The Namesake (21 page)

“Well, I’m glad, because he truly loved your father. In a strange way, I think the whole Theresa fiasco really sealed the deal. He said your father had acted honorably.”

“By defending her?”

“Yes, too bad he wasn’t half as understanding of his daughter. But blood’s funny.”

“I guess.”

“Oh, jeez, look at the time! I’d better throw supper together. Your Gramp’ll be home any minute. And he’s always hungry like a bear when he gets back from that depot. You want to stay? I’m making meatloaf.”

“I should head home.”

At the door, she grips my sleeve, this look of panic in her eyes. “Evan, don’t hate me.”

“Gran, I — ”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be melodramatic. It’s just I’m not ready to discuss any of this with your Gramp. Or your mother. It’s going to take me some time. Okay?”

“Gran, I haven’t thought much about how this’ll affect the rest of the family, and I honestly can’t worry about that. I need to be the selfish one right now.”

She looks down, and I nearly apologize for the emotional sucker punch, but can’t quite manage remorse.

Pulling me into a stiff goodbye hug, she whispers, “He’d be proud of you. Just be careful. Encounter, and all this … information. I hope it’s not too much.”

“I’ll be fine.”

She closes the storm door. I look toward the front walk, feeling a tiny bit lighter knowing Dad didn’t “do her dirty.” The phrase makes me picture Mister A, pasted back in that hospital bed. I tap on the glass; Gran opens the door a smidge.

“Say a rosary for Zio, would you? Things look pretty bad.”

She presses her palm to the glass.

Then I notice his smeared forehead, the tip of his nose. His blotched work pants. And I detect this smell, familiar somehow.

It’s Saturday morning. Figured I’d give Angie a day to decompress before showing my face. Lex is due back this afternoon; rather than counting seconds ’til her plane arrives, I thought I’d do some painting.

I’ve convinced myself no news is good news on the Zio front. When I called Alberti’s yesterday, I wasn’t surprised to get the machine. I’m sure Angie’s still keeping vigil.

But Lupo’s another story. I couldn’t imagine the cubicle was big enough for both; with Angie’s temper, he’d probably end up in a metal bed, too. And besides, Saturday morning’s delivery day at Alberti’s. So I was betting he’d be here.

When I walk in, I see I’m right. First off, I’m
able
to walk in: the kitchen door’s ajar. Crates from Barbetta’s sit on the floor. Eggplant glistens in one wooden cage; romaine frills peek through the slats of another.

But that chemical odor.

“Lupo?”

For some reason, the empty-kitchen echo throws me into panic mode. I bust through the swinging doors.

Hunched on a barstool next to the register, Lupo pinches an unlit cigarette between thumb and forefinger. He stares at it, about an inch from his nose, lips moving slightly. Setting it on the counter edge, he rubs a fist across his brow. That’s when I spot his hands — dredged-looking — and his white-spattered hair, face, clothes.

I make some movement that catches his attention; he’s suddenly wide-eyed. Slipping the cigarette behind his ear, he drops from the stool. As he does, I notice the bucket at his feet.

My stomach flipping like I’ve crested a Ferris wheel, I fly past Lupo, bark my thigh against a table, and stumble into the banquet room. I don’t even need the lights to know. In here, the stench is unmistakable: KILZ. Gramp used it in Aunt Reg’s old room to cover the Elvis portrait she’d painted above her bed.

“PleaseGodnoPleaseGodnoPleaseGodno God Please PLEASE!”

Yanking the cord on the maroon drapes, I breathe in rough hiccups. The clink of curtain rings seems magnified in the dim room. I study the mural: Jesus’ liquid gaze; the feathery brushstrokes in Peter’s beard; Judas’s haunted look. It’s phenomenal. But it’s all just an afterimage, like a camera flash leaves. Because the painting’s gone.

My father’s masterpiece has been covered over with a thick coat of foul, white primer.

I just stand there, forgetting to inhale. Then, desperate to uncover Dad’s picture, I swipe my sleeve across the wall, hoping to salvage this last scrap of him. But the KILZ has dried.

Lupo must’ve worked all night to get such perfect, even coverage. It probably took hours, but he’s succeeded in obliterating my father’s Last Supper. My mouth’s gone dry and a blue mist edges my vision. I have a burnt foil taste in my mouth, like that time I fainted in line for the log flume. The world’s going dim.

And then I howl.

My art box is on the floor. I pick it up, the hefty metal cool against my palm. Swinging wild, I bash it into the newly painted wall, gouging the white. The latch pops; brushes, paint tubes, pencils, blades fly.

