The Namesake (7 page)

Alexis has the loudest whisper ever. We’re in silent study, and Miss Delateski does not look amused. She glares over a stack of lab reports, makes a zipper motion across her lips.

I try to look calm as my stomach churns. Lex’s feet twitch so fast it appears she’s dealing with a fire ant infestation. I wonder if anyone’s ever died from having to stay silent for five more minutes. The suspense is definitely getting to us; I swear the clock just ticked backwards.

I called yesterday from the library, told Lex about the journal, asked her to meet me. She couldn’t come, so I read a couple entries over the phone. I know that seems tacky, but it feels right to share Dad with my best friend. So it’s the first face time we’ve had since my discovery, and now we’re hostages to high school structure. Forced mutes. Two minutes ’til period’s over. I doodle in the margin of my soc book; Lex gnaws her gel pen, sighs.

Finally, the bell rings; changing of the guard. Miss D gathers her stuff. The new monitor waddles in. We luck out: Sister Dolores, old and enormous. Swathed in traditional black and white, she looks like a penguin that’s turned the tables, swallowed a leopard seal. Lex always says Sister’s bosom’s large enough to support the original cross. Obviously, that’s sacrilegious, but I can’t help laughing.

Old Dolores strains into the creaking desk chair, closes her eyes. Uncorking a Wonder Ear, she deposits it on the blotter. For her, it truly will be a silent study. We’re home free.

Lex clears her throat extra-loud and repeats her question full volume. “SO, WHAT DO YOU THINK IT MEANS, EV?”

Sister doesn’t budge, but the three cheerleaders in the front row turn and bad-eye us.

“Ooh, Evan! I’ve disturbed the Ambers. Mea culpa, ladies! That means ‘sorry.’ Really though, keep up the good work. You inspire me. Rah rah, now!”

They perform a perfectly synchronized hand gesture that’d never fly at a Catholic pep rally. Lex feigns horror. Sneering, the three collect their matching designer backpacks and, risking detention, cut out of study hall early.

“Thought they’d never leave. So, now that we’re alone … ”

Sister Dolores sleep-grunts loud enough to startle us both.

“Well, almost alone,” Lex smirks.

“Yeah, about my dad’s journal. I don’t know what to think.”

Lex’s eyes take on that laser focus she gets when really concentrating. “It’s wild, Evan. I mean, Pettafordi and your dad all buddy-buddy — so what happened to bust it up?”

“No idea.”

“Well, what’s his journal say?”

“I haven’t read anymore since yesterday. I just got freaked out, you know?”

“I guess, kind of like being in the confessional with my mom. She used to do that when I was little, bring me in with her. I had to listen to her sins. Truly creepy. So, do you have it?”

“The journal? Obviously. I can’t leave it home. Mom would root it out. She grilled me about drug use yesterday. If she found his journal, she’d pull a Krakatoa.”

Slipping the journal from my binder, I half-expect an alarm to blare. I picture Sister Dolores in a warden’s uniform. Screaming: “LOCKDOWN! GALLOWAY’S GOT EMOTIONAL CONTRABAND!”

I hand Dad’s chronicle to Alexis. She holds it with such care, reverence almost. It’s a relief knowing she’s here to share the weight.

“Are you scared, Evan?”

“Yeah. So I want us to read it together. Let’s start where I left off, February 20th.”

“I didn’t know your father was an artist … Evan?”

“Me neither. He was never interested in my painting, that’s for sure.”

“Well, that’s his loss. You’re really talented, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ev?”

“Hmm?”

“Turn the page.”

I’m sweating, and I think my intestines just unspooled around my ankles.

“Alexis, I can’t read anymore.”

“You’ve got to! There are answers in here, I know it.”

“I’m not sure I can deal with them, whatever they are.”

“I’ll help you, Evan.”

“Look, maybe there are answers, but I don’t need to know them. Besides, all we’ve learned is that Mr. Pettafordi had an inferiority complex. What does that have to do with my father killing himself like thirty years later?”

“I think you owe it to him to find out.”

“I’m done.”

“Fine, let me take it home. I’ll do the reading and give you a full report.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Well, then we only have one choice. We go straight to the source and ask the horse.”

“You mean Pettafordi?”

“Of course, of course.”

“You’re insane.”

“I know. But it’s sort of liberating.”

“What are we supposed to do, ask him why he freaked and stopped being friends with my dad? Won’t that seem odd, considering their friendship’s like a big, dark secret?”

