Cousin Lupo hunched behind me: my silent hero. I managed a weak, “Thanks.”
I would have said more, but a huge, black-Twizzler-scented belch rose like an eruption in the dining room. The Lupester plucked my spewed java nut off the table and, tucking it into his apron pouch, shuffled wordlessly back to the kitchen.
Grinning, Mister Alberti squeezed my hand and said, “Sip, don’ta gulp.”
Picturing Mom busting in, waving a breathalyzer and an arrest warrant, I slurped. No bean distress. And the stuff wasn’t half bad. I patted Mister Alberti’s wrinkled cheek and burped again. Shaking his head, he laughed.
“I’ma show you something, Evan, something you father left behind.”
Wobbling, I ran my hand across chair backs as he led me to the infamous banquet room, site of the Bereavement Brunch Follies. The décor was dinge-based, dark-paneled, and stuccoed, the floor worn to an uneven sheen by generations of dress-shoed gatherings: christenings, funerals, rehearsal dinners. You could almost smell unclaimed emotional leftovers — celebrations, mournings. I’m sure ours wasn’t the only fête to end badly. Melancholy hung as thick as the faded burgundy drapes covering the far wall.
Mister A steered me to a booth, cupping my elbow with his leathery palm. He reminded me of a rickety Webelo working on a merit badge. Sitting across from me, he fiddled with a foil noisemaker, remnant of some New Year’s party. His hand trembled.
“Evan. You father, he wore a coat of sorrow.” He let out a sigh that shriveled him. “But he always knew to come to Zio Joe. He told me things, secrets.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t, not yet. But I can help you find you answers, when you’re ready.”
“I am ready, Mister Alberti. Tell me.”
“Zio. Call me Zio.”
“Yes, Zio. I’m ready to know the truth about my father. Please tell me.”
“You think you ready, but this old man knows better. You’re not ready to bear his weight, Evan. Anymore than he was.”
His eyes — moist, round — held something between sorrow and fright. If I could swim those orbs, like a diver in an underwater cavern, I’d find treasure. But somehow, I knew not to push it — enter slowly, don’t splash — for fear I’d scare off what waited in the grotto.
“What is it, Zio Joe? What did he leave behind?”
“You father worked for me, Evan, when he was a little older than you. He spent hours here, cleaning up, making salads. School vacations. Weekends. Sat with me and shared a plate. This was before Lupo showed his ugly puss.”
As he continued, I recalled what Angie said: Mister A could talk your ear off. Waiting for him to get to the point, my mind flooded. He detailed Dad’s preference for fresh pepper on buttered bread, how he’d always yawn after a good meal.
I began to feel I’d taken a wrong turn in a sunken cave. Air running out, Mister Alberti’s words were white noise, surf slapping my ears. Staring, I tried to find meaning in the shapes his mouth made.
Whether from the booze or some ancient Italian hoodoo, my chin skimmed the tabletop. Feeling a twinge, I lifted my head to find a crab twisting the skin above my watchband. About to slap it away, I noticed its wedding ring. Realizing the crustacean was in fact my boss’s veiny hand, I looked from fingers to face several times before grasping his words.
“Will you finish his wall, Evan? Will you finish you father’s wall?”
“Hwubaah?” was all I could manage in reply.
For once, Zio didn’t press for a lucid response. He stood and solemnly left the table.
I panicked, knowing I’d blown my chance at revelation. Jolting up, I toppled my chair. How to stop him? I grabbed the noisemaker, blew a sharp burst. But the feeble, damp blat had no impact on Mister A’s steady progression. I was screwed; he’d reconsidered.
Stooping to pick up the chair, I said, “Fine. Skip it. I’ll just go.”
Riled disappointment sobered me faster than coffee could have. Knocking over the chair again — this time on purpose — I turned to leave.
Behind me, Mister A cleared his throat. Just above a whisper, he said, “Pick up that good-for-nothing chair and come over here, already. I have something to show you.”
He hit the dimmer switch, and flame-shaped sconces winked into faux-flicker. I felt I’d finally surfaced, cleared the water. As I stepped tentatively toward him, he lifted one bony arm. “This is what you father left for you.” With a magician’s flourish, he drew back maroon velvet.
