The Namesake Read Online Free PDF Page B

“Why?”

It’s time to open the trunk .
    Dad’s footlocker’s been in the back of my closet since last week. I’ve thought about opening it, pretty much nonstop, since then. And I’ve kept it hidden from Mom. The only person I told about it is Alexis. She offered to come over and open it with me, but I think I need to do this alone.
    I’m not sure why I’ve waited so long to look inside; maybe I’m afraid to surrender expectation. Because what if the contents don’t measure up? I mean, I doubt there’ll be a winning Lotto ticket or something outrageous, like a severed head or a jar of eyeballs.
    If this were a TV show, there’d be a video. Sitting on Gran’s daybed, with an audience of dollies, my father would address the camera. In a teary voice, he’d say he loves me, expressing — in tight close-up — deep sorrow for what he’s about to do. With a sort of desperate nobility, he’d explain “it’s the only way.” His choice would make tragic sense, somehow. Then he’d walk out of frame and the screen would go all static-y. Very dramatic, very cinema verité.
    Unfortunately, we’re not on TV. Crap, who am I kidding? It’s probably just full of old notebooks. Gran said it was stuff from his Sebastian days. Please, don’t let it be crammed with clippings of his field glories: “Galloway Leads Archers to 3rd Straight Win” or “Galloway Goes All the Way.” I mean, it’s great Dad was a sports legend. But where’d it get him?
    What if it’s filled with pornos? That’d be interesting. And informative since I’ve never owned one. Freshman year, Randy Spiotti brought a
Penthouse
to Christian Morality. Father B was not amused. When he got caught, Randy claimed the magazine was mine, like Father would buy that. Randy scored two months’ detention. Plus, he had to do a twenty-page paper on the evils of porn — with annotated bibliography. Lex nearly wet herself; we both hate Randy.
    Jeez, what could be in there? Drugs? No, condoms! Drug-filled condoms? Cigarettes? Whiskey? Wild, wild women? Okay, it’s probably just notebooks.
    I’m losing it. With this vivid an imagination a person could go nuts speculating. Not to mention, Mom’s bound to spot the trunk lurking in my closet. That’s another reason it’s time. Plus, it’s still Father/Son Day. Okay, F/S Night, 11:54 P.M. to be exact. Since Dad isn’t here for me to question, I’ll take what I can get.
    I flip on my lava lamp, a Christmas gift from Aunt Reg. Padding silently toward the closet, I remember lying in the dark, terrified of monsters behind that door. Opening it, I lift and swing with exaggerated slowness, to minimize hinge-squeak. I’ve been clutching the key for an hour; its outline’s imprinted on my moist palm.
    Sliding the locker out, heart racing, I squint to insert the key. For a queasy moment, it refuses to fit the brass lock face. Gran’s given me the wrong one. This probably opens some forgotten padlock in Gramp’s workroom. Piss! I panic. Forcing the key in, I rattle it violently, like a teenaged Marley’s Ghost. The lock plate drops down with an unbelievably loud clank.
    “Evan?” Mom calls groggily from the room down the hall.
    “Yeah, Mom. Just catching up on some reading. Sorry to wake you. Night!” I chirp too fast, too cheery. She’ll be in here pronto, maternal radar full tilt.
    “Okay, hon. Jus’ not too late. Love you.” She trails into la-la land.
    “Thank you, Jesus,” I whisper, glad for her new nightly tradition: a glass of wine and a Tylenol PM.
    I drag my treasure chest to the center of the room and sit, Indian-style, on the braided rug. Carefully unhooking latches, I lift the lid. A pale scent of basement and memory teases my nostrils. Hunkered over the open trunk — eyes shut — I prolong the final rush of anticipation. This is going to be big; I can feel it. I look inside.

Guess it was just one of God’s little HA HAs .
    Sitting in Honors Bio, I struggle to concentrate on the