The Namesake Read Online Free PDF Page A

Gillenhall? And where is he now? I craft a scenario to answer each question. Somehow, it’s easier contemplating his situation than dealing with my own. Closing my eyes, I slip into this guy’s life, this happy kid who undoubtedly still had a father.
    A hand touches my shoulder; a soft voice calls, “Evan, wake up.”
    “June?” Young Miss Gillenhall leans over, her lips brushing my cheek. I pucker, sigh.
    “Eeeuuww! Evan, wake up!” A sharp poke to my ribs; it’s Alexis.
    “What — hey!” I shake my head. “Back off!”
    “Sorry to disturb your siesta, Beautiful Dreamer, but you seemed close to a moan. Figured I’d save us some embarrassment. You, the humiliation of a wet dream in the library. And me, the utter skeeve of not only witnessing it but having to admit I know you.”
    “You really are charming. Does it come naturally?” I yawn.
    “It’s a gift. So, who’s June?”
    “You don’t even want to know.”
    “Okay, Romeo, I’ll take your word.”
    Beyond the moon-clock, the real thing glows in the January sky. It’s 6:20. I’ve been asleep for at least four hours! I’m stiff. And starving.
    “Want food?”
    “Your treat?”
    “Sure, I’ll pay. But honestly, Lex, it’s a treat just being with you.”
    We do that fake puking thing like always, and she punches my shoulder. I think, and not for the first time,
I’ve really got to kiss this girl one day
. Instead, I shove her; then we tango through double doors into the ridiculously chilly night.
    Beneath the golden arches, Lex takes my hand. “Hey, you had that Mass and Munch thing today, didn’t you? How’d it go?”
    I stroke the fluff of her pink mitten. “Well, I’ll tell you … not half bad.” And we walk, arm in arm, into the emporium of American shit food.
    Lex revs her Happy Meal toy, biting McNuggets into animal shapes. I snarf my Extra Value Meal and relate, in excruciating detail, the events of the day. We actually laugh. It’s odd how grief, shared with a friend over fries and shakes, seems less overwhelming.

It’s Father/Son Day .
    For as long as I can remember, Dad and I had this tradition. Because our birthdays were only two days apart, we’d split the difference and spend the in-between day together, just us. Time with my father was a novelty; he was always either at work or otherwise involved. But January 21st was different: our one day.
    When I was little, this meant the night before was filled with sweet anticipation. I’d lie awake obsessing about the day to come. Would it be museum or movie? Hockey game or tobogganing? On F/S Day, Dad was King Spontaneous.
    When I was six we took a train into New York City, spent the day exploring Chinatown. I remember freaking over heads-still-on dead chickens hanging in store windows. Dad said, “Don’t be a baby; they’re the same as the ones at the IGA.” But IGA chickens almost never stare back.
    One time, I woke with Dad by my bed, holding a picnic basket and volleyball. He said, “Let’s grab some summer in the dead of winter! We’re hitting the beach!”
    In the car, he played this tape he’d made: ’80s Beach Tunes, featuring “Walk Like an Egyptian” and other annoyingly peppy retro hits. Made for a long ride, but it was kind of fun hearing Dad attempt harmony.
    Spreading our blanket on frozen sand, we anchored the edges with driftwood, ate potato salad, and shared cocoa from this huge metal thermos. January gusts extinguished our hibachi, so we had “just the fixin’s” sandwiches: pickles, cheese, and ketchup on hamburger buns, skimming frozen patties across the surf like stones.
    Fierce waves churned up incredible offerings, a carpet of splintered shells: mussel, clam, scallop, and oyster glistened with foam like the remains of an Alberti’s white-sauce special. I gathered the best pearlescent shards in a plastic container while Dad kicked the volleyball repeatedly into the wind. In a seaweed tangle, I discovered a perfect, tiny sea star. I still have