The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  When I got back, Tony was on a bench outside. He apologized, said he’s just a stupid, jealous dork.

  I said, “Quit being such a spaz. You’re good at lots of stuff.”

  He said, “Name one thing.”

  So I told him, “You’re an awesome artist.”

  He started crying and said, “Father Fran likes you best.”

  I said that’s not true. It’s just I’ve known Father since I was a kid, but Tony started SCREAMING, “IT’S NOT FAIR! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL HIM FROM ME?”

  Before I knew it, I was shaking him, yelling TAKE IT BACK, YOU TAKE IT BACK!

  Then, this lady came out of Card Shoppe to ask if everything was okay. I jolted at the question, like I’d been asleep. Tony pulled away and said, “I better go. See you on the bus Monday.”

  When I got home, Dad said he was sick of playing secretary. I got 7 phone calls: 1 from Melody, and 5 from “that Pettafordi kid.”

  I said, “That’s only six.” And then he blew my mind.

  He said, “Right, Father Fran called. Said it was important.”

  I didn’t return any of the calls. Now it’s 3 A.M. and I feel like the living dead.

  I’m sweating, and I think my intestines just unspooled around my ankles.

  “Alexis, I can’t read anymore.”

  “You’ve got to! There are answers in here, I know it.”

  “I’m not sure I can deal with them, whatever they are.”

  “I’ll help you, Evan.”

  “Look, maybe there are answers, but I don’t need to know them. Besides, all we’ve learned is that Mr. Pettafordi had an inferiority complex. What does that have to do with my father killing himself like thirty years later?”

  “I think you owe it to him to find out.”

  “I’m done.”

  “Fine, let me take it home. I’ll do the reading and give you a full report.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “Well, then we only have one choice. We go straight to the source and ask the horse.”

  “You mean Pettafordi?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “I know. But it’s sort of liberating.”

  “What are we supposed to do, ask him why he freaked and stopped being friends with my dad? Won’t that seem odd, considering their friendship’s like a big, dark secret?”

  “No way, Evieboy. We’ll be discreet. Besides, you’re still in mourning. Personal crises are like a free pass for odd behavior.”

  “You should know.”

  “Yeah.” Lex rocks forward, studying her feet, and begins drawing tiny purple circles, like bruises, on the back of her hand.

  I reach over, ease the gel pen from her fingers.

  “I’m sorry, Lex. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean that.”

  “It’s okay. You are an idiot. But it’s true. I’m the expert on personal crises and odd behavior. Another gift from Dear Old Stepdad.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You haven’t. Really. It was a long time ago, and I’m past it. Now forget it, okay?”

  “But Lex, I — ”

  “But nothing, comrade. Back to the plan at hand: The Subtle Interrogation of Anthony J. Pettafordi. Nice ring, don’t you think? I may write a Lifetime movie about it one day.”

  “Great.”

  “So here’s the deal. We tell him in art we want to discuss college choices. We’ve got Mods 13 and 14 free. We meet in his office, ask a few questions, and before he realizes what’s happening, we’ve shined a searchlight into the past. What do you say?”

  “Uh … gee … let’s see … no.”

  “Come on! Life is short, be a sport!”

  “You know I hate it when you rhyme.”

  “Evan, Evan. Big, fat seven. Kick your butt straight up to heaven.”

  “You are so queer.”

  “But that’s why you love me.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it on one condition: I do the talking. You’re just there as a witness, got it?”

  “Whatever.”

  “Promise?”

  “Jeez, okay!”

  “Good. Repeat after me: I, Alexis Philomena Bottaro, do solemnly swear to keep my big trap shut. And to do everything in my power to keep from embarrassing my friend, Evan Gifford Galloway, who is all good and deserving of all my love.”

  “I think it’s so cool your initials spell egg.”

  “Say it, Philomena.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Say it.”

  “All right, all right! I, Alexis Philomena Bottaro, do solemnly swear to keep my big trap shut — ”

  The bell rings. As we slip past Sister Dolores, she sleepmumbles something that sounds like “rutapeppa transgoration.” Lex hovers for a moment, hoping for more. As the next monitor comes in to rouse Sister, we head out.

