The Good Luck of Right Now

  “Father McNamee!” she yelled and beamed. “What a surprise! Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick about you! Father Hachette says you had a nervous breakdown! Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Father McNamee said. “Well, I’m tired, truth be told. But that’s not why we’re here.”

  The woman glanced at me for a second and then said, “Do you want to come in?”

  “You know Bartholomew Neil from Mass, I imagine,” he said, ignoring the invitation. “Bartholomew, this is Wendy’s mother, Edna.” To Edna, he said, “Wendy has been counseling Bartholomew. It’s part of her schooling.”

  I raised my hand and smiled.

  Edna smiled back at me and said, “I recognize you from Saturday-evening Mass. I sit toward the front on the left.”

  I nodded, even though I did not recognize her and we had never once spoken. (I mostly look at the stained glass windows at Mass—never at the people around me.)

  “We need Wendy’s current address,” Father McNamee said.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “We’re not exactly sure yet,” Father said.

  Edna stared at Father again like she didn’t understand what he had said, and then she said, “I’ve failed as a mother.”

  “I’m sure that’s not—”

  “It’s true, all right. Wendy moved in with her boyfriend, an older man. I think he’s a doctor,” Edna said. Her eyes became red and glassy. “I haven’t even met him, which makes me worry, especially since Wendy seems different. Harder. And I feel responsible, but how could I afford her schooling? I can barely afford our mortgage! I ask to meet him, and she changes the subject. It’s like she’s punishing me. And she seems sad all the time. Ever since she moved in with that man. Does that seem right to you, Father?”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “What kind of trouble is she in? Is he cruel to her?”

  “We need the address. We’re trying to help,” Father said.

  The woman shook her head, looked at her hands, and mumbled something—maybe a prayer—before she disappeared for a few minutes, but Father McNamee didn’t turn around to look at me, which made me feel nervous.

  When Edna returned, she handed Father McNamee a ripped-off piece of a cigarette carton with an address scribbled on the backside and said, “Wendy’s a good girl. She has a good heart, but she’s ambitious. I’m just another person in the neighborhood. Is that so horrible? Is that my fault?” Wendy’s mother wiped her eyes and sniffled. “We haven’t been granted many favors. Tell me once more you’ll help her.”

  “I’ll try,” Father McNamee said, nodded reassuringly, and then gave the woman a hug. I watched her cigarette send up a tiny stream of smoke behind Father McNamee’s head when she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “I know you’re no longer a priest, but will you pray for me now?” she said when they released each other. “Just one short prayer?”

  Father McNamee bowed his head and said, “Father, bless this woman, your daughter, and give her your promised peace in her heart. Be with us today, Jesus. See us through the riddles of our individual lives and help us see the beauty of our . . . perpetually stumped nature. Amen.”

  “Amen,” the old woman echoed solemnly. She reached out, cupped Father McNamee’s red cheeks, and said, “God bless you.”

  I could smell the lingering stale scent of old cigarette smoke as Father McNamee studied the address in his hand and mentally mapped a route, and then we were off again, walking quickly down the sidewalk.

  “Do you really believe that there’s beauty in our stumped nature?” I asked, wondering if I might be beautiful after all. I had definitely been stumped for decades.

  “I do,” Father McNamee answered.

  “Like colorful flower petals are first hidden inside a stem?”

  Father McNamee stopped walking, smiled at me through his beard, and said, “Beauty is within all of us, Bartholomew. It just hides sometimes. That’s right.”

  Father McNamee walked on and on—and quickly enough to make me sweat, even though it was a cold evening.

  Finally, we arrived at a trinity around the corner from South and Third Street. Father McNamee pushed the doorbell and held it for a long time. When he let go, we heard a man’s voice say, “You don’t have to ring forever.”

  “Adam?” Father McNamee said into the intercom speaker.

  Silence.

  “Who is this?”

  “We are friends of Wendy. Will you please buzz us in?”