I gasped. Honestly, this giant gulp of air, like an actor in a slasher flick, or a telenovela. I’m not sure what I expected behind curtain number one, but this was not it. The thirteen figures at table spilled gold, the painting somehow illuminating the restaurant’s dim recesses. I just stared, floored. My dad had truly painted this? I’d never seen him so much as doodle.
“It’sa the Last Supper.”
“I figured.”
He pulled back the drape, revealing the entire mural, the wall’s length. It was painted in the style of some Old Master, not that famous Da Vinci version, Tintoretto or someone. But my father included modern details. Through the archway behind Jesus’ head was Saint Anne’s steeple. I could also just make out the gas station on the corner of Hart and Branch. And beside the chalice was an Alberti’s menu.
There was a familiarity to the faces, too, just out of reach, not quite recognizable. Painted with something beyond skill, emotion palpable as technique, each was a study in reverence, humility, wonder. The apostles appeared mesmerized as Jesus broke bread. My father had captured the colossal awe they must have felt witnessing a miracle.
Then I noticed Judas and gasped again.
At first, it was like seeing my reflection, only a bit older, in Bible wear. But I often have this momentary confusion when I see his old pictures, like it could be me. I’m a passable Dad clone. But the ears, they were Evan Senior, all the way.
He sat to Jesus’ left, the most sorrowful Judas, eclipsed by this anti-aura, an absence of that glow. Instead of looking at the miracle, he studied his own expression in a water glass. The Eucharist eluded him, not like he was unworthy of salvation — worse, that it was a fraud. Seeing that face, I had a hint of the despair my father must’ve felt at the end. His eyes transfixed me.
Mister Alberti broke the spell. Arm around my shoulder, he said, “So, what you think?”
“He was twice the artist I’ll ever be. I never even knew he could draw, let alone paint like this. Why didn’t he ever show me? I mean — ”
Stepping closer, I pressed cheek to wall, touching fingertips to tiny brushstrokes my dad made a lifetime ago. I swear I could feel his pulse through the wall, his soul layered with pigment. I wanted nothing more than to enter his mural like a Mary Poppins sidewalk drawing and seek out its creator.
But, as persistent as a cough, Mister A disturbed me back to reality.
“Pretty good, huh?”
“Beautiful.”
“He worked on it after college.”
“Un-huh.”
“Never finished though.” He gestured to a large section where the mural fragmented into washes of color and vague outline. “See, this whole part’s just … what’d he call it?”
“Underpainting.”
It was Angie. In my fugue state, I hadn’t heard her come in.
“Pop, what in the name of — Him,” she pointed to the central figure, “are you doin’?”
“Tap-dancing! What you think I’m doing, Angie?”
“You promised you wouldn’t pull this. I can’t believe, the minute my back is turned, you drag the kid in here!”
“I show the boy, maybe I help him figure things out. Where’s the harm?”
“It’s like a sickness with you!”
“Basta, Angela! Enough! He’s going to finish his father’s masterpiece. It’s about time, too. I’m tired of these shitty drapes.”
“Don’t listen to him, Evan. He hired you to help in the kitchen, not to be a painter.”
&n
bsp; Corralling Mister A toward the main dining room, she stage whispered — I assume, for sensitivity sake. Still, I heard every word; subtlety is not an Alberti trait.
“Pop, you are so friggin’ gauche. Are you trying to scar the kid? You got no right springin’ this on him. You ever think it might be painful for him dealing with his dead father’s artwork? It’s no picnic for me! And what’s next? What’re you planning?”
Mister Alberti plugged his thumbs in his ears and left the room, singing “Beautiful Dreamer.” His voice wasn’t half bad.
Angie pounced like a pit bull on a veal parm. “Look Evan, my father had no right to put you on the spot. He gets these screwy ideas. I apologize if he made you uncomfortable. You should forget this whole mural thing.”
“I’m going to finish it.”
“No! No, listen. Don’t think you need to please him. He means well, he’s just — un uomo anziano pazzesco — a crazy old man.”
I channeled my inner ballsy Italian. “You listen. I’m finishing that mural, Angie, whether he pays me or not. I won’t let you talk me out of it. So don’t bother trying.”
