The Namesake (2 page)

His name was Steve Austin, like the wrestler, or the guy on that old show
The Six Million Dollar Man
. He was in track, hurdles, I think. We weren’t exactly friends or anything. Okay, he was a total prick. Now I realize he must’ve been really screwed up, molested or something. But when I try to sympathize, all I can picture is his rubbery pink smirk.

We had Art 160 together, and he was constantly busting me. Typical stuff: my supplies would go missing, he’d commandeer my work station — regulation bully tactics. He made crits a freakin’ nightmare. Once, he told everyone my abstract gouache composition was really a rendering of Father Brendan’s penis. Even though we were a TAG group, that sort of remark couldn’t NOT get a huge laugh. Another time, he screwed with the kiln and “accidentally” blew up my ceramics midterm. Prick.

One Monday, we slouched into art class; Mr. Pettafordi was this strange shade of gray. He said, “There has been a tragic incident. Stephen is dead. Papier-mâché is postponed.”

Ushered into the auditorium for prayer and silent reflection, lots of kids were crying, some teachers, too. Mr. Novack, the track coach, sat, a deflated Macy’s balloon surrounded by a grim circle of teammates — a collective of hows and whys.

“Was it a car accident?” Tyler Wattrous spluttered.

“No, son. Nothing like that.”

“A fire?” Kenny Nealson asked, wild-eyed.

“No, Ken. There was no fire.”

“Was Steve mowed down runnin’, Mister N?” The ever-tactful Randy Spiotti.

“Dammit, guys! Just stop, okay! Father will explain.”

Father Brendan took the stage amid a silence so deep, the intermittent sniffle or cough seemed like a shouted swear.

“My dear family of Sebastian, may Our Blessed Mother envelop us in her protective mantle. We are, each of us, deeply flawed. We — ” He seemed to lose his thread, chins pinkening. Straightening his glasses, he continued. “Without our Lord’s guidance, our willful arrogance, our fear and guilt, can lead us to wrong choices, even to ruin.” Again, he stuttered midthought. Staring out at us, he dabbed his brow. “May God look past the sin of Stephen’s suicide, welcoming him into everlasting peace, free from the despair which led to this dreadful deed. In Jesus’ name, Amen.” And he motored off the stage, leaving us in silence.

Later, we found out Steve had blown his head off in the Austin’s great room. At first, I was numb. I wanted to feel bad; the guy was dead. I pictured his mom calling Nurse Haggerty to report his absence. “Stevie won’t be in today. He has a terrible headache.” Bizarre. The bully’s not supposed to kill himself. He’s supposed to drive the geek to suicide. Steve had really screwed up. At my locker, I began laughing uncontrollably.

Alexis dragged me into an empty classroom. “What is with you, Evan? DO YOU GET THAT HE’S DEAD?”

“No, why don’t you draw me a picture? You’re good at that.”

“Don’t be an ass. I know you’re upset. We all are.”

“You’re right, Lex. I’m sorry. See you at lunch.”

It was easier just to agree than to explain I wasn’t upset. I really wasn’t anything. All I could think about was not having to dread seeing him in art class anymore. That and I wondered how they’d clean his brains off the widescreen. I started to laugh again. I know that makes me a bad person, but I honestly couldn’t help it. Maybe it was shock.

The school swung into compassion mode: prayer circles, counselors up the wazoo, the whole nine yards. Being a Catholic school, Sebastian’s is skilled at grief. Faster than you could say the Glory Be, Mass was scheduled for the following Monday in the auditorium. The entire Sebastian’s community would attend. It would not be pretty.

What I remember most is the offertory, when they brought up the bread and wine. In this case, there was a third gift: Steve’s scuffed Nike was to join the body and blood of Jesus on the altar. The shoe, his left, was borne down the center aisle relay-style by six puffy-faced track mates. It was ludicrous, ill-conceived, and totally cringe-inducing, yet somehow, an oddly touching tribute to their fallen comrade.

Then: a musical montage/slide show featuring pictures of Stevie, the Outrageously Chubby Toddler. Gap-toothed Stephen struggling to eat corn on the cob. Shots of Steve with the team, endless pictures — Stephen running, Stephen jumping — always smiling. The whole thing was engineered for maximum lachrymal effect. Someone was willing me to mourn a guy I barely knew and didn’t like. They wanted me to care and I refused. Anger, not grief, welled up in me.

Un-freaking-believable! I was crying in spite of myself! Alexis drew me close, pressed her forehead to mine. My brain slammed shut. No one would extract another crumb of emotion for this punk who’d wasted himself. Screw him! But I let Lex comfort me. On some level, I guess I needed it.

Gran takes my hand in hers, says, “I have something for you, Junior.”

She’s going to give me $20 for ice cream; some things don’t change.

“Evan.”

“That’s okay, Gran. I’ve got money.”

“No, no. This was your father’s.”

