The Namesake (9 page)

So I came to the Learning Resource Center to look for Dad’s poems while Lex finishes choir practice. Then we’re meeting Pettafordi — unless I can talk her out of it.

Mrs. Koothrappally looks up from her monitor and smiles. Some kids laugh at her — make fun of her traditional Indian clothing, complain about the faint curry scent lingering in the stacks. They even joke about her bindi — they call her “Dot.”

Head joggling slightly, she says, “I hope you found what you were looking for, Evan.”

“Me too. Thanks.”

I feel a bit guilty lying. I told her I’m using
The Quill & Barb
as a source for my soc report on “changing trends in teenage expression.” She was only too happy to help. I expected Mrs. Koothrappally to give me a link on the school database; instead, she pointed me to a section with actual past issues. I was amazed to see an entire shelf of Sebastian’s student literary magazine, stretching back nearly forty years. That’s a lot of bad poetry. Dad’s stuff should be in the 1976 issue.

The cover features a pen-and-ink illustration, hand gripping quill. Cliché image/decent drawing. Inside it says
Cover illustration by I. Von Tanay
.

“Oh brother.” It’s Dad, all right.

Thumbing to the table of contents, I see the works are divided by topic — First section: Growing Pains; Second: Tears and Laughter; Third: A Remembrance; and Fourth: Life’s Lessons.

Scanning the list, I wish I could travel back to 1976 with a boatload of Zoloft, because these sound like some majorly dejected high schoolers. Sample titles: “Lying Smiles,” “Elegy for Mittens,” “Heart/Burnt” — Yikes! Where are the limericks?

Great, Dad’s got three poems listed. First up, page 12: “Mother.” Should be good.

Wow, one for the Mom’s Day card! Lucky it was printed under a fake name. I picture Gran at her Ladies’ Guild meeting. “Wanda, listen, my Evan wrote the most beautiful haiku!”

Next up: “Tears and Laughter.” Let’s see, he’s on page 23.

Love the Van Gogh connection. It’s sort of surprising Dad never lopped an ear off — I mean, he could’ve made due with
one
of those suckers. I glance at the clock; Lex should be getting out of choir about now. Flipping to section four, I spot his final piece, a sonnet.

Well, it certainly beats my macaroni poem, but — Yish! — what a downer. Dad in a nutshell. I mean, you’re the star athlete, get over the “inner gloom,” pal.

Okay, obviously “getting over it” was something he wasn’t able to do. Still, it feels like I came up empty; I thought his poetry would be a little more revealing. But it’s not a total waste. Any window into his head’s a good thing, right?

I feed dimes to the copier; it spits out a pile of Dad’s poems.

“I take it your search was fruitful?” Mrs. K’s chin dip accentuates her question.

Just then, Lex sidles up, grinning. “Reporting for duty, Captain Hook.”

I thank Mrs. Koothrappally for her help, and we head to Pettafordi’s office, Lex improvising a sea shanty, apparently to calm my nerves. It’s not working. I’m tempted to ditch her, but the truth is, I really don’t want to do this alone.

We all just sat there speechless. For Lex and me it was a combo-silence: aweticipation. His nasal display was so unexpected — sort of impressive, really. He scored high for distance. And when you witness something like that, sudden, startling, you almost can’t help but yearn for more.

For Mister Pettafordi, the silence was simpler. The guy was mortified. I mean, one minute he’s describing sunrise at the Acropolis, “the heady challenge in capturing life’s fierce vermilion pulse on canvas.” The next, Celestial Seasonings is coursing through his sinus cavity and — SPLASH! — he’s decorating his desk blotter. Talk about life’s fierce pulse!

Of course, in between Mt. Olympus and the schnoz-flume was Lex’s question. I’d chalk it up to cause and effect.

Hours later at the mall, I replay the moment in my mind. I’m at Full O’ Beans, Level 3, by the movies, at one of those leg-danglingly tall, Formica-top tables. Someone’s carved “Life blowz!” into the turquoise laminate, along with a crude rendering of a male sex organ. While the guy obviously never took human anatomy (or spelling), I have to agree with the sentiment.

It’s whirling snow outside, like in one of those Christmas globes. I stare out the huge window overlooking the lot and the highway beyond. People pick through mounting white to meringued cars. One old lady slips off the curb. Sprawling, she lies there, like she’s gearing up for the perfect snow angel, ’til mall security hoists her up, brushes her off, sends her on her way.

My stomach scowls; I won’t eat tonight. I’ve sucked down three Mochakoola Smoothies. Sadly, the resultant brain-freeze, full bladder, and caffeine hum still can’t quite erase the image of Raspberry Ripper spurting from Pettafordi’s snout.

It was a prime example of Lex’s complete disregard for discretion. I suppose I expected it. Maybe that’s even why I let her tag along. The question needed asking, and I doubt I could’ve done it. As he regaled us with his rendering of Grecian sunup, Lex fidgeted. When Mister P paused to sip, she lobbed the big one.

“Mister Pettafordi, were you and Evan’s dad lovers?”