“Hey!”

Lupo’s behind me. He flips the switch and candle bulbs lick the darkness.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m on him, punching Angie’s cousin in the chest and shoulders. Then I claw at his ears, shredding the cigarettes, screaming, “Why? Why did you do it, you bastard? Why?”

I’m not sure Lupo even understands me, and he makes no move to shield himself — God knows he could snap my neck if he wanted to — just takes it, softly grunting as I hit him repeatedly.

Finally, exhausted, I slump to the floor to gather brushes. I’m arranging them by size, when, thinking,
what’s the point?
I snap them in half, hurl them at the blank wall.

Then I’m bawling, not caring about Lupo or Angie or anything except losing another piece of Dad. Crawling to the wall, I run my hands across it like Helen Keller. I notice a tiny area Lupo’s missed. One of Judas’s ears is partly visible through a thin layer of KILZ. I press my lips to the wall in a whisper-kiss of goodbye, sobbing even harder. I didn’t cry this much at his funeral. As a matter of fact, I didn’t cry at all; Aunt Ro was “very concerned” about my “total lack of emotion.” No danger of that today.

I barely notice the squeak of Lupo’s Keds; suddenly he’s squatting beside me. He rubs the back of my neck with one rough hand and says, “
Perdonarme
, Evan. Forgive me. Angie, she make me do it. She say, ‘It’sa for the best.’ ”

“Sorry I hit you.”

He cries too. Swabbing his face with his apron, he says, “I sorry I ruin you father’s picture. Maybe you paint something new there one day. Something happy.”

“I don’t think so.”

Lupo hesitates, glances toward the door, as if Angie might overhear, even from Saint Luke’s.

“What is it, Lupo?”

He exhales, searching for words. “She want to hurt you, because she hurt. She’s angry at the old man for leaving, but one day she come around.”

I don’t say anything, just rub my eyes. Angie’s made it clear I’m no longer welcome.

Lupo seems to sense what I’m thinking; he smiles and says, “You don’ believe Lupo. He just the dumb cousin from the old country. But it’s true. Angie like you.”

“Look, I’d better go. I’d better not be here if she comes back.”

I finish gathering supplies. With one last look at the bare wall, I turn to leave. Lupo tries to speak, but I won’t listen. Instead, I say, “You missed a spot.”

In front of the restaurant, I try to decide what to do; maybe I’ll head to the mall. As I contemplate the frosted sidewalk, Lupo sticks his head out the front door and whistles. I take a couple steps toward him, knowing I’ll never set foot in Alberti’s again.

Coming outside, Lupo takes my wrist and says, “Look in you art box, Evan. There’s something inside for you.”

Perhaps it’s self-control borne of a good Catholic education. I mean, I’m practically conditioned to raise my hand before speaking. And I spent K through eight waiting single-file to use the toilet — once a day, right after lunch, whether I needed to or not. That sort of heightened self-discipline can’t help but make an impression.

So maybe that’s how I’m able to duck temptation — walk home, small talk with Mom. Her reaction to the mural news: “I know you’re upset, but really, it may be best, the mural being gone. From what I remember, it was a bit much.”

I skip dessert and head to Lex’s house — all without looking in the box.

We’re sitting on the couch, eating dry cereal. Mrs. Bottaro’s gone to book club; Lex insisted, even though it’s their first night together since Florida.

She said, “Really, Joyce, we can’t have you skipping a shot at meaningful interaction.”

Lex’s mom just shook her head and said, “My name’s Denise, remember?”

“Well yeah, but you’ve always struck me as more of a Joyce.”

Mrs. Bottaro laughed as she put on her coat and called, “Be good you two.”

This nature show’s on, and we ignore the uncomfortable silence sharing the sofa. A pair of snow monkies gets busy, and Lex looks at me. “Have you finished the journal?”

“I’m saving it for encounter.”

“Ah yes, the better to recreate his experience.”

“I guess.”

I nearly aspirate Lucky Charms when, out of nowhere, she says, “So, what’s in the box?”

Finally catching my breath, I answer. “Not sure.”

“Yeah, right, you’re not sure? You have the most organized art box of anyone I’ve ever met. You could probably tell me, without looking, what’s in every compartment.”

“Not tonight. I don’t know what’s inside. Seems like the whole Alberti gang’s got a thing for surprises. Lupo told me there’s ‘something for me’ in there.”

“Ooh, I love a mystery.”

“So I’ve heard.”

I fill her in on Zio, how he’s in the hospital. I can’t help choking up. Lex puts her arm around my shoulder. Feels like old times — pre-Tyler. Maybe even pre-Dad. How’s she do it?

