The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  A N T C O V E N — Nasty, an ant coven on teeny broomsticks. Hold it. Ant. Coven. I flip the words. Insect witches become something else: COVENANT. That’s it,

  UNHOLY COVENANT!

  “My God.”

  For an instant, I’m confused, convinced I spoke aloud. Then it dawns: It wasn’t my voice. Mom stands in my doorway, gaping at Dad’s painting. Taking advantage of her stupor, I slide the journal toward me, tuck it into my waistband.

  “Um … you’re home early.”

  Moving mutely, eyes glued to the image, she nearly lands on the art box as she crouches. For an eternal minute, she’s frozen. With her behavioral track record, anything’s possible.

  Mom finally speaks through a fist. “When did you paint this? And who else has seen it?”

  I’m not sure why I lie.

  “In the fall. I only showed it to Lex.”

  “Evan, what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” That’s the truth.

  Her whole body shakes. “I think we should talk over these feelings, honey, because you’re frightening me.”

  “Mom, it’s not like that.”

  “Don’t try to tell me this is normal, Junior.”

  I frown at the nickname.

  Noticing, she corrects herself. “I’m sorry. Evan. I just don’t get what you’re trying to prove. If this is some sad attempt to identify, to climb inside his pain or something, I can tell you it’s not healthy.”

  “Mom, listen — ”

  “No. You listen.” Now she is crying, and I can see where we’re headed. “This,” she jabs a finger toward the painting, “is not the product of a normal fifteen-year-old. You expect me not to worry? I find you scribbling on the floor, gawking at a picture of yourself being tortured. Am I supposed to ignore the strap around your neck? For God’s sake, what are you thinking?”

  So she thinks it’s a self-portrait; Dad did whittle the ears a bit. I aim for damage control. “It’s a painting, Ma. Mister P showed us this religious art, asked us to do a portrait inspired by one of the images. It doesn’t mean anything. Lex did one too — she painted herself as Joan of Arc at the stake. That doesn’t mean she’s intending to spontaneously combust.”

  “Well I think I need to speak with Mister Pettafordi. This seems terribly inappropriate.”

  “NO!”

  Rocked back on her heels, she nearly tips from the force of my response. Guess I could have scaled it down a few decibels. Steadying, she moves toward the painting.

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I’m taking it.”

  “Mom, you can’t do that.”

  “Watch me.” She reaches for the frame. “And you can forget about encounter and working at Alberti’s.”

  About to lose it, I snap. “I swear to God, you touch it, and I will make you sorry.”

  She’s never seen me like this; doesn’t know what to say.

  “If you’re so afraid of me doing what he did, why are you pushing me to it? Take that picture from me, and I swear I will hurt myself.”

  Hands to mouth, she smothers a moan. Hugging the painting, I run from the room, down the hall, to the garage. Dad’s Tahoe’s still there, silent since he died. I climb in.

  Painting cradled across my lap, I replay what I said about hurting myself. The scary thing is, in that moment, I think I meant it.

  Last time I felt this bad in the backseat of a car, I was nine.

  Aunt Rosemary took Lex and me to Hammonasset one Saturday, stuffed in the steaming interior of her VW Bug, with a cooler of Dr. Pepper, Oreos, and egg-salad sandwiches. The beach was a blast, but bouncing home over hilly Route 16 — windows sealed, AC whimpering — I hurled.

  I guess three sandwiches was overkill. I’d turned to Lex to say, “What melon insists on a church wedding? Give up? Cantaloupe. Get it, can’t elope!” but only got halfway. The joke was Dad’s — and lame — but I’m sure Alexis would’ve preferred his dorky punch line to my stomach smoothie. My puke made her puke, which made Aunt Ro veer off the road, jumping the curb and blowing out the right front tire.

  While Aunt Ro changed the flat, Lex and I rinsed the VW with ice melt from the cooler. It was a fairly unpleasant ride home. I don’t think I’ve eaten egg salad, or cantaloupe, since.

  After multiple shampooings, Aunt Ro sold her Bug that fall, and Lex still does a fake gagging routine whenever I tell a joke. Just recalling that trip conjures a scent memory to make my stomach cartwheel. Bad as that was, this is worse.

