The Good Luck of Right Now (12 page)

I was afraid to test my mind, fearing that I was insane, fearing too that I wasn’t insane, but had this strange power.

Which would be worse?

What would I do with such a power?

What would I do if I made a fool of myself in front of Wendy?

Idiot!
the man in my stomach said, and then kicked and punched.
Anyone who talks to an imaginary Richard Gere is most definitely a
retard!
And if you blurt out “Adam,” Wendy will surely think you are a retard too! You have no special gift. You have no powers. You are just a stupid moron who lived with his mother all his life until he became fat and ugly and backward and delusional as of late and . . .

Wendy was waving her hands around more violently, talking about how every woman wants a gentle man—how gentle giants are sexy. Hiding behind her egg-shaped glasses. Pretending not to be broken and beaten and wounded and terrified. Pretending for me. Pretending for herself. And I knew that she was calling
me
a gentle giant.

Gentle giant is just another term for retard!
the little angry man yelled.

It’s time to trust your instincts, Bartholomew. I’m going to keep saying “Adam” in your mind until you say it
, you, Richard Gere, whispered.

And then that’s exactly what you did.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam.

Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam. Adam.

Adam. Adam.

Adam.

Adam. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM. ADAM! ADAM! ADAM! ADAM!

“Adam,” I said when I couldn’t take it anymore.

Immediately, Wendy stopped speaking and her hands dropped to her sides.

It was as if giant invisible scissors had cut all of her lively dancing marionette strings.

Quick! Study her face!
you said.
What do you see?

Wendy’s mouth was open slightly, and the color was rapidly draining from her complexion. It was like someone had pulled a white blind down over a sun-filled window.

“Why did you just say Adam?” Wendy said. Her voice was anxious. Gone was the kind, bubbly girl who wanted me to have drinks in a bar with age-appropriate friends.

See!
you, Richard Gere, said excitedly.
See! This proves everything!

“Adam did that to you, right?” I said—my confidence growing. “The bruise on your arm. The black eye.”

See how she trembles!
you said.
Ease her pain. Take away the secret. Practice compassion.

Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but then she stood, grabbed her colorful trench coat, and headed for the front door with great haste.

“I’m sorry,” I said, following her. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”

“What’s wrong?” Father McNamee said—still on his knees in the living room—as he watched Wendy exit. He looked at me and said, “What happened?”

Idiot!
the angry man in my stomach yelled.
Retard!

My underarms were damp, and my forehead felt moist. Nausea was overtaking me, and you were gone, Richard Gere.

Vanished.

I could hear myself breathing.

“It’s okay, Bartholomew,” Father McNamee said. “Let’s go outside and get some air.”

He opened the door, and I walked into the cold afternoon.

He followed.

I looked down the street, but Wendy was gone. She must have walked very quickly, and I began to wonder if she had run.

I tried to think—what did her reaction really mean?

What had I proved?

Richard Gere?
I said with my mind, but you did not answer. It was like yelling into an empty cave and hearing only echoes.

“Breathe,” Father McNamee said. “In. Out. In. Out. Do I need to get the whiskey?”

I shook my head.

“What happened?” he said.

I took a minute to think, and the cold air cooled my chest and calmed me down considerably.

Eventually, I told Father McNamee exactly what had transpired in the kitchen, except I didn’t mention you, Richard Gere, for obvious reasons. Nor did I mention the angry man in my stomach, mostly because I didn’t want to say the word
retard
.

When I got to the part about hearing the word
Adam
in my mind, Father McNamee squinted at me like I had slapped his face, but then he said, “Her wearing sunglasses indoors and the bruises on her arm—
anyone
could have deduced that our Wendy is in an abusive relationship. But knowing the man’s name—now,
that’s
something. If she had mentioned his name to you previously—if there had even been the slightest possibility—she wouldn’t have rushed out of here as if we were demon possessed, now, would she have?”

“So what are you saying?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Father McNamee said. “A few years ago, I would have easily said, ‘Mysterious ways, Bartholomew, mysterious ways,’ without giving it a second thought. But I can’t do that anymore.”

I looked into Father McNamee’s eyes, and it looked like he had been broken into and robbed again.

He averted his gaze and said, “Are you well enough to go on a mission?”

“A mission?”

“Regardless of my crisis of faith, and your mysterious ability to name violent men you’ve never met, it’s pretty clear that our friend Wendy is in need.”

“What are we going to do?”

“What any decent human being would. Let’s grab our coats, shall we?” Father McNamee said, and then we were walking down the street.

Father McNamee was striding rapidly, and it was hard to keep up.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“To the source,” Father said.

“How did I know that Wendy’s boyfriend was named Adam?” I asked.

“For most of my life I would have said something like this: ‘You’re thirty-nine years old,’” Father McNamee said. “‘You’ve been a Catholic all those years. Do you really need me to explain where miraculous powers come from?’ But I can’t say that to you tonight, Bartholomew. I’m no longer your priest, and for good reason.”

I thought about what he was implying, and I wished that you, Richard Gere, would speak to me, but you were not with us at this point. I missed you. And I wanted to know what the Dalai Lama would advise. I was curious about that. It was clear that I wouldn’t be getting answers from Father McNamee anytime soon.

Father McNamee walked up three steps onto the porch of a row home and rang the doorbell. I stood behind him on the sidewalk. A middle-aged woman in a pink nightgown answered with her hair up in curlers. She was smoking a cigarette, and her naked shins were the light blue color of icebergs.

“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.