  In the hall, Lex says, “Cafeteria?”

  I shake my head. “Can’t. I’ve got a preliminary stop before we talk to Pettafordi.”

  “I’ll come, too.”

  “No. This is sort of a fact-finding mission; I’ll be deep undercover. It’s best I go solo.”

  Her head does a quizzical puppy tilt. “Sure you can handle it?”

  “Not really, but I’ll try. See you in psych.”

  “Roger that.” She gives me a quick salute, clicks her heels, and starts toward the cafeteria. Then, rushing back, she pulls a laminated Helen Reddy bookmark from her binder and hands it to me, grinning. “For luck.”

  As Lex retreats down the corridor, I briefly consider fleeing the building. Instead, attempting to channel the “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” singer’s bravado, I head toward Awkward Student/Teacher Conversation #1.

  “Well, Evan. This is a surprise. What brings you here?”

  I peer across the cluttered desk like a deer in the headlights. A really hungry deer. It’s lunchtime. The office smells vaguely of tuna.

  My stomach butts in. “MMMRRAAWWRRGGGLLLLRRRRR.”

  “So, what’s up?”

  “Um, just thought I’d drop in and say hi.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup.”

  We sit in silence as the bumblebee second hand makes two flights around the Winnie-the-Pooh wall clock.

  Finally, “Ahem. Okay then. Good to see you. If that’s all, I have papers to grade. My freshmen are grappling with haiku.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Scooping my books from the floor, I turn to leave. It was a bad idea coming here. I’m a lousy sleuth. I should be in the caf right now. The meatball grinders aren’t half bad.

  “Evan?”

  I turn back. Behind the desk hangs my illustration, the weeping children of the sea lion king.

  Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs says, “Care to try again?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Why are you really here, Evan?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Well Shirl’, I’m on a quest. Lex and I have a date with Mr. Pettafordi, and things are bound to get strange. So I figured I’d screw my courage to the sticking-place, and come here first. Guess you’d call this a reconnaissance mission. I’m hoping you’ll provide some ammo for my visit with the P Man. So, what can you tell me about Evan the First?”

  That’s just my subtext. What I really say, addressing the coffee stain between my sneakers, is, “I, um, guess I want to talk.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve come to me. What is it?”

  “MMMRRAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWRRGGGLLLLRRRRR.”

  “So you said.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs.”

  “Let’s make a deal. Call me Shirley, our secret. And how about sharing my sandwich? Maybe then I’ll get to hear more from you and less from your surly abdomen.”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  She opens her desk drawer and hoists out the Moby Dick of tuna sandwiches. Ripping the monstrosity in two, she plops a drippy mound in front of me. She chomps into her hunk, swipes her chin wit
h her hand, and says, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m not sure where to start.” I pop a celery cube into my mouth.

  “Well, if you were crafting a story, I’d advise you to begin with a hook — a device to plunge your reader into the action. Make sense?”

  “I guess. You mean something like … I’ve been reading my father’s old journal, and he mentioned you, so I hoped you might have some idea why he hung himself. Is that what you mean by a hook? Shirley?” Keeping my eyes on her, I scoop a glob of tuna into my mouth.

  She pauses midbite. “Holy moley! Now that’s a hook!”

  Chewing, I track the bumblebee. It makes two-and-a-half spins around Pooh’s dopey face before Mrs. S-B-C finally says, “I’m sorry, Evan. You’ve thrown me for a bit of a loop.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What is it you want to know?”

  “I’m not sure. What was my dad like? Did he seem happy? Who were his friends? Did he ever confide in you? Mostly, I want to know why.”

  “Oh, Evan. I can’t offer you why. You must realize his motive is unknowable.”

  “I won’t accept that.”

  “I’m afraid you may have to.”

  This isn’t working. I stand and push my tuna pile toward her. “Sorry to waste your time. I know you’ve got lots to do. Thanks for lunch.”

  “Evan, wait.”

