The Namesake

by Steven Parlato

  I suppose I expect a mini-me, or a diapered version of Dad, but I see something else.

  It’s one of those first-day hospital shots. The baby’s got the mandatory bead strand on his sausagey wrist, his hand raised in a wee gangsta salute. Eyes slightly crossed — chalky, unfocused slits, poked deep in massive cheeks — his head’s a vague cone shape, crested with strawberry fuzz. I can’t stop thinking guinea pig.

  “He’s beautiful.”

  Mom actually laughs. “You think? I was a bit shocked when I saw him. Clearly, it was a rough trip down the birth canal.”

  When I blush, she says, “Sorry. I suppose you don’t want to hear about that.”

  “Not really.”

  “Turn the page. He gets better.”

  I do; he does. I flip slowly, studying photos of Mom and Dad and Baby Evan. Their firstborn. Once his head settles into human shape, he’s sort of cute. There’s a shot of him curled on a blanket wearing this tiny Mickey Mouse shirt. And a first Halloween picture of him dressed as, what else, a pumpkin.

  They have pictures of me at this age, too, frames full. Visualizing them now, I connect the dots between our dual babyhoods.

  On the next page, there’s a shot of Dad holding him; the baby’s about a year old. I’m not sure why at first, but I feel almost dizzy looking at it. Then I realize it’s the take-one version of a picture on the living room mantel: Dad and me.

  In both, my father stares into the camera, holding a year-old Evan. They wear the same sweatshirts. Dad’s says The Old Block; both babies wear a shirt that says Chip Off The Old Block. And in each, father and son wear matching Red Sox caps.

  I’m a little angry, realizing they dressed me in dead Evan’s clothes. It just feels wrong. But that’s not what upsets me about the photo. It’s Dad’s expression. Unlike the version with me, in this one he looks happy.

  His chin’s glued to the kid’s head, like he’d never put him down. Our shot’s different. Dad sort of bobbles me on his knee, like I’m wired with explosives. He doesn’t seem magnetized to me like he was to my brother. God, it’s peculiar thinking that — my brother — like I ever had one.

  “Mom, tell me about him.”

  From this mask of fear, she says, “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  She clears her throat and begins.

  “We were kids, Ev. But your dad, there was something solemn, sort of a film over him. Even then. An emptiness in his eyes, sometimes. I think it was part of what first drew me in, fragility where you’d never expect it. I suppose I thought I could fill that void.”

  As she takes my hand, a tiny static shock makes her pull away. She slides over to her side of the bed, and I swing my feet up, leaning back against Dad’s pillow.

  “We met junior year at college. I was in the basement laundry when these legs appeared. He’d locked himself out, was trying to squeeze through the tilt window. Well, he got halfway in when it just sort of gave. There was this huge POP as plate glass smashed to the floor. Scared the life out of me — I nearly maced him. But his dopey grin won me over. We were squatting, gathering shards, when I noticed this big sliver stuck right in his butt cheek. I didn’t think twice, just yanked it out and — oh my Lord — the blood! So, our first date was to the infirmary. He made me go with him to keep pressure on the wound. After that, we were a couple.”

  Pausing, she reaches for the glass on the nightstand. As she lifts it to her mouth, I catch the sour scent of leftover wine.

  “The following October we learned I was pregnant, and … this is hard. I wanted an abortion. I was just so scared. But your father, it was his finest hour. He said we weren’t just two people anymore, that I’d never be without a family, ever again.”

  “And so, we agreed to be together, the three of us, whatever life brought. And, God, that made me brave! We moved in together — your gran loved that. Set up house, finished school, and graduation robes make everyone look pregnant anyway. And when the baby came, well, suddenly that film, it lifted. Your father was a shaft of light. When I said I wanted to name our son after him, he cried and cried. I got scared, Ev, he cried so hard. And you know what he said? He said he was crying because God had given him a second chance. He said this new Evan Frederick Galloway would erase all the smudges from the first Evan.

  “God, that first year was like a dream. We lived in this tiny apartment above Jade Palace. Everything smelled of fried rice. I was teaching night classes at the Continuing Ed Center, your dad was freelancing, and your brother,” her voice cracks, “your brother was like a fourteen-month-old fireball. God, that little acrobat!