Her face was a mixed sky: grin-tilted lips, eyes overcast.
“Okay, Ev. If that’s what you want. But as for my father, take him with a grain of salt, understand? Don’t get too wound up in his stories. He just likes the sound of his own voice.”
“What is it, Angela?”
“What’s what?”
“What don’t you want me to know?”
For the first time since I’d met her, Angie was speechless.
“Nothin’, Ev. I … I better get back to the kitchen.”
Once she was gone, I returned to the mural. Staring into my father’s Judas eyes, I remembered a passage from the Gospel — Saint John, I think — about how, after Jesus gave the piece of bread to Judas, Satan entered into him. “And it was night.”
Was that how my father saw himself: betrayer, bringer of night? Was the self-portrait some screwed-up symbolism, a message? Or even back then, did he know what his end would be? Did he live knowing one day he’d follow Judas to the tree? Maybe Mrs. S-B-C was right when she said there are worse things than not knowing.
“Why Judas?” I whispered. The wall gave no answer, not yet.
Sleepwalking through the rest of my shift, folding napkins, filling water glasses, my mind was in the back room, and I kept finding reasons to join it.
Finally, Mister Alberti took me aside and said, “Evan, you knock off a little early. It’s slow, anyway. Come tomorrow morning. Don’t forget you brushes.”
I was about to call Mom when Lupo materialized. Wish they’d tie a bell on him, so I’d know he’s coming. Jangling Angie’s keys, he jerked his head. I followed him through the delivery entrance, night air instantly crisping my nose hair. In his black parka, hood tight around his face, there was something eerily familiar about him.
Opening my door, he waited ’til I was inside, then shut it gently; I’d half-expected him to buckle me in. I tried giving directions, but he unfolded what looked like a treasure map, my house marked with a big, red X. Angie must’ve made it. As we rode in complete silence, I realized who he looked like in that black hood: The Ghost of Christmas Future was my driver.
At one point, I switched on the radio; Lupo didn’t flinch when Angie’s CD, “Teenage Dream,” blared, max volume. He stared straight ahead as Katy Perry wailed.
Hopping out in front of my house, I said, “So … thanks.”
Lupo just made this hand motion, and I realized he had it rough. Not speaking English must be isolating. But as he drove off, I heard him belting, “Baby, you’re a firework!”
“How’s the wrangling this year, Lex?”
“They’re puckered and leathery as ever, but enchantment’s in the air. I’m helping stage a musical review, a sort of geriatric Fantasia, set to classic ’70s tunes. We’re calling it You’re So Veined. I promise it’s like nothing you’ve seen.”
“I’m sure. So the humanatees have accepted you as a juvenile herd member. Doesn’t that make you a calf?”
“You say the sweetest things.”
It’s Monday night, no Tuesday — 1:58 A.M. I tossed for over an hour, trying to purge Lupo’s anthem and Dad’s Judas face from my brain. Somehow they’ve melded into Judas/Perry Pavlov response, my new nightly ritual: I close my eyes and — BAM! — Dad’s face/that tune echoing.
I suppose total Last Supper immersion doesn’t help. I arrived early Saturday like Mister A suggested, art box in hand. Angie’s reception was only slightly less chilly than the outside temp (a balmy 14 degrees), but that’s okay. When I’m performing my regular duties — bussing tables, filling waters — she’s all business. And I’m basically out of her way while I work on the mural.
Okay, “work on” is a stretch. So far I’ve spent most of my time just staring at the wall. Saturday I made a few sketches, took measurements. Sunday a baby shower commandeered the room, restricting me to kitchen duty: salads, bread, the usual. I did manage to glimpse behind the maroon swags as we doled pastries and punch, but it was basically a wasted day.
Tonight, paint finally met wall. Nothing major, beyond the challenge in matching his brushwork. I roughed in some clouds. I’m avoiding the figures for now, afraid to screw them up. The other key factor is it’s damn depressing, Dad staring down at me. I’m not sure whether Mister A requested a Last Supper, but I know I would’ve preferred something a bit cheerier. Dad as singing gondolier? Winking elf? But no, I’m stuck with Jesus and the Boys.
