The Namesake (4 page)

I head to the library instead, always a refuge for me. When I was nine, I ran away from home — straight to the nonfiction stacks. Miss Gillenhall, the Jurassic librarian, ratted me out when she spotted my Official Spiderman bedroll under one of the reading tables. I won’t attempt a sleepover this time; I only want to lose myself for a while. Besides, Old Gilly retired last year, so there’s no danger of anyone calling my mother.

I push through double doors into the familiar: that too-dry, airless, winter feeling, the unnatural quiet. Comforting. I stare at the huge clock above the reference desk. When I was little, it seemed big as the moon: 1:20. Feet shooshing across faded carpet — a static-shock in the making — I hook a left toward Genealogy and Local History; you can count on it being empty back there. I sit in a frayed armchair by the radiator and shiver; my feet are size eleven Popsicles. Funeral wingtips aren’t exactly the footwear of choice for a midwinter hike.

I suppose I could get some research done for my soc paper. From my seat, I scan shelves. Random titles catch my eye:
American Pots of Gold: Irish of New England
;
Mill Town Murder
, by Alice Clapper;
Local Heroes, Myths & Mores
. Does anybody read this crap? I text Alexis, ask her to meet me here after school.

Flipping through a pictorial town history, I study photos of the Old City Hall fire, the flood of ’55. One chapter, on town architecture, has a section on the library. There’s a photo of the then mayor Swanson presiding over the groundbreaking. In another, some tycoon presents a giant check to the library board. On the extreme right, an impossibly young (and hot, in an Andrews Sister way) Miss June Gillenhall. It’s wild to see her pre-old, to know she’s got a first name.

Turning the page, I’m smacked by this surge of unreality. There’s a black-and-white shot of a kid my age, in this very chair. I’m sure it’s him: Dad. Then I read the caption:
A young patron — July, 1962
. Impossible. My father would’ve been in diapers when it was taken.

Still, I search the image for some clue to the guy’s identity. Sagging in his exact position, one leg over the chair arm, I try shifting into his head. What was he doing in the library: schoolwork, or reading for fun? Did he know his picture was being taken? Was he the bastard son — or teen lover — of Miss Gillenhall? And where is he now? I craft a scenario to answer each question. Somehow, it’s easier contemplating his situation than dealing with my own. Closing my eyes, I slip into this guy’s life, this happy kid who undoubtedly still had a father.

A hand touches my shoulder; a soft voice calls, “Evan, wake up.”

“June?” Young Miss Gillenhall leans over, her lips brushing my cheek. I pucker, sigh.

“Eeeuuww! Evan, wake up!” A sharp poke to my ribs; it’s Alexis.

“What — hey!” I shake my head. “Back off!”

“Sorry to disturb your siesta, Beautiful Dreamer, but you seemed close to a moan. Figured I’d save us some embarrassment. You, the humiliation of a wet dream in the library. And me, the utter skeeve of not only witnessing it but having to admit I know you.”

“You really are charming. Does it come naturally?” I yawn.

“It’s a gift. So, who’s June?”

“You don’t even want to know.”

“Okay, Romeo, I’ll take your word.”

Beyond the moon-clock, the real thing glows in the January sky. It’s 6:20. I’ve been asleep for at least four hours! I’m stiff. And starving.

“Want food?”

“Your treat?”

“Sure, I’ll pay. But honestly, Lex, it’s a treat just being with you.”

We do that fake puking thing like always, and she punches my shoulder. I think, and not for the first time,
I’ve really got to kiss this girl one day
. Instead, I shove her; then we tango through double doors into the ridiculously chilly night.

Beneath the golden arches, Lex takes my hand. “Hey, you had that Mass and Munch thing today, didn’t you? How’d it go?”

I stroke the fluff of her pink mitten. “Well, I’ll tell you … not half bad.” And we walk, arm in arm, into the emporium of American shit food.

Lex revs her Happy Meal toy, biting McNuggets into animal shapes. I snarf my Extra Value Meal and relate, in excruciating detail, the events of the day. We actually laugh. It’s odd how grief, shared with a friend over fries and shakes, seems less overwhelming.

For as long as I can remember, Dad and I had this tradition. Because our birthdays were only two days apart, we’d split the difference and spend the in-between day together, just us. Time with my father was a novelty; he was always either at work or otherwise involved. But January 21st was different: our one day.

