The Good Luck of Right Now (24 page)

I thought he was probably right, even though I had failed so miserably with Wendy and Arnie, and when I looked at my brown shoelaces, the police officer looked out the window again.

A few minutes later the tall police officer returned with Elizabeth and Max.

“What the fuck, hey?”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it. Are you okay, Bartholomew?”

The police officers looked at each other once more, and then Sideburns said, “We’re going to leave you alone now. But we’ll need your names, passport numbers, and home addresses.”

We told them our names and addresses—Elizabeth used their old address without explaining that they had been evicted, which I thought was smart fast thinking—and they dutifully copied down information from our passports before they gave us their cards and told us to contact them in twenty-four hours, after we had been in touch with Father McNamee’s family at home, so that we could make the proper arrangements for the body to be shipped back to Philadelphia.

Then the police officers left.

“What the fucking fuck, hey?” Max said, and slapped the side of his head a few times like he was trying to get ketchup from a bottle.

“What happened?” Elizabeth said.

“I don’t really know.”

“How did he die?”

“I think he may have drunk himself to death last night. I found him dead in his bed.”

“What are we going to do now?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe Father McNamee’s really dead,” Elizabeth said.

“Fuck.”

Max and Elizabeth sat on my unmade bed, and we were all quiet for a long time—it was like we were having a moment of silence for Father McNamee. Wendy might have said we were “processing what had transpired, taking in the weighty information.”

Finally, Elizabeth said, “Should we go to Saint Joseph’s Oratory?”

“What for?” I asked.

“Father McNamee would want us to go,” she said. “And maybe your father will be there?”

“Yeah! What the fuck, hey?”

“I don’t think we’ll be meeting my father today,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I didn’t tell Max and Elizabeth this at the time, but when I was emptying Father’s wallet, I had found a picture of Mom, him, and me taken when I was a little boy; we were on the huge Ocean City Ferris wheel, spinning around in the sky, and—at the pinnacle of the ride—Father had held the camera out with his arm and snapped a photo of the three of us squished together. I looked terrified in the middle, but Mom and Father McNamee were smiling bookends and seemed so very happy, all alone in the sky with their arms around me. (The younger Father McNamee looks shockingly like I do right now, at the time of writing.) Finding this photo wouldn’t have made me suspicious in and of itself, but then I saw Father McNamee’s first name on his credit card and confirmed what I had seen when I gave the police his passport information.

His name was Richard.

Richard McNamee.

It’s funny how I had known him my entire life, but had never before heard anyone say his first name, nor had I ever thought once to ask. He’d always been Father McNamee. Even Mom had called him Father McNamee. Or Father. I’d never heard anyone call him Richard before.

Or maybe I
had
heard it, but my brain just didn’t register it.

Do you find that strange, Richard Gere?

Like maybe some part of my subconscious suspected and was protecting me—not allowing my mind to ever wonder what Father McNamee’s first name might be?

Looking back now, I’m sure his entire name was listed on the weekly church bulletin, but who reads those?

Mom had called me Richard at the end of her life. I had assumed she meant you, Richard Gere, but now I’m pretty sure she had meant Richard McNamee, her great love—and I was also pretty sure I knew why Father ate so many dinners at our house throughout the years and why Mom would confess only to him and why he would always be so quick to help us when we were in need—like the time those teenagers trashed our home—and why he had dedicated so many masses to Mom right after she died, even though I hadn’t filled out the proper card, and why he had cried on the beach after her funeral and why he had wanted to make a pilgrimage to Saint Joseph’s Oratory with me—the place where miracles happened—because he most likely understood it would take a miracle for me to forgive his lifelong deception and the fact that I had grown up without a true father, even if I had an excellent religious leader in Father McNamee.

But then again, can a Catholic priest be an excellent religious leader if he had sex with your mom?

All of this was starting to make my head throb.

“
Bartholomew?
” Elizabeth said.