It’s funny. In movies these things happen slow-mo, but not this time. The question, the tea-spray, the choking: rapid-fire. Ultimately successful struggling for air, Mister P next fought for composure. Dabbing the desktop, he seemed to ponder Lex’s question. Finally, he tried a shameless diversion. “So. I was going to fill you in on today’s assignment.”

It could’ve worked. We might’ve scored a magic ticket back, hopped on the Let’s-Pretend-This-Never-Happened Express. Alexis, true to form, was not about to board that train.

“The reason I ask — and believe me, I’m not about to judge you for a little teen same-sexploration — is that Evan has a right to know.”

He just stared. But Lex is nothing if not persistent. She shifted in her seat, the vinyl making a meek farting noise. Ordinarily, we might’ve laughed. Nobody was laughing now.

“So … is it, Mister Pettafordi? True, I mean.”

This time his reaction was more subtle, or drier anyway. His plum hue the only outward sign of unease, Mister Pettafordi’s eyes narrowed. He studied Lex with a mix of hurt and disgust. Then with a calm, Clint Eastwood sneer, he said, “You’d better go now.”

Up ’til this point I’d been fairly quiet, satisfied to surf the crest of Lex’s manic drive. But now, I found my voice.

“Sir, I really do need answers.”

The planes in his face seemed to shift as his eyes — they’d never looked so black — tore through me. He was suddenly all sharp angles, stabbing brows, but his tone remained reasonable as he said, “Well, then, you’ll have to ask your father. Oh, but that’s not going to work, is it?”

It was like getting the wind knocked out of me in fifth grade. I tried to speak, couldn’t.

“You can’t treat him like that, you creep!”

“Miss Bottaro, I suggest you go.”

Alexis stood. For a second, I thought she’d do the sane thing and abandon ship. Instead, she sang. Yes, sang, a tuneful plea to “stop hurting each other.”

Looking back, Lex might agree invoking the Carpenters was perhaps not the wisest choice, but at the time, I guess it seemed appropriate. Regrettably, her performance did nothing to improve Pettafordi’s mood. This twitch lifted the corner of his lip and one plump tear hustled toward the tea stain on his desk. Then, what can best be described as a bellow shook the office.

“GET OUT, YOU CRAZY LITTLE BITCH!”

It was maybe not his finest hour as an educator. But who could blame him? Lex does have a way of pushing buttons.

“Well, okay then. I should probably get going.” She stood and, turning toward me, mouthed, “He’s all yours.”

We watched her leave, so cool and conversational, as if we’d been debating the merits of matte versus gloss fixative. I totally envied her. I, on the other hand, seriously thought I might’ve soiled myself.

“Listen, Mister Pettafordi. I’m sorry. I — ”

“No, Evan. You listen. I owe you and your friend an apology. My language was inexcusable. It’s just … this is all very painful.”

“Forget it, sir. You don’t have to say anymore.”

“But I do, Evan. Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs warned me you’d been asking questions, but I never quite expected this. And although Miss Bottaro’s brazenness was … shall we say, disconcerting, she was correct on one count. You do have a right to know.”

I was tempted to clap hands to ears and run screaming from the room. Could I stand to have the sordid details spilled? I mean, Mister Pettafordi can really paint a picture.

My mind ricocheted. I saw them draped in togas, Mister P feeding my dad olives beneath the Athenian sun. Then they were at the Burger Shack, sitting on the same side of the booth, Pettafordi wearing Dad’s letter jacket. Finally, I pictured them rolling naked in the wave pool at Sesame Place. I have no idea where that one came from.

“Evan, are you listening?”

“Uh … yeah … sure.”

“As I was saying, your father and I were best friends, nothing more, though you and Lex are not the first to assume otherwise. His teammates gave him a tough time about me, I’m afraid.”

“But you were just friends.”

“Yes. For a while, he was the closest friend I had. Hell, he was my only friend. Evan, your father was probably the most important person in my life. I did love him, but I was never
in love with him
.”

Luckily I have more self-control than Lex, because at that moment I felt like bursting into song myself. Anyone for a verse of “The Halleluiah Chorus”? Then it struck me.

“Mister P, if you guys were so close, what went wrong?”

“We just grew apart, Evan. Not so unusual.”

But his lip twitch said otherwise.

“I don’t believe that, Mister P. If you’d just drifted, or whatever, your friendship wouldn’t be such a secret.”

“I don’t follow your meaning.”

“My father never mentioned being friends with you. Not once. And you never brought it up either. Why?”

He stood and walked to the window, gazing through the venetians.

“There was no need for you to know.”

“Well there is now. Please, Mister Pettafordi, tell me the truth.”

He turned toward me, his face like a reluctant skydiver’s.

“You want the truth? Well, the truth is, I’ve never really been sure what happened. We were pretty inseparable, your dad and I. Being his friend was like winning the lottery.”

“Meaning?”

“He made people feel special, but the fact is he was the special one. He had it all: perfect grades, perfect girl, trophies. And it all seemed effortless.”