  More silence.

  Father McNamee rang the bell again.

  “With whom am I speaking?” Adam said.

  “Wendy’s friends.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Bartholomew Neil,” Father McNamee said, which surprised me.

  “Father McNamee?” Wendy said. I could tell it was her voice. I saw her orange eyebrows in my mind, her white, almost translucent skin.

  “I am no longer a Father. I defrocked myself. Remember? But, yes.”

  A few seconds later the door opened and Wendy was standing there, wearing her egg-shaped sunglasses, black stretch pants, and a maroon Temple University sweatshirt that was much too large for her. “Come in,” she said.

  I followed Father McNamee into the first floor of the trinity, where there was a tan leather couch, a glass coffee table, a black rug that was shaggy like a dog, a large iron liquor cabinet filled with dozens of bottles, and a huge manly leather chair. This was the house of a wealthy person. I could tell instantly.

  “How did you get this address?” Wendy said to Father McNamee.

  “Your mother gave it to me.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked her for it.”

  “Why?”

  “We were concerned—Bartholomew and me. When you left so quickly—”

  “I’m sorry. I wasn’t feeling well earlier.”

  Father McNamee raised his bushy white eyebrows.

  “Why don’t you come upstairs and meet Adam,” Wendy said.

  “Adam, you say. That’s the lucky guy’s name? Adam?”

  “It’s really not such an unusual name, now, is it?” Wendy said, and then forced a laugh. “Come on up and meet him.”

  We followed her up an iron spiral staircase into a kitchen/dining room. A handsome man in sky-blue doctor’s scrubs stood when he saw us. He looked like he was my age—at least ten years older than Wendy. On the table were two plates and two glasses of wine. They were eating red meat, radishes, and asparagus.

  Adam had blue eyes, brownish hair cut respectable but shaggy like yours, Richard Gere. Wendy introduced us. When he shook my hand, he squeezed really hard, hurting me a little.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Sorry about your mother.”

  I nodded and then stared at my brown shoelaces. I don’t think Wendy was supposed to talk about our sessions with anyone else because it violates counselor-client privilege. I began to feel like I shouldn’t have told Wendy anything about myself at all.

  “Would you like a drink?” Adam said.

  Soon we were seated at a large wooden table with wineglasses in our hands.

  I sipped and the wine tasted expensive, or maybe I assumed it did, since I know next to nothing about wine.

  “So . . . to what do we owe this honor?” Adam asked, in a way that suggested he’d rather be eating his red meat and radishes, which is exactly what he started to do. “Don’t want to let a good Kobe steak get cold,” he added, as if he could read my mind. “If I’d known you were coming I’d have—”

  “We’re concerned about Wendy,” Father McNamee said.

  “Why?” Adam said as he chewed, looking completely nonchalant.

  “Maybe because it looks like she went ten rounds with the current heavyweight champion,” Father McNamee said, “whose name I cannot recall, but he must be able to smash up faces and make Wendy’s look like it currently does.”

  “You know Wendy. Anything a man can do, she can do
better—and don’t tell her otherwise. No, she will play softball against all men, and that’s that!” Adam said and then smiled at Wendy. “She’s so competitive that she knocked down a line drive on the hot corner with her face. No ducking for her. Admirable. You have to admit.”

  Wendy smiled back but didn’t say anything; she looked stiff as a cardboard cutout of herself.

  Adam said “admirable” in a way that made me believe he was telling the truth. It was like watching a television program. He looked like the lead on the show—the good guy—like everything he said would be followed by a laugh track of hundreds who loved this man. He was that type of person—the kind who could make you want to believe in lies, the kind who makes you feel stupid and ugly and too tongue-tied to express your own ideas, no matter how sure you are that you are right and he is wrong.

  Father McNamee stared at Adam for a long time—it was almost like Father McNamee had entered into a trance.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” Adam said to Father McNamee. “What are you doing?”