“Let’s go to the Oratory,” I said, thinking I could use a miracle right about now, thinking we came this far, we might as well see what Saint Joseph’s Oratory had to offer us, if anything.

Then I picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, handed them to Elizabeth, and said, “Let’s pack up our stuff and get out of here. It’s already past checkout time.”

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.

“Yeah. What the fuck, hey?”

Max and Elizabeth were visibly frightened.

I nodded, and then we were off.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil

15

POOR, OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT

Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Maybe you think I should have been more emotional over Father McNamee’s passing?

Or maybe you even think I should feel guilty, because I let him drink an exorbitant amount of whiskey and never once suggested that he stop drinking to excess?

Maybe you think I should have protested when he said the rabbit dinner he ordered for us was our last supper?

Maybe you think I’m dim—retarded even—because I didn’t figure out the mystery of my own father before now?

You could ask me a million different questions at this point in our letter correspondence—and I realize that you’d probably be justified, especially since I cannot give you the sorts of answers that would provide “normal people” any semblance of understanding, regarding the workings of my mind, but regardless of all that, I have so many questions for
you
, Richard Gere, friend of the Dalai Lama, ghost of my thoughts, pen pal, women-wooing mentor, and
supposed
friend.

If Father
Richard
McNamee was the “Richard” Mom was referring to while dying—if he really was my father, and I’m virtually certain now that he was—then why did you begin to appear to me and continue to do so for the past few weeks?

Was I making you up in my mind, like an imaginary friend?

Did I go mad and conjure you with my imagination—like a hallucination?

Or were you really appearing to me because you appear to many people who are in need—because that’s just what you, Richard Gere, do when you are not making movies?

Maybe as part of your religious practice?

Could this be a Buddhist thing?

I know you’ll probably just say that our case of mistaken identity and your appearing to me is just another koan, something to ponder deeply but never answer or solve.

The universe hiccups, and we poor fools try to figure out why.

I was tempted to cease writing you all together, especially since you haven’t shown your face lately—and at a time when I need you most! But the truth is that I have come to depend on these letters. Recording all of this, emptying my mind of words, has proved quite therapeutic. It calms me in a way that nothing else can. Also, you are the only link I have to Mom now that Father McNamee, my true father, is dead.

Mom was your biggest fan.

She boycotted the Beijing Olympics for you.

At this point, there’s no substitute for Richard Gere in my life, and therefore—regardless of how I feel about you right now—our letter correspondence will continue.

Do you think Father McNamee is in heaven?

Are priests who break their vows by sleeping with my mother welcomed through Saint Peter’s pearly gates?

Does drinking yourself to death—especially when you declare a supper your last—constitute a suicide?

Do potentially suicidal adulterous priests go to purgatory?

Hell even?

Why am I asking a Buddhist these questions?

It’s ridiculous.

I don’t even think you believe in heaven, purgatory, or hell—do you?

To put it in your religious language, Father McNamee definitely didn’t obtain nirvana, now did he, Richard Gere? Not in this lifetime, anyway. A man who drinks two bottles of Jameson and dies sleeping in his bed has usually not achieved nirvana, I would guess.

But he was a good man, overall. Yes, I think we can agree on that, if we decide to be objective, don’t you think?

He was not proud of abandoning me, I can tell now in retrospect, looking back. And whatever happened between Father McNamee and Mom happened because of love. Lust is not dutiful, and Father never neglected us during my lifetime.

How conflicted must he have felt—following his religious calling and carrying around the picture of me and Mom and him atop the Ocean City Ferris wheel, where he was free to put his arm around us, because no one could see us up there—he was unburdened from his vows and his calling.

We did actually go to Saint Joseph’s Oratory—Max, Elizabeth, and me—if your interest hasn’t faded, if you are even still reading, Richard Gere.

Elizabeth drove, and I used the GPS navigational system to find our way. A robotic woman’s voice told us when to turn and how many miles we had until the next street would appear and there was a computer screen that showed us moving on a map, connecting us with a satellite above, in outer space, which is alien technology at work, Max explained, when I asked how the little machine in the car could possibly know where we were.

