On tiptoe in front of her chest of drawers, exploring forbidden territory, looking for Dad’s garnet tie clip. We’re going to Gran and Gramp’s anniversary dinner. Opening Mom’s jewelry box, I see it, shiny against green velvet. The shimmery oval’s marked “K” for Katherine.
I lift it from the drawer, hold it to the light. Just then, her bedroom door squeaks. Mom sees me; starts to speak; notices the locket.
It’s like she flies across the room.
She grabs my wrists, practically lifting me off the floor. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Instantly, I’m crying. When I drop the locket, she dives to rescue it, then shoves me out the door into the hallway. I hear her sobbing as I slam my bedroom door.
Blood pounds my ears at the vividness of the memory. Holy crap. Why’d she send me this? Turning the locket, I use my thumbnail to pop the latch. It accordions out like a teeny road map, revealing a tri-fold frame.
Each segment holds a baby picture. On the left is Infant Dad, all dimply smile and those ears. The center frame holds Evan Jr. It’s one of the pictures from the album; his head’s still vaguely bullet-shaped. In the right-hand frame I see the last Evan, the sole survivor, me.
I stare at this trio for a long time as that line from Hamlet “Good night, sweet prince” echoes through my head. Folding the locket shut, I bring it to my lips, to kiss it like an icon. Then I hook the chain over my head and drop it inside my sweatshirt, to dangle near my heart. I gather the rest of the letters and, wrapping them in a T-shirt, place them in my duffel.
Only Lex’s remains.
It’s sort of a shame to open a Lex present; she takes such care wrapping. This is no exception. She’s handmade the envelope from glittery, purple stock. I picture her slender fingers creasing these perfect folds. The back flap’s sealed with a mini photo-booth sticker of us wearing haloes and wings. We must be eight-ish. Right around the time her life began unraveling. I peel the sticker, careful not to rip it, knowing we’ll never be so close again.
Dear Evan,
It’s true what they’ve been telling you all weekend: YOU ARE LOVABLE!
I love you, Evan. More than you know. You are my greatest gift.
SO … Yes, I guess “SO” is sort of like “BUT” … And I promised to keep my big butt out of this! Sorry, that was lame.
The things you said before getting on the bus really made me think (for one thing, I thought, “Hmm, I’m not used to Evan having such a potty mouth”). But seriously, I guess I owe you an answer.
I suppose I’ve always known you felt that way about me (even before the music room), but hey, what’s not to love? And I’d be lying if I denied having feelings for you, because in a lot of ways, I do feel the same (see above).
But, Evan, I can’t ever “BE WITH YOU” that way. Even the thought of it makes me a little queasy — no offense.
Doctor Lindquist says I may always have “intimacy issues,” that letting people close might never be easy, because of what the stepmonster did. She says it’s a trust thing. (Picture me doing air quotes. She does that — ugh.)
And the physical stuff — I’m afraid part of me will always think of it as ugly, scary, dirty. And I couldn’t stand it if I ever thought of you like that. So, I just can’t see dragging you into my mess. You’re too important to me. What I’m trying to say is: If I was ever truly able, ever capable of really being “in love” — in a real relationship — with somebody, it’d probably be you. But I’m afraid that’ll never happen. Not meant to be.
Catch you on the flipside, Bud. (Besides, you’d probably get sick of me, anyway. I’m always saying annoying stuff like, “Catch you on the flipside.”)
Well, I’ve basically disregarded the whole protocol here (which Sister Dorothy explained in excruciating detail during Palanca 101), that being to avoid hot-button topics; offer complete support; be positive and reassuring. I hope you can forgive me. I’ve never been great at following rules, as you may have heard. But I figured I should be honest. I thought it was important to clear things up.
However, they may intercept this and screen it for subversive content, so I shall now include some official palanca-speak …
I pledge to join with you in spirit during encounter weekend. In support of your spiritual journey, I’ve vowed to say three rosaries each day, and to attend special Saturday AM Mass being offered for encounter candidates. This sacrifice of morning cartoons (which, in all honesty, were never my thing anyway) is a gift to you and a testament to my belief in your walk with Christ. How’s that?
