The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  “We can’t go through with this.”

  Father B’s class was a pressure cooker. Now we’re headed to art. I’m not looking forward to the creative process. How can I face Pettafordi after what I read?

  “Oh, Evan. Don’t go all limp noodle. You know what they say, ‘Cold feet sink ships.’ ”

  “Loose lips.”

  “Huh?”

  “Loose lips. Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Right. I knew it sounded funny. What is it they say about cold feet? Cold feet, warm heart? No, that’s not right either.” The cliché soliloquy carries her halfway down the staircase.

  “Alexis!”

  Noticing me in a heap on the top step, she takes the stairs three at a time and sits next to me, despite the crush of students trying to pass.

  “What is it? Are you okay?”

  “I can’t talk about it, Lex. I’m just … we’re not meeting Pettafordi. I don’t want to know anymore. It doesn’t matter.”

  “What happened? What’d you find out?”

  “Move it, Shit Stains!” A group of senior girls mounts the stairs. They’ve no intention of walking around us.

  I bolt up the hall, Alexis following. Shaking her off, I bury my face against a row of lockers. Lex knows not to say anything, just embraces me. We stand like that ’til I catch my breath. The hall’s full of gawkers, but I don’t care.

  Finally she says, “All right, before we get nailed for public display, we better decide where we’re headed.”

  “Let ’em expel me, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

  “Charming sentiment. But I’m not buying the rebel act. Doesn’t suit you. Let me figure this out — Wait! I know the perfect place: cramped, private, nearly soundproof. Follow me.”

  She leads me past the cafeteria and auditorium to the music rooms. Slipping into an empty rehearsal cube, we lock the door and sit side by side on a piano bench in the dark.

  Alexis taps my forehead with her index finger. “Spill.”

  “I told you, I’m through. My father killed himself. Does it matter why?”

  “Why always matters, Evan. You deserve the truth.”

  “No! The more I discover, the worse I feel. I’m better off not knowing.”

  “I used to believe that too, until it almost killed me. You deny the truth long enough, you start to doubt what the truth really is. That’s dangerous — I know.”

  I can’t listen to this. I start to get up. Pissed, Lex pulls me back.

  “It’s better not to know? Evan, don’t you get it? I won’t let you play the denial game. I was the champ. I convinced the world everything was fine with my stepfather. What’s worse, I made myself believe it. All I knew was, without the game, the ache was real. But thank God, I could never convince you. You made me realize I couldn’t pretend my problems away. You’re the reason I finally told.”

  “I know all that. But this is different. What I don’t know hasn’t hurt me so far.”

  “Are you sure? Because crying in the hallway seems pretty messed up to me.”

  “Screw you!” I jump up and knock over a row of music stands going for the door.

  “Oh that’s brilliant. Another solid choice: run away! That’ll solve everything!”

  God, I want to hit her. Instead, I launch a pile of sheet music at the wall.

  “Okay, you have all the answers, Lex? The truth is so valuable? Fine! You explain how it’s helpful to know … to know … that my father and Mister Pettafordi were — ”

  I’m not sure whether I’ve run out of breath or nerve, but I can’t seem to finish the sentence. I pace the cubicle, jaws clenched.

  Eventually, Lex breaks the silence. “Your father and Mister P were what?”

  “I think Pettafordi’s gay.”

  Her bark of laughter makes me jump. “A POSSIBLY GAY ART TEACHER? Earth-shattering! Next you’ll tell me Coach Novack was rejected by MENSA. Or that Father Brendan’s — GASP — Irish! No, seriously, what tipped you off? His passion for all things batik? The way he hums show tunes while showing slides? Because really, Evan, those are just — ”

  I almost laugh.

  “Will you please shut up? This is serious! I read about him and my dad in the journal, and it sounds like, maybe, they were more than friends.”

  “And?”

  “And? It’s … I don’t know, gross! He’s my art teacher. My self-appointed mentor, you know? It’s just … wrong. And, and. And wrong.”

  “So you said.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing. I’m through staying after to help him fire up the freaking kiln!”

  “Bold move, Captain. But tell me, do you really think you’ve got a snowball’s chance of avoiding him? Realistically? You’re planning to major in art. He’s your guidance counselor. Are you just going to, like, switch over to shop?”

  “I don’t know … but … I guess you’re right. I can’t just pretend none of this has happened.” I sit next to her. “And Lex … I’m sorry I told you to screw.”

