The Namesake (12 page)

Mister Alberti broke the spell. Arm around my shoulder, he said, “So, what you think?”

“He was twice the artist I’ll ever be. I never even knew he could draw, let alone paint like this. Why didn’t he ever show me? I mean — ”

Stepping closer, I pressed cheek to wall, touching fingertips to tiny brushstrokes my dad made a lifetime ago. I swear I could feel his pulse through the wall, his soul layered with pigment. I wanted nothing more than to enter his mural like a Mary Poppins sidewalk drawing and seek out its creator.

But, as persistent as a cough, Mister A disturbed me back to reality.

“Pretty good, huh?”

“Beautiful.”

“He worked on it after college.”

“Un-huh.”

“Never finished though.” He gestured to a large section where the mural fragmented into washes of color and vague outline. “See, this whole part’s just … what’d he call it?”

“Underpainting.”

It was Angie. In my fugue state, I hadn’t heard her come in.

“Pop, what in the name of — Him,” she pointed to the central figure, “are you doin’?”

“Tap-dancing! What you think I’m doing, Angie?”

“You promised you wouldn’t pull this. I can’t believe, the minute my back is turned, you drag the kid in here!”

“I show the boy, maybe I help him figure things out. Where’s the harm?”

“It’s like a sickness with you!”

“
Basta
, Angela! Enough! He’s going to finish his father’s masterpiece. It’s about time, too. I’m tired of these shitty drapes.”

“Don’t listen to him, Evan. He hired you to help in the kitchen, not to be a painter.”

Corralling Mister A toward the main dining room, she stage whispered — I assume, for sensitivity sake. Still, I heard every word; subtlety is not an Alberti trait.

“Pop, you are so friggin’ gauche. Are you
trying
to scar the kid? You got no right springin’ this on him. You ever think it might be painful for him dealing with his dead father’s artwork? It’s no picnic for me! And what’s next? What’re you planning?”

Mister Alberti plugged his thumbs in his ears and left the room, singing “Beautiful Dreamer.” His voice wasn’t half bad.

Angie pounced like a pit bull on a veal parm. “Look Evan, my father had no right to put you on the spot. He gets these screwy ideas. I apologize if he made you uncomfortable. You should forget this whole mural thing.”

“I’m going to finish it.”

“No! No, listen. Don’t think you need to please him. He means well, he’s just —
un uomo anziano pazzesco
— a crazy old man.”

I channeled my inner ballsy Italian. “
You
listen. I’m finishing that mural, Angie, whether he pays me or not. I won’t let you talk me out of it. So don’t bother trying.”

Her face was a mixed sky: grin-tilted lips, eyes overcast.

“Okay, Ev. If that’s what you want. But as for my father, take him with a grain of salt, understand? Don’t get too wound up in his stories. He just likes the sound of his own voice.”

“What is it, Angela?”

“What’s what?”

“What don’t you want me to know?”

For the first time since I’d met her, Angie was speechless.

“Nothin’, Ev. I … I better get back to the kitchen.”

Once she was gone, I returned to the mural. Staring into my father’s Judas eyes, I remembered a passage from the Gospel — Saint John, I think — about how, after Jesus gave the piece of bread to Judas, Satan entered into him. “And it was night.”

Was that how my father saw himself: betrayer, bringer of night? Was the self-portrait some screwed-up symbolism, a message? Or even back then, did he know what his end would be? Did he live knowing one day he’d follow Judas to the tree? Maybe Mrs. S-B-C was right when she said there are worse things than not knowing.

“Why Judas?” I whispered. The wall gave no answer, not yet.

Sleepwalking through the rest of my shift, folding napkins, filling water glasses, my mind was in the back room, and I kept finding reasons to join it.

Finally, Mister Alberti took me aside and said, “Evan, you knock off a little early. It’s slow, anyway. Come tomorrow morning. Don’t forget you brushes.”

I was about to call Mom when Lupo materialized. Wish they’d tie a bell on him, so I’d know he’s coming. Jangling Angie’s keys, he jerked his head. I followed him through the delivery entrance, night air instantly crisping my nose hair. In his black parka, hood tight around his face, there was something eerily familiar about him.

Opening my door, he waited ’til I was inside, then shut it gently; I’d half-expected him to buckle me in. I tried giving directions, but he unfolded what looked like a treasure map, my house marked with a big, red X. Angie must’ve made it. As we rode in complete silence, I realized who he looked like in that black hood: The Ghost of Christmas Future was my driver.

At one point, I switched on the radio; Lupo didn’t flinch when Angie’s CD, “Teenage Dream,” blared, max volume. He stared straight ahead as Katy Perry wailed.

