The Namesake Read Free Page B

try to put my arm around her shoulder.
    She shrugs me off, pretend-searches in her purse. “Why what, dear?”
    I hesitate, unable to spit out the words. Why does she need to hear them, when she knows damn well what I’m asking?
    “Dad. Why do you think he … ?
    “Here come your grandparents. No more of this.” She smoothes my eyebrow with her thumb — a maternal affection shortcut — and steps to the curb.
    The Bonneville appears, a boxy, metallic ghost. Gramp glides to a stop, spraying a fine slush over our feet. As he lowers the window, an AM talk caller brays about welfare mothers. Gran switches off the radio, cradling a cardboard cup, mega-size. Java and memories sustain them now.
    “Hop in, Sport. You look like you’re freezin’ your nuts off.”
    “Fred!” Gran always pretends to be shocked by him.
    “Katherine, top o’ the morning.”
    “Good morning, Fred. Maureen.”
    Gran nods, smiles vaguely. “Hello, Katherine. How are you, Junior, okay? Find any treasure?” She winks.
    “Not yet, Gran. We’ll see.”
    Mom looks at me quizzically, then back to Gran. Sinking into the backseat, I close my eyes as Gramp navigates the icy hills to Saint Anne’s.

I was an altar boy in middle school .
    Served up through freshman year, in fact. I loved it: the solemnity of the Mass, the miracle of communion. I even considered being a priest for a while. It seemed cool to have that level of communication with God. Working for Him and helping people seemed magical.
    But I doubted my capacity for such devotion: no sex, no family, no house, no stuff. Seemed like a tough road. I decided to talk to Father Greg about my possible calling. He was new to our parish, and I guess to the priesthood; in his late twenties, he wore Dockers.
    I lingered in the vestibule after Mass, one Sunday in October.
    “Father Greg?”
    He was hanging vestments, shutting lights, closing shop. “Evan, what’s the scoop?”
    “I wondered about you. I mean, about
being
like you
, a priest,” I said, uncharacteristically inarticulate.
    “Wow, Ev! That’s something! How long you been thinking about this?”
    “Oh, a while, I guess. Do you like it?”
    “Well, I’m not in it for the money, that’s for sure.”
    “How’d you know it was definitely what you were meant to do?”
    “Easy. It’s like love, Evan. You just, ultimately, know when the right one comes along.”
    “Oh.”
    “Doesn’t help much, does it?” He grinned.
    “Well, it’s a pretty parentish thing to say.”
    “Hey, they don’t call me Father for nothing!” he said, doing a decent Groucho Marx.
    “It’s just, I don’t know if I’m perfect enough to do what you do.”
    “If you judge yourself against God’s perfection, you can never hope to measure up, Evan. But God made you, so you have the potential to be pretty great. Look, we just have to live up to His plan for us — not always an easy task.”
    “I guess I’m having some trouble unraveling His plan for me.”
    “Aren’t we all, Evan? Aren’t we all? Talk to Him, trust Him. You’ll find your way.”
    Not long after that conversation, Father Greg left Saint Anne’s. I ran into him about four months later at Big Y. He wasn’t wearing his collar. I called across the produce section, “Hey, Father Greg!”
    “Evan Galloway, my favorite altar boy! What’s the scoop?”
    “Father, I was just — ”
    “It’s not Father anymore, Evan, just plain old Greg.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry.”
That had to be a dumb thing to say.
    “Don’t be; I’m not. Turns out, I was trying to live up to the wrong plan,” he said, a half-smile crossing his lips. “Well, I should go, Evan. Good to see you.” He placed a container of grape tomatoes in his cart, touched my shoulder, and wheeled off, beyond Baked Goods.
    I started to walk away, sensing the world had slipped on its axis, just enough to feel it. What’d it mean, exactly? What about all the Masses he’d said, the Last Rites, the weddings? Were they