  “No worries. You’ll pay. Anyway, I know you were just overcompensating, to assert your masculinity. It’s only natural, now that you’ve discovered your dad may have been a Swiss Miss.”

  This time I do hit her, a joke shove. She expects it, but mock-falls anyway, sending music stands dominoing. They clatter to the floor; we howl laughter.

  Still sprawled in a heap, Lex says, “Look Ev, I really do understand you being upset, but it’s not that big a deal. I mean, it’s not uncommon. I read this article that said something like 63 percent of adolescent males have had at least one same-sex experience, usually with a friend.”

  “That’s foul.”

  “I realize you’re squarely in the other 37 percent. It’s just, I think you should try not to freak over this.”

  “Well, I think you ought to reevaluate your reading material. Where’d you see this article anyway?”

  “I don’t remember. Cosmo Girl, Scientific American, something like that. But that’s not the point. All I’m saying is a little youthful experimentation’s not the end of the world.”

  “Not to you maybe, but this is my father. And my art teacher. Yish. What am I supposed say to him? How can I even face the guy?”

  “Well, you certainly can’t do it alone. I say on with the plan! You, me, Mister P. His office. This afternoon.”

  “There’s no way you’re turning this into some … ”

  “What?”

  I’m at a loss for a clever pop cultural reference; must be nerves. “I don’t know. Just … you’re not invited.”

  “Okay, if you want to risk being alone with him. After all, you are a chip off the old block. Might bring back memories, spark ideas about a little like-father-like-son action.”

  “You are truly demented.”

  “Oh, come on, Evan!”

  “No chance.”

  She joins me on the bench. “So appealing to your inner homophobe is plainly futile. How about this? Without me you’ve got no witness, with me, a partner in crime.”

  She has a point.

  “Besides, I really want to be there for you.”

  “How selfless. Look, I know you well enough to realize you’ll never take no for an answer, so I’ll give you an extremely qualified yes. You know the condition.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Say it, Lex.”

  “I know, I know: the friggin’ vow. Cripes, are we pirates? Okay. I’ll bolt me lips tighter than Davey Jones’s locker. I’ll take yer secret to me wat’ry grave, if it be yer will. Haargh! Satisfied?”

  “You would look utterly cool with an eye patch.”

  “Great. Be serious, Ev. If we’re doing this, you need to show me exactly what you read. Where’s the journal? Your locker?”

  “Uh … nope.”

  “Well, where then? You didn’t leave it in study hall?”

  “Not quite … I threw it out.”

  “Again, very funny, but we don’t have time for this. We need to decide what to tell Pettafo
rdi. I mean, we should be in class right now. So where’s the journal?”

  “Would you believe at the bottom of the barrel? I shoved it in the trash in the third floor boys’ room … Matey.”

  “Oh God, you ass. What were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t. I just wanted to get rid of it.”

  “Well, I hope you brought your hazmat suit, Cap’n Bonehead. It looks like you’re going diggin’ for treasure.

  “Oh man, do you know how nasty that is? We’re talking the boys’ bathroom here.”

  “At least you won’t have the Sani-Pad Factor to deal with.”

  “Okay, now you’ve crossed a line.”

  Lex snorts, buries her head against my chest. The cube temperature ratchets up about 15 degrees. Neither of us moves. Then, very slowly, I lift her face. We freeze eye to eye, like levitating ninjas from some action movie.

  Even in the gloom, I can see Lex is beet red. I lean in to kiss the face I’ve known forever.

  Lex springs up, pops on the lights, hand trembling. Clearing her throat, she says, “It’s time we vacate. These rooms aren’t THAT soundproof, and with the music stands crashing and everything, I’m amazed we haven’t drawn a crowd.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Picking up our mess, we avoid eye contact. “Hey, Lex. I, uh … didn’t mean to — ”

  “Skip it, Ev. Strange stuff happens in these cubes. Some say they’re haunted by an angry, musical pirate. Maybe he saw the spring production of Penzance. That’d explain his mood.”

  We laugh. But we both know it’s fake, polite, like laughing at a teacher’s joke. I feel major liberation stepping out of that box, as if I’ve escaped a broken elevator.

  We nearly collide with Miss Yee, Lex’s choir teacher, in the hall. She looks suspicious; probably thinks we were making out in the cubicles. We flash an innocent-by-virtue-of-intellect look. Lex makes up an excuse about looking for her lost backpack. Miss Yee lets us slide on by.

