The Namesake (5 page)

Sitting in Honors Bio, I struggle to concentrate on the material: the conjugation of bilirubin in the healthy liver. I’m not sure how to account for my lack of focus. It’s a fascinating topic. My teacher, Miss Delateski, looks smart in a fuchsia pantsuit; her jokes about dating “Little Billy Rubin” are a scream. I suppose it could be the near-total lack of sleep compromising my retention. Maybe it’s because Randy Spiotti keeps punching my arm, whenever Miss D turns her back. Or perhaps, it’s exhilaration that today is my birthday. Hoopla.

No. I’m pretty sure I’m just still shocked by my new nugget of self-awareness. Last night’s lone trunk-related discovery was this: I lack intuition. I was so sure that stupid footlocker would be stuffed full of insights into the old man. I thought I might find a suicide note, or that asinine video. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up. You’d think I’d have learned by now.

What went through my mind as I lifted the lid?
This is going to be big; I can feel it.
Sure. I was ready for discovery. And when I looked inside, here’s what I found: a big, fat, steaming pile of Dad’s lousy, stinking crap! Well, not literally. That would have been really nasty.

No, his “legacy” amounted to a bad 1970s time capsule. Peering eagerly into the trunk, I was greeted by the divine detectives of the Townsend Agency: Charlie’s Freaking Angels! Indications are he was a huge fan. He seemed to favor the smart one, Sabrina Duncan, reed-thin Kate Jackson. I guess, pre-Mom, he went for the anorexic type. Personally, I’d pick Kelly Garrett, played by Jaclyn Smith, assuming I could trek back to an era when she wasn’t nearing the century mark.

He also had that Farrah poster, the one with the slew of extraordinarily white teeth and the chipper nipple. You’d probably be hard-pressed to find a boy of the ’70s who didn’t at least wish he had that poster on his bedroom wall. I’m a bit shocked Gran allowed it “under her roof.” I’m sure Gramp was okay with it. Hell, he probably had a copy, too.

But anyway, other than an unwanted insight into my father’s high school masturbatory fantasies, the trunk experience was basically a bust. No pun intended. Although, I may keep the poster. Lex would find it totally appalling.

“ — explain the difference between direct and indirect bilirubin? Evan, are you with us?”

I look up to find Miss Delateski and the entire class staring at me. I flush and stammer, “Sorry, Miss D. Just thinking how much I like that color on you.”

There’s a generalized groan, and Spiotti cough-speaks, “Loser!” into his fist.

“Could you repeat the question?” I ask sheepishly. It’s going to be a long day.

After class, Lex meets me in the cafeteria for lunch. She insists on buying my turkey roll-up. “It’s a loving birthday gesture, Ev.”

At our usual table, we eat in silence. Chewing the tasteless meat, I offer a fake smile. My mind keeps wandering to the trunk. As I ball up my napkin, Lex speaks.

“Okay, close your eyes, Birthday Boy.”

I squeeze them shut. “You’re not planning to kiss me?”

“In your dreams, bud.”

“Oh yeah, the recurring nightmare. Haven’t had that one in a while.”

“Watch it or
I’ll
be your worst nightmare. Ready? Now open your eyes, Smart-ass.”

I do, and find a homemade cupcake with a paper candle and a funky, green foil envelope, obviously an Alexis Original.

“Wow, cool. Should I open it?”

“Gee, there’s a novel idea.” She grins.

Gently, I peel off the ladybug seal. Lex smiles, tenting long fingers beneath her chin. The card’s handmade, an intricate cut-paper peapod; I pull the curled-ribbon tendril. Inside’s a pop-up, 3-D photo illustration of us, backstage at our fourth grade pageant, nose-to-nose. We’re dressed in matching pea costumes. Across the bottom of the card, she’s written in metallic gold ink:

“Happy Birthday!”

“I’m not sure what to say.”

“Well, you could start with thanks. I practically sliced off my pinkie making that. I was never exactly Mistress of the X-ACTO Blade.”

“Thank you. I, uh, I love you, too.” I squint back tears.

“Hey, don’t go all girly on me. That’s what friends are for.”

“I know.”

We look at each other for a moment, before Lex breaks the gaze.

“Soooo, anyway — and this honestly isn’t an attempt to ease the weird sexual tension — what’s in the trunk?”

“The trunk? What makes you think I even opened it?”

“Because we’ve been best friends since second grade. I think I know you by now, Evster. Yesterday was Father/Son Day, right? So you opened the trunk to feel close to him or whatever. I mean, that’s got to be why you’re so premenstrual. The card was good and all, but seriously.”

She always could pull the rug out from under me; it’s irritating. “Well, you’re wrong. I haven’t opened it yet.”

She smirks. “You’re Gallo-way off base, if you think I’m buying that.”

“I didn’t open the damn trunk, okay? Drop it!”

Voice brittle, she says, “Don’t lie, Evan, not to me. We have too much history.”

I know what she’s talking about, and I don’t want to go there, not now, not on my freaking birthday. “Lex, don’t.”

