Kids from the other schools are already seated. As I walk to the first empty row, I simultaneously groove on the surroundings — stained glass, stone floors, oak pews worn to a mellow gloss — and try to size up the group, pick Geragosian out of the crowd.
I’m so absorbed with examining backs I miss my chance to slip in among the harmless: three drama clubbers and a pair of Lex’s choir friends. Instead, I land in a track cluster. I suddenly find myself caught in a Spiotti/Nealson sandwich.
They sit a little too close. Kenny swings his backpack, which smells oddly of liverwurst, into my shoulder. “Oops.” Dropping the leg of the kneeler on my toes, Randy thuds onto it, crosses himself, and grins.
I’d always assumed it was just an expression, but I see literal stars; they blur as my eyes brim. Gnawing my lip, I stifle the scream Spiotti craves. The result’s a sore lip to go with my throbbing toes.
Thankfully, as Father Brendan and crew file in, everyone stands, and I’m able to extract my foot from under the kneeler. Still, distracted by imminent hurt, I find it hard to follow along. I’ve never felt such unease about the sign of peace. I just hope my metacarpals heal by spring. The music consists of your typical, warbled hymns, until Father Calvin and that miniscule nun bust out guitars and launch into some classic Bette Midler and — interesting choice — “Rainbow Connection” during the offertory. In a true stroke of luck, Spiotti carries the wine. Taking advantage of his absence, I give Nealson the slip and shift back a pew, safe among the artsy.
During communion, mini-sis sings “Eagle’s Wings.” Dad always loved that tune, and she’s got the voice of an angel, so I can’t help crying. One hour of encounter, and I’ve already lost it twice; wonder if that’s a record.
Father gives the final blessing: “The Mass is ended. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” The “Thanks be to God” seems particularly loud and especially heartfelt.
But as we prepare to leave, he moves to the podium and says, “Please take your seats.”
There’s a communal shoulder slump, like, “Now what?”
“Before we recess, I shall introduce a special speaker. To you who attend Sebastian’s, he needs no introduction. A valued member of our faculty, as well as a distinguished alumnus, he has served our school exceedingly well.
“If you have come this evening from another of our excellent Catholic schools, it is my great pleasure to introduce him to you. He has agreed to be here tonight to discuss the impact encounter can have on a young man’s life. Please join me in welcoming Saint Sebastian’s Instructor of Art, Mr. Anthony J. Pettafordi.”
There’s a distinct “cricket-cricket” moment. Nobody’s quite sure how to join him in welcoming Mister P. Then Father begins to applaud, meaty palms echoing. Everyone takes his cue and begins to clap as Pettafordi enters stage left and approaches the podium.
“Thank you. Thank you so much. Your warm welcome is especially appreciated on such a blustery February night. I, for one, was tempted to stay at home in the company of a heavy quilt and a steaming vanilla chai — the drink of champions.” He regards us with this expression of anticipation that sinks into an “is-this-thing-on?” look.
Was that a joke? Yikes. Just then, camera-nun scurries up the aisle and snaps a really unflattering candid of Mister P mopping his upper lip. He clears his throat and, in this gesture I’ve seen a million times, his “I’ve-lost-them” tell, he flattens his necktie with his thumb and forefinger, running them down the edge three separate times. Then, just like he does with art history slides, he dispenses any attempt at human connection and proceeds to talk at us, eyes focused just above our heads.
He tells us how he went on encounter senior year. “I wasn’t exactly popular then. And I was unhappy at home.” His face clouds as he says, “My father was a bully and a tyrant. But I had one friend who meant the world to me.”
Oh jeez no.
“I’ll call him Everett.”
How creative.
“He was all that I aspired to: popular, handsome, a terrific athlete.”
I will myself to dissolve into the pew, wondering if there’s a patron saint of invisibility.
“Everett,” he says it like he’s teaching a new word to his pet macaw, “attended encounter the year before I did. We’d gone through a rough patch, grown apart. When he returned from encounter, it was clear our friendship was over. Then Everett got into some serious disciplinary trouble at school. He — ”
Father Brendan coughs once — loudly — and Mister P glances toward him. This odd current jumps between them for a moment; I’m probably the only one who notices. Then Pettafordi shuffles the pages on the podium and continues.