  At first, I expect Mom to bust in with Father Brendan and a team of doctors, bent on performing a combo exorcism/psychiatric throw-down. She doesn’t. Maybe she’s calling Crystal Hills to book me a room.

  I should just go quietly; it’s crazy pursuing this. Then I close my eyes, and the dream replays: Dad ripped away, his journal on the sand. Suddenly aware of the corner biting into my waist, I remember it’s concealed there. Hitching my jeans down, I remove the journal and place it on the seat next to Dad’s painting.

  I climb in front, pop the glove compartment, and snag the mini toolkit I gave Dad one Father’s Day. Squeezing back between the seats, I flop beside the picture. Staring at my father’s image, I wonder about UNHOLY COVENANT. Am I doing the right thing trying to figure this out, or should I let the dead rest? Studying his eyes, I vow to continue. I owe him that.

  Turning the portrait facedown on the seat, I examine the stapled cardboard backing. Gripping a screwdriver, I work the head beneath a staple, pry it up, then glance toward the house, half-hoping Mom will appear. Coast still clear. The metal pulls loose with a tiny squeak, and I go at the others. When some stick, I lose patience, yank the cardboard, ripping off sections.

  Soon my lap’s covered with corrugated strips; mounding them on the seat, I turn my attention to the center of the board. Taped there is a padded envelope. This is it: the message to Aunt Reg. I hesitate. Now that I know it’s real, I’m afraid to look inside.

  After some deep breaths, and the sign of the cross, I peel off the tape holding the envelope. The package is lighter than I’d expected. I’m not sure why I thought it’d be heavier, maybe because of the contents. Secrets? Answers? Or just more questions?

  Hands trembling, I flip the envelope. More staples and tape cover the flap. Whatever’s inside, he was determined to keep it sealed. I whisper an Our Father as I tug at the tape. Reaching in, I remove a thick packet of paper and say the last words of the prayer, “deliver us from evil. Amen.”

  Still no Mom. Unfolding pages, I’m surprised when something drops out, luging to the car floor. Papers in my right hand, I feel beneath the driver’s seat, just brushing the object’s edge. It’s out of reach. Stretched to my limit, I circle fingers around a flat rectangle. I fit my pinky into the notched wheel: a cassette. Another song selection?

  Pulling my hand out, I study the tape. The label bears Dad’s inked inscription:

  Reg, I’m giving you this because you’ll know what to do.

  Listen where no one will hear. Keep it safe till after.

  Counting on you. So sorry, Evan (May 24, 1976)

  “Jackpot.” Looking from the papers in my right hand to the cassette in my left, I feel like Alice when the caterpillar gave her two pieces of mushroom, one for growth, one for shrinkage. Where to start? I think of my dream with Father Brendan on the giant ’shroom. “Answers lie within your chest (plip).”

  So I should start with the pages … or not. I mean, Dad bothered making this a multimedia event, so maybe I should go straight to audio. Wriggling up front, folding down the driver’s visor, I brace for disappointment. But when I feel inside the pouch, it’s there: Dad’s spare key. I slide it into the ignition, turn to accessories. It’ll never work; the car’s gone untouched for almost a year. So when the radio blares, I nearly piss myself like some Stephen King character.

  I hit the eject button. The player expels a CD, and the sweet tones of the B52s mercifully end, replaced by some radio doc counseling a caller. Fascinating as
these phone-in relationship woes are, I press the function button ’til the green cassette light glows. Then I inhale a lungful of courage and push tape into slot.

  For a moment, there’s no sound, just a low static buzz like a distant toilet flush, ’til he clears his throat and emits a Darth Vader sigh. When he speaks, I literally rock back at the sound. I’d expected him, so it’s eerie hearing the words in a voice so much like mine. Of course, Dad was barely older than me when he recorded this. Drawing knees to chest, I listen.

  Reggie, if you’re hearing this, I’m an excellent judge of character. You really are as nosy as I suspected. Knew you’d take the bait. If you’re NOT hearing this, I apologize.

  I applaud your self-control. Clap. Clap.

  Either way, this is something I need to do — telling.

  Mostly, so I can work on forgetting — again. Thought I’d done a decent job — forgetting. But now it’s all seeping back “like shit up a clogged pipe,” as Dad would say.

  In my case, it’s like a bad dream, or that’s what started it: the dreams. Remember February? Figured you would.

