The Good Luck of Right Now (11 page)

It felt like all of my ribs had been crushed and my heart was on fire.

I had just drunk beer with The Girlbrarian’s brother.

Father McNamee would have called it Communion.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Max said. “You look like you’re taking a shit in your pants.”

“I’m okay,” I managed to say. “But I have to go.”

“What the fucking fuck, hey?” Max said as I walked away from him and into the night. I walked quickly for an hour or so until I arrived home. Father McNamee was kneeling in the living room, praying.

“Father McNamee?” I said.

He opened one eye and said, “Yes, Bartholomew?”

“I have something to tell you. Something that will seem crazy.”

“Sounds like it will require alcohol.”

Father McNamee groaned as he stood, poured us whiskey, and we drank in the kitchen while I told him the entire story—everything I outlined above, letting him know that I was madly in love with The Girlbrarian, admitting that to someone for the first time, which felt surprisingly good.

When I finished, he smiled at me and said, “I’m happy for you. Love is a beautiful thing.”

“What do you think it means?”

“What does
what
mean?”

“My being randomly paired up with The Girlbrarian’s brother.”

“Why do you call her The Girlbrarian?” Father said, sucking in his lips and squinting.

I didn’t know why, so I said, “My just happening to be paired up with her brother. Do you think it means something?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Could it be divine intervention?”

“God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days. But again, I’m happy for you, Bartholomew. Cheers!” he said, raised his glass, and then took a rather large gulp of his whiskey.

We finished our drinks and had another round.

I felt like I was giving off light, I was so warm and happy, but Father McNamee seemed off.

I was a little buzzed when I went to bed.

I dreamed of my mother again, only this time she wasn’t in any sort of danger.

Mom and I were sitting on the backyard patio, sipping her homemade tea brewed with the mint we grew in window boxes. It was a sticky summer evening. We could hear thunder in the distance and every once in a while we’d see a flash of heat lightning. We could taste the electricity in the air. Mom looked at me and said, “Why do you think Richard calls you ‘big guy’?” She made air quotes around the words “big guy” and said them in a deep voice, like she was trying to imitate the way a man would speak, although she sounded nothing like you, Richard Gere. And by the look on her face, I could tell she did not like your nickname for me.

“It’s better than ‘retard,’” I said.

Mom slapped her knee and laughed until she couldn’t catch her breath—until tears ran down her face.

Finally, after she calmed down, Mom said, “Who would ever think you were mentally challenged? You’re more intelligent than most people, but most people don’t measure intelligence the right way.”

I looked away, and when I looked back, she had turned into a tiny yellow bird.

That bird sang to me for a minute or so, and then it flew up into the air, toward the heat lightning that was striking every few seconds, creating a strobe effect.

“Mom!” I screamed.

And then I woke up.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil

8

“TO THE POINT WHERE WE ARE UNABLE TO BEAR THE SIGHT OF THEIR MISERY”

Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Wendy came to visit me wearing sunglasses.

They were rather large oval lenses that looked like eggs turned sideways (smaller sides pointing toward her ears, larger egg bottoms resting on the bridge of her nose). The frames were white. They covered most of her face, and made her nose look bunny-rabbit small.

“Hello, Father McNamee,” Wendy said when we walked past him kneeling and praying in the living room.

He remained motionless, with his hands clasped tight, but then he opened one eye and tried to suck us in with it. It was like seeing the blowhole of a whale breach the water’s surface. It sucked all the air out of the room.

Or maybe like looking into a well, and feeling the urge to step away, so you wouldn’t fall in—and yet you lean in a little closer, anyway.

Then his eye snapped shut and he went back to praying, so Wendy and I made our way into the kitchen.

She sat down and removed her coat, but left her sunglasses on, which I thought was strange.

“How was group therapy?” she asked me. “Arnie said very nice things about you.”

“It was okay. Better than I thought it would be.” I smiled here, and you, Richard Gere, in my mind you whispered,
Go on. Tell her.
You sounded so proud of me. So I said, “And afterward, I accomplished one of my life goals.”

