The Namesake (30 page)

Groping in the attic, I search for the pull cord. I came here straight from school. Once I cleared the gym, I didn’t look back, didn’t stop for my coat or anything, just sprinted out the front doors and ran.

While Gran and Gramp are away, I’m on mail and paper duty. So I’ve got a key. I doubt they expected my access to include the attic. Far as I know, no one’s come up here since they found Dad, but the minute I fled Sebastian’s this was my destination.

“Got it!”

I bat the hanging metal washer, grab the twine, and yank. The bare bulb glows; swinging, it casts crazy shadows across the raftered space.

“This is it,” my voice comes out brittle and overloud in the murk, “scene of the crime.”

I try to act all cool and procedural, like a TV cop, but there’s this thudding pressure at my temples, like my heart’s about to make its external debut.

“Why?”

It’s a colossal why; I’m not even sure what it has to do with anymore. After what I learned on encounter — he tried to protect Mister P; he forgave Father Fran — what he did in this attic makes even less sense. At the same time, I think I grasp how he felt. It’s like Father B said, “sorrow is cumulative.” I’d say I’ve developed a sufficient understanding of that concept.

So I guess The Why has to do with me now. Like, why, God? Why’d I need to go through these past weeks? What’s the point? Did I seriously believe answers would bring some sort of closure? And was I truly stupid enough to trust Randy Spiotti?

I move toward the metal cabinet, stooping so I don’t whack my head on the joist. The door makes this mournful whine, releasing a mousy smell, as I open it.

Inside are boxes and shopping bags stuffed with papers, books, holiday decorations. Hauling them out, I stack them on the floor. I spot a cardboard tube, pull it from the cabinet, and examine the label: Evan’s Poster ~ C.S. Week, 1970.

Bringing the rolled poster to the center of the attic, I kneel on plywood beneath the bulb, twist off the cap, and peer in. A sharper smell comes from inside. When I touch the roll of paper, it feels faintly damp, fleshy. As I unroll the coil, a small, tissue-wrapped bundle drops out. I lift it, carefully placing the poster on the floor.

The tissue swaddles a plush bunny rattle and faded terrycloth bib. Unfolding the bib, I read, “Baby’s First Easter.” Lifting it to my face, as Dad might have, I conjure my brother’s powdery scent. Tucking the bib in my pocket, I unroll the poster, carefully flattening it, but the paper curls back, the result of forty-plus years of coiled storage.

I reverse roll it, scanning the attic. Taking four books from beside the cabinet, I place one on each corner, smoothing the poster with my palm. Then I look at it.

“Damn good for a ten-year-old.”

It’s big: about 4 × 6 feet, a mix of paint and cut paper. Across the top, it says: LEARNING AND LOVING — FRIENDS IN CH IST. The R’s missing. Below is a picture: A boy — he has very large ears — standing with a priest. I try to ignore his resemblance to Father Fran.

The boy reaches toward the priest, holding an apple. Father’s hand hovers above the boy’s head, giving a blessing.

So this is the poster that helped make him
Father Fran’s
special boy
. The thought comes in Spiotti’s voice, mocking lisp included. I picture Randy’s face in the gym, the way he laughed as everyone stared at me. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised at not being angry, not crying. I haven’t felt anything since running out of there. I guess this is how I’ll be from now on: alone in the dark, devoid of feeling.

I picture Lex just standing, clinging to Tyler, as the rest laughed. Was she ashamed? Studying the image like an entomologist with a pinned butterfly, I’m all detachment. Part of my brain still insists I should react, muster a tear, like that’ll help. But I’ve dried up.

I focus on the poster; it’s a decent painting, a hint of the artist he’d become. But something’s wrong with the kid’s face. Bending, nose-to-paper, I sniff. Mold. A powdery film scums the boy’s forehead, cheeks, his chin peppered with blotches. Brushing it away, I notice cuts, rough scratches like you’d make scraping a nail or paperclip back and forth, nicking the surface. They cover the boy’s eyes and mouth. See no evil, speak no evil?