  Father McNamee opened up the whirlpools in his eyes, and the whirlpools began to suck.

  “Okay. Stop that. You’re starting to freak me out.”

  You could feel the power.

  I half expected the plates and silverware to begin sliding toward Father McNamee.

  I averted my eyes.

  “What’s with these guys?” Adam said to Wendy, and then downed his wine.

  Father McNamee kept staring into Adam’s eyes.

  The whirlpools were really starting to scare Adam, you could tell.

  The whirlpools were sucking the color from his skin.

  A giant pink elephant had filled the room and was crushing us against the walls, making it increasingly difficult to breathe.

  “Stop staring at me,” Adam said to Father McNamee.

  Father McNamee leaned forward and kept staring.

  “You told me the big guy was crazy, but you didn’t say the priest was nuts too,” Adam said to Wendy.

  The angry man in my stomach started to rage with great fury.

  “I never, ever used the words crazy or nuts!” Wendy said to me.

  “Listen,” Adam said. “Why are you staring at me?”

  Father McNamee kept staring.

  “Stop staring at me!” Adam said. “Stop it!”

  Father McNamee stared so intently, he started to tremble a little.

  “Horrible,” Father McNamee said. “Horrible what must have happened to you when you were a boy. I’ve counseled many abusers, and they were all abused. You learn it, and you must unlearn it too.”

  “Get the hell out of my house!” Adam said.

  “Horrible,” Father McNamee said as he tilted his head. “You’re broken.”

  Adam jumped out of his seat and made his way around the table, as if he were about to attack Father McNamee, but Wendy stood and put her hand on Adam’s chest. “It’s okay. They’re leaving.”

  “I want them out of here!” Adam said, eyes wide, veins bulging.

  “Okay,” Wendy said, gently massaging his biceps now. “Just go upstairs. I’ll make them leave.”

  “I swear if these two clowns aren’t out of here by the time I—”

  “I’ll take care of it. You have more important things to worry about. Let me handle this. It’s small stuff. Nothing. Don’t worry.”

  Adam glared at us for an uncomfortable ten seconds and then yelled, “Out! I want you out of my house!” before stomping up the spiral staircase.

  “You better go,” Wendy said, trembling.

  Father McNamee reached out and took her face in his hands. He removed her sunglasses, and her black eye looked even worse than it had earlier. The colors had dulled, but the damage appeared more pronounced and permanent—as if it had settled into her skin for good.

  “You don’t want to move back in with your mother, I know. You think that would be a step backward. I know she’s depressed. Your mother can be oppressive. Adam provides a good life for you, financially. He pays for your schooling. He buys you nice things. He’s handsome even. He looks like a shiny key to a better beautiful life. You think you can save him, but this is not how you save people.”

  “I got hurt playing softball,” Wendy insisted, but she was crying now, and her words made her sound like a child.

  “You can live with Bartholomew and me,” Father McNamee said. “Leave with us now, and it will be easier for you. If you stay, he will beat you again when we leave. You know that. He can’t help himself. He’s sick. And make no mistake, you are part of that sickness now. You’re keeping him sick. Continuing the cycle. You need to leave right away—for him, for you.”

  “It was a softball game. Third base. A line drive to my eye,” Wendy said, but she was looking at her slippers now, and her words were quiet and light as plucked feathers.

  “Our door is open to you any time, day or night,” Father McNamee said, and then he hugged Wendy. “Let’s go, Bartholomew.”

  We started to walk down the spiral staircase.

  “How did you know his name was Adam?” Wendy said to me. She was leaning over the railing, watching us descend. She had put her sunglasses back on. Her angry words echoed in my head. “How did you know that?”

  I couldn’t think of the right way to tell her, so I just shrugged.