She presses a small piece of stainless steel into my palm. I look at her hand, knobby with age, and study the smudged jewels of her family ring, a band of five. She’s sapphire, ruby for Gramp, Auntie Ro is amethyst, and peridot, that’s Aunt Regina. There’s a stone missing on one end. She catches me looking.

“I lost that garnet last February. Your father was supposed to have it fixed.”

I squeeze her hand, gently because of the arthritis.

“I guess there’s no sense now.” And she’s crying.

“Darn it,” I say, mostly to myself. I’ve remembered something stupid. Dad wore a garnet ring, his birthstone. When I was little, I called it a “darn it.” He used to tease me, kind of a family joke. Now I’m crying, too.

“Damn! I promised myself I wouldn’t do this!”

“It’s okay, Gran.”

“No! It’s not. IT’S NOT OKAY! TEARS CAN’T RAISE THE DEAD!” She clears her throat, stands, speaks into the fridge. “If your grandfather comes in and finds us crying — we’ve got to be strong for him.”

“That’s the Gallo-Way,” I say, wondering for the zillionth time whether everyone’s family has such lame jokes.

“I miss him, Gran.” It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud.

“We all miss him, Evan. That’s the reason I wanted you to have something. Something of his.

“A key? Gee, thanks.”

“Not just the key, Smarty-pants.” She dabs the corner of her mouth, surprised at the smile there. “Come with me.”

I follow Gran down the narrow hall to the guest room. It was Dad’s bedroom as a boy, and again, before he died. He moved back in during the trial separation that became way permanent. I avoid eyes staring from old school portraits lining the wall. A glance: Auntie Ro, front-toothless, lavender hair band — Grade 3. Next, Aunt Reg, crooked glasses on crooked nose, same wide open smile as always. Finally, a picture of Dad, about age nine. He’s got a scab on his forehead. Very large ears. And a telltale redness around his eyes. Why was he crying?

“Evan.” Gran’s voice is like an alarm clock through a thick dream.

“Yeah, Gran?”

“I know. It’s almost like looking in a mirror, isn’t it? Thank goodness, you have your mother’s ears, but you’re definitely your father’s son.”

Terrific
, I think.

“Well, let’s take a look-see.”

Following Gran into the room where Dad grew up, I’m hit with a mix of feelings.
This is so wrong
. Dolls. There are dolls everywhere, staring from shelves, peering from the floor, pale-faced dolls with big hats, bigger pouts. And floral wallpaper, rugs, pillows, curtains, quilt, and lampshades. It’s like someone vomited Laura Ashley. I cannot believe my father’s final weeks were spent lying on a daybed surrounded by frills. That alone is tragic. Why’d she bring me in here? To show me the décor that pushed him over the edge?

Then I notice it: the one object so totally out of place, it has to be his.

“Evan, help me, would you? Your grandfather nearly ruptured himself dragging this up from the cellar.”

“Sure, Gran. Is this my legacy?”

“Ooh, you’re clever. This is what I want to give you, yes. I don’t know from legacy.”

As I drag the footlocker past the wicker rocker, I snag the hooked rug, toppling a dolly.

“Careful, Evan! Don’t be a bull! You’re just like your father!”

I wince. “Sorry, Gran. What’s inside?”

She runs a hand across the scratched lid, her thick nails tapping the burnt-orange surface, and briefly fingers the brass lock. “Find out.”

“You mean you haven’t opened it?”

“That’s your job, Junior. It’s just old things, his school trunk, from Sebastian’s. I thought it’d be fun for you to have. Who knows, maybe he hid a fortune in here.”

“Well, if he did, I’ll split it with you.”

“No, honey, whatever he left in there is yours now.”

“Thanks for the early birthday present, Gran … He loved you, you know.”

“It’s nearly four, it’ll be pitch dark soon. God, I hate January! Let’s wake your Gramp and have some cake. Then we’d better get you home. They’re saying snow.”

I wave as they pull slowly from the curb, then slide the footlocker over snow-dusted grass. “It’s just old things.” But what? Secrets, answers? In my room, I shove the trunk to the back of my closet, afraid to know. Flopping on the bed, I open my fist. In it, I hold the key.

That makes today the 20th. Okay duh, what I mean is, today would’ve been my father’s birthday. It’s funny. I woke up sweating at 3:18, panicked, thinking
HOLY CRAP! I forgot to get Dad’s present!
It took several minutes blinking at predawn blackness for reality to come tap-tap-tapping on my windowpane.

Once it did, I thought,
Whoa, this year, it’d be especially tough to find him the perfect gift.
I mean, what do you get for the dead guy who has everything? I guess I could pick up a little something for the cemetery, to jazz things up a bit. Maybe a “World’s Greatest Dad” magnet to put next to his name. I wonder if a magnet would stick?

See, my dad’s in a drawer. Maybe it’s just me, but I find that way worse than a hole in the ground. It just totally lacks the permanence of six feet of earth. You can see the mausoleum from the road where I wait for the bus every morning. It rises, like a ziggurat on the hillside, looking all mysterious and exotic, like some reject from EPCOT.

