The Namesake (31 page)

“And you?”

“Well, I had a really cute boyfriend and no threat of physical contact.” She looks a little wistful as she says, “He really was the perfect guy for a gal with intimacy issues.”

“No, that’s not true.”

“It’s not?”

I try to channel some of Dad’s Old-fashioned Galloway Charm, as I say, “Nope.
I’m
the perfect guy for a gal with intimacy issues.”

I lean in and kiss her, and though she doesn’t exactly respond in Harlequin Romance fashion, she also doesn’t upend the futon. Or send me for stitches.

She just says, “We’ll see.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Just then Mom yells down, “Ev, we should go!”

She’s got good timing for once. Lex kisses my cheek and I float up the cellar stairs toward home.

We stare at Gran like she’s a mirage, ’til she says, “I’d like a bit more.”

This is new — she’s rarely eaten Mom’s cooking, forget seconds. Food’s always been a crucial weapon in their domestic battle. And after last Easter, and the (mostly) unspoken blame they each harbored, it was a stretch to even picture them at the same table. I certainly didn’t expect the hatchet to finally be buried in a bowl of slimy green beans and French-fried onions. But as Mom passes the Pyrex, Gran’s hand lingers, patting my mother’s wrist — an Easter miracle.

Gramp and Gran’s dining room table’s in storage, so eight of us crowd around the small kitchen table — Gran, Gramp, Reg, Ro, The Mothers, Lex, and me. Gran’s fighting major agita over the state of things. She can’t help apologizing that the house is “in such shambles.”

Gramp employs his special brand of reassurance: “Don’t be a broken record, Maureen. Are you going to encore this same performance for another three weeks?”

Ordinarily, he’d be right — her apologies are usually just needy-housekeeper shtick — but it honestly is a mess in here. Crates and packing supplies are everywhere; they’ve begun the process of closing up shop, bubble-wrapping family history.

It must be difficult after forty-nine years, but I guess the attic’s spell has finally trumped whatever good memories the house still holds. They’re jumping ship. Aunt Ro seems thrilled with their decision. Aunt Reg is less enthusiastic; they’re moving to her condo complex.

After eating, we migrate to the near-empty living room; just recliner, couch, and coffee table remain. Balancing cake plates on knees, we small-talk: dinner, the oddly warm spring. Harmless terrain. Then, somehow, Gramp veers to Spiotti — a.k.a.
that psychotic little pussy
, as in, “I wonder how that psychotic little pussy’s spending
his
holiday.”

Lex nearly shoots Coconut Lemon Sunshine Cake out her nostrils, and Aunt Ro says, “Daddy! Neither the topic nor the language is suitable for Easter Sunday!”

Aunt Reg smirks. “Oh, Rosemary, take a pill.”

Gran just elbows him, shakes her head, says, “Nice, Fred. Very nice.”

Mom and Mrs. Bottaro stay out of it and, though I don’t exactly rush to Randy’s defense, I’m pretty much over the whole thing. It doesn’t hurt that Spiotti and Nealson no longer attend Sebastian’s. They’ve been banished to the horror and desolation of the public school system.

Honestly, that horror and desolation probably isn’t much worse than what we’ve got at Sebastian’s — just different. I certainly didn’t win fans on the track team, being “responsible for” the departure of our two best runners, but that’s okay. Since my girlfriend spilled the school tormenter’s blood, I feel pretty safe; it’s rather like dating Jack the Giant Killer.

We manage to get the banter back on track. I start with Mrs. Bottaro’s centerpiece, a spring lamb made of chrysanthemums, declaring it “totally lifelike.” Lex rolls her eyes; she hates when I suck up to her mother.

Mom says she’ll try something similar, “maybe orange mums, for Halloween. I’m thinking scarecrow.”

We linger on holidays past: the Thanksgiving the tablecloth ignited; the Christmas Mom got lost at Donelan’s Tree Farm; the July 4th I stepped on the hot briquettes. But last Easter no longer exists for us.

I’m impressed we tackle the holiday at all. One thing that helps is the date. It’s April 20th, nearly a whole month after the first anniversary of losing Dad. Thank God, Easter floats. If it fell on March 31st every year, I think we’d have to convert.