Hopping out in front of my house, I said, “So … thanks.”

Lupo just made this hand motion, and I realized he had it rough. Not speaking English must be isolating. But as he drove off, I heard him belting, “Baby, you’re a firework!”

“They’re puckered and leathery as ever, but enchantment’s in the air. I’m helping stage a musical review, a sort of geriatric
Fantasia
, set to classic ’70s tunes. We’re calling it
You’re So Veined
. I promise it’s like nothing you’ve seen.”

“I’m sure. So the humanatees have accepted you as a juvenile herd member. Doesn’t that make you a calf?”

“You say the sweetest things.”

It’s Monday night, no Tuesday — 1:58
A.M.
I tossed for over an hour, trying to purge Lupo’s anthem and Dad’s Judas face from my brain. Somehow they’ve melded into Judas/Perry Pavlov response, my new nightly ritual: I close my eyes and — BAM! — Dad’s face/that tune echoing.

I suppose total Last Supper immersion doesn’t help. I arrived early Saturday like Mister A suggested, art box in hand. Angie’s reception was only slightly less chilly than the outside temp (a balmy 14 degrees), but that’s okay. When I’m performing my regular duties — bussing tables, filling waters — she’s all business. And I’m basically out of her way while I work on the mural.

Okay, “work on” is a stretch. So far I’ve spent most of my time just staring at the wall. Saturday I made a few sketches, took measurements. Sunday a baby shower commandeered the room, restricting me to kitchen duty: salads, bread, the usual. I did manage to glimpse behind the maroon swags as we doled pastries and punch, but it was basically a wasted day.

Tonight, paint finally met wall. Nothing major, beyond the challenge in matching his brushwork. I roughed in some clouds. I’m avoiding the figures for now, afraid to screw them up. The other key factor is it’s damn depressing, Dad staring down at me. I’m not sure whether Mister A requested a Last Supper, but I know I would’ve preferred something a bit cheerier. Dad as singing gondolier? Winking elf? But no, I’m stuck with Jesus and the Boys.

So after quilt-wrestling from 12:00 to 1:00, I flipped through
Gardner’s Art Through the Ages
, hunting all the Last Suppers for inspiration. Now my synapses won’t stop crackling. The restlessness is part mural anxiety. Can I do him justice? But it’s more than that.

“Are you still there? And why are you calling me in the middle of the night?”

“Lex withdrawals.”

“Dunderhead. Seriously, what’s up? How’s Alberti’s? Any big revelations?”

“Just this: My dad betrayed Christ.”

“Okaaaay. Should I be worried?”

“No, I’m just being dramatic. See, there’s this unfinished mural at Alberti’s. My dad started it like twenty-something years ago. It’s the Last Supper. In it, he’s Judas.”

“Yikes.”

“So … Mister A asked me to finish it.”

“Cool.” She gulps a yawn as she says it, and I wonder if she’s up to listening. But it’s Lex, so, assuming I rate higher than sleep, I press on.

“I’m a little freaked, Lex.”

“Why, Ev? You’re a great artist.”

“It’s not that. I just … I don’t know. God, I wish you were here, Lex. I mean you should see his work … it’s incredible, but … ”

“What?”

“I don’t think I can do this. It’s … ”

“What?”

“Looking at it … his face … it’s too much. His expression. It’s like he had nothing to live for. But I guess he didn’t, did he?”

“Don’t be stupid. He had everything to live for. He had you.”

“This was before, Lex. Way before me. It seems like he just wasn’t ever happy. You see it in grade school pictures even, that wounded look. I wish I knew what it was.”

“Well, maybe finishing his mural will be a way to figure it out.”

“Maybe.”

“And there’s one more place you might find answers.”

“I know. I know, the journal. Lex, I told you I’m waiting to read it ’til encounter.”

“Yeah, explain that again, okay? Because it sounds like classic avoidance.”

“That’s crap.”

“Oh, right. Mustn’t disagree with Lord Genius.”

“That’s not what I meant. It just has to be
my
decision when to read more.”

“Whatever. Look, it’s late, and I really need sleep. I’m meeting someone for breakfast. It’s cool about the mural. I can’t wait to see it. I’ll call you. G’night.”

She’s about to hang up, and I’ve got a wad of dissatisfaction in my throat. I definitely didn’t get what I need from this call; I’m unsure what that even is.

“Lex?”

“Huh?”

“There’s one other thing.”

She sighs. “What?”

“The spring formal, remember we talked about doing a just-pals thing? Well, I wondered if we’re still on, because — ”

“Oh.”