Then I tell her about Lupo’s demuralization project, and
she
starts crying. “How could they do that? They had no right!”

That’s another thing I love about Lex: you can count on her for righteous indignation.

“It’s like stealing, or … or vandalism! God, it’s a … a desecration!”

“It’s okay.”

“No! It’s not, Evan. It was one of the few things left. And I never even got to see it!” Somehow she seems most upset about that.

“Are you okay?”

She does this fluttering thing with her hands, like she’s drying nail polish, and catches her breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get all mental. It’s just dumb.”

“What is?”

“I miss him too.”

“My dad?”

“Yeah. Your father was … ” Trying to hold it together, she takes this huge gulp of air, which makes her burp. Neither of us laughs, and she continues, “ … he was … the closest thing I had to a dad of my own.”

I hadn’t considered, didn’t realize she’d felt that way.

“Remember, after my mom threw the stepbastard out —
like, the week after
— school held that stupid Father/Daughter Dance?”

“Pretty bad timing, huh?”

“Well, he offered to take me.”

“My father did?”

“Yes.”

“How come I never knew about this?”

“I guess you don’t know everything after all. And we didn’t end up going.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, my mother thought it was a little freaky, him asking. Her perv radar was, like, off the charts at that point.”

“Small wonder.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, it’d been on the blink for three years while Mister Wonderful was prowling.”

“So Dad didn’t take you to the dance?”

“No. Your mom had finally convinced my mom it was okay. Your dad was on the up-and-up. I was planning to go. I’d gotten a dress and everything, but then … I don’t know. I felt like everyone would be staring, like they all knew. I guess I stood him up.”

“Oh.”

“So he brought the dance to me.”

“He what?”

“He came over anyway.” She blots her eyes with a napkin. “Brought some tunes he liked: Van Morrison, Fogelberg. I think Mom was just as happy to have me where she could see me. He and I danced right here in the living room.”

I’m trying to picture it — Dad and Alexis dancing in this very room all those years ago.

“Anyway, he was so sweet. Told me to keep the records. That was the start of my collection. And he told Mom and me, if we ever needed to talk he’d be glad to help. And … ”

“What?”

“He said he understood what I’d gone through.”

“Wow.”

“He told me some day it’d get better. And to … ” she starts crying again, “to have faith. Obviously, I didn’t know what he was talking about then. But I guess we do now, don’t we?”

“Yeah, I guess we do.”

We don’t say another word, just sit holding hands. The TV suddenly gets extra loud — some guy screaming about a citrus-based cleanser — and the bubble breaks.

Lex releases my hand, says, “Want popcorn?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, give me two minutes and thirty seconds.” She starts toward the kitchen, turning back to say, “That should be enough time for you to see what’s in your art box.”

I surprise myself by saying, “Why don’t
I
make the popcorn?”

“Huh?”

“And you can open the box.”

“Really?”

Nodding, I head to the kitchen. The Jolly Time’s in the cabinet above the microwave. I pull out a bag. Punching the microwave buttons, I lean against the counter and wait. As the first kernels explode, I hear the squeak of Lex lifting the lid.

Returning with buttery carbs, I find her sitting Indian-style on the floor. Crying again. I put the popcorn on the leather ottoman by the loveseat. Lex flips the TV off as I join her. Spread on the berber in front of her are the new contents of my art box.

“He looks just like you.”

“That’s what they tell me.”

Fanned out in front of me are half a dozen Polaroids, each dated. Lex has arranged them chronologically. In the first, Dad looks about sixteen; must be right after he started at Alberti’s. He and Mister A (a Mister A with a shock of wavy, black hair!) stand in front of the restaurant shaking hands. Dad seems a little shy, smiling for the camera. There’s another shot of him looking utterly beat, beside a mountain of dishes.

“Look at this one,” Lex slides a picture across the carpet. “It has to be Theresa.”

Dad’s wearing a green graduation cap, standing between the Alberti gals. He’s got his arm around Theresa’s waist; she’s turned toward him, whispering in his ear as he laughs. To his right, little Angela, maybe ten, squints at the camera.

The last picture’s the hardest. Dad must be twenty-ish. He’s in the banquet room, doing the classic artist pose: arm out, thumb extended, one eye closed. Grinning like an idiot. He must have just begun the painting; there are ghosty figures sketched across the wall. At the table next to him, my infant brother sleeps in a restaurant high chair, a baby beret on his head. I turn the photo face down, unable to look at this tableaux of loss another minute.