  It’s not every night your brother appears by your bed shrieking like some mental defective, huh?

  Thanks for letting me stay in your room. I needed to feel safe. I know I’m too old to act like such a Sissy Mary.

  I owe you big time for not laughing. Not telling.

  I lied about what was wrong. Yes, I had a nightmare, but not about that Amityville book. This was way worse than bleeding wallpaper or red eyes at the window.

  I wasn’t even sure whether the dream WAS a dream or something else, an echo or a … memory. But the more I thought about it, the more real it got and that scared me, Reg, because it was worse than any movie, no shit.

  And after encounter I was sure. I wish to God I’d never gone, but I did, and now there’s no pretending.

  I don’t know if it’s even fair to dump this on you. It’s okay if you never say a word. That might be better.

  It’s just, I’m afraid if I don’t get it out, it’ll eat me up.

  I know that sounds stupid, but … it’s murky, so … sorry if my narrative thread is tangled.

  Miss Solomon’s always on my back about that.

  He attempts a laugh, a crackle of sound, like twigs snapping, one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.

  I must’ve been ten, maybe, when it started. We went to Feinsmith’s. Father Fran had complimented that poster I’d made for Catholic Schools Week. Remember they hung it for the special Mass? I think Ma still has it up in that cabinet in the attic. Anyway, he said, “Think what you could do with decent supplies.”

  I told him Dad wasn’t thrilled about my drawing, how he said art was for girls. Father said, “That’s a shame, Evan, a sin. Talents are from God. It’s your duty to use them.”

  So he took me downtown, bought me a box of pastels and some drawing paper and this book, Anatomy for the Artist. I told him Mom’d kill me for looking at a book with actual naked people, but Father said not to worry. It was our secret. He said he’d keep it at the rectory and I could look at it there, bring my supplies and draw.

  I was so excited about private art lessons. When he dropped me home, I told Father it was the best gift ever. I hugged him, and I noticed the muscle in his jaw twitching like worms under the skin. He just looked at me, coughed a couple times, and said real low, “I’m glad.”

  We’d spend hours drawing, first from photos in the book, then posing for each other. He said it was okay to be shy, but there was nothing wrong with my body. It was God’s greatest creation.

  Still, it was strange seeing him in only a pair of shorts — even stranger to sit in my underwear while he drew. But I got used to it, and it was Father, so it had to be okay.

  He called it our special time.

  Some Saturdays we’d just drive around town. It was cool when he’d slide me next to him to steer. He’d put his arm across the seat back, his fingers hovering, tickling my neck. He’d always say to watch the road, but sometimes I’d catch him, looking at me smiling.

  We’d drive to the park and sit, looking at the baseball diamond, talking, sometimes saying a rosary. I remember being there once, just before they flooded it for skating. Father was distracted. Kept forgetting which mystery we were on. Finally, he started “Descent of the Holy Spirit” for the third time, and I said, “What’s wrong, Father?”

  He asked if I ever told anyone about our lessons. When I shook my head no, he said, “Atta boy,” ruffling my hair. “If you do, we’ll probably have to stop being friends.”

  I got so upset, ’til he said, “Don’t worry, Evan. I was teasing. God brought us together.” Then he smiled and said, “I’ve got a special surprise. You like dogs, don’t you?”

  I hit stop. This is creeping me out. Not just the story, how he’s telling it. Almost sounds like three people on the tape. There’s Evan, age sixteen, narrator. But his voice sounds deeper when he’s quoting Father Fran. And it’s younger somehow when he says his childhood parts, like he’s reliving it. I consider ejecting it; instead, I hit Play.

  We drove for a while, toward the country, past the town dump. Finally, he turned the station wagon into a driveway with this small sign that said B.A.R.K., Beacon Acres Rescue Kennel. As we parked, I saw high, chain-link fencing in back. Father said his friend Carole worked for B.A.R.K. “She said stop by anytime. Gave me a key.”

  As we closed the car doors, I heard this unearthly howling.

  “That’ll be Kaspar,” Father grinned, putting an arm around my shoulder. “Close your eyes.”

  I couldn’t help peeking as he guided me down a path. The fencing turned out to be a row of cages. I sensed frantic movement as we passed. Finally stopping, he whispered, “Eyes closed?” I nodded and Father said, “Good, now give me your hand.”

