The Good Luck of Right Now (7 page)

“Charles J. Guiteau’s dissected brain,” Father McNamee said. “They kept it because of the historical significance and so future generations could learn from it.”

“What could they possibly learn?” I asked.

I couldn’t make all the pieces inside the jar fit to make an entire human brain—but the museum looked very official, so I knew it must really be Charles J. Guiteau’s, just as it was labeled. Still, it didn’t look real.

“He was a sick man. Doctors need to study sickness in order to understand it—so they can help other sick people,” Father McNamee said.

I didn’t like looking at cut-up brains, and as I thought about those parts once being in a skull that saw and heard and breathed and spoke and commanded a body to walk around in this world, I began to feel as though I was going to vomit. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept the night before and was feeling exhausted, but I have never liked thinking about dismemberment.

“Can we leave now?” I asked, wishing Father were wearing his priest collar again instead of the wrinkled red button-up that many washes had faded pink.

Father McNamee looked at me. “This upsets you, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” I said, thinking, Who wouldn’t be freaked out by all this?

“Let’s go, then,” Father said, and we did.

We walked for a few blocks before I asked if we could sit down for a second.

I sat on the steps of someone’s three-level home, which people around here sometimes call trinities.

“Are you okay?” Father McNamee said.

“Why did you wake me up in the middle of the night?”

“You were yelling. You were having a nightmare.”

“Why did you show me that cut-up brain?”

“Are you angry with me?” Father asked me.

I didn’t want to answer that question, so I remained mute.

I did feel a little angry.

Everything was happening too quickly.

Father McNamee sat down next to me, and we watched the traffic pass for a long time, but I didn’t answer his question.

The nausea subsided.

My anger lessened.

We sat so long my backside and thighs began absorbing the concrete’s cold.

A man in an expensive-looking overcoat and silk scarf walked up to us and said, “These are my steps, and you are loitering.”

Father McNamee nodded and said, “Forgive us.”

The man pushed through without saying another word. His knee hit my shoulder as I was trying to stand, and I said, “I’m sorry,” even though it wasn’t my fault, and I sort of felt like the man kneed me intentionally—like he wanted to hurt me.

We left.

After fifteen minutes or so of walking, Father McNamee said, “Has God spoken to you yet?”

“No,” I said.

“You can bet your ass God didn’t speak to Charles J. Guiteau,” Father McNamee said.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t want to talk about Charles J. Guiteau anymore.

Mostly I didn’t want to think about his dissected brain preserved forever in a jar.

“How am I so sure God didn’t tell Guiteau to kill Garfield? Do you want to know?”

I felt Father McNamee’s eyes on me, so I nodded. I didn’t really want to know, but I knew nodding was the easiest thing to do—what he wanted, and what would end this discussion most quickly.

“God doesn’t tell you to do bad things. God doesn’t tell you to kill your president. Even when God told Abraham to kill Isaac, he didn’t let him do it. He sent his angel to stop him. That was a test. But God has already tested you, Bartholomew—with your mother’s sickness—and he has found you to be good, pure of heart. You endured it well.”

I didn’t like what Father McNamee was saying because it implied that God gave Mom cancer to test me, and if that were true, I don’t think I could believe in God anymore.

“Something tells me you’re soon going to help others in quiet ways,” Father McNamee said.

I thought about how maybe Charles J. Guiteau imagined he was doing what was best for the country when he killed President Garfield—that maybe he really truly believed he was doing the right thing. Or maybe he was just plain crazy. But I didn’t want to argue with Father McNamee. He looked so confident—like he had delivered the most important homily of his life. And I was starting to believe that maybe he was going crazy himself.

“God doesn’t always use words to speak to us, Bartholomew,” he said as we waited for a red light to turn green. “Sometimes we simply get feelings. Hunches. Have you had any of those?”

I shook my head no.

We walked the rest of the way home in silence.

Father knelt down in the living room to give praying a go again, and I walked to the library, enjoying the feeling of being in motion and the cold air in my nose and the warm sun on my face.

The Girlbrarian wasn’t working.

I pretended to read current events magazines like
Newsweek
and
Time
, but mostly I thought about my dream—Mom falling into the great black pit under the boardwalk.

When I returned home several hours later, Father McNamee was still praying—eyes smashed shut, fists strangling each other white, lips mouthing words with alarming speed, and temples moist with sweat.

He didn’t come to dinner.

He was still on his knees when I went to bed.

I wonder what he says to God for so many hours.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil

6

“A SITUATION COMPLICATED BECAUSE OF HIS OPPRESSIVE TENDENCY TO OVER-ANALYSE”

Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Wendy came to the house for her regular visit while Father McNamee was praying in the living room, like he does for hours and hours, even when I am watching television. Nothing bothers him when he is praying. It’s like he goes into a deep trance. You could dump ice water on his head and he wouldn’t even flinch.

“What are
you
doing here?” Wendy said to Father McNamee.

“He’s praying,” I answered when Father McNamee failed to look up. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

“Why is he praying in your living room, Bartholomew?”

“He always prays in my living room.”

“Since when?”

“Since he moved in with me. He defrocked himself, and now—”

“Father McNamee?
” Wendy yelled.

When he didn’t respond, she went over and poked his arm three times.

Father McNamee opened one eye—like he’d only been pretending to pray the whole time—and said, “Yes.”

“What’s going on here?” Wendy said.

“I’ve moved in with Bartholomew.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking care of some old business that doesn’t concern you.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

Father McNamee sighed. “You are so young, Wendy. I admire your youth.”

“You asked me to help Bartholomew become independent—”

“Your point?” Father McNamee stood, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “Excuse me, God.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Wendy said.

