“Cigarette?” Father said to me as he lit up.
“No, thanks.” He knows I don’t smoke.
We both surveyed the street as he took a few puffs. It was cold, so no one was out on the stoops.
“Father McNamee is sick, Bartholomew.”
I immediately pictured the squidlike cancer attacking his brain. But I didn’t say anything, because I knew the probability of knowing two people with brain cancer was unlikely. Still, I couldn’t help having some irrational fear.
“He has bipolar disorder. Always has. But he went off his meds right around the time your mother passed.”
“He doesn’t seem sick,” I said.
“Do you know what bipolar disorder is?” he said, blowing smoke into the night.
“Yes.”
“What is it, then?”
I didn’t speak, because I wasn’t exactly sure. I had a general idea. But I’m not a doctor.
“It’s a chemical imbalance,” Father Hachette said. “Bipolar people sometimes have too much of the happy chemicals in their brain—which makes them feel as though they can do anything. And this can lead to erratic, impulsive, and dangerous behavior.”
I thought about Charles J. Guiteau killing President Garfield.
“These manic upswings are always followed by terrible downswings—fierce depressions. The bipolar person can become suicidal and dangerous. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Father McNamee is not depressed,” I said. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I’ve never seen him dangerously sad.”
“We took care of him when he wasn’t feeling well, Bartholomew. Sent him on retreats. Listened to him rant, made sure he took his meds. It was a great responsibility—and a tiresome one. Often it was more work than any one of us could handle. We had many resources through the church. I say all of this to you because—frankly—I think you’re in over your head. We are many, you are one.”
He was wrong, of course, because I have you, Richard Gere.
“I enjoy Father McNamee’s company,” I said.
“So you admit that he’s living here?” Father Hachette said and then laughed.
“I admit nothing,” I said.
Moron! the little angry man inside me yelled.
Stay cool, you, Richard Gere, whispered in my ear, and I imagined I could see you standing next to me. You were translucent, like a ghost. But then you were gone.
A noise came from inside the house—it sounded like heavy footsteps.
Father Hachette turned around, and when I looked at the window, the curtains closed very quickly. Father McNamee had been spying on us, and I thought maybe he wanted Father Hachette to know I was hiding him, because he was not being very secretive.
“Since he’s a grown man and he publicly defrocked himself, legally there is nothing we can do at this point,” Father Hachette said. “But I wanted you to know that when Father McNamee goes into a downswing—and he most definitely will—you’re going to need help.”
I nodded because that was the easiest thing to do.
“He’ll see rain when there’s only sun. He’ll become suspicious of people. He’ll be unbelievably gloomy and will start to yell at you, twist your own thoughts. That’s when you’ll know you’re really in over your head.”
“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t believe Father Hachette.
“I understand why you would be attracted to Father McNamee. His passion can be beautiful,” Father Hachette said. “Extremely beautiful. John the Baptist beautiful. Elijah beautiful even.”
“Beautiful?”
“Incredibly so. We’ve all been seduced by it over the years. Sometimes it even seems divine. And he can be quite prophetic—uncannily prophetic. We’ve all been attracted to his passion—pulled in.”
I remembered Father McNamee’s eyes sucking at me like whirlpools.
“Any questions, Bartholomew? This is a lot for you to swallow, I imagine.”
“Do you think God has stopped talking to Father McNamee?” I asked. “Is that why he left the church?”
“God speaks to all of us, but He says more to some than others.” Father Hachette flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and patted my chest again, like I was a Great Dane. “I’ve said all I needed to. You know where to find me, day or night. Right down the street at Saint Gabriel’s. Tell Father McNamee we miss him, okay?”
“Okay.”
We shook hands, and then he left.
As I watched him walk down the block I kept thinking that Father Hachette looked relieved—like he was floating, almost.
Why?
“What did the old man say about me?” Father McNamee said once I was inside, which was strange because he and Father Hachette looked about the same age.
“He said you have a bipolar disorder,” I said.
“And I should be on meds, right?”
I nodded.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“About what?”
“Whether or not I should be medicated.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do I seem crazy to you?”
“No,” I said, because I knew that’s what he wanted me to say. “But I’m not a doctor.”
“You know Jesus was most likely bipolar,” he said, nodding with great enthusiasm. “Preaching love your enemies one day and then flipping over the money changers’ tables the next. Turn the other cheek, and then it’s all swords and righteousness.” Father raised his right hand and said, “‘These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace,’ John 16:33. ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword!’ Matthew 10:34. Seeking out multitudes to heal and feed and awe—and then escaping on boats to quiet places, praying alone in gardens. What if Jesus had been medicated?” He raked his fingers through his beard. “Do you think he would have been so eager to give his life for the world? That’s not a reasonable, rational thing, after all. People don’t volunteer for crucifixion when chemicals are placating their minds, hearts, and souls. No one would want Jesus taking mood-altering pills, right? And as Catholics we’re supposed to live our lives as He did, right? Right?”
I nodded because what he was saying seemed logical.