  At the door I feel her hand on my shoulder.

  “Come back, sit down. I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “I don’t expect more than that.”

  She sighs. “Your father was a character, Evan. Don’t take this the wrong way, but he could be a royal pain in the ass.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Still, he was one of my best — and favorite — students. That seems to run in your family. Golly, I can’t believe it was all those years ago.”

  “He said in his journal he really liked you, too. But I guess you knew that.”

  “Well, I never read his journal, but we had a decent relationship, once he got over the notion that ‘writing is for homos.’ He announced that on day one. Came in with a typical jock attitude, like it was a big waste of time. But I got him to really tap into his creativity. The well was deep. His writing ended up being very rich, very emotive.”

  “I wish I could read it.”

  “You can. The school library has every issue of The Quill & Barb.”

  “My dad wrote for Sebastian’s literary journal?”

  “Believe me, it took major arm-twisting, but I convinced him to submit. I told him his grade depended on it. You’ll find his poetry and some wonderful illustrations; however, he insisted on anonymity.”

  “Anonymity?”

  “He said he ‘couldn’t risk the team finding out.’ ”

  She shakes her head. Finger-tapping her tape dispenser, she seems to be searching.

  “What is it?”

  “Pen names. I was remembering some pseudonyms he suggested. Now, which did he settle on? Van something? Ivan? Wait, I. Von. That’s it! His work is credited to I. Von Tanay.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Wish I were.”

  “Dad always was the master of stupid wordplay.”

  “Yes, and very into limerick for a while there. He and his friend Tony were quite the pair, sort of a literary Abbott and Costello.”

  “Tony Pettafordi?”

  A tiny vein begins to pulse, twitching the pouch below her left eye. “Why, yes … I didn’t realize you knew about their friendship.”

  “Well, I only recently found out about Mister P. In Dad’s journal. Seems like they went through something.”

  “Oh. I see.” She manages a smile, but the skin below her eye beats like the throat of a spring peeper. “You haven’t spoken to Mr. Pettafordi about this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, that’s probably for the best. It was a long time ago.”

  “Actually, I plan to see him this afternoon. That’s why I came. I thought you could tell me about their friendship, and what split them up. And why no one ever mentioned it to me.”

  There’s an atmospheric change in the room. I half-expect to see my own breath. Mrs. S-B-C’s voice takes on an icy trill.

  “I’m afraid that’s not my place. And you might reconsider speaking with Mr. Pettafordi. As I said, it was long ago; they were kids. I think you’d only succeed in resurrecting painful memories. Surely, that’s not your goal.”

  Now it’s my turn to fake a smile. “Shirley, it’s not.”

  “Well, then what do you hope to accomplish, Evan?”

  “To learn the truth. I want to know his suicide wasn’t about me. Or if it was, I need to know that too.” I grab my stuff and head for the door.

  Behind me, Mrs. S-B-C shouts, “Evan! There are worse things than not knowing!”

  Feb. 22, 1976 (Sunday night)

  Journal —

  What the hell’s going on? Had a real strange conversation with Father Fran after Mass. He said he called yesterday to discuss “my relationship with Anthony.” He acted like Tony and I are a couple!

  Plus, he knew way too much about Tony flipping out. Obviously, they talked. I think Tony’s jealous because Father and I’ve been friends for so long. Man! That’s it for now. — E.

  Dad’s poetry may have been “rich and emotive,” but this journal’s shaping up to be a page-turner. Despite her warning — “There are worse things than not knowing!” — my meeting with Shirl was pretty encouraging. It’s clear I’m onto something. I can’t wait to see Lex in class.

  It’s about ten minutes ’til psych, so I’ve ducked into the boys’ room to read. It’s as good as the library for quiet study — aside from the smell. Time for one more entry.

  February 24, 1976, 2:14 A.M.

  Holy shit! Just had the most insane dream.

  No chance I’m getting back to sleep. Oh, man.

  It started out amazing. Me and Melody hot and heavy in the gym. She undressed as I spread my jacket on the floor. Kneeling, she giggled, unzipping my fly. I close my eyes, waiting.