  “One night, in the middle of an English as a Second Language class, your grandfather appeared at the door. He was gray. I knew, Evan. I knew right then. I didn’t say a word to the class, not that they’d have understood. I just ran, left my purse in the desk drawer, and ran.”

  She goes silent, closes her eyes. I wait a minute to ask, “What did he say?”

  “Your gramp’s a good man, Evan, but not much of a communicator. He drove me to the hospital without a word.”

  “When I walked in, your father … he was like a ghost. He wouldn’t look at me. Just kept saying, ‘I sang to him, Kat. That song he likes.’ ”

  Closing her eyes, she starts to sing, a tear slipping down each cheek.

  “I left my baby lying here,

  Lying here, lying here

  I left my baby lying here

  To go and gather blackberries.

  Hovan, Hovan Gorry og O

  I’ve lost my darling baby!”

  Voice trailing, she opens her eyes. Sighing, more of a shudder really, she blows her nose into the wadded tissues and prepares to go on. I want to stop her, go back to my room, pull the covers over my head, pretend we never started. But I can see it in her expression: she needs to tell the rest.

  “Your father’d fallen asleep at his drawing board. He was working on a cover illustration. It was a huge break; he had a killer deadline. He’d just dozed off, you know? And the baby, he got hold of the curtains. It’s absurd. They warn you everywhere nowadays: ‘Don’t put the crib near the window.’ But we were stupid, and young. Mostly just young, I’m afraid. And our baby, our boy … your father found him with the cord twisted around his neck.

  “He lived for three days before we took him off all those damn machines. There was no brain activity, so. We said goodbye. Or I did. Your father, he just kept singing that awful song.”

  Before I can say a word, she’s off the bed, album in hand, heading for the closet. Still facing into it, she says, “Evan, your father and I did love each other. And we had our happy times, but at the heart of it, I’d say our relationship was based on grief. That seems like a powerful bond, but in the end, it just didn’t make for a marriage.”

  Then she’s done, and I think I understand, just a little, what it’s been like for her. To have lost them both. To be terrified I’ll be the next Evan to go.

  And for a second, I know why Dad did it. Not just because the baby died, or because of Father Fran, or their marriage disintegrating, but because —

  “Evan, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Mom. I just … ”

  “What is it?”

  “I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, sweetheart.”

  “I won’t ever leave you. I promise.”

  Her features do that liquid dance again as she tries to keep from crying.

  Before she can speak, I say, “I’ll skip encounter. I don’t need to go.”

  She stuns me with, “No, Evan. I want you to go. Maybe it will be good for you.”

  Back in my room, I realize I never talked to her about Mister Alberti’s daughter, or shared what I know about Father Fran. Maybe it’s best if I keep his secret for now.

  I shoot Lex a quick text: L, mission accomplished. talk soon. I don’t have the energy for details.

  Guess I could’ve skipped the berries.

  After last night,
I felt like we’d made a breakthrough, finally understood each other a little better. Closer.

  So I got up early to surprise Mom with her favorite: stuffed French toast. The recipe’s in this cookbook from a B&B where they stayed before I arrived and their marriage imploded. Dad always made breakfast on special occasions: anniversaries, Mother’s Day. Convincing myself there’s nothing creepy about fixing your mother a big morning-after feast, I went all out.

  I even used that little plastic tool and carved her apple into a flower shape. Now I’m faced with the consequences of eating double everything: French toast, bacon, yogurt with berries, fruit cup, coffee, OJ. Oof.

  As I approached her bedroom with the breakfast tray, I saw a sheet of flower fairy stationery on the hall table. She’d chosen the Forget-me-not Fairy, a blue-petaled infant, nested in a bed of leaves. The fairy tot was certainly cuter than either Evan baby.

  The note said:

  Ev,

  Had some paperwork to clean up. Gone to office.

  Fresh box of Special K in pantry.

  Called Aunt R; she’ll drop you at work.