Peas 4-ever,
Alexis
PS: The average guy has roughly 8.4 serious girlfriends in his lifetime, but you can have only ONE REAL, BEST FRIEND. I’ll ALWAYS be yours.
I’m not sure what to feel. I’ve just received a “Dear John” palanca. But wait, there are at least three separate points where she admits having feelings for me. Of course, she also says the thought of being with me makes her queasy. Not exactly encouraging.
Thing is, though, that doesn’t really have anything to do with me. It’s because of her past. So … she’s seeing a therapist … maybe things will change. Never say never; I’ve got a shot.
Except she’s dating Tyler. So apparently, “physical stuff” is only “ugly, scary, dirty” when it involves me. Terrific.
Why does “best friends” seem so suckish right now?
“Crap.” I jump off the bunk, add Lex’s palanca to the pile. “Crap. Crap. Crap!” Well, this is a suitable journal-reading mood, I suppose. Bring it on.
Climbing up top, I lean against cinderblock, open Dad’s journal. I’ll cut to the chase, skip to the encounter pages. They’re in the chunk he excised from the journal. Thumbing through the lost excerpts, I find my way to:
March 12, 1976
Hey, J.
Got to Holy Family Merciful Wisdom Center an hour ago. Nice place. All that’s missing are suits of armor. I’m in Room 316 with some guy we creamed in the semis last year. He’s pretending not to remember me. It’s strange, I didn’t know what to expect from encounter,
That makes two of us.
but I didn’t realize there’d be so much personal attention from Father Fran.
Uh oh.
It’s kind of nice. He joined me after introductions, helped me settle in. We said a rosary together — oddly familiar. I guess we must’ve prayed together when I was an altar boy, but still … Yeah! They just announced dinner!
I guess his first night wasn’t bad. He sounds pretty gung ho.
March 12, 1976 Continued, 9 P.M.
Okay, this is going to suck. First off, the food tasted like horse shit, then we had a 2-1/2 hour Mass. Why am I here? Right, Father Fran invited me personally. Okay, maybe it won’t be so bad. At least I’ll have a chance to find out about that dog. It’s been driving me nuts.
I did ask him about it earlier, but we got interrupted before he could answer. I’m waiting for him now. He’s supposed to come get me so we can talk. He said there were some things we need to discuss.
He had the funniest look on his face when he said it. If you didn’t know him, you might even think it was creepy. Anyway, we’re going to his office after he’s done prepping tomorrow’s activity. Hope he comes soon, lights-out is at 10:00.
Be careful what you wish for, Dad.
He’s here — later journal,
E.
I’m afraid to turn the page; this has to be it, the big whatever happened on encounter.
March 13, 1976 Middle o’ night
Hey,
Swore I’d just forget about this. It’s obviously just me misreading things. But Father seemed really screwy before. I tried, but sleep just won’t come. So I figure I’ll write for a while and maybe then my brain will shut down. Unfortunately there’s no Fontana di Papa here.
He’s close. I see him crossing a river; piranhas roil the water. He teeters on a mossy log.
I followed him down to his office. This tiny room, down a hallway, past the chapel, no windows
or anything. His one “luxury” is a pay phone in the hall. He didn’t say a word ’til we’d gotten inside and shut the door.
I started talking. I asked him about the dog again, and he said something about it being “a sign” for him.
When I asked what he meant, he murmured, mostly to himself, “I’ve been wondering if it was the right time. I asked God to send me a sign. And He has, through your question.”
“A sign? For what?”
He answered my question with his own, “What do you remember about this dog?” When I hesitated, he said, “Close your eyes. Meditate on it.”
Eyes closed, I tried to see the dog. Father whispered, “What do you see?”
I told him, “There are trees, a fence, no a cage. We’re inside with this big dog. Is his name Cat or something like that, Father?”
“Kap, I called him Kap, short for Kaspar.”
I opened my eyes then — couldn’t help it — and yelled, “Thank God, it IS real! I thought I was going crazy!”