“Don’t what? Talk about it? Why not? I’m over it, okay? But it’s important. It’s part of what ties us together, part of what makes us — US.” It’s her turn to fight tears.

I smack the lunch tray with my fist. “Alexis, what does your stepfather have to do with me and the footlocker? They’re totally separate things!”

“We can’t have secrets from each other and be best friends. Not when it’s something important. Didn’t we learn that a long time ago?”

I nod and take her hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied. Not to you.”

Lex twists my pinkie as she says, “Well don’t do it again, because I
will
kill you.”

“All right, yes, I opened the trunk. But, just for the record, why couldn’t I be emotional over the card? It’s a great card.”

“Not your style. And, just for the record, you never answered my question.”

“God, you’re obnoxious. Which question?”

“Could you not be a jerk, just this once?” She turns my hand palm-up and asks, loudly, “WHAT”S INSIDE THE F-O-O-T-L-O-C-K-E-R?” spelling the last word into my palm, Annie Sullivan to Helen Keller-style.

I spell and yell back, “P-O-R-N.”

“Eeeeuuuuuw, no way!”

We dissolve in hysterics, slumped on the table, and risk detention staying in the lunchroom for two extra Mods. I tell Lex all about last night, and the disappointing trunk loot. We laugh about Farrah and the gang, and share my birthday cupcake.

Image lingering, I struggle up from the dream. It’s 4:04, the morning after my birthday bash.

It was a fairly tame bash, not all the usual suspects in attendance. Dad couldn’t be there, obviously. Gran and Gramp mercifully sat this one out. It’s only been a couple days since the showdown at Alberti’s; I’m not sure when the ice’ll thaw between the two Mrs. Galloways. So it was just us five: Mom and me, the Aunts and — making her Galloway birthday debut — Alexis.

It was my mother’s idea to invite Lex. I think she figured a nonrelative might help defuse the situation. I guess Alexis was there as some kind of behavioral chaperone, to keep us all in line. It’s funny; I don’t generally think of her as a particularly calming influence. Disarmingly blunt? Check. Wildly irreverent? Yessir! Honest to a fault? That’s Lex. But I’m not sure I’d automatically cast her as Peacemaker. So I can’t say whether it was her presence, or the grace of God, but the evening was blessedly uneventful.

Mom made a lasagna; Aunt Reg brought the cake, this colossal chocolate concoction. We’ll be eating it for weeks. Lex sings in concert choir at school, so with her soprano to guide them, they made a pretty passable Happy Birthday Quartet. And after I blew out my candles, they all had the sense not to ask what I’d wished for. That may have been the best gift of all.

Lex’s mom picked her up around 9:00, just after the snow began. As we walked toward the Blazer, Alexis caught my sleeve, pulled me close, and kissed my cheek.

“I’m sure he’d have wanted to be here, Ev.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not.”

“It’s going to be okay, you know.” She hugged me.

“We’ll see.”

“Evan … ”

“Your mom’s waiting, Lex. And the snow’s really coming down. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. For everything.”

Watching them drive into the white, I pictured us in our pea costumes and smiled. As I opened the front door, the Triumvirate descended.

“Junior, she is a keeper!” Auntie Ro squashed my face in manicured hands.

“Rosemary! Leave the kid alone, he’s blushing!” Aunt Regina to the rescue.

“No, I’m just cold. Really.”

“She is a cutie, though, Ev. You two will be adorable at prom. Have you asked her yet?”

“We’re just friends, Aunt Reg. Besides, I thought you were on my side!”

“Don’t mind them, Evan.” Mom laughed. “They were the same way with your father and me. But I agree; you do make a very nice couple.”

It went on for a while, the trio insisting we were more than friends. I fervently denied Lex is my girlfriend, unsure whether I was trying to convince them or myself. Just as I began to feel like a prisoner at a sleepover camp for middle-aged cheerleaders, my aunts decided to leave before the roads iced. We bid them safe travel, closing the door against needling cold. Then Mom and I stood in the foyer facing each other, exhausted, the normal act too much.

“I’m going to leave the dishes ’til morning. Don’t stay up too late.”

“Mom?”

“What is it, Ev?”

“Do you miss him?”

She nodded — just barely — and whispered, “Get some rest, honey.”

As she walked down the hall to her room, it struck me she looked smaller somehow. Later, surrendering to sleep, I heard her crying. I told myself it was just the wind.

There’s no White Rabbit. I didn’t fall down a hole. It’s just like, BAM: a new realm! Remnants of my bedroom fuse with the scenery. The moon’s my blue, braided rug. On the branch of a sugar maple lounges a fantastical creature.

The cat beams an extraordinarily white smile; blond fur flows, a wild, frosted shag. Unmistakable: there on her taut, red body, a single, frisky nipple. She addresses me.

“Junior, we’ve been waiting. Come inside. We’ve mysteries to share.”

“Inside? Where?”

She purrs a single word, “Leeegaaacy” and is gone. The forest dissolves.