So after quilt-wrestling from 12:00 to 1:00, I flipped through Gardner’s Art Through the Ages, hunting all the Last Suppers for inspiration. Now my synapses won’t stop crackling. The restlessness is part mural anxiety. Can I do him justice? But it’s more than that.
“Are you still there? And why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”
“Lex withdrawals.”
“Dunderhead. Seriously, what’s up? How’s Alberti’s? Any big revelations?”
“Just this: My dad betrayed Christ.”
“Okaaaay. Should I be worried?”
“No, I’m just being dramatic. See, there’s this unfinished mural at Alberti’s. My dad started it like twenty-something years ago. It’s the Last Supper. In it, he’s Judas.”
“Yikes.”
“So … Mister A asked me to finish it.”
“Cool.” She gulps a yawn as she says it, and I wonder if she’s up to listening. But it’s Lex, so, assuming I rate higher than sleep, I press on.
“I’m a little freaked, Lex.”
“Why, Ev? You’re a great artist.”
“It’s not that. I just … I don’t know. God, I wish you were here, Lex. I mean you should see his work … it’s incredible, but … ”
“What?”
“I don’t think I can do this. It’s … ”
“What?”
“Looking at it … his face … it’s too much. His expression. It’s like he had nothing to live for. But I guess he didn’t, did he?”
“Don’t be stupid. He had everything to live for. He had you.”
“This was before, Lex. Way before me. It seems like he just wasn’t ever happy. You see it in grade school pictures even, that wounded look. I wish I knew what it was.”
“Well, maybe finishing his mural will be a way to figure it out.”
“Maybe.”
“And there’s one more place you might find answers.”
“I know. I know, the journal. Lex, I told you I’m waiting to read it ’til encounter.”
“Yeah, explain that again, okay? Because it sounds like classic avoidance.”
“That’s crap.”
“Oh, right. Mustn’t disagree with Lord Genius.”
“That’s not what I meant. It just has to be my decision when to read more.”
“Whatever. Look, it’s late, and I really need sleep. I’m meeting someone for breakfast. It’s cool about the mural. I can’t wait to see it. I’ll call
you. G’night.”
She’s about to hang up, and I’ve got a wad of dissatisfaction in my throat. I definitely didn’t get what I need from this call; I’m unsure what that even is.
“Lex?”
“Huh?”
“There’s one other thing.”
She sighs. “What?”
“The spring formal, remember we talked about doing a just-pals thing? Well, I wondered if we’re still on, because — ”
“Oh.”
I wait. All that’s coming from the phone is extended silence, generally not a good sign. I visualize her scrambling for a way to turn me down, consulting a website, Letemdowneasy.com. Shouldn’t have asked. Didn’t need more disappointment tonight. And judging by that “Oh,” disappointment and I are hurtling toward a head-on.
“Well?”
“I’m … uh … not sure. I think I might have a real date.”
“Oh.” What I mean is OUCH.
Dead air. Finally, “I should’ve mentioned this sooner, but I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea. Tyler’s here.”
“What?”
“Tyler Wattrous. He’s here. I mean, not right here. He’s visiting Manatee Village, too. His grandfather moved down last fall. Isn’t that strange?”
“Yeah, like two-headed kitten strange. When’d you find out?”
“On the plane. We were seated next to each other. He was semi-freaking. Never flew before. So I … kept him company. I guess we bonded over a barf bag.”
“Delightful.”
And then, something so foreign, so anti-Lex, it must be a joke: she giggles. A genuine crush-afflicted, girly-girl giggle followed by, “So, we’re kind of hanging out. He’s helping with the review. But don’t mention it to anybody. He’d die if the team knew.”
“And he’s taking you to the dance?”
The giggle, technically a titter this time, repeats, and she says, “I’m just saying it’s a possibility. He’s really pretty charming away from those track apes.”
I’m unable to formulate a speakable thought.
Lex bursts my stupor. “Evan? Are you still there?”
“You’re right. It’s late. I’m tired too. When you see him at breakfast, could you maybe ask Tyler not to try flushing my head down the toilet anymore? I’d appreciate that.”
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