The Namesake Read Free Page A

Formal, with stained glass. But, it’s not like that at all. First off, it’s roofless, so there really isn’t an inside. The structure’s open to the sky, with outer walls surrounding an area like a patio — minus the barbeque. You descend into it, along this winding sidewalk.
    When they wheeled him down, I swear, all I could think of was the Winter Olympics: one-man bobsled, his coffin picking up speed, ricocheting off walls, shooting sparks. I had to bite my cheek to keep from yelling, “Go, Dad, go!”
    Once you hit bottom, the center of the maze, you’re surrounded by these sky-high walls. You face west toward normalcy. There’s a sliver of a view of the valley: houses, trees, the DB Mart on the corner of Edgewood and Aurora Avenues.
    Then you study the walls covered with names and dates.
    At first, it seems like they’re just plaques. Until you notice the handles. Fact is, it’s more like a giant filing cabinet than anything else. The funeral guy slides one open, and you realize it’s your dad’s new home. Too bizarre, as if you could drop by anytime, pop the latch, and there he’d be. It’s creepy, like keeping your father in a giant crisper drawer.
    I had a hunch I’d be feeling morbid. Today clearly won’t be a typical, birthday type of day. To begin with, we’re heading to Mass first thing. Aunt Ro, in her infinite wisdom, thought a birthday remembrance would be just the thing to “help us soldier on through our grief.” She actually said that! I can hardly wait. I mean nothing against the Father, the Son, or the Holy Ghost. I’m just not exactly overjoyed at hauling out all these feelings on a cold Monday morning.
    His birthday would’ve been tough enough without having to face the relatives, the friends, the blue-haired flock of daily Mass attendees. I’d anticipated a regular school day with its mundane distractions, even planned to hit chapel during study hall. Maybe I would’ve gotten a Peggy Lawton brownie at lunch in his honor. Now, instead of waiting for the bus, uniformed, backpacked, I’m here in the kitchen, wearing my funeral suit, contemplating a mound of pancakes and rough seas ahead.
    “Evan, sweetie, finish your breakfast. It’s quarter to seven! They’ll be here soon.”
    I don’t know how she can sound so perky, given the hour and the circumstance, but that’s my mother. She could stand on ceremony, even if her feet were repossessed.
    “Okay, I’m done.” I down a last gulp of milk. “Sure you want to do this, Mom?”
    “Do what, honey?”
    “Ma! This whole Mass thing. What’d you think I meant, the dishes?”
    “Tone, Junior. This is not an easy day for me either.”
    “I wish you wouldn’t call me Junior anymore, Mom. I never really was one, anyway.”
    “Finish up. They’ll be here in ten minutes; your grandmother is always early.”
    We’re going to Mass with Gramp and Gran. Should be a ride to remember. Gran hasn’t spoken to Mom much since the suicide. I suppose the fact that each blames the other isn’t exactly a chat motivator. Although Mom hasn’t spoken much to me either, not about Dad. She seems to be spinning this mom-cocoon.
    It’s like she thinks, by serving on enough committees, baking enough muffins, reading enough books to the blind, and perpetually vacuuming, she can make people forget her husband chose death over her. Or maybe
she’s
trying to forget, who knows?
    As we wait for the silver Pontiac to materialize from the mist, I chip at the slush pile with the toe of my wingtip. Minutes pass. Ears tingling from the frigid air, I shift foot-to-foot, clapping gloved hands, exhaling clouds.
    Mom bears the cold in silence, maybe because it matches what she’s become inside.
    “God, it’s, like, arctic out here!” I chatter. “Aren’t you freezing?”
    “I’m okay. Go in the garage, if you can’t stand it.”
    “I can take it, if you can. Besides, I want to stay with you.”
    She smiles.
    “Mom?”
    “Yes, Ev?”
    “Why?” I