And something else: his body is marked with red pen, tiny numbers at his neck, chest, crotch. They’re dates. What was he doing, cataloging the abuse? And when did he do this? Maybe it was one of his last acts, up here, before.

Even in my dulled state, I find this disturbing. Standing up fast, I bonk the bulb, pitch it into a wild swing. Reaching up to steady it, I notice them. Chafed into the rafter, unmistakable: rope prints, and deeper gouges that can only be the gashes Gran made cutting him down.

I’m transfixed. Stretching on tiptoe, I run my fingers across marked wood. A wave of calm floods me. In a weird way, I’ve never felt closer, like I finally understand him — connected. And I realize there’s only one way to really, truly know my father.

Crossing to the corner where they keep the Christmas decorations, I shove the tree box aside and open the giant bin of lights. Pawing the tangle, I detach an extension cord. Testing its length between clenched fists, I whisper, “This’ll do.”

I drag a crate, certain it’s what he used, just below the gouged rafter. Twisting a loop in the center of the cord, I throw both ends over the beam, catching them as they drop. Then I wind the cord around the rafter to take up slack, finally hooking it around a nail jutting from the wood. Gripping it with both hands, I dangle for a ten count. It holds. Dad would be proud.

I step onto the crate. As I slip the loop over my head, I notice my cheeks are wet. Sweat, not tears. I can’t believe I’m sweating in this refrigerated garret. Lifting my shirt, I blot my face dry. Then I just stand here, totally in control for the first time ever.

As I hover on the cusp of undone, random thoughts play a slideshow in my head. There’s no common thread; some scenes are laugh-out-loud (I don’t): Dad teaching Mom to skate; Gramp dressed as Peter Pan to Gran’s Tink. I don’t dwell on those featuring Lex, afraid they’ll trick me into thinking I’ve got something to stick around for. Other images have the power to scramble my heart like an egg. But somehow I let them wash over me with as little impact as a public service announcement.

God’s bound to be pissed, so I decide to pray. I do a whole rosary standing on the box. My back aches, my shoulders throb, but I won’t move. Physical discomfort my temporary stand-in for emotion. Finally, legs going as numb as my heart, I realize it’s time.

Finishing the rosary — “… and all the evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen.” — I inhale. And I kick free of the crate.

There’s a brief spark of clarity as the cord squeezes my throat — a moment of “Yes!” Then these peripheral flashes start. Ocean-sound fills my head, and I’m aware of my heart thudding, veins pulsing at my temples. My hands and feet tingle. I feel heavy. The attic seems to roll; it’s washed in a deepening ruby tint.

Suddenly I see them: the life-size Nativity figures we made for Gran when I was ten. Dad cut them from Masonite; I painted them. They shimmer like moonlight in the corner, the room darkening around me. Gulping for air, I swear I smell Dad’s wool sweater, his aftershave, feel his arm around me on Gran’s front lawn as we admire the crèche. And then I actually hear his voice: “This is what it’s all about, Evan. This is what matters. Hope.”

Of course
.

Attempting this gymnastic move — legs swinging, fingers flailing for the beam — I have an undeniable sensation: Dad’s hands under my arms, hoisting me. My ungainly lurch somehow loosens the cord. Coming undone, it relaxes its grip on my esophagus. As the plug swings past my head, I pull free and drop from the rafter, my ass slamming the crate corner. The pain is beautiful. Between coughs, I imagine the bruise seeping across my butt, an odd souvenir of my near miss.

It’s over.

Once my breathing evens, I crawl toward the cabinet. Sliding the poster into its tube, I straighten the Christmas stuff, shut off the light.

Descending the ladder, I’m seriously blissed. I hope it’s not brain damage from my brief oxygen deficit. Just what I need: a drop in IQ so close to SATs. But if I’d truly suffered cognitive impairment, I probably wouldn’t realize it. I’ll have to run that past Miss Delateski tomorrow. Right now, I feel simultaneously lighter and stronger, knowing all I do. I’m also shaking. But that’s probably normal, considering what I just put myself through. This time, the wet cheeks aren’t from sweat. And that feels great, too.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, I touch the raised pink welt already blooming at my throat. Good thing it’s turtleneck season. Amazingly, I’m smiling by the time I hear her voice.