  See you tonight.

  x. o., Mom

  Surprise. Guess it’ll take more than one night for her to adapt to interacting like real people. I sat on her bed, studying my brother’s baby book, and polished off everything on her tray. Looking at the pictures seemed to make me hungrier, so I went to the kitchen, ate the rest. At this rate, I may end up the subject of a reality show: Ten-Ton Teen.

  At the counter, I reread the note, with its tiny x. and o. (who punctuates a kiss and hug?), and say, “Well, it’ll be nice to see Aunt Reg, anyway.” Then I spread Mom’s note in the sink and trickle bacon grease on top, watching how it blooms across the page, darkening the flower babe’s cheeks, smearing Mom’s words.

  I soap the dishes. The water’s extra hot; I hold my hands under as long as I can, like a test. After flopping on the couch in my pjs, I veg to cartoons. A couple mind-deadening hours later, I realize Aunt Reg’ll be arriving anytime to taxi me to Alberti’s.

  I’m barely through showering when the doorbell rings. Pulling on yesterday’s clothes, I yell, “One sec!” From my bedroom window, I spot Aunt Ro, not Reg, on the stoop, tinged pink with cold. I prep for her gardenia chokehold, the inevitable interrogation: “How do you FEEEEEL, Ev? Okay? Have you asked your little friend out? Do you want to talk about your dad?”

  I open the door.

  “Hey, Aunt Rosemary.”

  “Evan,” she pushes into the living room, “have you eaten? You look so thin!”

  I burp in reply, then add, “I’m fine Aunt Ro. We better get going.” Scooping my backpack from the closet, I pull on my coat, flip up the hood to protect against her laser gaze more than the cold.

  The second she starts the car, I switch on the radio — great, AM oldies — hoping to deflect her concentration, praying for clear roads and quiet. We pull from the driveway and head slowly up Madison. I feel her watching me from the corner of her eye, sense her emitting waves of urgent compassion. I hum along to “Love Potion Number 9.”

  She pushes a button on her steering wheel, the audio commandeer, I think it’s called, silencing the radio. Under other circumstances this would be a mercy (remember, it’s “Love Potion Number 9”), but Aunt Ro’s like nature, only instead of vacuums, she abhors silence. I brace, press my feet to the floor like a nervous driving instructor working the phantom brake.

  “So, your mom tells me you’ve gotten a job.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Care to tell me about it?”

  Now she’s deliberately not looking at me, like Grand Duchess Nonchalant. Obviously, she knows all about Alberti’s. She’s driving me there for cripe’s sake!

  “Didn’t my mother already fill you in?”

  “Weeeeell,” she stretches the word to about six syllables, annoyed by my smart-ass tone, “I was interested in hearing it from you, but since you’re feeling so put upon, skip it.”

  I swear she’s Mom’s sister, not Dad’s. She’s got that whole rigid vibe down.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be pissy. It’s just … can’t we please cut the crap?”

  “I don’t appreciate your attitude, Evan.”

  “Yeah, fine whatever. Obviously you already know about the mural. Right?”

  “Your mother may have mentioned it, yes.”

  “So you know I’m finishing it. You probably also know Gramp told me about my dead brother. Can we stop pretending I’m two years old and need protecting? I’m sick to death of it!”

  “Okay. I see how it is: Rosemary as Emotional Whack-a-Mole. What else is new?”

  Jabbing a lacquered nail at the wheel, flicking on the radio, she clacks her tongue against her teeth. “Hound Dog” plays, slightly off station, but she makes no move to change it.

  I’ll never beat her in a battle of seething. Besides, I have been sort of a prick. I lower the volume and my hood.

  “Look, Aunt Ro, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I appreciate the ride.”

  She doesn’t respond; keeps her eyes bolted to the traffic light; rapidly nail-taps the wheel. We finally get a green, and turn onto Aurora, her rhythm slowing.

  “So, work’s okay. The Alberti’s are wild, like the anti-Galloways: all noise and big emotions. Funny as anything. With the fireworks in the kitchen, it’s remarkable they serve a single meal, but — ”

  “They should’ve told you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “About the baby. I always felt they should have told you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Then, as I’m about to bring up Father Fran, a slab of ice hits the windshield. Aunt Ro shrieks, pumping the brakes. We fishtail into a snow bank, back bumper whumping crusted snow. As I jump out, a couple kids, probably fourth or fifth graders, skid around the corner.