When I was little, this meant the night before was filled with sweet anticipation. I’d lie awake obsessing about the day to come. Would it be museum or movie? Hockey game or tobogganing? On F/S Day, Dad was King Spontaneous.

When I was six we took a train into New York City, spent the day exploring Chinatown. I remember freaking over heads-still-on dead chickens hanging in store windows. Dad said, “Don’t be a baby; they’re the same as the ones at the IGA.” But IGA chickens almost never stare back.

One time, I woke with Dad by my bed, holding a picnic basket and volleyball. He said, “Let’s grab some summer in the dead of winter! We’re hitting the beach!”

In the car, he played this tape he’d made: ’80s Beach Tunes, featuring “Walk Like an Egyptian” and other annoyingly peppy retro hits. Made for a long ride, but it was kind of fun hearing Dad attempt harmony.

Spreading our blanket on frozen sand, we anchored the edges with driftwood, ate potato salad, and shared cocoa from this huge metal thermos. January gusts extinguished our hibachi, so we had “just the fixin’s” sandwiches: pickles, cheese, and ketchup on hamburger buns, skimming frozen patties across the surf like stones.

Fierce waves churned up incredible offerings, a carpet of splintered shells: mussel, clam, scallop, and oyster glistened with foam like the remains of an Alberti’s white-sauce special. I gathered the best pearlescent shards in a plastic container while Dad kicked the volleyball repeatedly into the wind. In a seaweed tangle, I discovered a perfect, tiny sea star. I still have it, the memento of a flawless day, on a shelf in my room.

Along with cool adventures, Father/Son Day had an interesting feature. “The Question Session” was like an annual, limited-time offer. Dad and I could each ask a question — nothing off-limits — and we were sworn to total honesty. The Session generally commenced as we finished lunch.

Though I’m not totally sure how it began, I vaguely recall asking if Bloop still loved me, even though I’d flushed him. I was about five, so I’m fuzzy on his response. But it was classic Dad, turning a child’s rumination on a dead goldfish into some screwy, yearly tradition. Never comfortable answering my questions on a daily basis, he apparently resolved to limit meaningful interaction to a once-yearly event. Sharing thoughts and feelings became strictly a January 21st phenomenon, like reflection was a seasonal thing. I mean, there was never a July when he said, “Come back in six months. We’ll talk then.” Not quite. His aversion tactics were subtler; typically, he’d joke his way out of anything significant until the magic day. So Father/Son Day was about a lot more than the activities.

As a kid, I was less aware of what was happening. I mainly grooved on the festivities. And the Session was cool, liberating to have this passkey to adult wisdom. Sure, most of my early questions were typical “Where do babies come from?” stuff. Or, “Why do gerbils have to die?” That was big. He answered succinctly, yet fully, making the most of his yearly chance to shine.

His question for me was usually a variation on a single theme: “Are you happy, Evan?”

My response varied, based on my age and the day’s activity. If the events were sports-related, my enthusiasm level was inevitably low.

Age five, Disney on Ice: “That was good, Daddy! Can I have a puppy?”

“No puppies.”

Age seven, Celtics game: “Sure, Dad. But can we rent movies when we get home?”

Age eight, Roger Williams Zoo: “Wait ’til I tell Lex I held a tree boa! See how good I am with animals? Maybe now we can get a dog.”

“I’ve told you, Evan. We are
never
getting a dog!”

As I got older, I began to resent the whole forced-interaction concept. And I gave up on a dog, because he’d made it pretty clear he hated them.

Age twelve, Boston Aquarium: “Happy? You and Mom fight constantly. It’s like you don’t even care I’m right down the hall. Newsflash: I can hear! And I’ve been to this dumb aquarium ten times.”

My questions for him grew more combative as I tired of the arrangement. I’d ask stuff like, “Are you sorry you married Mom?” and “Did you ever wish you had different parents?”

His answers were deliberate and carefully worded: “I love your mother.” (A nonanswer.) And, “It’s natural to have issues with one’s parents.” (A vague generalization.)

On our last F/S Day, I let him have it. I figured turnabout was fair play, so I asked, “Are you happy, Dad?”

As always, he was succinct and thorough. He said, “No.”

Last January, we celebrated his birthday at Gran’s. Mom had the flu and didn’t come. On the way home, he started to talk about his plans for the next day. I stopped him.