“I came on encounter for all the wrong reasons. I wanted to prove something, not just to myself, but to my lost friend. And to my father. What that was, I’m not quite sure. Perhaps that I was worthy of respect, that I had value.”
He’s looking from face to face now, searching. Finally his eyes land on me, and I’m unable to look away; it’s like he’s working some kind of hypno-ray.
“But the main thing I brought on encounter — as sure as if I’d packed it in my Samsonite — was anger. Anger at Everett,” his eyes bore into mine, “at my father. And yes, anger at God.”
The audience is fairly attentive. I mean, we’re a roomful of teen guys; we know anger.
“And I won’t insult you by claiming I was ‘washed clean of that anger,’ that it vanished.”
Well, that’s good. I’d have to protest if you did. I’ve seen it firsthand.
“But what I discovered on encounter did change me. It tempered the anger.” He smiles at his own ironic word choice. “What I discovered was love.”
I anticipate an audible groan, but the chapel remains mostly silent (except for Kenny Nealson, who can’t help oofing when Spiotti elbows him in the ribs).
“And that love, the wonderful truth is it was here,” he cups his left pec, lingers slightly too long, “all the time. It is the love of God, and it lives in us all. Recognize it, allow yourselves to feel it, for believing you are worthy of it can truly illuminate your lives.”
I expect him to launch into a full-on version of that Whitney Houston song — and he probably would too — when he pauses just long enough for Father B to step to the altar mic and say, “Thank you, Anthony. Your reminiscences are deeply felt and much appreciated.”
I’m guessing Father’s subtext is “Cross this nut off the motivational speaker list.”
Pettafordi sort of gulps, looking a tad stricken. Gathering his many, many unread pages from the podium, he shoves them into his Monet folder and shakes Father Brendan’s hand. Then, wishing us a successful encounter, he vacates the altar.
We process from chapel in a less-than-orderly fashion. I overhear some kids in Holy Ghost letter jackets laughing. One says, “What was with that art teacher? He was whack!”
I should come to Mister P’s defense, but they’re gone before I can think of anything to say. Besides, I’m not so sure I disagree.
Wandering down the hall, for the moment, I’m blissfully Spiotti-free. He and Kenny disappeared into the john right after Mass. Hopefully there’s a smoke detector in there.
Passing the reconciliation rooms, I start upstairs, looking for 214. I’m actually eager to meet Kevin Geragosian; who knows, maybe he’s a cool guy.
Can’t believe I got the bottom bunk.
This blows. It’s lame, but I’d visualized myself up top where I could disappear; pretend I was in the penthouse; be invisible. Instead, I’m wedged below, counting mattress stripes an inch above my face. Okay, at least three feet, but still. With every move, my roommate sags. I’m seriously expecting 300-plus pounds of furry Geragosian to come crashing down. Still, I’ll take death by flattening over rooming with Spiotti any day.
I caught a glimpse of that particular circle of hell earlier, in Room 206, just down the hall. I have to remember to say a Divine Mercy Chaplet for the poor dude bunking in that fun house. I passed their open door earlie
r, on my way to the toilet, and heard the following:
“Did I say you could get down?”
“No, but I thought you were asleep.”
“Well you thought wrong. How do you expect me to sleep if that light’s shining in? Get back to your post.”
“But I — ”
“But nothin’! When you stand on that chair, your head blocks the moon. What don’t you understand?”
“Can’t we please just close the shade?”
“Do I really need to re-explain the spiritual benefits of physical suffering?”
“No!”
“No what?”
“No, sir.”
“Good, it’s a pretty basic concept. Now up you go.”