  Hoping to avoid anyone official, we race through the halls. The days of hall monitors are long gone, but there’s always the chance a wandering nun might materialize, a specter with a detention pad.

  Our trip to the third floor’s almost too easy. I take a deep breath — to brace for the smell, as much as to calm my nerves — and step into the bathroom. That’s when I see it: Moriarty’s rolling trash tub. Hesitating, I consider an about-face, but a stall door swings open and, true to my spectacularly bad luck, I’m facing Sebastian’s Guru of Garbage, Alphonse Moriarty III.

  There’s no way I can hightail it; too suspicious. I smile. “Hey, Mister Moriarty.”

  He gestures with his dripping toilet brush. “Gallagher, right?”

  “Galloway, sir. Evan Galloway. How’s it going?”

  “Oh, life’s a precious gift, Sir Evan Galloway. I’m having a grand time cleanin’ caked puke off a toilet. Just another fascinating day. Good of you to ask.”

  Lacking a chainsaw to cut through the hostility, I just nod, settling on a diversionary urinal visit. Spinning the swing top of the metal basket, as I pass, I glance inside. Empty. Shit! He’s already dumped it into the bin.

  I lean into the porcelain alcove pretend-peeing, mind racing. How am I supposed to search his dumpster with him here? Then, sensing movement behind me, I catch a whiff of Spruce-Glo. As his nicotined hand approaches, the skin on the back on my neck migrates skullward.

  “I got something you might like.” His voice is low and too close.

  I’ve squeezed my eyes shut. Opening them, slowly looking toward him, I pray to every saint I can think of that he’s not exposing himself.

  Can I get an Amen? The saints come through. Atop the urinal next to mine, he’s placed my father’s journal.

  “Spotted it when I dumped the trash in my bin. You’d be surprised, the stuff I find.”

  I just stare from him to the journal and back.

  “I went to school with your old man. I was sorry to hear. I mean, we were never friends or nothin’. Still, it’s too bad. Seems like he had a lot to live for.”

  Stunned by the oddness of the moment, all I can manage is, “Yup.”

  “Look, I’ll be straight with you. I read a few pages, but it seemed like it was gettin’ personal. So I figured I’d save it for when I got home. But I’m glad you come lookin’. You should have it. Anyway, take it slow.”

  Moriarty heads away. Holstering his toilet brush to the rolly-tub, he wheels toward the exit. I almost collapse with relief.

  At the door he stops and says, “Gallagher! You ought to be more careful with that diary. It’s like his legacy, you know?”

  And then, he’s gone. I hear him in the hall, talking to Lex, something about “a nice girl like you in a place like this.”

  She says, overloud, “Oh, Alphonse, you slay me!”

  I grab the journal off the urinal. It’s no worse for the dumpster dive. Clutching my prize, I realize I really do have to pee. A whole lot. After, at the sink, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. I wink and say, “Buck up, Gallagher. We’ve got work to do.”

  Lex and I head toward Pettafordi’s, practically floating through the halls. Just finding the journal whole seems like a good omen.

  We tell Mister P the SparkNotes version of the truth: “I got sick on some bad tuna, and Lex stuck with me ’til I felt better.” It flies. We’re pets — though I’m starting to rethink that role. We arrange to meet him later to catch up on what we missed.

  I needed a journal break, since it’s gone all sexually ambiguous.

  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.

  Mother, by I. Von Tanay

  A Venus flytrap,

  she slowly constricts; spiked love

  devouring her young.

  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.

  One Starry Night

  Your brushes wept

  a thousand swirling

  colors — building

  cypress,

  steeple, cosmic whirlpools.

  Captive stars, trapped

  flat, shine

  yellow-to

  pear-green-to-turquoise
/>   in turbulent skies.

  Are you among them now,

  warm in brilliance,

  His voice

  calling, “Open your eyes, Vincent.

  You have come

  home,”?

  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.

  Chasing Joy

  I run the field, chasing sweet elation,

  Racing the winds of doubt, escaping fears.

  A helmeted centaur, swift in motion,

  I conquer my enemies, riding cheers

  Of adulation like a victor prince.

  Triumphant, I am laurelled and adored.

  None has flown so high, nor shone so bright since,

  last speeding turf, my cleats and spirit soared.

  Lifted o’er their heads and my own sorrow,

  I ride roars of jubilating voices.

  Shining like a trophy, each tomorrow

  Shows my future rich with hope and choices.

  But later in my solitary room,

  Once more I’m trampled by my inner gloom.

  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.