“Really?” she said very loudly, enthusiastically, and then leaned in toward me. “Which one?”

I looked at her small knee—the left one; it was black because she was wearing leggings under her wool skirt—smiled, and said, “I had a beer with an age-appropriate friend at a pub. And after only one meeting with Arnie.”

“
Bartholomew!
I’m so proud,” she said, but it sounded too enthusiastic—fake—which depressed me. “Who was your lucky drinking partner?”

“Max.”

Her orange eyebrows popped up from behind her white sunglasses. “Max from group therapy?”

“Are two people a group? I thought there would be more than one other person in group therapy,” I said, because I did think that and had been wondering about why there were only two of us.

“We pair up people, like partners. Support buddies. We don’t want to overwhelm people like Max and you with a larger group. You need to start with small steps.”

“Max is grieving over a cat named Alice,” I said, just stating a fact.

“People grieve for all sorts of reasons. It’s probably best not to compare or try to measure.”

I nodded in full agreement, thinking the Dalai Lama would also nod if he were here.

“What did you two have to drink?” Wendy asked.

“Guinness.”

“Yum! I love Guinness! Guinness is good for you, they say. One of the healthier beers. Something about the dark color is good for your heart, I think. I read that somewhere. Makes me feel better about drinking beer when I do. So I always drink Guinness. Also, you can’t drink as many. Too filling. So it’s a safe beer too. I’m glad that you and Max—”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” I asked. It was a logical question. People don’t often wear sunglasses indoors. Wendy had never before worn sunglasses during one of our meetings. And yet, as soon as the words jumped out of my mouth, I realized that the question was weighty and would change the nice, easy flow of the conversation. It was as if the power had shifted and I had become the counselor—or at least that’s how it felt to me. I sort of sensed that I needed to become the counselor—like something needed to be done, and I was the one to do it.

Wendy paused and took a few seconds to think about her answer. In my mind I saw her eyes look up to the left, but I couldn’t tell for sure because of the dark black lenses that were reflecting the circular light above, making two glowing circles out of one—twin robot moons.

Finally, Wendy said, “I was playing softball with my boyfriend and his buddies and I took a line drive to the face. Wanna see?”

I didn’t say anything in response, but she took off her sunglasses, anyway. Her left eye was almost swollen shut. Iridescent yellow, purple, and green filled her eye socket like an oily puddle of gasoline rainbows.

“Based on the look you’re giving me, I should probably put these back on,” Wendy said, and then she was wearing her sunglasses again, smiling—yet her smile wasn’t true, and harder to look at than the actual bruise.

Remember the bruise on her wrist last week? She wasn’t playing softball
, you whispered in my mind, Richard Gere.
She needs help. This woman needs saving
.

I looked at her wrist, and there was still a red mark, although it had faded considerably.

The angry man in my stomach was kicking and punching away.

Her trouble was so obvious.

I began to sweat.

“Bartholomew?” Wendy said. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and looked down at my brown shoelaces.

“You don’t look so well.”

I tried hard to keep my mouth shut like always.

“What’s wrong?”

I knew that speaking my mind would only lead to trouble.

“Bartholomew?”

Something inside me was changing.

“You can talk to me. You’re safe here. You can—”

I knew I had lost control when the words started to leave my mouth.

My mouth said, “Looking at your bruised eye—I could feel your pain. That happens to me sometimes.” I said it before I could stop myself. I had not spoken this freely and openly for a long time. It was like you, Richard Gere, were speaking through me. It was like I was acting maybe. Saying the words in a script. And I knew from experience that saying such things made me lonely—left me friendless. I didn’t want to say these things.

Moron!
the tiny man in my stomach yelled.