We agreed to keep it simple this year, no big baskets or anything. I gave Mom a bouquet of tulips, tied with my brother’s Easter bib. Of course, that made her cry, but she seemed genuinely happy to have it back. She got me “Perky Pierre,” a chocolate-bunny-as-artist, wearing a foil beret. And, naturally, I got a little something for my two best girls.

Since we’ve reached the next level — Lex now refers to me as
mon significatif
; she suddenly hates the term boyfriend — I couldn’t ignore our first holiday. I got her this cloisonné egg that plays Neil Diamond’s “Song Sung Blue.” Naturally, she was très appreciative.

There was also the matter of a certain missing birthstone. For some reason, after my rafter antics, I kept picturing Gran’s ring. I guess it represented one of those little pits in the Galloway veneer, one I
could
fix. I decided to use the extra Angie cash, and Mom agreed. So when I went to bring in their mail, I pillaged Gran’s jewelry box.

She’s rinsing dessert plates when I tap her shoulder.

“What is it, honey?”

“I have something for you, Gran.”

“Evan, we agreed no gifts. I’m getting too fat for chocolates, and your Gramp and I already have too much packing to do. The last thing we need is more stuff.”

“Oh, well … then I guess I can return this.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture — ” she spots the ring on my pinkie, “Oh Lord.”

“I felt bad that Dad,” my voice cracks, “let you down.”

“Oh, honey.”

“He was supposed … to fix it for you, and I don’t like you not wearing it. Here, try it on.”

I ease the ring onto her finger, only halfway, letting her finesse it past the swollen joint.

She holds it up and the new garnet glints, “It’s beautiful, Jun — sorry, Evan.”

“No, that’s okay. Call me Junior. I don’t mind.”

“Happy Easter, Junior.”

“Happy Easter, Gran.”

Mom joins us in the kitchen, the three of us in a close triangle by the sink.

“So … ”

None of us wants to bring him up, even though we’ve been thinking about him all day. Finally, I turn to Mom and say, “Remember how he used to love to hide the eggs?”

She and Gran laugh at the image of Dad in the yard with those fluffy rabbit ears and tail. Mom used to tease that he didn’t need the disguise; he was all set for ears.

We do a quick group hug, and I sigh, thinking of all he’ll miss. Then, for just a moment, I see the figures up in the attic, remember his voice, the sense of being lifted. And I think maybe he’s not missing everything after all.

I turn to Gran. “You know the crèche figures in the — ” I catch myself; we’ve learned not to use that word. “Upstairs? Since you guys won’t really have a lawn, I thought Mom and I might take them.”

Gran gets this did-I-leave-the-oven-on? look as she says, “The Nativity you and your father made?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, honey. Did you forget? We got rid of it years ago. Remember? That nor’easter blew down the willow; cracked poor Mary and Joseph clear in half.”

As my jaw drops, Lex comes in, touches my shoulder, and says, “You have a visitor.”

It’s Lupo, holding this humongous tray. It’s a science fair project, a topographical map in frosted pastel: Italian cookies. I take the tray; it’s like a bag of cement. Lugging it to the coffee table, I glance at Lex. True, she’s never been a big cookie fan, but tears?

Turning back to thank Lupo, I see them: Angie’s approaching the house, pushing what’s left of Zio Joe in the metal chair. Head joggling, he grunts as she struggles with his wheels on the uneven walk. Lex slips her hand in mine and I try not to join her, crying over stupid cookies.

Then I rush past Lupo and down the front steps.

“Hey, Mondrian. Glad we finally found you. Me and Pop and Loopy Chenille been hauling this travelin’ cookie show all over town.” She’s doing a decent impression of the same old Angie, even though she’s not anymore, not quite. “We just came from your house.”

“Hey. Long time no see.”

“Yeah, sorry ’bout that. My plate’s been mighty full.” She runs her hand over Mister Alberti’s buzz cut. “We’re closing up.”

“I know, I saw the For Rent sign. What’ll you do?”

She shrugs. “Maybe I’ll finally hit New York, go on some auditions.”

“That’s great.”

“I was jokin’. Jocko here might need me to stick around.”

Mister A makes this guttural noise; I realize he’s laughing.