I never knew what to expect from a mausoleum; had no reason to think about it, ’til last year. I figured it’d be like a
mu
seum or something inside: cool, dark, whisper-quiet. Formal, with stained glass. But, it’s not like that at all. First off, it’s roofless, so there really isn’t an inside. The structure’s open to the sky, with outer walls surrounding an area like a patio — minus the barbeque. You descend into it, along this winding sidewalk.

When they wheeled him down, I swear, all I could think of was the Winter Olympics: one-man bobsled, his coffin picking up speed, ricocheting off walls, shooting sparks. I had to bite my cheek to keep from yelling, “Go, Dad, go!”

Once you hit bottom, the center of the maze, you’re surrounded by these sky-high walls. You face west toward normalcy. There’s a sliver of a view of the valley: houses, trees, the DB Mart on the corner of Edgewood and Aurora Avenues.

Then you study the walls covered with names and dates.

At first, it seems like they’re just plaques. Until you notice the handles. Fact is, it’s more like a giant filing cabinet than anything else. The funeral guy slides one open, and you realize it’s your dad’s new home. Too bizarre, as if you could drop by anytime, pop the latch, and there he’d be. It’s creepy, like keeping your father in a giant crisper drawer.

I had a hunch I’d be feeling morbid. Today clearly won’t be a typical, birthday type of day. To begin with, we’re heading to Mass first thing. Aunt Ro, in her infinite wisdom, thought a birthday remembrance would be just the thing to “help us soldier on through our grief.” She actually said that! I can hardly wait. I mean nothing against the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost. I’m just not exactly overjoyed at hauling out all these feelings on a cold Monday morning.

His birthday would’ve been tough enough without having to face the relatives, the friends, the blue-haired flock of daily Mass attendees. I’d anticipated a regular school day with its mundane distractions, even planned to hit chapel during study hall. Maybe I would’ve gotten a Peggy Lawton brownie at lunch in his honor. Now, instead of waiting for the bus, uniformed, backpacked, I’m here in the kitchen, wearing my funeral suit, contemplating a mound of pancakes and rough seas ahead.

“Evan, sweetie, finish your breakfast. It’s quarter to seven! They’ll be here soon.”

I don’t know how she can sound so perky, given the hour and the circumstance, but that’s my mother. She could stand on ceremony, even if her feet were repossessed.

“Okay, I’m done.” I down a last gulp of milk. “Sure you want to do this, Mom?”

“Do what, honey?”

“Ma! This whole Mass thing. What’d you think I meant, the dishes?”

“Tone, Junior. This is not an easy day for me either.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me Junior anymore, Mom. I never really was one, anyway.”

“Finish up. They’ll be here in ten minutes; your grandmother is always early.”

We’re going to Mass with Gramp and Gran. Should be a ride to remember. Gran hasn’t spoken to Mom much since the suicide. I suppose the fact that each blames the other isn’t exactly a chat motivator. Although Mom hasn’t spoken much to me either, not about Dad. She seems to be spinning this mom-cocoon.

It’s like she thinks, by serving on enough committees, baking enough muffins, reading enough books to the blind, and perpetually vacuuming, she can make people forget her husband chose death over her. Or maybe
she’s
trying to forget, who knows?

As we wait for the silver Pontiac to materialize from the mist, I chip at the slush pile with the toe of my wingtip. Minutes pass. Ears tingling from the frigid air, I shift foot-to-foot, clapping gloved hands, exhaling clouds.

Mom bears the cold in silence, maybe because it matches what she’s become inside.

“God, it’s, like, arctic out here!” I chatter. “Aren’t you freezing?”

“I’m okay. Go in the garage, if you can’t stand it.”

“I can take it, if you can. Besides, I want to stay with you.”

She smiles.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Ev?”

“Why?” I try to put my arm around her shoulder.

She shrugs me off, pretend-searches in her purse. “Why what, dear?”

I hesitate, unable to spit out the words. Why does she need to hear them, when she knows damn well what I’m asking?

“Dad. Why do you think he … ?

“Here come your grandparents. No more of this.” She smoothes my eyebrow with her thumb — a maternal affection shortcut — and steps to the curb.

The Bonneville appears, a boxy, metallic ghost. Gramp glides to a stop, spraying a fine slush over our feet. As he lowers the window, an AM talk caller brays about welfare mothers. Gran switches off the radio, cradling a cardboard cup, mega-size. Java and memories sustain them now.

“Hop in, Sport. You look like you’re freezin’ your nuts off.”

“Fred!” Gran always pretends to be shocked by him.

“Katherine, top o’ the morning.”

“Good morning, Fred. Maureen.”

Gran nods, smiles vaguely. “Hello, Katherine. How are you, Junior, okay? Find any treasure?” She winks.

“Not yet, Gran. We’ll see.”

Mom looks at me quizzically, then back to Gran. Sinking into the backseat, I close my eyes as Gramp navigates the icy hills to Saint Anne’s.