“No way, Evieboy. We’ll be discreet. Besides, you’re still in mourning. Personal crises are like a free pass for odd behavior.”

“You should know.”

“Yeah.” Lex rocks forward, studying her feet, and begins drawing tiny purple circles, like bruises, on the back of her hand.

I reach over, ease the gel pen from her fingers.

“I’m sorry, Lex. I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay. You are an idiot. But it’s true. I’m the expert on personal crises and odd behavior. Another gift from Dear Old Stepdad.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t. Really. It was a long time ago, and I’m past it. Now forget it, okay?”

“But Lex, I — ”

“But nothing, comrade. Back to the plan at hand: The Subtle Interrogation of Anthony J. Pettafordi. Nice ring, don’t you think? I may write a
Lifetime
movie about it one day.”

“Great.”

“So here’s the deal. We tell him in art we want to discuss college choices. We’ve got Mods 13 and 14 free. We meet in his office, ask a few questions, and before he realizes what’s happening, we’ve shined a searchlight into the past. What do you say?”

“Uh … gee … let’s see … no.”

“Come on! Life is short, be a sport!”

“You know I hate it when you rhyme.”

“Evan, Evan. Big, fat seven. Kick your butt straight up to heaven.”

“You are so queer.”

“But that’s why you love me.”

“Fine, I’ll do it on one condition: I do the talking. You’re just there as a witness, got it?”

“Whatever.”

“Promise?”

“Jeez, okay!”

“Good. Repeat after me: I, Alexis Philomena Bottaro, do solemnly swear to keep my big trap shut. And to do everything in my power to keep from embarrassing my friend, Evan Gifford Galloway, who is all good and deserving of all my love.”

“I think it’s so cool your initials spell egg.”

“Say it, Philomena.”

“Shut up!”

“Say it.”

“All right, all right! I, Alexis Philomena Bottaro, do solemnly swear to keep my big trap shut — ”

The bell rings. As we slip past Sister Dolores, she sleepmumbles something that sounds like “rutapeppa transgoration.” Lex hovers for a moment, hoping for more. As the next monitor comes in to rouse Sister, we head out.

In the hall, Lex says, “Cafeteria?”

I shake my head. “Can’t. I’ve got a preliminary stop before we talk to Pettafordi.”

“I’ll come, too.”

“No. This is sort of a fact-finding mission; I’ll be deep undercover. It’s best I go solo.”

Her head does a quizzical puppy tilt. “Sure you can handle it?”

“Not really, but I’ll try. See you in psych.”

“Roger that.” She gives me a quick salute, clicks her heels, and starts toward the cafeteria. Then, rushing back, she pulls a laminated Helen Reddy bookmark from her binder and hands it to me, grinning. “For luck.”

As Lex retreats down the corridor, I briefly consider fleeing the building. Instead, attempting to channel the “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” singer’s bravado, I head toward Awkward Student/Teacher Conversation #1.

I peer across the cluttered desk like a deer in the headlights. A really hungry deer. It’s lunchtime. The office smells vaguely of tuna.

My stomach butts in. “MMMRRAAWWRRGGGLLLLRRRRR.”

“So, what’s up?”

“Um, just thought I’d drop in and say hi.”

“Really?”

“Yup.”

We sit in silence as the bumblebee second hand makes two flights around the Winnie-the-Pooh wall clock.

Finally, “Ahem. Okay then. Good to see you. If that’s all, I have papers to grade. My freshmen are grappling with haiku.”

“Oh. Sure.”

Scooping my books from the floor, I turn to leave. It was a bad idea coming here. I’m a lousy sleuth. I should be in the caf right now. The meatball grinders aren’t half bad.

“Evan?”

I turn back. Behind the desk hangs my illustration, the weeping children of the sea lion king.

Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs says, “Care to try again?”

“Ma’am?”

“Why are you
really
here, Evan?”

I take a deep breath.

“Well Shirl’, I’m on a quest. Lex and I have a date with Mr. Pettafordi, and things are bound to get strange. So I figured I’d screw my courage to the sticking-place, and come here first. Guess you’d call this a reconnaissance mission. I’m hoping you’ll provide some ammo for my visit with the P Man. So, what can you tell me about Evan the First?”

That’s just my subtext. What I really say, addressing the coffee stain between my sneakers, is, “I, um, guess I want to talk.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve come to me. What is it?”

“MMMRRAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWRRGGGLLLLRRRRR.”

“So you said.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Solomon-Baxter-Coombs.”