  But the laugh gets deeper, scary. She’s talking, but it’s not her voice. It’s Tony’s — praying, “Oh my God, I am heartily sorry … ” Then I woke up — THANK GOD! That was psycho!

  I’ll say. I’m shaking. A memory leaks in: the cellar, a huge daddy longlegs drops from the rafters, skitters down my neck. I flinch, nearly drop the journal. Suddenly I don’t want to read anymore. But I can’t stop. I turn the page.

  Feb. 25, 1976

  Happened again — THE DREAM. Just snapped awake (1:43) drenched with sweat. It was even worse. Instead of Melody, Tony’s mouth on me. I try pushing him off. But he’s too strong. I clamp my eyes, feel myself shrink, freeze.

  GOD! The whole sick dream’s playing in my head like some warped movie. I can almost feel Tony’s body on mine, pushing me down.

  The worst part is it’s familiar, almost like we — That’s crazy! SHIT! Dad just banged on the wall, yelling, “Lights out!” If he knew what I was writing —

  “Oh God. Oh please Dad, no.”

  I’m glad I’m in a stall, because suddenly what little tuna I ate makes a return trip. Dropping to my knees just in time, I spray chow into the bowl. I can’t resist examining the murky whirl; I’m a vomit rubbernecker. Tuna bits spin amidst the remains of this morning’s cereal bar. That’s the last time I mix blueberry and albacore.

  Contemplating my former stomach contents helps distract me. But then those words — “Tony’s body on mine” — come back, and I heave again. Nothing comes up this time. I flush, resting my forehead on the cool porcelain seat — screw germs! — ’til I’m steady enough to stand.

  Exiting the stall, I go straight to the wastebasket and jam the journal in. Shirl was right; some things are better left buried. I unreel a mile of paper towel, wad it, shove it on top.

  Just then, Randy Spiotti and crew strut in, cigarettes ready. I find it odd that the track team subsists mai
nly on beer and carcinogens, but decide not to share that observational nugget.

  Pretending to analyze the faded floor tiles, I take a tentative step toward the exit. Despite my valiant stab at invisibility, Randy homes in on me like a geek-seeking missile.

  “Hey, Girl-O-Way! What’re you doing hangin’ by the urinals? Looking for a front row seat at the Pecker Parade?”

  “Good one, Spiotti!” Tyler Wattrous back slaps Randy; the others erupt in baboon hoots.

  “Yeah, good one,” I say, raising my fist for the knuckle-bump that will not come. Quickly abandoning any idea of winning them over, I decide to run for it.

  Did I mention they’re the track team? Before my neurotransmitters can fire, they hoist me airborne.

  With a gleeful snarl, Randy says, “Flush him.”

  Though we’ve just been fairly intimate, I’m not quite ready to become one with the bowl. Pride gone, I screech like a little girl.

  As they carry me into the stall, the bathroom door slams open. A whistle screams.

  “SPIOTTI!” Coach Novack swears a blue streak and, like an airplane tray-table, I’m returned to an upright position.

  “You okay, Galloway?” He cuffs my shoulder with a massive paw.

  “I guess so, sir. Thanks.”

  “Well, no harm done. No need to report. You know these guys, always horsing around.”

  Their thug-to-choirboy transformation complete, the guys are all smiles.

  “Sorry, Evan. We were just kiddin’.” Randy offers his hand. I shake; he squeezes. Just hard enough to hurt.

  I get to Father B’s class ten minutes late and hand him a pass from Novack. As I slide into my seat next to Alexis, she shoots me a “what happened?” look.

  Inside the cover of my notebook, I write: S-H-I-T.

  She whispers, “I can see that.”

  Father Brendan says, “Miss Bottaro, if you and Mister Galloway would excuse the rest of us, we’d like to get down to business.”

  “Sorry, Father.”

  “Very well then, today we continue with Chapter 14. Is anyone confused over what you’ve read thus far?”

  Stifling a nervous laugh, I think, If you only knew, Father. If you only knew.