The Good Luck of Right Now (27 page)

At 5:14 Elizabeth whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank you too,” I said, and then we just lay there in the dark for two hours, until Max woke up, started jumping between us on our bed while screaming, “CAT FUCKING PARLIAMENT!” over and over.

I have to admit, in spite of all that had happened, Max’s unbridled childlike enthusiasm lifted my spirits considerably.

It was nice to have friends.

And I started to think I understood our fortune cookie messages better than I had originally thought.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil

17

THE STRAY CATS OF PARLIAMENT HILL

Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Max told us everything we needed to know about Cat Parliament as we walked through Ottawa to the main event.

According to local legend, the Parliament Buildings were kept rodent-free by a supremely talented colony of hunting cats until the 1950s, when poison became the preferred method of mouse and rat extermination. Out of the kindness of their hearts, people who took care of the Parliament Buildings and their surroundings continued to feed the cats for decades, and then some locals got together and created a special space for the stray cats of Parliament Hill to live together as a family—or a colony.

Now you can see two mini-houses lined by iron bars spaced wide enough apart for the inhabitants to sneak through as they please. The white mini-houses each have a shingled roof and four doorways under an awning of sorts, which doubles as a place for the cats to stretch and be lazy. A mini red-and-white Canadian flag flies from the top of the left house.

There is a boardwalk for the cats to strut across, and this is kept clear of snow—my guess is that the caretakers shovel it as necessary.

Bowls of cat food are placed at various spots around and on the mini-houses, and according to Max, volunteers take care of the colony on a daily basis.

The area around Parliament Hill really does look like England; I have decided it’s true, even though I have never been, nor will I ever be likely to go, to England.

The back of the Parliament Buildings is round like a cathedral with many pointy spirals and also sort of looks like a spaceship, although I didn’t say that to Max.

When we arrived early in the morning, the day after Father McNamee went to join Mom in heaven or purgatory, Max explained much of the above, and then he took off ahead of Elizabeth and me—he started running like an excited little boy just as soon as he saw his first cat in the distance.

“Cat Fucking Parliament!” he yelled, and skipped a few times as he ran. “Cat Fucking Parliament! I’m finally fucking here!”

“Have you ever been that happy?” Elizabeth asked me, and I honestly don’t think I have ever once been that elated, never in my entire life.

Max grabbed the bars when he reached the cat sanctuary and he studied the few cats that were out in the morning sunlight.

Elizabeth stopped walking, and so I stood with her, maybe twenty or so feet away from Max, allowing him a private moment.

When we finally approached him, his cheeks were striped and tears were freezing to the bottom of his chin like a small beard.

His lips were trembling.

He kept sniffing and snorting.

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth asked Max.

“It’s so fucking beautiful.”

“The cats?” I asked.

“Fuck, yes! But also the fucking fact that people take care of stray cats. Cats! For all these fucking years. They feed them. They fucking give them shelter. They didn’t forget about the cats when they no longer served a fucking function. These cats are completely useless to society now, but people feed them just because. Isn’t that fucking beautiful? Isn’t it just so fucking—
humane?
Do you even understand what I’m fucking talking about here, hey? Cat Fucking Parliament is the most beautiful place in the world, hey! You do see it, right? The fucking beauty?”

Elizabeth and I nodded as we watched a calico and a gray tabby eat breakfast, nibbling on tiny pieces of cat food.

“Look at them! Just fucking look. Beautiful! Fucking beautiful!
This exists!
”

After twenty minutes or so, Elizabeth and I retired to a nearby bench, and we watched Max enjoying his stay at Cat Parliament.

A few children accompanied by their mothers stopped to look at the cats, and as they stood next to Max, the juxtaposition was striking. For a man who said the word
fuck
at least once in almost every sentence he spoke—even the sentences that contained only two or three words—his heart was definitely childlike.

“It was my life goal to have a drink with you,” I said to Elizabeth.

“Max told me,” she said. “That’s why I asked you to have a drink at the bar last night. To maybe help you feel better about losing Father McNamee so suddenly. I thought, at least you could cross off your life goal as completed. Sorry I ruined it by sharing my exit strategy. It wasn’t a very good first date, was it?”

My heart leaped at the word
date
, but I played it Richard Gere cool and said, “You can share whatever you want with me. I mean it. Don’t ever hold back. I think we need to be honest with each other, if we are going to help each other out.”

“I agree. Thank you.”

“I have a new life goal. Do you want to know what it is?”

“Sure.”

“Someday—and it doesn’t have to be soon, so please don’t feel pressured—but I’d like to hold your hand for a short period of time. Maybe just a minute—and maybe behind the Philadelphia Museum of Art, near the Water Works, while we listen to the river flow. It’s my favorite place in the world. You’d like it, if you’ve never been.”

I couldn’t believe I was saying this—my heart was pounding so hard.

But I was now extra Richard Gere cool on the outside.

Fairy-tale suave.

Elizabeth smiled and said, “Maybe someday we can hold hands behind the Philadelphia Museum of Art, but not today, obviously, because we’re in Ottawa. And it may have to be a long way in the future, if at all, because I have a lot to work through. I’m pretty sure all three of us need help, and I think we should get some when we return to Philadelphia. Okay?”

“I understand,” I said, and I did. “We should get help. We
will
get help.”

Elizabeth and I sat there silently for hours as Max admired the residents of Cat Parliament.

It was cold, but we weren’t about to make Max leave, because we didn’t know if he or any of us would ever make it back to Canada’s capital city, let alone this very spot, and even if we did, somehow we knew it would never be the same as right then. There would be different variables, if we came back, a totally different equation made up of wildly different circumstances; it just couldn’t be helped, because life was always evolving and changing, and therefore, no matter how much we’d like to, we would never, ever have that moment again—even if we tried with all our might to re-create it, going so far as wearing the same exact clothes even, we would fail, because you cannot beat time; you can only enjoy it whenever possible, as it zooms by endlessly.