“Let’s make a deal. Call me Shirley, our secret. And how about sharing my sandwich? Maybe then I’ll get to hear more from you and less from your surly abdomen.”

“Yes, thanks.”

She opens her desk drawer and hoists out the Moby Dick of tuna sandwiches. Ripping the monstrosity in two, she plops a drippy mound in front of me. She chomps into her hunk, swipes her chin with her hand, and says, “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m not sure where to start.” I pop a celery cube into my mouth.

“Well, if you were crafting a story, I’d advise you to begin with a hook — a device to plunge your reader into the action. Make sense?”

“I guess. You mean something like … I’ve been reading my father’s old journal, and he mentioned you, so I hoped you might have some idea why he hung himself. Is that what you mean by a hook? Shirley?” Keeping my eyes on her, I scoop a glob of tuna into my mouth.

She pauses midbite. “Holy moley! Now that’s a hook!”

Chewing, I track the bumblebee. It makes two-and-a-half spins around Pooh’s dopey face before Mrs. S-B-C finally says, “I’m sorry, Evan. You’ve thrown me for a bit of a loop.”

“No doubt.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“I’m not sure. What was my dad like? Did he seem happy? Who were his friends? Did he ever confide in you? Mostly, I want to know why.”

“Oh, Evan. I can’t offer you why. You must realize his motive is unknowable.”

“I won’t accept that.”

“I’m afraid you may have to.”

This isn’t working. I stand and push my tuna pile toward her. “Sorry to waste your time. I know you’ve got lots to do. Thanks for lunch.”

“Evan, wait.”

At the door I feel her hand on my shoulder.

“Come back, sit down. I’ll tell you what I can.”

“I don’t expect more than that.”

She sighs. “Your father was a character, Evan. Don’t take this the wrong way, but he could be a royal pain in the ass.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Still, he was one of my best — and favorite — students. That seems to run in your family. Golly, I can’t believe it was all those years ago.”

“He said in his journal he really liked you, too. But I guess you knew that.”

“Well, I never read his journal, but we had a decent relationship, once he got over the notion that ‘writing is for homos.’ He announced that on day one. Came in with a typical jock attitude, like it was a big waste of time. But I got him to really tap into his creativity. The well was deep. His writing ended up being very rich, very emotive.”

“I wish I could read it.”

“You can. The school library has every issue of
The Quill & Barb
.”

“My dad wrote for Sebastian’s literary journal?”

“Believe me, it took major arm-twisting, but I convinced him to submit. I told him his grade depended on it. You’ll find his poetry and some wonderful illustrations; however, he insisted on anonymity.”

“Anonymity?”

“He said he ‘couldn’t risk the team finding out.’ ”

She shakes her head. Finger-tapping her tape dispenser, she seems to be searching.

“What is it?”

“Pen names. I was remembering some pseudonyms he suggested. Now, which did he settle on? Van something? Ivan? Wait, I. Von. That’s it! His work is credited to I. Von Tanay.”

“You’re joking.”

“Wish I were.”

“Dad always was the master of stupid wordplay.”

“Yes, and very into limerick for a while there. He and his friend Tony were quite the pair, sort of a literary Abbott and Costello.”

“Tony Pettafordi?”

A tiny vein begins to pulse, twitching the pouch below her left eye. “Why, yes … I didn’t realize you knew about their friendship.”

“Well, I only recently found out about Mister P. In Dad’s journal. Seems like they went through something.”

“Oh. I see.” She manages a smile, but the skin below her eye beats like the throat of a spring peeper. “You haven’t spoken to Mr. Pettafordi about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, that’s probably for the best. It was a long time ago.”

“Actually, I plan to see him this afternoon. That’s why I came. I thought you could tell me about their friendship, and what split them up. And why no one ever mentioned it to me.”

There’s an atmospheric change in the room. I half-expect to see my own breath. Mrs. S-B-C’s voice takes on an icy trill.

“I’m afraid that’s not my place. And you might reconsider speaking with Mr. Pettafordi. As I said, it was long ago; they were kids. I think you’d only succeed in resurrecting painful memories. Surely, that’s not your goal.”

Now it’s my turn to fake a smile. “Shirley, it’s not.”

“Well, then what do you hope to accomplish, Evan?”

“To learn the truth. I want to know his suicide wasn’t about me. Or if it was, I need to know that too.” I grab my stuff and head for the door.

Behind me, Mrs. S-B-C shouts, “Evan! There are worse things than not knowing!”