I was surprised to find Father kneeling right in front of me. I didn’t even hear him cross the room. He said, “What else?” and I really tried to remember more, but that was it.
Father frowned for a second. Then he said, “What’s troubling you, Evan?”
I got the feeling he was talking about Tony, so I said, “Well, you know Tony and I’ve been going through a rough patch.”
His face changed then: tightened. He seemed to listen to a noise I couldn’t hear. Then he said, “We’re not ready to talk about him just yet.”
I was confused — he’d asked what was wrong — but I said, “No sweat.”
Then Father touched my shoulder and said, “You’re a special boy, Evan, always have been.” That should have made me feel good. But it just reminded me of that dream, and I kind of shrank in my seat.
He hugged me then. That smell — what was it? Old Spice and … something. He said, “Off to bed! They’ll have our heads if we break curfew.” At the door, he whispered, “This’ll be our secret, Evan.”
Here I am, hours later and I can’t shake that feeling. But tomorrow’s (crap, it’s already tomorrow) another day and F. F. promised he’d make time for us to talk, just us.
G’night, Evan
God! Is he dense, or what? This is killing me. It’s like a movie, some bad Lifetime saga Lex’d memorize.
3/14/76
Journal,
What a day — nonstop activities starting with Mass at sunrise. That was pretty cool. Father Fran chose me to be altar server, like old times.
There was a strange moment during Mass where he zoned out. (Hope he’s not getting senile. He’s too young). When I handed him the chalice, he sort of stopped and stared into my eyes. I don’t know if anyone noticed.
Didn’t see much of F. F. after Mass. Father Brendan led my small group. He’s cool — even though he can be scary in class — he’s like a monument come to life, not even sure what I mean by that, just … solid I guess.
Anyway, we did this activity called Soul Search — ACK! — Had to sit and stare into this guy’s eyes for nearly an hour. I had this dork whose eye meandered. Made it a little tough to stare into. I know he couldn’t help that, but the steady nose-picking was way too much.
I have no clue what the point was, but halfway through, I just lost it. Totally humiliating. I started bawling like a friggin’ two-year-old. I asked Father B to be excused. He said okay, but followed me to the men’s room and said, “Don’t be ashamed, Evan. Introspection often reveals painful memories. If you’d like to talk, I’m here.”
I said, “Father, I really don’t know what it was about,” and he said, “Perhaps you’re not ready. But my advice is to offer your burden, whatever it is, up to Christ.” I said, “Sure, sure. I’ll do that,” and he left.
As I finished at the sink, Father Fran came in, all bugged. He’d seen me leave the sunroom. He asked, “What’ve you remembered?” His face was super weird, but when I answered, “Nothing,” he looked normal again and said, “So you didn’t mention anything to Brendan?” I said, “Nope,” and he said, “Don’t forget, I want to see you tonight, around 11:00. I’m busy ’til then with paperwork. Come to my office. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
10:45. I’m heading down the hall even though it’s lights-out.
Shit, this must be it! God, what I wouldn’t give to time-travel back there and save him.
OH GOD! OH GOD! OH, SHIT! Shit, what am I supposed to do?
I don’t know how to wrap my head around this. It’s all changed. Everything.
We were in his office and it was fine. Then … it … wasn’t. He wasn’t. He was smoking. He used to smoke. I didn’t remember that. He asked did I want to have a private drawing lesson, “like we used to.”
At first, I just looked at him, like, how strange that he’d bring that up now, when I’d just been thinking about it after so long.
He said he’d draw first, so he sat me on the floor, in front of a bookcase. He asked me to take off my shirt. I felt weird, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He sat behind me at his desk, sketching.
It was unreal, sitting half-naked with Father sketching as he talked, real quiet, about stuff: my latest art project, the team’s record, shit like that.
Then his voice turned raspy, like a hand was around his throat. I started to turn, to check if he was okay, but he said, “NO! Don’t move. Hold the pose.” There was a shuffling. Then he cleared his throat and said, “You’ve really grown since last time, Evan. You’re quite the man.” When I didn’t answer, he said, “Enough for now. You must be tired. Let’s take a break.”
