The Namesake Read Free

way permanent. I avoid eyes staring from old school portraits lining the wall. A glance: Auntie Ro, front-toothless, lavender hair band — Grade 3. Next, Aunt Reg, crooked glasses on crooked nose, same wide open smile as always. Finally, a picture of Dad, about age nine. He’s got a scab on his forehead. Very large ears. And a telltale redness around his eyes. Why was he crying?
    “Evan.” Gran’s voice is like an alarm clock through a thick dream.
    “Yeah, Gran?”
    “I know. It’s almost like looking in a mirror, isn’t it? Thank goodness, you have your mother’s ears, but you’re definitely your father’s son.”
    Terrific
, I think.
    “Well, let’s take a look-see.”
    Following Gran into the room where Dad grew up, I’m hit with a mix of feelings.
This is so wrong
. Dolls. There are dolls everywhere, staring from shelves, peering from the floor, pale-faced dolls with big hats, bigger pouts. And floral wallpaper, rugs, pillows, curtains, quilt, and lampshades. It’s like someone vomited Laura Ashley. I cannot believe my father’s final weeks were spent lying on a daybed surrounded by frills. That alone is tragic. Why’d she bring me in here? To show me the décor that pushed him over the edge?
    Then I notice it: the one object so totally out of place, it has to be his.
    “Evan, help me, would you? Your grandfather nearly ruptured himself dragging this up from the cellar.”
    “Sure, Gran. Is this my legacy?”
    “Ooh, you’re clever. This is what I want to give you, yes. I don’t know from legacy.”
    As I drag the footlocker past the wicker rocker, I snag the hooked rug, toppling a dolly.
    “Careful, Evan! Don’t be a bull! You’re just like your father!”
    I wince. “Sorry, Gran. What’s inside?”
    She runs a hand across the scratched lid, her thick nails tapping the burnt-orange surface, and briefly fingers the brass lock. “Find out.”
    “You mean you haven’t opened it?”
    “That’s your job, Junior. It’s just old things, his school trunk, from Sebastian’s. I thought it’d be fun for you to have. Who knows, maybe he hid a fortune in here.”
    “Well, if he did, I’ll split it with you.”
    “No, honey, whatever he left in there is yours now.”
    “Thanks for the early birthday present, Gran … He loved you, you know.”
    “It’s nearly four, it’ll be pitch dark soon. God, I hate January! Let’s wake your Gramp and have some cake. Then we’d better get you home. They’re saying snow.”
    I wave as they pull slowly from the curb, then slide the footlocker over snow-dusted grass. “It’s just old things.” But what? Secrets, answers? In my room, I shove the trunk to the back of my closet, afraid to know. Flopping on the bed, I open my fist. In it, I hold the key.

Yesterday was January 19th .
    That makes today the 20th. Okay duh, what I mean is, today would’ve been my father’s birthday. It’s funny. I woke up sweating at 3:18, panicked, thinking
HOLY CRAP! I forgot to get Dad’s present!
It took several minutes blinking at predawn blackness for reality to come tap-tap-tapping on my windowpane.
    Once it did, I thought,
Whoa, this year, it’d be especially tough to find him the perfect gift.
I mean, what do you get for the dead guy who has everything? I guess I could pick up a little something for the cemetery, to jazz things up a bit. Maybe a “World’s Greatest Dad” magnet to put next to his name. I wonder if a magnet would stick?
    See, my dad’s in a drawer. Maybe it’s just me, but I find that way worse than a hole in the ground. It just totally lacks the permanence of six feet of earth. You can see the mausoleum from the road where I wait for the bus every morning. It rises, like a ziggurat on the hillside, looking all mysterious and exotic, like some reject from EPCOT.
    I never knew what to expect from a mausoleum; had no reason to think about it, ’til last year. I figured it’d be like a
mu
seum or something inside: cool, dark, whisper-quiet.