Pretending not to notice the scar bisecting his scalp, I bend, kiss his cheek. I don’t expect the heat from his face, or the smoothness, like velvet. But mostly, I’m surprised when he lifts his left hand. The right one looks overlarge, a gag shop fake, stiff on his lap. Shaking, his fingers press my cheek, and he says, “Eev.” It’s good that Angie’s behind his chair, because she loses it as he says, “Yyy gd-boy, Eevannn.”

I catch it: deep inside his left eye, a spark of the real Zio. The right one is dull, dusty-bottle brown. Focusing on that tiny point of light, I say, “I love you, Zio Joe.
Buona Pasqua
.”

He winks.

As Angie and Lupo heft him into the Civic, I spot Gramp peeking out the picture window. The vertical blinds snap closed, and as I walk toward the front door, I hear him say, “… rather you shoot me than let me live like — ” he catches himself, with the help of Gran’s elbow, as usual.

They’re all expecting me to say something, but in that moment, every awful thing from the past thirteen months washes over me. And it’s so weird, because I don’t lose it. But it’s not like in the attic, when I couldn’t feel anything.

This time, the bad stuff seems important in a new way. Like part of the recipe: the bitter lemon that makes the coconut sweeter. I look from face to face, all of them surrounded by signs of change: boxes, bubble pack, the reverse shadows where portraits no longer hang. This house. My family. “All my dear ones” pops into my head; it’s from a Virgin Mary prayer card that used to hang on Gran’s fridge.

I struggle to take it in. To capture it. Considering my father’s too-soon, I’m beginning to recognize it was also his meant-to-be.

Lex kisses me, says, “Why are you smiling?”

I can’t answer. I’m not sure how to explain it’s partly because I know I’ll never understand, but also, because it seems I already do.

Writing seems solitary — isolated scribbling, interior musing, wee-hours key-tapping — but a finished book is a collaboration.

This novel began in my first master class at Wesleyan, Studies in Adolescent Lit, when Professor Anne Devereaux Jordan said, “Let’s see where this story goes.” Thanks also to classmate Betsy Feiner for sharing early chapters with her “friend in publishing,” Joan Slattery, who offered inspiration and guidance.

To the Easy Writers, and to Monique Fitzgerald, Bonnie Goulet, Dierdre Moutinho, Andrea Petrario, and Joe Correll, friends, and insightful readers — appreciation for enthusiastic support. Thanks to countless friends — at NVCC and elsewhere — for believing in the book, sight unseen. Writer friends, Kim Stokely, Michelle Griffis, Julia Petitfrere, Courtney Sheinmel, and Nina Nelson, were voices of reason, inspiring me, keeping me going, occasionally talking me down. My dear friend, poet and teacher Edwina Trentham, was vital. Had she not asked to read more when there wasn’t anymore, I might never have finished. Love and thanks!

Others were unwavering, especially Sister Angeline Dal Corso and Elaine Lavorgna — thanks for years of prayers and spiritual sustenance. For prayer — and technical support — thanks also to Terry Laslo.

My father said, “So get your masters,” then helped make it possible — grazie, Ralph. To my sister, Cathy Mendyka; her husband, Paul; and my dear niece, Stacey, thanks for cheering me on.

Love, joy, and gratitude to my amazing wife, Janet, who never let me doubt — your faith makes it all happen. To Ben and Jilli, the best kids ever, for patience during hours devoted to your ink-and-paper sibling.

Thanks to CT Shoreline Arts Alliance for the 2011 Tassy Walden Award, an affirmation.

Gratitude to all at Gelfman Schneider Literary Agency, especially super-agent, Victoria Marini, a fierce, funny champion of my work. Your instincts greatly improved the book. You are amazing!

To the F+W Media/Merit Press team, I’m grateful to be in such good hands. Bravo to Skye Alexander’s copyedit magic for making me seem delightfully consistent and clear. And to my editor, Jacquelyn Mitchard (still pinching myself!), thanks for faith in my writing and for sharing incredible insight and experience.

I can’t forget my cousin, Mark. Although
The Namesake
is not an attempt to tell his story, Mark’s “too-soon” definitely inspired my creation of Evan Galloway and his quest. I hope my work, in some small way, honors Mark’s life and his family.

Finally, to survivors of sexual abuse, I honor you as well and stand with you as you journey toward healing and hope.