Poor kid; he’s the tester Evan. Guess I should be thankful Kevin’s just a thyroid case. The guy’s huge, but there are worse things than rooming with a giant. Actually, Bigfoot — that’s what I’ve taken to calling him in my interior monologue; he’s the hairiest human I’ve seen; I’m talking alpaca-hairy — has turned out to be decent. I mean, he’s only said about ten words. Twelve, really: “Hey. Plantsfield. Nope. Yup. Vanilla. Not really. A sister. Nope. Good night.”
But, mercifully, he’s a gentle Sasquatch — lucky, because he could easily dismember me if he wanted. And he gets extra credit for sleeping like a dead guy. Sure, he shifts every minute or so and, yeah, I went into panic mode the first couple times, expecting to be squashed, but the bunk’s endured. He doesn’t even snore. Nope, other than his massive, shifting weight, his tectonic plate-ishness, you’d never know he was there.
And I don’t think I could disturb him if I tried. I bumped into the nightstand a while ago as I was rummaging through my duffel — sent the alarm clock crashing to the floor — and he never moved.
It’s 12:44, way past lights-out, but since I’ve pretty much embraced the nocturnal life, I’m up, listening to Dad’s Walkman. I’ve replayed most of what I heard the other day. It wasn’t any easier to take this time.
I’m not sure how much more there is, but I definitely need a break before continuing. Throwing off the covers, I swing my feet over the bedside and move to the window. The snowy grounds look like pewter in the moonlight. Eyes soft and unfocused, I scrape with my fingernail, etching the frosted pane.
When I glance back at the clock, I discover I’ve been at it for nearly half an hour. I’ve scratched an image into the ice film: Dad and me from that dream. I’m screaming, he’s being sucked to the sky. Charming. Breathing warmth onto both palms, I press the glass, smear off the picture. Feeling cold for the first time, I wonder if that poor kid’s still standing on a chair in 206.
“Okay, Evan. You’re stalling.” I glance over at Kevin — still asleep — then get under the covers. Suddenly freezing, I slip the headphones back on, press Play and hear,
I wanted to scream and scream. But I never did.
After that, there are more Father Fran details, places they went, stuff like that. At one point he mentions,
… his cheek against mine.
He sounds regretful, almost like he misses it. That makes me even colder. Now there’s just muffled noise, as if he’s breathing too close to the microphone, then,
Shit!
followed by a series of clicks, a grinding sound (a drawer closing?) and really distant, muffled, I hear,
Okay, Ma! Gimme a sec.
The tape runs blank for a full five minutes, cuts out. When it starts up, there’s all this noise: paper shuffling, a TV in the background. He says,
I wrote a poem. Want to hear my poem, Reggie? It’s a sonnet.
This love has chewed a canker in my soul;
it rips me raw and pulls me to fierce fire.
You say this touch will save us; make us whole, preaching trust, you foul,
he’s struggling
infectious
clearing his throat, he repeats,
infectious
it comes out “infeshus”
liar! Anyway, it goes on from there. You can read it yourself soon … uh …
losing it, he breaks down, shifting from laughter to sobs. The tape’s all garbled; battery’s probably getting low. I’m about to turn it off when he suddenly gets louder, clearer, and says,
Sorry, Reg. I’m a little wasted. Been sneakin’ again, since encounter. I graduated to Dad’s Seagram’s — altar wine doesn’t cut it anymore.
More laughter, ending abruptly in a cough; then his voice gets deeper, cold somehow.
I used to do it when I was a kid too … once Father started givin’ it to me and I saw it helped … Ma kept that bottla wine in the pantry. Anyway, helps calm me down. And … promise not to say anything.
He laughs again, a bitter croak this time.
How stupid am I? It’ll be over by the time you get this. Y’need to know I did it to catsh him, make him shange. Father, I mean. So he couldn’t get away with it anymore. People will think I was crazy or, or just … bad … but, you’ll know the truth. So, if I go through with it, I’m counting on you to tell.
The sound goes all funky again. I notice the warmth of the Walkman against my chest, can feel it, even through the covers. I hit Pause/Play/Pause/Play. His voice comes on again, super clear, and he says,
… been sneakin the pills for a couple weeks and after I wreck the place I’ll take ’em all … and … then when they come to the art studio, expecting to find me and Tony …
Pause.