“I can’t do it this year. School’s crazy; I have exams. And Mom’s sick. Besides, don’t you think I’m getting a little old for F/S Day? I’ll be fourteen, not four.”

He didn’t answer. But next morning when I got up, his car was gone.

That February, he moved in with Gran and Gramp, “for a while.” We never mentioned Father/Son Day again, made no attempt to reschedule. I guess the idea had run its course.

It’s ironic. Now that he’s gone, I really regret missing that last installment of the Question Session. I also have to wonder about his plans for our outing. Maybe we’d have scouted lynching locales, who knows? Now that he really can’t answer, I have some excellent questions for him. Basically, they all begin and end with “Why?”

Dad’s footlocker’s been in the back of my closet since last week. I’ve thought about opening it, pretty much nonstop, since then. And I’ve kept it hidden from Mom. The only person I told about it is Alexis. She offered to come over and open it with me, but I think I need to do this alone.

I’m not sure why I’ve waited so long to look inside; maybe I’m afraid to surrender expectation. Because what if the contents don’t measure up? I mean, I doubt there’ll be a winning Lotto ticket or something outrageous, like a severed head or a jar of eyeballs.

If this were a TV show, there’d be a video. Sitting on Gran’s daybed, with an audience of dollies, my father would address the camera. In a teary voice, he’d say he loves me, expressing — in tight close-up — deep sorrow for what he’s about to do. With a sort of desperate nobility, he’d explain “it’s the only way.” His choice would make tragic sense, somehow. Then he’d walk out of frame and the screen would go all static-y. Very dramatic, very cinema verité.

Unfortunately, we’re not on TV. Crap, who am I kidding? It’s probably just full of old notebooks. Gran said it was stuff from his Sebastian days. Please, don’t let it be crammed with clippings of his field glories: “Galloway Leads Archers to 3rd Straight Win” or “Galloway Goes All the Way.” I mean, it’s great Dad was a sports legend. But where’d it get him?

What if it’s filled with pornos? That’d be interesting. And informative since I’ve never owned one. Freshman year, Randy Spiotti brought a
Penthouse
to Christian Morality. Father B was not amused. When he got caught, Randy claimed the magazine was mine, like Father would buy that. Randy scored two months’ detention. Plus, he had to do a twenty-page paper on the evils of porn — with annotated bibliography. Lex nearly wet herself; we both hate Randy.

Jeez, what could be in there? Drugs? No, condoms! Drug-filled condoms? Cigarettes? Whiskey? Wild, wild women? Okay, it’s probably just notebooks.

I’m losing it. With this vivid an imagination a person could go nuts speculating. Not to mention, Mom’s bound to spot the trunk lurking in my closet. That’s another reason it’s time. Plus, it’s still Father/Son Day. Okay, F/S Night, 11:54
P.M.
to be exact. Since Dad isn’t here for me to question, I’ll take what I can get.

I flip on my lava lamp, a Christmas gift from Aunt Reg. Padding silently toward the closet, I remember lying in the dark, terrified of monsters behind that door. Opening it, I lift and swing with exaggerated slowness, to minimize hinge-squeak. I’ve been clutching the key for an hour; its outline’s imprinted on my moist palm.

Sliding the locker out, heart racing, I squint to insert the key. For a queasy moment, it refuses to fit the brass lock face. Gran’s given me the wrong one. This probably opens some forgotten padlock in Gramp’s workroom. Piss! I panic. Forcing the key in, I rattle it violently, like a teenaged Marley’s Ghost. The lock plate drops down with an unbelievably loud clank.

“Evan?” Mom calls groggily from the room down the hall.

“Yeah, Mom. Just catching up on some reading. Sorry to wake you. Night!” I chirp too fast, too cheery. She’ll be in here pronto, maternal radar full tilt.

“Okay, hon. Jus’ not too late. Love you.” She trails into la-la land.

“Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, glad for her new nightly tradition: a glass of wine and a Tylenol PM.

I drag my treasure chest to the center of the room and sit, Indian-style, on the braided rug. Carefully unhooking latches, I lift the lid. A pale scent of basement and memory teases my nostrils. Hunkered over the open trunk — eyes shut — I prolong the final rush of anticipation. This is going to be big; I can feel it. I look inside.