like Gran did when I was small.

They do nothing to brighten the surroundings. The cemetery’s defiantly bleak, the sky so overcast it’s impossible to tell where stone walls end and clouds begin.

I half-expected something dramatic, I’m not sure what, to happen when I got here. It didn’t. I stand for a long time, staring at the words on the drawer front.

I’m struck by finality in two-inch-high characters.

I think,
Why doesn’t it say “Hung Himself”? Wouldn’t that be more honest?
Why should he be allowed to take his place with the Natural Causers: cancer victims, accident fatalities, who fought valiantly to hold onto life, however broken? They used to bury suicides outside hallowed ground. They were considered an abomination. I don’t know who changed the rules.

Maybe that’s harsh; I’m not sure anymore. I just can’t find a lot of pity for a guy who decided his misery was more important than his wife and kid. He didn’t leave a note — no explanation, nothing! His last words to me were, “Got to help your gran get some Easter stuff from the attic. See you tomorrow, after church. Sleep tight, Junior.”

Bullshit. He knew what he was planning for Easter morning. “See you tomorrow.” Liar. I remember thinking he sounded happier than he had in a long time. I’d hoped Easter would be a new start — maybe he’d come back home to stay. So pathetic, it’s almost funny. Thanks, Dad. For the Easter gift. I’d have preferred a chocolate egg.

I guess I wasn’t worth sticking around for. If I was, he’d never have moved out last February. Okay, I’m not stupid enough to think the separation was my fault. I mean, I’m no dumb-ass little kid. I know he didn’t kill himself because he was disappointed in me not turning out to be a chip off his friggin’ block. But he also didn’t stick around to see what I’d become, who I’d end up being. I can’t forgive him for that. I won’t.

And it’s not just about me. What about Mom? Or Gran, finding him like that? We’re still not sure how she got his body down from the beam. Aunt Ro said, when they found them in the attic, it looked like the Pieta. I think of poor Gran, cradling him like Jesus at the foot of the cross — the attic floor littered with plastic Easter grass — and it makes me want to go crazy. This was no sacrificial lamb. He didn’t die for a higher purpose, to fulfill prophecy, save souls. He was a selfish, gutless loser.

“I HATE YOU!” I pound the metal plaque, raised lettering biting into my fist. “I hate what my life’s turned into because of you! I hate that it’ll never be the same as before! Screw you, Evan Frederick Galloway! ROT IN HELL!!” My voice reverbs in the empty cemetery, spooking a blue jay into noisy flight.

I wheel around, shocked at my own anger, shaking. Sliding to the ground, back thudding against metal drawer handles, I’m breathing hard, face slick with tears and snot. I retch, the sour taste of espresso coating my tongue.

After several minutes, I clear my throat, spit into the crust of snow. Looking toward his name, I see balloons bobble. “Freaking balloons!” I pull them toward me by twisted ribbons. Purple Mylar, unbelievable; my father hated purple. Gran had to know that, but purple’s her favorite. I laugh in spite of myself, then tears return. It’s like every memory’s double-edged, tainted. Shaking my head, I climb the concrete path toward sky.