  But then I thought of a line from the Dalai Lama’s book A Profound Mind: “‘We should work toward cherishing the welfare of others to the point where we are unable to bear the sight of their misery.’ The Dalai Lama said that. It’s hard for me to look at your bruises. That’s how we ended up here. That’s all I can explain right now.”

  “Our home is open to you,” Father McNamee yelled up the stairs, and then we left.

  We didn’t say anything to each other as we walked home.

  I think we both knew what was happening to Wendy as we strolled—like our slow steps were prayers that could save her—and even though we had tried our best to protect her, there was nothing else we could do now.

  Father McNamee seemed drained of energy, and I was too.

  He got down on his knees and began to petition the Almighty just as soon as he arrived home, and he didn’t stop until late in the night when our doorbell rang.

  It was Wendy.

  The entire left side of her face was swollen and bruised. Her teeth were coated red with blood. Her posture was defeated.

  “I’m so stupid. I’m so weak,” Wendy said, her voice sounding like a little kid’s, and I felt for her—I wanted to take away her pain, mostly because she was saying the things the little angry man in my stomach says all the time, and I know how horrible it is to hear those sorts of words associated with yourself and to believe that it’s all true.

  She crumpled onto our couch and cried and moaned in Father McNamee’s arms as he rubbed her back and I wrung my hands until they looked scalded.

  When she had cried herself out, Father McNamee covered her with a blanket and whispered, “You’re safe here, and you can stay as long as you like.”

  Wendy was asleep in the fetal position.

  “She needs rest,” Father McNamee whispered to me, and so I followed him upstairs.

  He paused in the hallway and handed me his flask. It was silver and inscribed.

  MAN OF GOD

  We each took a few long pulls of whiskey. I felt my insides warm. When I handed the empty flask back to him, he lightly slapped my cheek twice and smiled at me.

  “We’ve done good work tonight,” he said.

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “But you have,” Father McNamee said, and his face looked so proud.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but no words would come out.

  I was confused.

  “Good night, Bartholomew,” Father finally said.

  “Good night,” I answered.

  He went into Mom’s room and closed the door.

  I had cleaned out all of Mom’s things, donating most to the local thrift
store, but it was still her room—the place she had slept for many decades—so it was strange to think of our priest sleeping there now. And yet I felt like Mom would be okay with Father McNamee using her bed, because he was her favorite priest—a man she believed was all good.

  I stood in the hallway wondering if I could take any credit for what Father McNamee had done to help Wendy. I couldn’t decide.

  So I went into my room and wrote you this letter.

  Your admiring fan,

  Bartholomew Neil

  9

  THERE WERE INDEED PATTERNS TO THE UNIVERSE

  Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

  Wendy didn’t get up off our couch for three days, and the whole time Father McNamee prayed in Mom’s room, which is becoming his room, and that hurts my brain a little.

  The past few days have been a confusing time for me, as I’m not sure I enjoy having so many people in my mother’s house—especially Wendy, who Mom never even met. It was starting to feel like Mom never lived here at all, and I don’t like that one bit.

  But I tried to remind myself of what the Dalai Lama says about compassion in A Profound Mind: “When our heart is full of empathy, a strong wish to remove their suffering will arise in us.” Wendy was clearly suffering. I want my heart to be full of empathy; I want to be as much like you as I can. And so I’m trying.

  Father McNamee brought Wendy buttered toast and orange juice, macaroni and cheese and coffee, but she left it untouched and mostly buried her face in the cushions of the couch. I heard her use the bathroom late at night and wondered how she held it all day long. The bruises on her face were transitioning from purple to yellow. Father McNamee said this meant Wendy was healing on the outside, but not yet on the inside. Father McNamee said Wendy was embarrassed, mostly because she’d “traded roles with me.” I didn’t understand what he meant at first, but after a day or so I figured he meant that I was the one trying to get Wendy through a difficult period when she was supposed to be helping me. I can understand why that would make her feel like a failure, and I began to wonder if she had a little woman in her stomach that yelled at her and called her names.