At one point a big black cat began to curl around Max’s legs, making the infinity sign. When Max bent down to pet it, the cat raised his head to greet Max’s hand, so Max gave him a big scratch behind the ears. The cat closed his eyes in appreciation. Max did the same. And they seemed to be communicating. I wondered if Max was practicing his cat telepathy.

“Did you even fucking see that? How that cat picked
me
to fucking commune with?” Max yelled at us when the cat moved on. “What the fuck, hey?”

Elizabeth and I both smiled, because Max was so high.

Smiling didn’t really make sense, considering the grander picture. No money, not a “real” job between us, and no idea what we would do when we returned to Philadelphia, nor who was even paying the bills that kept arriving at Mom’s house marked paid in full—and to be frank, all three of us were a tragic mess emotionally.

But somehow just seeing a grown man enjoying the company of a feral cat on a cold winter’s morning in Ottawa, to the wild degree that Max was living and fully appreciating that very moment—well, somehow it was enough for that time and place.

Enough to feel good about.

More than enough to make us smile.

And that’s all I feel like sharing with you, Richard Gere, even though there is much more to the story—like how we got Father McNamee’s body back into the United States; and how his family wouldn’t speak to me at the funeral, even though we never told anyone the truth about him being my biological father; and how a tall man in an expensive-looking suit walked up to me, shook my hand firmly, and, while holding my shoulders and looking directly into my eyes, said, “Dicky was very proud of you,” and when I failed to respond, he added, “We grew up together, eh? Best friends all through school. And where I come from, you take care of your best friends, so don’t worry about anything—
just between you and me only, eh?
” and then he winked and I double-winked back my promise to tell no one, not even Max and Elizabeth; and how Father Hachette helped the three of us find a therapist who would counsel us individually and also as a group, or what she called a “family unit,” at a nominal cost we could afford; and how Elizabeth goes to Saturday-evening Mass with me now even though she still doesn’t officially believe in God; and how Wendy broke down sobbing when, wearing her large sunglasses again, she applied for financial aid at Temple University, hoping to escape Adam once and for all, and a handsome financial aid adviser named Franklin consoled her, took her to dinner, and eventually put together a fantastic financial aid and loan package for her, winning her away from abusive Adam—I know all this because Franklin and Wendy now attend Saturday-night Mass at Saint Gabriel’s, and sometimes we all double-date afterward at the local pizza place, where I inspect Wendy’s face and arms happily, because bruises no longer appear on her skin; and how I got promoted to manager at my new job, working at the fast-food restaurant Wendy’s downtown—synchronicity?—and Elizabeth was officially hired part-time by the Free Library of Philadelphia, and Max even got a raise at the “fucking movies,” so we are now finally able to pay our bills without any help from my new well-dressed and tall Canadian friend who calls me every once in a while to say, “Dicky’s looking down from heaven with a smile on his face, eh?” which always makes me feel good—like I’m finally a grown man capable of making his father proud.

As you know, there was a big gap between the first batch of letters and the last few, Richard Gere. I’m sorry my letters stopped so suddenly, but I got a little overwhelmed with all that happened in such a short period of time. It feels strange, to be honest, writing again—makes me feel a little crazy, or maybe it reminds me of how bubbling mad my mind got and maybe could become again if I’m not careful, if I don’t take care of myself.

Our new therapist, whose name is Dr. Hanson—she’s a tiny lady whose ballerina bun doubles as a pincushion for writing utensils—said it would be good for me to finish telling you my story, if only to say good-bye, to officially end the Richard Gere chapter of my life.

“Close the Richard Gere loop,” she said. “It’s very important to give your subconscious closure.”

She also told me that it was necessary to tell you—and thereby admit to my subconscious—that I wasn’t one hundred percent truthful in my letters, but embellished a bit from time to time to make things more interesting. Dr. Hanson says I did this because I was afraid I wasn’t good enough to correspond with such a famous and important person as yourself, Richard Gere. But please know that—while that previous statement is technically true—metaphorically speaking, everything I wrote you was also one hundred percent equally true.

In some ways, I was more truthful with you than I’ve ever been with anyone else in my entire life, including Mom, so I hope you can be proud of that, Richard Gere.

I’m trying to hide less behind metaphor in my real life now.

Dr. Hanson says this is important.

I agree with her.

So does Elizabeth.

Dr. Hanson really is a gifted and healing person—maybe even a little like Saint Brother André, but in the modern world of here and right now, and not overtly religious.

I’m enjoying my new life.

I really am.

I’m living without Mom, and I’m okay.

Miracle?

Did we get one?

Maybe.

Regardless, I’m grateful.

One last thing—Elizabeth and I hold hands almost every day now.

It’s true.

Are you proud of me, Richard Gere?

I’m trying very hard to give Elizabeth the fairy tale.

So—I think we’re done corresponding at this point in time, right now.

I’m signing off for good.

There will not be another letter.

You can move on to your next assignment, or—if you were never real in the first place—you can just blink out of existence forever.

Regardless of whether you are just a figment of my imagination or not, I thank you for reading all of my words, even if we were both only pretending—thank you for being there when I didn’t have anyone else, and for simply listening without judgment.

I wish you much luck with your struggles.

I trust you will free Tibet yet—and I will celebrate your accomplishment when it comes to be.

And please feel free to share Mom’s philosophy with His Holiness, the Dalai Lama.

I’m going to miss you, but I really think this has to be my last letter.

Dr. Hanson’s orders.

The you-me Richard Gere of pretending has run its course.

And there are real people here with me now—people who just might stick around.

Good-bye, Richard Gere.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil

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