  Aunt Ro joins me on the sidewalk to inspect her Saturn — no damage. I grab my stuff and give her a quick hug. Alberti’s is only a block away; she seems relieved to be rid of me.

  At the front entrance, I sense something’s wrong. The closed sign’s still up. I slide on ice by the kitchen entrance. It’s wide open and I can hear Angie yelling inside.

  When I walk in, she and Lupo are toe to toe, like they’re about to slow dance. I hesitate for a second, ’til Lupo embraces her. Afraid to witness some icky, cousin-on-cousin action, I clear my throat. They turn. Silence. Normal for Lupo. But a speechless Angie cannot be good.

  Something’s up. The kitchen even smells off. It’s obvious! Nothing’s cooking. I stammer into the odd tension.

  “Hey, uh. Sorry I’m late. Mom left early this morning. Had to get a ride from my aunt. That was a fiasco; some kids nearly put an ice grenade through her windshield.”

  I pause for some reply, but they just stare, and I realize Angie’s been crying.

  She says, “You’ll need to get a ride back home. Lupo and I are leavin’.”

  Lupo nods, actually starts to speak, but Angie stops him with a yank on his apron.

  “Oh — everything okay?”

  “Fine.”

  It’s a three-way staring match. Angie’s got this you-can’t-make-me-talk look; I just plain don’t know what to say; and Lupo, well, he’s just Lupo.

  I’m starting toward the dining room for a quick look at the mural, when Angie suddenly comes to life, grabbing my wrist.

  “What do you think you’re doin’?”

  “I wanted to check the mural before I go, get some ideas. I’ll only be a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute. Go!”

  “Angie, you can’t just throw me out. At least tell me what’s going on.”

  She loosens her grip and says, “We need to get to Saint Luke’s, okay?”

  Quick-scanning for visible signs of kitchen injury — sautéed forehead, missing thumbs — I ask, “The hospital? Jeez, what’s the matter?”

  “It’s my dad.”

  As I glance at Lupo, he looks away, head shaking s
lightly.

  “Is he all right?”

  She just looks down, twists her gold bracelet.

  “Angie, is he all right?”

  “I don’t know! Evan, Lupo found him this morning in the yard. In his pajamas again, all tangled in this plastic tarp. I think he was tryin’ to get at my mother’s roses. He had the pruning shears out — in the middle of winter! He don’t know what he’s doing anymore. God knows how long he was out there, practically froze solid.”

  “But he’ll be all right?”

  “They’re not sure. He’s unconscious. He opened his eyes in the ambulance, tried talkin’, but he wasn’t making no sense. Not just screwy the way he gets either, the words were all mangled, like he couldn’t remember how to talk. I hope to God it’s not a stroke on top of everything else.”

  “Well, we should get down there. I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  She purses her lips so tight they’re rimmed white. “Just NO. Okay?”

  Before I know what’s going on, Angie’s Honda’s gone, and I’m solo on the sidewalk.

  The car shrinks to nothing as she coasts through the intersection and heads downtown. I begin walking after them. Shoving hands in pockets, I count the change there. Down the block, I duck into a bus shelter. Won’t be long before one comes; I’ll thaw on the way.

  It reminds me of a sports venue — or a casino.

  There’s a preponderance of marble; the escalator’s gigantic, like something from Ancient Rome. I half expect Christians and lions to descend in tandem. Comfy chair, though, like sitting in a giant catcher’s mitt. Of course, I’ve never seen a catcher’s mitt in lavender.

  It’s a pastel oasis, everything muted to uniform value. Muted = soothing, soothing = good. I guess. But this intentional quality — this forced calmbience — makes me nervous.

  I mean, I know color theory. Hit me with cool gray-greens, hints of placid blue, a dollop of beige, I think, Okay. You want me sedate. And that makes me freakin’ nervous.

  Or maybe the situation’s got me frazzed. After waiting sixteen minutes, I was chanting, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” when the bus appeared. I was the lone passenger, and the driver went out of his way to be nice, apparently enjoying the company. He kept asking: Was I warm enough? Did I want a mint? Was the radio too loud?