The Namesake by Steven Parlato Read Free Book Online Page A

chair, close the trunk lid, and sit on it. Turning the other object in my hand, I stroke the rough canvas cover. Opening the book, I read the inscription.
    “My God. It’s his journal,” I breathe into the blue-lit room, awed by discovery.
    It occurs to me I owe Saint Sebastian an apology.

“What’s that tune you’re humming?”
    Mom’s voice penetrates my fog as I stare into the microwave, tracking the slow revolutions of my Cheesy Pouch on the glass carousel. Filling oozes, lava-like, from the silver crisping-wrapper.
    “Huh? … nothing … why?”
    I’m beat. After another sleepless night, the last thing I needed was sidewalk duty. But the storm dumped a foot-plus, and as default man of the house, it was my job to shovel a path to civilization.
    “It just sounded a lot like a song by Karen Carpenter, from my distant youth.”
    “Karen who?” I feign ignorance. The song’s “Goodbye to Love”; in it, Karen vows she’s through with romance, warbling, “There are no tomorrows” where her heart’s concerned. Peppy stuff. Apparently, it was Dad’s favorite. It’s on his suicide tape three times.
    “The Carpenters. They were a brother/sister group. Couldn’t imagine you knew it. Takes me back, though. What a depressing tune.”
    I know all about the Carpenters: how they created a new sound, Karen’s struggles with anorexia, her untimely end. See, Lex’s devotion to prehistoric pop stars isn’t exclusive to Neil Diamond. He’s merely her all-time fave. She also has a pretty extensive collection of other “artists of the eight-track.”
    Plus, we sang another Carpenters’ gem “Sing, Sing a Song” consisting of a syncopated sequence of “La-las” in the parish minstrel when I was in fourth grade.
    “Evan, are you in there?”
    “Sorry, Mom. I’m pretty tired.”
    “Is it any wonder?” A familiar edge creeps in. “When did you finally go to bed, anyway?”
    “Not sure.” I turn away, taking a plate from the drying rack near the sink.
    She tsks me across the oak chef’s island. “You’ve been staying up way too late. In that room with the door shut, doing God-knows-what. It’s not healthy, honey.”
    “Suddenly insomnia’s a friggin’ crime?” I yank open the microwave and grab the pouch, burning my fingers on molten goo. “SHIT!” I fumble it onto the strawberry scatter rug. Snatching a length of paper towel, I squat.
    Mom commences her rant. “Nice language! Listen, I’m serious. It’s going to stop, this staying up ’til all hours. The brooding in your room. You’ll end up sick, for God’s sake. Or worse — like him. Well, I won’t lose you too!”
    “Mom, I’m fine.”
    I try to will her away by concentrating on the rug. Rubbing at the cheese-food-product, I grind it into the plush fibers.
    “No, you are most certainly not fine! You’re up to something, keeping secrets! Do you think I’m blind to what’s going on? Tell me the truth, Evan. Are you taking drugs?”
    I spring to my feet, waling my head on the microwave door. The force makes my teeth clack.
    I snap. “Look! I can’t sleep. Big freaking deal! Did you ever think, maybe, I have a lot on my mind? And, no I’m not on drugs! I didn’t inherit your talent for self-medicating.” A vein pulses at her temple. I move in for the kill. “Yeah, I know all about your Tylenol toddies! But thanks for the intervention, Mommy. I guess you do care!”
    Ignoring her gasp, I slam the microwave; the force knocks a Delft plate from the shelf above the sink. Striking the counter edge, it explodes. We stare at it, then at each other.
    Silence.
    “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ll fix it.”
    “You can’t.” Her voice absolutely flat, barely a sigh, she leaves the kitchen.
    I stoop to survey the damage: a total loss. As I pick up the pieces, I realize it’s her swan plate, an anniversary present from Dad.

January 20, 1976 (Happy birthday to me!)
    Dear Journal,
    Too bizarre. After the scene with Mom, I headed to the library.