The voice that navigated was definitely that of a machine, and yet you could tell that the machine was a woman, which hurt my mind a little. How can machines have genders? The machine also had an American accent. How can machines have nationalities? This can’t be a good idea, making machines talk like real people, can it? Giving machines humanoid identities?

The Oratory is on a hill—a great white building made up of steps and columns and turrets, with a giant copper-green dome on top.

Supposedly, pilgrims climb the many hard, cold steps that lead to the entrance on their knees—the pain providing penance. Do you find that strange, Richard Gere? No stranger than Buddhist monks dousing themselves with gasoline and lighting themselves on fire, you have to admit.

From the outside, Saint Joseph’s Oratory is beautiful and impressive.

Breathtaking
would not be an excessive adjective.

We looked up at it from the parking lot.

“What . . . the . . . fuck . . . hey?” Max said slowly, in a reserved tone, using his hand to shield his eyes from the frozen winter sun. And I could tell he was in awe.

“It’s truly impressive, even from the standpoint of an atheist,” said Elizabeth.

Mom would not want me to fall in love with an atheist, especially a self-proclaimed atheist, I knew that—nor would Father McNamee, most likely—but they were both gone, and I was making my way in the world alone, and so when I looked at Elizabeth that morning, I felt my heart reach for her, and I thought, Better be brave now, Bartholomew, because these people are all you have left, and you will need strength and courage to keep them by your side fighting the great dark loneliness that looms.

These were strange new times, and for whatever reason, Max and Elizabeth were here with me, helping me face the day, helping me grieve for Father McNamee, and so I chose right then and there to make our relationships work by overlooking our small differences. I didn’t really believe in aliens, and yet I was willing to wear three tektite crystals around my neck. They didn’t believe in God, but were willing to gaze at the preserved heart of a Catholic saint with me and hopefully light a candle for the recently deceased Father McNamee. Maybe they would even kneel with me while I prayed for Mom’s and Father McNamee’s souls.

“You think you’ll find your fucking father in there?”

I smiled and shrugged. “Let’s see.”

I started to walk, but Elizabeth grabbed my shoulder and said, “Wait!”

When I turned to look at her, she pushed the hair from her face, so that I got a full, unobstructed view of her eyes, nose, and mouth. She was even more beautiful than I imagined. My heart was pounding.

“Maybe we should save this visit for later?” she said. “Considering what happened today—Father McNamee. That was already a horrific shock, Bartholomew. One we haven’t fully absorbed yet. And I don’t know what would be worse: if we actually find your father, or if we don’t. Either might be too much for one day, and—”

“It’s okay,” I said, gazing into her eyes, which were the soft gray-brown color of mushroom pizza toppings.

I could see that Max was equally concerned.

Maybe this was also what Mom called The Good Luck of Right Now. The bad of Father McNamee’s deception and death had led to the good of Max and Elizabeth taking care of me now. It certainly felt like Mom’s philosophy was in effect once again—that she was even wiser than I had given her credit for when she was alive with me here on earth. And that’s really saying something, because I gave Mom tons of credit.

To my concerned friends, Max and Elizabeth, I said, “My father won’t be in there. Don’t worry. I came to terms with this earlier this morning.”

“How can you be so fucking sure?” Max said.

“Because Father McNamee was my biological father.”

“What?” Elizabeth said.

“The fuck, hey?” Max finished.

Their eyebrows rose.

“My subconscious suspected this for many years, but I’m just finding out now.”

“How do you know?” Elizabeth said.

“He told me,” I said.

“When?” said Elizabeth.

“This morning,” I said.

“But he was fucking
dead
this morning,” Max said as a group of nuns in black habits exited a VW bus and began to stare at us.

“God bless you, Sisters!” I yelled at them, waving and smiling, because they looked offended by Max’s excessive use of profanity, which had become customary to my ear, but still rankled others.