The Namesake by Steven Parlato Read Free Book Online

answers lie? You mean like ‘tell a lie’?”
    (plip) “within”
    “Okay. My answers lie within. Jeez, this is excruciating! If this is a dream, it’s obnoxious. Can we speed things up a bit, maybe drop the freakin’ plips?”
    (plip) “your”
    “I guess not.”
    (plip) “chest.”
    “Oh, please! Within my chest? You mean, like, look inside my heart? I’m sorry Father, but that is so cliché!”
    “Saints preserve us! I’m talkin’ ’bout the trunk. Take another look in the TRUNK! For the love of Mike! You’re supposed to be a genius, Boy!”
    He doesn’t plip. That’s what wakes me. I snap from the dream, startled, in the center of my room. I used to sleepwalk as a kid, but haven’t in years. I’ve also never moved bulky objects in my sleep, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. I’m slumped across the footlocker. I guess that fatherpillar meant business, at least to my sleep-self.
    At first, I’m dubious. A prophetic dream? What am I, Nostradamus? But then, I get to thinking, the Bible’s full of them. Old Testament Joseph and the Pharaoh, New Testament Joseph and the Flight into Egypt. Okay, I’m not a biblical figure. Shoot, I’m not even named Joseph. But, who am I to argue with a caterpriest? Besides, what’ve I got to lose taking another look? At the very least, I’ll get a chance to admire Jaclyn one more time. It’s not like I have anything better to do pre-dawn.
    Standing, I flip on the lava lamp and look out at a world encased in a chrysalis. We must be getting an inch of snow an hour. No school tomorrow, guaranteed. I’ll need the break; I have a feeling I won’t be going back to sleep. I scoop the trunk key from the shelf, next to my starfish.
    As I squat to slide the key into the lock, I whisper, “Once more into the breach.” I can’t remember what that’s from, exactly. Has to be Shakespeare; everything is. I turn the key, remembering to catch the noisy lock plate. Thumbs poised on latches, I stop.
    “I don’t think I can do this alone.” I’ve started talking to myself a lot lately. It’s a bit troubling. I consider calling Lex, then say, “Yeah, that’d go over great at 4:20 in the morning.”
    Instead, I ask myself what she’d say. Probably something like, “If a giant talking worm told you to look in the trunk, what the hell you waiting for?”
    I whisper a prayer to Saint Sebastian:
    Dear Sebastian, Patron of Archers,
    Make my aim for answers true .
    Lead me to discovery .
    I ask this in Jesus’ name .
    Opening the lid, I lift a stack of
People
magazines and
National Enquirers
— all Angels-related. There’s a large manila envelope with black marker writing: Charlie’s Angels Trading Cards. I roll my eyes, put the envelope aside, atop the stack of magazines. Rummaging further, an archaeologist on an important dig, I sift through teen memorabilia, hoping to find a remnant, some emotional scrap of the kid who was my father. Nothing. It’s still just stuff, meaningless. I can’t attach significance to any of it. Dad’s failed me again. And now, so has Saint Sebastian. It’s typical. All our heroes let us down. Why should heaven be different?
    Gathering a pile of clippings, I shred them. It feels good, opposite of my usual powerlessness. Ripping a
People
cover, I wad it, crushing Angel faces. “Take that, Farrah.” Next up: trading cards. Tearing open the packet with manic glee, I upend it, anticipating a shower of collector cards.
    “I’ll burn them tomorrow!”
    Absorbed in visions of memento-destruction, for just an instant, I see the cards cascade. Reality taking hold, I stare at the braided rug. It’s not littered with bubble-gum relics. Just two objects lie between my bare feet. I crouch, lifting them toward the blue lava light, straining for a mental connection between expected and actual. Squinting, I read my father’s tiny printing on the cassette tape label: Suicide Songs, 1976. I shiver, place the tape on the seat of my desk