“Let’s talk outside, shall we?”

Wendy and Father McNamee went out the front door and talked on the sidewalk. I watched them through the window, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Father McNamee kept nodding confidently. Wendy kept pointing her index finger at Father McNamee’s face. This went on for fifteen minutes.

Finally, Father McNamee walked away down the street.

Wendy took a few deep breaths, lifting and dropping her shoulders, before she saw me staring at her through the window. She looked angry for a split second, but then she smiled and walked toward the house.

“Should we sit in the kitchen?” she asked when she entered, and then strode right past me before I could answer, which was unlike her.

She removed her floral-pattern trench coat and hung it on the back of Mom’s chair. Then we sat down at the kitchen table, but the birds were not singing, which seemed like a sign of some sort.

“Do you want Father McNamee to live with you?” Wendy said. Her orange eyebrows were scrunched together. Her orange hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The tops of her freckled ears were so full of light they appeared translucent.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said.

I shrugged.

“Father McNamee does not seem well. Has he been acting strange?”

I shrugged again, because he had, and I didn’t want to say that. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone, and I knew that Father McNamee was likely to leave if I said I didn’t want him there. It was confusing, the way I felt, so I went into silent mode.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Wendy said, misinterpreting my lack of words. “Look, Bartholomew, I know I’ve been telling you to find a flock and make friends. Remember how we outlined your goal of having a beer at a bar with a peer sometime within the next three months?”

I nodded.

“Well, I think that Father McNamee living here will not help you accomplish that goal.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You’ve spent the first forty years of your life taking care of your mother. You haven’t been on your own for two months before a man much older than you moves into your home.
Don’t you see a pattern developing?
”

I had no idea what she was talking about, which made me feel like a Neanderthal. I’m sure you, Richard Gere, know exactly what she meant and probably saw the problem two or three letters ago.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

She bit her lip, looked out the window for a second, and then said, “Did Father McNamee tell you that he expects you to deliver a message from God?”

I knew that telling the truth would not be a good idea, so I said nothing.

“I understand that Father McNamee has been your religious leader for your entire life—that your faith and the Catholic Church are very important to you. I understand that Father McNamee cares about you a great deal. Furthermore, he was the one who put me in touch with—”

“What happened to your wrist?” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself from speaking. There was a purple and yellow bruise on her left wrist that looked painful and awful. I saw it jump out of her sleeve when she was motioning with her hands.

“What?” Wendy said, and pulled down her sleeve, covering the bruise.

The look on her face made me wince.

“Oh,” she said. Then she looked up and to the left, which I’ve read is a classic sign that someone is lying. “I fell Rollerblading. Down on Kelly Drive. Should have worn my wrist protectors. But they are
so
dorky. I’m okay.”

I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t say anything more. Wendy is a terrible liar. She began talking about Father McNamee again, saying something about how she had been contacted by Father Hachette, who is very concerned about Father McNamee. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He hadn’t even said good-bye to anyone. She’d have to report his whereabouts to Father Hachette. I remember hearing the words “mental health” several times, but I can’t elaborate more because I was creating scenarios in my mind regarding Wendy’s bruise—trying to explain why her wrist was yellow and purple—instead of listening to her rant about Father McNamee. If she had fallen Rollerblading, she might have sprained her wrist or broken it—this was true—but I don’t think it would have turned such awful colors, but maybe I was wrong about that. I am no doctor.

I imagined maybe a dog had bitten her, but I hadn’t seen any puncture wounds or scabs. Maybe she had a pet snake that had wrapped itself around her wrist too tightly, and she was afraid they’d take her pet away from her if she told the truth?

Maybe.

But I couldn’t make any of these scenarios stick. I feared the worst—that something horrible was happening, and Wendy was pretending.

The angry man in my stomach wasn’t happy.

“Are you worried about me, Bartholomew?” Wendy said, and then looked at me the way Mom did when she first started calling me Richard—like the sexually active girls back in high school, tilting her forehead forward, staring up from under her eyebrows. Just like Tara Wilson looked at me before she took me into the high school basement. “You haven’t taken your eyes off my wrist.”

I looked down at my brown shoelaces.

“How sweet,” Wendy said in an almost mean way.

I didn’t like what she was doing. Using my concern for her against me. Using her beauty as a weapon.

“Father McNamee is not insane,” I said. “He’s just . . .”

I thought about telling Wendy about Charles J. Guiteau—that there are good and bad types of crazy—but I knew she wouldn’t understand.

Wendy said, “Regardless, I don’t think you’re emotionally ready for another housemate—especially one who is your mother’s age.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you need to work on making age-appropriate friends. Finding an age-appropriate support group. Finding your own way.”

“Being a bird,” I said.

“Okay, maybe that was a stupid metaphor. I’ll admit it.” Wendy watched me stare at my shoelaces for a long time—I could feel her eyes on me—and then she said, “You okay?”

I nodded.

“Have you thought any more about coming to the support group I told you about?”

“I’m still thinking about that.”

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about this week?”

“No, thank you.”

“What do you and Father McNamee do together?”

“Guy things.”

“Guy things?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

“You are not a guy,” I said and then smiled, because it felt good to have guy secrets—like I was one step closer to having a beer with a friend at the bar. You would have been proud of me, Richard Gere. Truly.

“I see,” Wendy said, and then laughed in a good way. “What have you been reading about at the library this week?”

“The Dalai Lama,” I said, because it was true. “And Tibet.”

“Interesting. Any particular reason why?”

“Did you know that Tibetan monks have been performing self-immolations to protest China’s rule?”

“Self-immolations
. Like burning themselves to death?”

“Not like. Exactly so.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean?”