  I squirmed as sticky warmth slicked my palm, but Father’s grip was strong. Chuckling, he said, “Open your eyes.”

  I did, seeing the source of the slobber — and that crazy yowling: the biggest dog I’d ever seen. On his hind legs, claws grasping the fence, he looked like a monster from some Saturday horror flick. But his face was sweet with a shaggy bison beard, one pale eye, and a hollowed knot of fur where the other eye should’ve been.

  “My God.” I look at the dog in the painting. Studying its face, I notice it for the first time: a single eye, light blue. It’s him, Kaspar.

  “He likes you.”

  This made me nervous. I hoped he wasn’t talking about the slimy pink thing sprouting between Kaspar’s legs.

  Father either read my mind or followed my eyes, because he said, “Don’t be embarrassed, Evan; it’s only natural. He’s excited about our visit, that’s all. Down, boy!”

  Then he unlocked Kaspar’s pen and led me in. The dog immediately rolled on its back whimpering, tail beating the chain-link.

  “Atta boy!” Father knelt, roughing the spiky coat. Starting at Kaspar’s neck, working downward, his large hands moved toward the animal’s groin. I stood numb, as he rubbed and squeezed, murmuring, moving in rhythm.

  In a few minutes, it was finished. Father wiped his sticky hands through the dog’s fur, stood and grinned.

  “All right then. Now he’s calm enough to take for a run.”

  When I didn’t answer, Father laughed and said, “It’s okay, Evan. Remember, Genesis says God gave man dominion over the beasts.”

  He coughs, then there’s a click, as if he’s stopped the tape. That’s followed by silence until the player buzzes.

  “Shit!”

  Sure the tape’s broken, I nearly press Stop, but then he resumes. At first it’s garbled, like he’s underwater, then a crackle, and his voice comes out clear.

  … going to B.A.R.K. every weekend, only taking Kaspar out if no one was there. Otherwise, we’d walk other dogs. When it was just us, Father’d take me right to Kaspar’s pen for his ritual. Sometimes he’d ask me to join him, saying “Don’t fret, Evan. I’d never ask you to do anything wr
ong.”

  One day I said okay.

  Father hugged me, then took my hand. When we touched Kaspar that way, it was like watching a movie, unreal. I felt scared, but kind of excited, too.

  After, on the path, I knew something had changed; Father wouldn’t look at me. I started crying, and he rubbed my shoulders, said, “Evan, if you want, I’ll take you home and we won’t come again.”

  I nodded, wiping my face on my sleeve.

  Then he went red, saying, “Naturally, you’ll need to return your drawing supplies. And when we get to your house, I’ll speak with your parents.” He scared me, the way his fingers dug into my shoulders, his face … and now, bringing up Mom and Dad. I asked, “Why Father? Why do you have to talk to them?”

  Tapping a Winston from his pack, he lit it, took a long draw, and said, “I have to explain why we can no longer be friends. I need to tell them what you did.” Smoke poured from his nose, like a dragon’s, as he spoke. “What you did with Kaspar was wrong, Evan. Evil. Your parents deserve to know.”

  Crying again, spluttering, I yelled, “NO! YOU WANTED ME TO DO IT! I WAS ONLY TRYING TO MAKE YOU HAPPY!”

  He slapped my face, dropped his cigarette, ground it out with his shoe. Then he hugged me, stroked my hair, said, “God has asked me to test you, Evan. He considers you a special soul, but you must be purified. And I’m to help.”

  I asked what he meant. Father stared into my eyes for a long time. “Evan, a special soul meets unique challenges. You’ve been chosen by God for great things. But there’s a darkness that feeds on exceptional grace. It’s as if you have a demon within. Today, praise God, we’ve identified it as a demon of lust. And that is the first step toward victory. Do you want to vanquish the demon, Evan? Do you want to serve the Lord?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Atta boy, Evan, good. But you cannot do it alone. And you won’t have to. You see, God has brought us together that I might help you achieve all He has planned. You must rely on me, Evan. Will you do that? Will you put your faith in me?”

  I shivered. He wrapped his coat around me, gave me a piece of gum, placing the mint strip on my tongue like a communion wafer. In the car, I said, “I trust you with my life, Father.”