The Namesake by Steven Parlato Read Free Book Online Page B

I’m in the stacks with his journal, reading Dad’s long-ago scribblings. It feels like trespassing, a familiar feeling being an incestuous Peeping Tom, like when I was nine and caught my mother with her top down.
    She was sunbathing in the backyard when I came out to get my bike. Alexis and I were planning to ride to Gardner Lake to meet her stepdad for waterskiing. I always felt a little unwelcome around Lex’s stepfather, like he resented sharing her. But she’d insisted I come, said it wouldn’t be any fun if it was just the two of them.
    Anyway, as I crossed the yard, the phone rang. Mom sat up to grab it, and her bikini top stuck to the beach chair. Guess she was going for a strapless tan; she’d unhooked.
    She didn’t realize I was there. Frozen midstep, jaw slack, not wanting to look, I was paralyzed by the sight of my mother’s boobies. I mean, I’d never really seen live breasts up close. A classic no-win situation: Move or speak, she’d know I’d seen. Stay put, be caught.
    As Mom talked, they began to sway. It reminded me of this TV hypnotist swinging a pocket watch. He put this guy under, made him do crazy stuff: act like a ballerina, gallop, and moo. It was funny at first, but I wondered how the guy would feel when he saw the show. He couldn’t help it. He was mesmerized — like I was now.
    I stood for what seemed like hours, unable to look away. Finally, bits of Mom’s conversation seeped through my boob-stupor, and I realized she was talking to Lex. That made it even worse. I felt really ashamed. I had to take action.
    As I made a break for the porch, Mom turned to call me to the phone. Our eyes locked, and she made this squeak of sound, like when Gramp sat on my hamster. Then, grabbing for her towel, she dropped the phone and fell off her chair.
    Some other kid’s mom might’ve laughed, or let the moment pass, pretended it didn’t happen — even used the occasion to discuss the importance of breast health. Not mine; she went ape-shit. She started screaming, “You should know better,” like I was a perv in a trench coat. Then she stomped into the porch, slamming the door.
    I picked up the phone; Lex was still on the line. I knew she’d heard. When I asked if she still wanted to go to the lake, she said she thought we’d better not; then she hung up. Mom reappeared, a windbreaker over her bathing suit. She said I was grounded ’til further notice, and Dad would speak with me when he got home.
    He never did, but it was definitely a turning point. Mom acted vaguely uncomfortable around me after that, like she’d impaired my morals. She stopped sitting on my bed to say goodnight, and she insisted I wear a robe at breakfast, when I’d always been a T-shirt and underwear kind of kid.
    It was also around that time she stopped trying to hold my hand crossing the street. That was odd; it’d always seemed like a total instinct, like autopilot. As we stepped off a curb, her fingers would just automatically flex toward mine. Being nearly ten, I’d usually stuff my fist in my pocket. Her hand would flutter for a few seconds, searching. It really annoyed me. But then she stopped, and sometimes I still sort of miss it.
    Wow, poor me. I don’t know where all that came from. Besides, I didn’t come here to think about Mom; I’m Dad-excavating. It’s just, I’m afraid I’m about to see more of my father than I want to. Maybe more than I have a right to. Oh well, what’s life without a little emotional bungee-jumping? Geronimo.
    Dear Journal,
    No idea what to write. Miss Solomon’s making us keep a journal (swore she won’t read it) to “nurture our process” and “explore our thoughts in an evocative way.” (Yeah, right.) I feel pretty dense when she yaps about “creative intent” and “examining our psychical subtext.” HUH?
    Otherwise she’s cool (actually scorching in those ballerina tops). She twirled around my desk today, singing Happy Birthday in French. Father B would not