“Evan, are you here?”

It’s Mom.

“Be right out!”

I’m eager to see her; I feel like I can finally put her mind at ease, reassure her I’m not going anywhere. That realization — I’m sticking around — is a major shift from an hour ago. I peek into the hall, and she’s there, arms out. We hug for at least a minute, definitely a record.

Then she says, “I heard what happened at school. Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

“Really?”

“Well, in all the ways that matter, yes. Listen, we need to talk. Got a minute?”

“For you, I’ve got all the time in the world.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I lead her into Gran’s living room; we sit on the couch. “So, who told you what happened?”

“Well, school called to say there’d been some trouble. But then Denise filled me in.”

“Mrs. Bottaro?”

She nods.

“What about Lex?”

My mother nibbles her lip, stifling a smile. “Her mom said Lex is ‘indisposed.’ Apparently there was talk of expelling her, but Father Brendan intervened.”

“Expelling her? Why?”

“It seems she sent the Spiotti boy to the hospital for stitches.”

“Sweet!”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“So, there are some things I should tell you.”

“I’m listening.”

I tell the tale of these past weeks — with edits for content; she’s my mom after all. The Father Fran stuff almost derails us. At one point, after I describe the worst of it, she goes down the hall to Dad’s portrait. She just stands there for about five minutes, talking to the picture, repeating over and over, “You poor little boy. My God, you poor little boy.”

Back on the couch, we hold each other. Even crying, she seems somehow at peace. It’s like we both understand stuff now. Why Dad would get so distant. How come he’d never let me have a dog. The reason he hated spearmint. Though he was never as happy as we’d have liked, it’s a relief to know it probably wasn’t because of us. But awful knowing why.

Forty minutes in, she stops me with, “What would you say to pizza? I’m starving.”

After she tips the delivery guy, I conclude the saga over a greasy, stuffed-crust with ’shrooms. Bad pizza’s never tasted so good.

It’s quarter past eight when we finally head home. I’m surprised when Mom pulls onto Jubilee Drive and stops the Outback in front of Lex’s.

“Why are we here?”

“I think you owe Lex a thank you.”

“Yeah, and an apology.”

I swear, the butterflies in my stomach could probably manage the doorbell. Still, I knock. Lex opens the door and, before I can say a word, she embraces me. She smells like cupcakes and citrus toner — intoxicating.

I win the “No,
I’m
sorry” competition by a nose; then we both grin like idiots.

Lex’s mom says, “And I’m heating the neighborhood, why exactly? Invite them in!”

The mothers chat over coffee in the kitchen while Lex and I head down to the family room. We plop on the futon. She smiles. Her hair’s close to normal; still shorter, obviously, but sort of frizzy — just right.

“So, stitches, huh?”

“Eight. Turns out the skin around the eye area really
is
the most delicate.”

I describe my attic episode. Pulling down my collar, Lex touches my throat. Her eyes stream as she makes me promise never to pull “such an asinine stunt” again or “I’ll kill you myself.”

“Deal.”

Honking into a tissue, she smiles and says, “So, can I have my records back?”

“I don’t know. What’ll Tyler say?”

“All right, listen. I need to tell you something about Tyler.” Looking embarrassed, she continues, “But you need to promise not to tell a soul.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“That’s impressive, but it’d have more impact if you’d ever really been a scout.”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

She goes a deeper shade of pink and says, “Tyler’s gay.”

“What?”

“Well, not like definitely gay. I guess ‘questioning his sexuality’ is the correct terminology. I think he may have a wee crush on Kenny Nealson.”

“I’m stunned.” Good stunned, like winning Lotto. “What about you and him? You said — ”

“I know what I said. And you deserved it! You were such a shit. But it’s not true. We only ever kissed a couple times.”

“Wow.”

“It was sort of a decent arrangement for us both. It took the pressure off him, having people think he was serious about me.”