He stopped, lifted the mug, reconsidered. I think the Ripper had lost its allure.

“You’d almost say he had too many gifts, Evan. Yet there was something else, like a dank corner he’d never let me into. I’m not sure even he knew what was in that corner, but it seemed to drag on him.”

“In what way?”

“We talked for hours. And he’d always end up saying the same things: He never really felt worthy, and the good people saw in him was all a lie. I think I’m the only one he told.”

“What was it? What made him feel that way?”

“I wish I knew.”

“You must have some idea.”

“Well, I had theories, but he never gave me the chance to find out. I think I finally got too close, and he just pulled away.”

“Was this when you had art class together?”

The second the words left my mouth, I knew I’d blown it. I could almost see them thud onto the desk. I wanted to scoop them up and cram them back into my big, dumb face.

But it was too late. Mister P looked like he’d guzzled a gallon of wasabi punch. The lip twitch was joined by an assortment of tics: nostril flare, finger drumming, and the ever-popular, free-flowing flop sweat. I’d hit a nerve.

Aiming for casual, he asked, “How’d you know about that, Evan?”

A lot rode on my response. Praying he wouldn’t notice my own stress indicator, rapid foot jiggle, I lied, “Uh … I … it must’ve been something Mrs. S-B-C mentioned.”

Good answer. He nodded, satisfied. With a slow brow mop, he said, “Oh. Okay. It’s just strange, you bringing that up. Father Fran’s class was one of the last things we ever spoke about. I’m afraid I said some rather unkind words.”

He stared into the middle distance, the way a spooked dog will fix on a vacant spot, almost unaware of me.

Like a therapist coaxing his patient, I said, “Why don’t you tell me?”

“It’s foolish, but he was good at so many things. I guess I wanted art to be all mine.”

“So what happened?”

“I’ll be damned if he wasn’t a better artist as well. This is pointless. It was so long ago.”

“But it destroyed your friendship. It must’ve been important.”

“It certainly seemed important then. Now it just seems petty. I was used to being the most talented one in Father Fran’s class. I lived for his attention. Then your father usurped my status as teacher’s pet. And I was jealous.”

“Yes?”

“First, I gave him the silent treatment, avoided him, that sort of thing. He kept asking what was wrong. I wanted him to suffer, I guess. He finally forced me to talk … and … I said some things … I shouldn’t have. I just went too far. It’s funny because you always think a real friendship can weather any storm, but human relationships can be as flimsy as paper boats in a tsunami.”

I waited for him to continue, but he just sat there as if someone pressed Pause.

“So that’s it? One fight and your friendship was over? What did you say to him?”

“Nothing earth-shattering, just the sort of thing you say when you want to hurt someone. I’m afraid, Evan, I’ve always been rather too good at that.”

Leaning back in his chair, he shut his eyes. As minutes crawled by, I considered gambling on narcolepsy, hightailing it. With luck, he’d think he dreamt this whole thing. Then his lids rose; he’d been gathering strength for the rest.

“I told him it was pathetic, how he needed everyone to love him best. He already had a girlfriend. Did he need to steal Father Fran, too?”

“What did you mean, ‘steal Father Fran’?”

“I don’t know.” The lip twitch was back. “I just lashed out, tried to knock him down a peg. But I was too successful at hurting him. His reaction was fairly strong.”

Fairly strong, my left nut! My father’d nearly strangled him!

“I was ashamed. I practically ran to church to confess. Father Fran actually sounded angry. He said I should apologize immediately, that my jealousy was ungodly and I should think about my intentions toward your father.”

“Sounds like a take-no-prisoners confessional style.”

“Yes. Father Fran said one other thing I’ve never forgotten: ‘He has a special grace you mustn’t impede.’ He said that was why he and Evan were especially close — he was your father’s spiritual advisor.”

“Did you talk about any of this with my dad?”

“I tried. I called his house so often that afternoon I thought your grandfather would throttle me. Your father never returned my calls. The following week, when I approached him, he wouldn’t listen. And he seemed … grayed down, emotionally monochromatic. When I tried to apologize, he said, ‘No sweat.’ But everything was different.”

“Different how?”

“He began avoiding me for starters. Clearly he didn’t want to deal with me. I followed him to his locker Thursday and asked if he wanted to come over that weekend. He said he couldn’t, he was going on encounter. That was really odd. He’d always scoffed at going. But I thought it might be my chance to resolve things. I decided to make him a
palanca
.”

“That’s like a ‘Good luck on retreat’ kind of thing, isn’t it?”

“Oh no. It goes deeper than that. A palanca’s a pledge, a promise to pray or even fast for the encounter candidate. I spent that entire night working on the letter. It was exceptional. I laid my feelings bare, explained how remorseful I was. I told your father how much he meant to me. That I knew we’d work things out.”

“Did he accept your apology?”

He scraped with his fingernail, scribing the damp blotter, breath rasping like paper. “I don’t know what happened on encounter, but it changed him. After, he was like a pod person from that movie.”