(I have to say that everything seems to be unraveling lately. Or maybe it seems as though I am a flower myself, opening up to the world for the first time. I don’t know why this is, and I’m not really in control of it either. Flowers do not think, Okay, it is now May, so I will reach up toward the sun and relax my fist of petals into an open hand. They do not think at all. Flowers just grow, and when it is time, they shoot colors out of their stems and become beautiful. I am no more beautiful than I was when Mom was alive, but I feel as though I am a fist opening, a flower blooming, a match ignited, a beautiful mane of hair loosened from a bun—that so many things previously impossible are now possible. And I have been wondering if that is the reason I did not cry and become upset when Mom died. Do the colorful flower petals cry and mourn when they are no longer contained within a green stem? I wonder if the first thirty-eight years of my life were spent within the stem of me—myself. I have been wondering about a lot of things, Richard Gere, and when I read about your life I get to thinking that you also have had similar thoughts, which is why you dropped out of college and did not become a farmer like your grandfather or an insurance salesman like your father. And it’s also why so many people thought you were aloof, when you were only trying to be you. I read that you used to go to the movies by yourself when you were in college and you’d stay at the movie house for hours and hours studying the craft of acting and storytelling and moviemaking. You did all of this alone. This was maybe when you were in the stem—before you exploded into the bloom of internationally famous movie star Richard Gere. Such vivid colors you boast now! But it wasn’t easy for you, I have been learning by researching your life. So much time spent acting on the stage. You lived in a New York City apartment without heat or water, one book reported. And then you made many movies before you became famous—always trying to beat out John Travolta for roles, and being paid so much less than him. But now you are Richard Gere.
Richard Gere!
)

“You’re empathetic,” Wendy said in this really flirty way, trying to distract me from what I was attempting to communicate—taking on the less relevant because the less relevant is always easier to take on. She said, “That’s good. I like that about you. Women like empathy. Maybe this is a good place for us to begin working on your other life goal—having a drink at a bar with a woman.”

She didn’t understand what I meant when I said I could feel her pain, although you did, Richard Gere. You whispered in my ear,
I understand. You are seeing with your mind. You are putting together the facts. You can see him. His face. What he does to her when he gets angry. You see her trying to defend herself from his blows. Covering her face with her thin childlike arms, but he is big and strong and handsome and convincing and educated and cloaked in esteem and respectability. And you see her crying alone in a room for a long time before he comes back and she covers her head in defense, but this time he doesn’t hit her. He says he is sorry. He says he doesn’t know what came over him. And he cries even. He cries. He apologizes. He says he loves her. He says that he’s trying hard not to lose his temper. He says he was beaten when he was a child, that he learned it from his father and is trying to break the cycle. He uses the words that she uses in her work. She thinks she can save him, which you admire. She thinks she is a failed therapist before she even begins, because she cannot solve the problems of her own life—so how can she help others? You see her alone at night, staring out her bedroom window, through her ghostlike reflection, trying not to see herself—trying desperately to see herself. Trying, failing, suffering. Bartholomew, you can see with your mind, and it is a great gift. You don’t have to hide it from me. Although I understand why you hide it from the rest of the world. Why you waited this long to tell me about your gift and the problems it has caused you thus far in life. How you pretend that you don’t see with your mind. How you try to be like everyone else, but can’t. How you saw your mother’s death coming a long time ago, and that is why you don’t have to mourn now, because you mourned it while she was still alive. How you can read people when you allow your mind to work the way only your mind can work. How you know this is your time. Right now. That you were given a present long, long ago and have been waiting all these years to rip off the wrapping paper and take it from within the box.

You read her mind. Or maybe you just sense it. Either way—you know her boyfriend’s name is Adam
, you whispered in my ear while Wendy was talking about how to impress a woman, saying something about listening, waving her hands around in front of her face, hiding behind her big sunglasses.
You think you’re going crazy, Bartholomew. That is your worst fear. Well, test your mind. Say “Adam,” and see how she reacts. Try it. Trust me. Just say the word “Adam” to Wendy, and then she will know that you have a gift. She has never mentioned his name to you. She will know that you can clearly see what is hurting her, and then she will not have to pretend for you anymore. Just like I have done for you, by bringing up your gift, you can do for her.