I started to put on my shirt, but he said, “Wait. Just let me look at you.” I should’ve just left. I was about to. Don’t know why I didn’t.
You couldn’t, Dad. He knew how to control you, like you belonged to him.
I guess it was because he said, “You wanted to talk about Tony?” I nodded.
Father lit another cigarette. “You and Tony are very close, aren’t you?”
When I said, “I guess so, but we’ve been fighting,” he laughed. But there was no humor in it. Then he said, “Fighting … that’s natural. Young boys have so much,” he grinned, “energy. What else do you and Tony do together … to blow off steam?”
I started to get pissed. It was like he was saying … well, what some of the guys joked about sometimes — that Tony and me weren’t just friends.
I couldn’t figure out what to say. So I just sat there.
Closing the journal, I jump from my bunk. “Oh God. I can’t read anymore.” I pace the room, trying to walk his words from my brain. It’s no use. I pull the journal down, crawl into the bottom bunk, a frightened animal in a cave.
Father came close, took his hand out of his pocket, and said, “Want a stick, Evan? It was your favorite.” I put out my hand, but he just smiled.
Unwrapping the gum, he held it to my lips, waiting. Finally, I opened my mouth. He touched the stick of Wrigley’s to my tongue.
I must’ve closed my eyes then. I started seeing things that weren’t there, like flashbacks: Woods, the dog on its back. Me and Father rubbing its fur. It was surreal. Even the taste of mint changed into something else. The diamond shapes on the rectory rug, the station wagon, Father’s breath hot on my neck. I felt him pushing me down. GOD!
But when I opened my eyes, I was still sitting on the chair in his office. Father perched on the edge of the desk, watching me, eyes shiny like coins. He said, “You still like it. I’m so glad.” My head pounded as he leaned close, starting to touch me, saying, “I’ve missed you, Evan.”
I couldn’t speak. Random thoughts still flashed in my head: the confessional, the taste of altar wine. Refocusing, I realized he was talking about Tony. “… attractive boy. Softer, the Pettafordi boy. Perhaps we should include him, open our little circle to your friend?”
I gagged then, on the sticky sweetness of the gum, ran out, shirt in my hand. Stumbling down the hall, I fo
und Father Brendan’s office, banged on the door. I had to tell him. Finally my pounding woke the brother next door. He poked his head out, said, “Brendan’s been called to administer Last Rites. He’ll return tomorrow afternoon. What did you need?”
I just shook my head. Came back here. Fell into bed. My roommate never knew. He’s still snoring like a chainsaw. I don’t know what to do. It’s 3:45, and I still can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes they start. Now I KNOW they’re not dreams. Oh God. The things we did. God, forgive me.
And now he wants Tony too. I can’t let him do it. I won’t.
“Attention: We’ll be meeting in chapel for nightly prayer and reflection in ten minutes. Remember, this is NOT an optional activity. All candidates are expected to attend. Thank you.”
Great! The last thing I want right now is to put the journal down and freaking mingle. But I have no choice. Hopping down, I look in the mirror — UGH. I head to the bathroom, splash some water on my face. Then I gargle with hot water and antibacterial soap, attempting to rinse away the imagined taste of spearmint.
As I step out of the bathroom, I catch Spiotti coming from my room. He hesitates for just a second, a stutter-step; then he continues toward me.
“Galloway, I was looking for you. Thought we could walk down to chapel together. Since we both lost our roomies.”
My old sensors kick in, but he seems sincere. “Just a sec. Let me … turn off the light.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’ll have to do. I scoot into 214, quick-scan for damage. Looks okay. The journal’s still open on the bottom bunk. Folding loose pages together, I slip it into my duffel.
When I turn around, Randy’s standing behind me. “What’s that?”
“Nothing important. Just some notes I’ve been writing to myself.”
“Like a diary?”
“I guess.”
“Cool.” As we walk down the stairs toward chapel, he says, “Some weekend, huh?”
I smile and nod, thinking, This is too strange.
The Namesake Page 27