“Mister Alberti?”

Standing atop an enormous scallop shell, he unfurls a blue tablecloth; it drops to become an ocean. My tiny vessel’s battered up over cresting waves. Fingers reach for me, incredibly long in the braided-ruglight.

Lex’s voice: “Evan! Don’t go any further — you can’t come back!”

“I have to! I need to know why!”

“I am The Why. Would you know me?” It’s Steve Austin, the kid who killed himself. Floating, he rolls belly-up, face a bloated gray, mouth stretched into a wet, pink leer. His lips part. My father’s within, struggling to free himself from silver shark teeth.

“DAD! WAIT!”

I throw myself from the boat to save him. A shock: I sprawl in soft grass before a colossal mushroom. On it sits a massive black-and-white caterpillar. In its teeny, grasping hand a key glitters. The worm blows huge, luminescent bubbles through the key’s hole. Each “plips” out a single word. In Father Brendan’s brogue.

(plip) “Evan”

“Yes, Father. Please tell me … ”

(plip) “Your”

“ … what am I supposed … ”

(plip) “answers”

“ … to do?”

(plip) “lie”

“My answers lie? You mean like ‘tell a lie’?”

(plip) “within”

“Okay. My answers lie within. Jeez, this is excruciating! If this is a dream, it’s obnoxious. Can we speed things up a bit, maybe drop the freakin’ plips?”

(plip) “your”

“I guess not.”

(plip) “chest.”

“Oh, please! Within my chest? You mean, like, look inside my heart? I’m sorry Father, but that is so cliché!”

“Saints preserve us! I’m talkin’ ’bout the trunk. Take another look in the TRUNK! For the love of Mike! You’re supposed to be a genius, Boy!”

He doesn’t plip. That’s what wakes me. I snap from the dream, startled, in the center of my room. I used to sleepwalk as a kid, but haven’t in years. I’ve also never moved bulky objects in my sleep, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. I’m slumped across the footlocker. I guess that fatherpillar meant business, at least to my sleep-self.

At first, I’m dubious. A prophetic dream? What am I, Nostradamus? But then, I get to thinking, the Bible’s full of them. Old Testament Joseph and the Pharaoh, New Testament Joseph and the Flight into Egypt. Okay, I’m not a biblical figure. Shoot, I’m not even named Joseph. But, who am I to argue with a caterpriest? Besides, what’ve I got to lose taking another look? At the very least, I’ll get a chance to admire Jaclyn one more time. It’s not like I have anything better to do pre-dawn.

Standing, I flip on the lava lamp and look out at a world encased in a chrysalis. We must be getting an inch of snow an hour. No school tomorrow, guaranteed. I’ll need the break; I have a feeling I won’t be going back to sleep. I scoop the trunk key from the shelf, next to my starfish.

As I squat to slide the key into the lock, I whisper, “Once more into the breach.” I can’t remember what that’s from, exactly. Has to be Shakespeare; everything is. I turn the key, remembering to catch the noisy lock plate. Thumbs poised on latches, I stop.

“I don’t think I can do this alone.” I’ve started talking to myself a lot lately. It’s a bit troubling. I consider calling Lex, then say, “Yeah, that’d go over great at 4:20 in the morning.”

Instead, I ask myself what she’d say. Probably something like, “If a giant talking worm told you to look in the trunk, what the hell you waiting for?”

I whisper a prayer to Saint Sebastian:

Opening the lid, I lift a stack of
People
magazines and
National Enquirers
— all Angels-related. There’s a large manila envelope with black marker writing: Charlie’s Angels Trading Cards. I roll my eyes, put the envelope aside, atop the stack of magazines. Rummaging further, an archaeologist on an important dig, I sift through teen memorabilia, hoping to find a remnant, some emotional scrap of the kid who was my father. Nothing. It’s still just stuff, meaningless. I can’t attach significance to any of it. Dad’s failed me again. And now, so has Saint Sebastian. It’s typical. All our heroes let us down. Why should heaven be different?

Gathering a pile of clippings, I shred them. It feels good, opposite of my usual powerlessness. Ripping a
People
cover, I wad it, crushing Angel faces. “Take that, Farrah.” Next up: trading cards. Tearing open the packet with manic glee, I upend it, anticipating a shower of collector cards.

“I’ll burn them tomorrow!”

Absorbed in visions of memento-destruction, for just an instant, I see the cards cascade. Reality taking hold, I stare at the braided rug. It’s not littered with bubble-gum relics. Just two objects lie between my bare feet. I crouch, lifting them toward the blue lava light, straining for a mental connection between expected and actual. Squinting, I read my father’s tiny printing on the cassette tape label: Suicide Songs, 1976. I shiver, place the tape on the seat of my desk chair, close the trunk lid, and sit on it. Turning the other object in my hand, I stroke the rough canvas cover. Opening the book, I read the inscription.

“My God. It’s his journal,” I breathe into the blue-lit room, awed by discovery.

It occurs to me I owe Saint Sebastian an apology.