I wait. All that’s coming from the phone is extended silence, generally not a good sign. I visualize her scrambling for a way to turn me down, consulting a website,
Letemdowneasy.com
. Shouldn’t have asked. Didn’t need more disappointment tonight. And judging by that “Oh,” disappointment and I are hurtling toward a head-on.

“Well?”

“I’m … uh … not sure. I think I might have a
real
date.”

“Oh.” What I mean is
OUCH
.

Dead air. Finally, “I should’ve mentioned this sooner, but I didn’t want you getting the wrong idea. Tyler’s here.”

“What?”

“Tyler Wattrous. He’s here. I mean, not
right
here. He’s visiting Manatee Village, too. His grandfather moved down last fall. Isn’t that strange?”

“Yeah, like
two-headed kitten
strange. When’d you find out?”

“On the plane. We were seated next to each other. He was semi-freaking. Never flew before. So I … kept him company. I guess we bonded over a barf bag.”

“Delightful.”

And then, something so foreign, so anti-Lex, it must be a joke: she giggles. A genuine crush-afflicted, girly-girl giggle followed by, “So, we’re kind of hanging out. He’s helping with the review. But don’t mention it to anybody. He’d die if the team knew.”

“And he’s taking you to the dance?”

The giggle, technically a titter this time, repeats, and she says, “I’m just saying it’s a possibility. He’s really pretty charming away from those track apes.”

I’m unable to formulate a speakable thought.

Lex bursts my stupor. “Evan? Are you still there?”

“You’re right. It’s late. I’m tired too. When you see him at breakfast, could you maybe ask Tyler not to try flushing my head down the toilet anymore? I’d appreciate that.”

I hang up fast, to avoid an excuse, a justification, or worse, more silence. She doesn’t call back. Why would she? What’ve I got compared to the good looks, athleticism, and razor wit of Wattrous the Great? A morose nature and genetic predisposition to self-destruct? What a draw. I finally sleep, cell beneath my pillow.

Jerking awake at 5:34, I instinctively grab the phone, but the ringing’s in my head. I try to recall the brief-yet-crushing Lex exchange, but other images intrude, specters of a dream: Winter beach. A dark figure glides toward me. I can’t see the face, but I know it’s Dad. Closer, his eyes shimmer like sea glass. He works his jaw, trying to talk, but there’s no sound.

I go to speak, but his icefingers press against my mouth. Teeth clenched, he goes, “sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” and bends me in a tight embrace.

Folded to his chest, I scan the horizon beyond his shoulder. A shadowman, larger than Dad, looms, a wolf crouched alongside. I try to yell, to warn my father; again, he shushes. Then, releasing me, he floats back, his lips parting to speak.

Instead, a rope spools from his mouth, coiling his neck. I tear at it, but — eyes bulging, face black — Dad’s hoisted, ripped shoeless, dragged into clouds. I scream after him ’til hoarse I fall on my knees. On the ground with his loafers is the journal, splayed to February 27th, 1976.

Rubbing my eyes, I shift in bed. Picturing the dream dizzies me. Leaning to place the phone on the nightstand, I notice it, open on the blue-coiled rug: the journal. Either it dropped from the sky, like in the dream, or I sleepwalked again. Reaching for it, I lose balance, topple to the floor. I lie, face pressed to page, Dad’s words a close-up smudge of looping blotches.

Peeling my cheek from the spit-damp page, I study the date, the same as in my dream. I drag a pillow from my bed, clutch it to my chest, and begin to read.

I turn the page, eager for what’s next. A blank sheet. And another. It goes on for pages — the only mark a scribble across each — reminding me of a flat-line EKG, like when the patient dies on a medical show. Maybe it’s a code.

As I reexamine the March 1st entry, something happens. An audible crack; the binding loosens; a section slides onto my lap. The part with the scrawl. Running my finger up the gap in the spine, I see a chunk’s been cut from the book. The flat-line section’s a glued-in replacement for the missing pages, the ones that held answers.

“Crap!”

I’m about to fling the book across the room, when a voice in my head says, “Look again.” God, I’m sick of these IMs from the Great Beyond. I miss being oblivious. Minding the voice, I open the journal. With the blank piece removed, the book flops to the last page: final entry.

I can’t believe this. He’s screwed me again — from beyond the crisper. How can a section be missing? It’s just like him to withhold crucial info, Mister No-Suicide-Note. But what’d he mean about Aunt Reg “looking inside the picture”? What package?

Well, it’s obvious my day begins at — glancing at the clock — 5:51, because there’s no getting back to sleep. It’s okay; I’m eager for dawn. I have a good idea where the day will take me.