Father McNamee nodded back once, said, “Besides, this is why God gave us whiskey,” got on his knees in the living room, and continued praying.
I decided to skip Mass for the first time in my life, because I didn’t want to see Father Hachette again. I didn’t want to have another confusing conversation. And Father McNamee and I were having Communion on a daily basis—three times a day, at every meal. You, Richard Gere, appeared to me several times, ghostlike in the darkness of my bedroom, and you told me that it was okay to skip Mass, that I could pray and talk to God anywhere—but as you are a Buddhist, I’m not sure I can trust you on these matters.
Father McNamee prayed and prayed and prayed, and nothing else really happened until I went to the library on Monday morning. The Girlbrarian was working. I thought about the goals I had made with Wendy. How I wanted to have a beer at the bar with The Girlbrarian.
There is nothing I want more than to speak with The Girlbrarian.
I prayed for strength.
She was wearing black military-style boots, jeans, and a long white sweater that looked like a dress and covered everything from her shoulders to her knees. For an hour or so I watched her push her cart in and out of aisles as she returned the books to their homes according to the alphabet. She would study the spines of each through her long brown hair, and then she’d scan the shelves, her eyes zigzagging the rows.
Whenever she found the proper place she would nod once and push her lips together as if to say, “Yes, I do believe I have found your home, Mr. or Mrs. Book.”
Then she would kneel or climb the little ladder attached to the cart before she made a space for the returned book. She’d slide the book back onto the shelf, make sure the spine was even with all of the other spines
, and then give the top a little tap with her index finger, as if to say, “Perfect.”
The whole time I watched The Girlbrarian I pretended that you were speaking to me, Richard Gere. You kept saying, Look at her, Bartholomew. She’s perfect for you. Go over and speak with her. Ask her what she likes to read. Ask if she likes looking at the river flow behind the art museum. Tell her you like her outfit. That she does her job with precision and efficiency, both of which you value highly. Ask her to have a beer with you. Why not? What do you have to lose? There she is. Go! It’s as simple as walking fifty feet and saying ten words, big guy. Come on!
When you spoke to me at the library, you kept calling me “big guy.”
Come on, big guy. She’s right there. And I’ll be with you the whole time. I’ll be telling you what to do in your mind. Come on, big guy! We can do this. Trust me.
It was nice to hear your voice in my mind—even if I was only pretending—especially since you are so confident and good with the opposite sex, both on and off the screen.
Each time The Girlbrarian climbed to the top of her ladder, I thought of that line you say to Julia Roberts at the end of Pretty Woman.
“What happens after he climbs up the tower and rescues her?” you ask.
And Julia Roberts says, “She rescues him right back.”
I wondered if maybe The Girlbrarian and I would say something like that to each other after we had gone on so many dates, and in my mind you said, Sure. Sure you will, big guy. It’s easy. Just go over and say hi. Listen to what I tell you to do, and failure will be impossible.
But I didn’t listen to what you told me to do.
I didn’t say hi.
I didn’t do anything.
And I want to thank you for being patient with me, Richard Gere, because you never once yelled at me or called me a retard. You said only positive, encouraging things in my mind, and you were so nice, I almost wanted to cry. I understand why Mom loved and admired you so much, although the little man in my stomach was not amused. He kept yelling, Hey, stupid! Richard Gere is not speaking to you! It’s only your imagination! What type of a grown man pretends like this? Only retards! With every sentence, he’d give a little kick or punch, and my insides started to feel sore.
But you ignored that little angry man in my stomach—you just kept encouraging me, Richard Gere.
You even appeared to me briefly in the library—just long enough to flash me a smile before your image evaporated.
Thank you.
I listened to you speak so sonorously in my mind for more than two hours until I realized that I had to leave and get something to eat before I attended my Surviving Grief meeting.
I ate a baked potato and a salad at Wendy’s, because I was thinking about Wendy my grief counselor just as I was walking past that redheaded little girl’s fast-food restaurant and was reminded of Jung’s synchronicity, so I decided to go inside.
I smiled while eating at Wendy’s—thinking about my grief counselor and the fact that there are no coincidences.
Thinking about Wendy at Wendy’s.
Then I went to the address that Wendy gave me.
1012 Walnut Street
Third Floor
There was a coffee shop on the first floor, and when I asked for directions they told me to use a door that was in an alleyway. There was a buzzer and a black box with numbered buttons and a tiny hole you were supposed to speak into. Since I didn’t know the entry code, I pushed the white circle call button and heard a bzzzzzzz!
A second later, a man’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Um . . . I’m looking for group therapy. Grief management. Wendy sent me? Are you Arnold?”
“Are you Mr. Bartholomew Neil?”
“Yes.”
“Wendy has said such nice things about you! Come on up! Third floor!”
I heard another buzzing noise and a click, so I tried the door and it opened.
I could smell the coffee shop—ground beans, steamed milk, warmth like breathing through a wool scarf on the coldest of days.
There was a narrow staircase and a wooden railing. The walls were painted a mint green.
I climbed.
