The Good Luck of Right Now(14)

He had yellow flecks of mustard in his beard.

“I’m reading this book about him,” he said. “It’s upstairs on the nightstand.”

I nodded.

He gestured with his sandwich, shaking it at me for emphasis, the lettuce hanging on for dear life. “James A. Garfield was indeed the twentieth president of our great country. He seemed like he was a good, noble man. Wanted to advance the civil rights movement. Provide universal education. Make sure all children—black and white—could read.”

I wondered why Father McNamee was saying all this to me in the middle of the night, but I didn’t ask. I was very sleepy, and the experience was starting to feel more and more like yet another bizarre dream.

“Do you know who Charles J. Guiteau is, Bartholomew?”

I shook my head no.

Father finished chewing a bite, swallowed, and then said, “He shot President Garfield and claimed God made him do it. What’s even more eerie is that when Garfield was shot in a Washington train station, supposedly he said, ‘My God, what is this?’ As if he were questioning God’s will. Garfield didn’t expect to be shot that day. He thought he was putting good into the world, doing God’s work perhaps. But two bullets made him question God. ‘What is this?’ he said to God.”

It was like one of Father McNamee’s homilies. He had often made historical allusions in his homilies. But why was he telling me this in the middle of the night? Was it the whiskey?

“Guiteau yelled, ‘Arthur is president now!’” A piece of lettuce flew out of Father McNamee’s sandwich and onto the table, leaving a mustard smear. “Arthur being the vice president at the time. And then Guiteau demanded to be arrested. He would later claim that God had used him to determine history.”

Father McNamee took another huge bite, chewed, and swallowed.

“Are you drunk?” I asked, because this late-night lecture was intense, even for Father McNamee.

“Irish ex-priests don’t succumb to drunkenness, we just become more talkative on whiskey,” he said, winked, and then continued. “Because they didn’t know much about bacteria back then, people stuck their unwashed fingers in the wounds, President Garfield’s bullet holes became infected, and he died a long, slow, painful death. They moved him to the Jersey Shore at the end.”

This mention of the beach made me think about my dream, seeing Mom disappear into the great hole under the boardwalk.

Synchronicity? I thought.

“And when he finally passed, Garfield’s wife supposedly yelled, ‘Oh! Why am I made to suffer this cruel wrong?’”

Father McNamee paused to finish the first half of his ham on rye.

He licked mustard off his thumb and said, “During the trial Guiteau cursed at the judges and jury and seemed oblivious to the fact that he was going to be executed. In fact, he thought himself a hero and was sure the new president would grant him a pardon. The lawyers argued whether or not he was sane enough to stand trial. He was clearly insane, but they tried and executed him, anyway.”

I nodded, because I understood that this was the end of the story, but I was too tired to say anything.

Father McNamee said, “You don’t want to talk, do you?”

I looked at the clock on the microwave and said, “It’s three a.m.”

He nodded and ate the second half of his sandwich quickly.

I felt like it was rude to leave, so I didn’t.

When he finished, he stood, patted my shoulder twice, and said, “Sleep well, Bartholomew.”

I listened to him climb the steps, and then I went upstairs too and soon was back in my bed.

I lay there thinking about President Garfield and his assassin, my mother falling into a great pit and aging as she descended, and wondering if there was any connection at all.

When first light poked through my window, I felt the tiredness weighing down my head because I had spent the whole night pondering.

I showered and dressed and made breakfast.

Father McNamee was reluctant to eat the food I prepared, saying he didn’t want me waiting on him all the time, and he should be cooking for himself, but I said, “I used to cook for Mom, so I might as well cook for you too—plus cooking makes me miss her less,” and he got a very sad look on his face.

“I really appreciate your letting me stay here, Bartholomew.”

Then Father McNamee and I ate in silence and the tough (or lazy) morning birds performed their symphony in the cold outside.

I wanted to ask him if our middle-of-the-night conversation about the twentieth president wasn’t a bit insane, but I didn’t. Maybe I was afraid I was going mad like Mom and Charles J. Guiteau had. I didn’t think I could go through another battle with madness. I also worried that I was going to have to start pretending for Father McNamee now that he was living with me, because he was acting a little peculiar himself.

I don’t think I could pretend for someone else’s benefit again, because now I need to pretend for me—so that I can keep living post-Mom. But I also worried that Father McNamee was trying to tell me something, and I was too much of a moron to understand.

Don’t be Tara’s retard again! the angry man in my stomach screamed. Don’t trust anyone, and keep to yourself always!

When we finished washing and drying the breakfast dishes, Father McNamee said, “Get your coat. I want to show you something.”