I can’t believe it, drunk or not, he’s talking about wrecking the art studio, then killing himself. But why’s he bringing up Tony? They weren’t even talking at this point. Okay, he was able to pull off Part A, trash the studio — over $500 in damages — but why didn’t he go through with Part B, trashing himself?
Rewind/Play.
… and … then when they come to the art studio, expecting to find me and Toooony theeere waaaitinnngGGRE-EEE-EEE-EEE — EEEEE-ck-ck-ck
Yanking the headphones off, I stare at the Walkman. Inside the plastic window, I can see tape unwinding, beginning to shred.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Repeatedly hitting Eject, I try prying open the little door; the Walkman’s hot. I flip it over, pop the batteries. The whirring/shredding stops, but it’s no use. When I finally get the lid open, the tape looks like melted confetti. Despite valiant respooling efforts, it’s clearly unsalvageable.
I launch the Walkman into the wall and it explodes, shards flying. Kevin lets out the tiniest whimper, farts grandly, and rolls over. Jumping from bed, I crawl on the floor, gathering plastic scraps.
Unsure how to proceed, I just dump the little pile of plastic and wires in the garbage. The acoustic portion of our program has officially ended. I almost feel like giving up, giving in. I certainly don’t give a crap about tomorrow’s “official encounter activities.”
Climbing into bed, I cover my head. The journal’s under my pillow, filled with unread pages: poetry, entries. But I don’t think I can face them. Determined to will myself to sleep, I clamp my eyes. I’m picturing page 117 of my Human Anatomy and Physiology book, mentally labeling sections of the brain: cortex, cerebrum, medulla. Highlighting each, I will it to sleep. It’s very soothing, meditative. And it’s not working.
Sitting up, I switch on my book light, blinking as my eyes adjust. “So, let’s read some poems.” The envelope’s tucked into the journal. I slide the pages out; train the tiny beam. Each poem’s on a single journal page, five in all. The first one’s called:
Some Things I Remember
coarse gray,
fur-mingled scent
spearmint/smoke,
constellations of holes:
pin-patterned ceiling
above me, your
face: pearling sweat,
hot cheeks rocking
over throat-wafer,
rectangled white;
pushing me down,
bitter taste of oak
leaves and worse
behind my trembling
l
ips, shrieking black
Frantic sketches fill the margins: eyes, smears of smoke, the snarling face of a dog. God, it’s like a study for a Bosch painting. Stomach tight, I’m anticipating a bad-to-worse progression in the series, so starting this bad has me worried. I flip the page; it’s the sonnet from the tape.
TAINT
This love has chewed a canker in my soul;
it rips me raw and pulls me to fierce fire.
You say this touch will “save us; make us whole,” preaching trust, you foul, infectious liar.
You take me as you slickly moralize,
with whispers of salvation, gently urged.
And I, your meek disciple, swallow lies;
my innocence and pain — twins sepulchered.
And each time that you come, my will is bent,
in threads of black and ritual enrobed.
The water and wine: UNHOLY COVENANT
that you name “Penance” and a “debt we owed.”
The wooden Savior, hanging silent, weeps;
as watchful eye of God above me sleeps.
“Oh my God, Unholy Covenant, like the painting.” I can’t believe this is his work. I mean, I can; I do. It’s just … a tear splots the page, rippling ink. Blotting the paper, I leave a faint, black mark on the pillowcase: my own taint.
As I fold pages back into the envelope, I say, “Why couldn’t you have just put it out there? Had a gallery show of abuse paintings? Published an illustrated book of poetry? Told somebody. Done something. Anything other than what you did. Shit, Dad!”
I’m barely aware I’ve gotten out of bed and begun pacing. “I really can’t do three more pages. This is too much.” Why can’t I get desensitized, develop an emotional callous?
I collapse into the desk chair, its legs scraping across the floor. Staring at the window, I try to believe my reflected face is his against the moon. Anything to feel like he’s with me. Shivering, I go back to the bottom bunk, fall in. Face the wall.
The Namesake Page 23