The Namesake Read Online Free PDF

it, the memento of a flawless day, on a shelf in my room.
    Along with cool adventures, Father/Son Day had an interesting feature. “The Question Session” was like an annual, limited-time offer. Dad and I could each ask a question — nothing off-limits — and we were sworn to total honesty. The Session generally commenced as we finished lunch.
    Though I’m not totally sure how it began, I vaguely recall asking if Bloop still loved me, even though I’d flushed him. I was about five, so I’m fuzzy on his response. But it was classic Dad, turning a child’s rumination on a dead goldfish into some screwy, yearly tradition. Never comfortable answering my questions on a daily basis, he apparently resolved to limit meaningful interaction to a once-yearly event. Sharing thoughts and feelings became strictly a January 21st phenomenon, like reflection was a seasonal thing. I mean, there was never a July when he said, “Come back in six months. We’ll talk then.” Not quite. His aversion tactics were subtler; typically, he’d joke his way out of anything significant until the magic day. So Father/Son Day was about a lot more than the activities.
    As a kid, I was less aware of what was happening. I mainly grooved on the festivities. And the Session was cool, liberating to have this passkey to adult wisdom. Sure, most of my early questions were typical “Where do babies come from?” stuff. Or, “Why do gerbils have to die?” That was big. He answered succinctly, yet fully, making the most of his yearly chance to shine.
    His question for me was usually a variation on a single theme: “Are you happy, Evan?”
    My response varied, based on my age and the day’s activity. If the events were sports-related, my enthusiasm level was inevitably low.
    Age five, Disney on Ice: “That was good, Daddy! Can I have a puppy?”
    “No puppies.”
    Age seven, Celtics game: “Sure, Dad. But can we rent movies when we get home?”
    Age eight, Roger Williams Zoo: “Wait ’til I tell Lex I held a tree boa! See how good I am with animals? Maybe now we can get a dog.”
    “I’ve told you, Evan. We are
never
getting a dog!”
    As I got older, I began to resent the whole forced-interaction concept. And I gave up on a dog, because he’d made it pretty clear he hated them.
    Age twelve, Boston Aquarium: “Happy? You and Mom fight constantly. It’s like you don’t even care I’m right down the hall. Newsflash: I can hear! And I’ve been to this dumb aquarium ten times.”
    My questions for him grew more combative as I tired of the arrangement. I’d ask stuff like, “Are you sorry you married Mom?” and “Did you ever wish you had different parents?”
    His answers were deliberate and carefully worded: “I love your mother.” (A nonanswer.) And, “It’s natural to have issues with one’s parents.” (A vague generalization.)
    On our last F/S Day, I let him have it. I figured turnabout was fair play, so I asked, “Are you happy, Dad?”
    As always, he was succinct and thorough. He said, “No.”
    Last January, we celebrated his birthday at Gran’s. Mom had the flu and didn’t come. On the way home, he started to talk about his plans for the next day. I stopped him.
    “I can’t do it this year. School’s crazy; I have exams. And Mom’s sick. Besides, don’t you think I’m getting a little old for F/S Day? I’ll be fourteen, not four.”
    He didn’t answer. But next morning when I got up, his car was gone.
    That February, he moved in with Gran and Gramp, “for a while.” We never mentioned Father/Son Day again, made no attempt to reschedule. I guess the idea had run its course.
    It’s ironic. Now that he’s gone, I really regret missing that last installment of the Question Session. I also have to wonder about his plans for our outing. Maybe we’d have scouted lynching locales, who knows? Now that he really can’t answer, I have some excellent questions for him. Basically, they all begin and end with