When I reached the third floor there was a blond man with a well-groomed blond goatee waiting in the doorway. He was wearing a brown cardigan sweater with leather arm patches, moss green corduroy pants, and suede shoes that looked like a very expensive version of what you’d wear while bowling.
I glanced into his office and suddenly noticed that the entire room was yellow—yellow couch, yellow rug, yellow walls, and several abstract paintings of flowers that appeared to have been made by folding thin sheets of gold.
It was absolutely bizarre.
“Bartholomew!” he said and stuck out his hand, which I shook. His grip was perfect—not too hard, not too light. “Welcome to group therapy for the grieving! Come on in!”
I included all of the exciting punctuation marks because he was so enthusiastic. I was also a bit confused about “group” therapy, because there wasn’t anybody else in the room.
“I’m Dr. Devine, but you may call me Arnie. I’m so glad you decided to join us. How are you today?”
His use of the plural pronoun made me very suspicious, since we were alone.
But Arnie’s eyes struck me as sincere, and I felt as though he was really concerned—as though he wanted to listen to me. He seemed like a nice man, a good doctor.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Good. Good. Now, what has Wendy told you about us?”
“Us?” I said, not able to let it slide a third time.
“Max and me.”
“Max?”
“She didn’t tell you about Max?” Dr. Devine had a surprised look now that made me feel very anxious. Worry lines appeared on his forehead.
“She didn’t really say anything at all—except that I would benefit from coming here,” I lied. I didn’t want to talk about Wendy’s personal problems with her schooling, because I didn’t want to gossip.
“Oh dear,” Dr. Devine said. “Where to start? Where. To. Start?” he said to the floor. “Max and you have been grouped together for several reasons that I will explain shortly. But before he gets here—and I realize we don’t have much time—I wanted to warn you about Max’s . . . demeanor.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, Wendy really should have told you that—”
“What the fuck, hey?” a man said as he walked into the room from the stairwell. “Fuck this. Fuck this!”
“Hi, Max! Great to see you today! We were just talking about you. This is Max, Bartholomew. He is also grieving. Bartholomew, this is—”
“Why the fuck is he here?” Max said, standing in the doorway.
“Now, Max,” Arnie said. “We talked about this.”
Max looked at me and then—a bit more softly—once more, he said, “What the fuck, hey?”
I was speechless.
“Should we all sit down?” Arnie said.
Max threw his hands in the air like it didn’t matter and then plopped down at the far end of the yellow couch.
He looked to be about my age, but was wearing thick brown old-man glasses that made me wonder if he might be legally blind. Behind the heavy lenses, his pupils made me think of twin snails in adjacent bowls. Max had on black pants, black shoes, a purple button-up long-sleeve shirt, and a black vest—all of which reeked of stale popcorn. On the breast pocket was a gold name tag with his name printed on it.
MAX
HERE TO SERVE YOU!
When Arnie motioned to the other end of the couch, I sat down.
Arnie sat in a yellow leather armchair and crossed his legs.
“Bartholomew, the yellow room is a word fortress. Whatever words you let free in the yellow room stay in the yellow room. So feel free to speak freely. You are safe here. And in return, I must ask you to be a knight of confidence. A keeper of secrets. A sacred chalice for the truths Max may confide in you. And we sh
all be your word chalices. Can you help defend our castle, Bartholomew? Can you be a knight of confidence?”
“What the fuck, hey?” Max whispered before I could answer. When I looked over at him, he was shaking his head.
“Max, would you like to express something?”
“This ain’t a fucking castle, Arnie. Give us a fucking break, hey.”
“Okay, Max. Why don’t you give Bartholomew an introduction? Welcome—”
“Introduction? Fuck that!” Max said.
“You will find that while Max has a gruff exterior, he’s really a sweet man underneath of it all, which is why we’ve decided to match you two up.”
I must have raised my eyebrows or something because Arnie said, “You look confused.”
“What do we do here?” I said. “Is it like talking with Wendy?”
“Good question,” Max said. “Great fucking question.” He nodded like he meant it and wasn’t making fun of me at all.
“Yes,” Arnie said. “The yellow room is for talking. You are free to speak your mind. But the goal here tonight is to partner the two of you up, so that you might support each other through the grieving process.”
Max blew air out between his lips.
“Max, would you please tell Bartholomew why you are grieving?”
Max blew even more air out between his lips.
“Max?”
Max looked up at the ceiling for a good fifteen seconds or so and squeezed his knees with his hands before he said, “Alice was my best friend, and now she’s fucking gone.”
“Yes, she is, Max. I’m very sorry about that.”
“Did you fucking kill her, hey?”
“No, I did not,” Arnie said.
“Then what the fuck are you sorry about?”
“I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that you have to go through this grieving process. I’m sorry that Alice is no longer providing you with the comforts that you once had, and I hope that you will find a way to move on.”
“I haven’t missed any work, hey.”
“Maybe you should take a few days off.”
“Fuck that.”
“Bartholomew, would you tell us please why you are grieving?”
“My mother died of cancer.”