The Good Luck of Right Now(15)

Without saying a word, we walked for a long time through the winter morning sunshine and traffic toward the center of Philadelphia, ending up on South Twenty-Second Street.

“Here it is,” Father McNamee said, and then I followed him through gray columns and heavy wooden doors into a brick building that turned out to be the Mütter Museum.

Inside were various body parts and organs preserved in glass cases, deformed skeletons, surgical tools, and so many other curiosities. I could tell right away that it was a medical museum, but it also felt a bit like stepping into a horror movie.

We stopped in front of a display and Father McNamee said, “Look at that.”

It was an old-fashioned jar—the kind that maybe people used to preserve fruit. It was sealed at the top by a metal bar and some wax. Inside was a yellow fluid and what looked like artichokes.

“Charles J. Guiteau’s dissected brain,” Father McNamee said. “They kept it because of the historical significance and so future generations could learn from it.”

“What could they possibly learn?” I asked.

I couldn’t make all the pieces inside the jar fit to make an entire human brain—but the museum looked very official, so I knew it must really be Charles J. Guiteau’s, just as it was labeled. Still, it didn’t look real.

“He was a sick man. Doctors need to study sickness in order to understand it—so they can help other sick people,” Father McNamee said.

I didn’t like looking at cut-up brains, and as I thought about those parts once being in a skull that saw and heard and breathed and spoke and commanded a body to walk around in this world, I began to feel as though I was going to vomit. Maybe it was because I hadn’t slept the night before and was feeling exhausted, but I have never liked thinking about dismemberment.

“Can we leave now?” I asked, wishing Father were wearing his priest collar again instead of the wrinkled red button-up that many washes had faded pink.

Father McNamee looked at me. “This upsets you, doesn’t it?”

“A little,” I said, thinking, Who wouldn’t be freaked out by all this?

“Let’s go, then,” Father said, and we did.

We walked for a few blocks before I asked if we could sit down for a second.

I sat on the steps of someone’s three-level home, which people around here sometimes call trinities.

“Are you okay?” Father McNamee said.

“Why did you wake me up in the middle of the night?”

“You were yelling. You were having a nightmare.”

“Why did you show me that cut-up brain?”

“Are you angry with me?” Father asked me.

I didn’t want to answer that question, so I remained mute.

I did feel a little angry.

Everything was happening too quickly.

Father McNamee sat down next to me, and we watched the traffic pass for a long time, but I didn’t answer his question.

The nausea subsided.

My anger lessened.

We sat so long my backside and thighs began absorbing the concrete’s cold.

A man in an expensive-looking overcoat and silk scarf walked up to us and said, “These are my steps, and you are loitering.”

Father McNamee nodded and said, “Forgive us.”

The man pushed through without saying another word. His knee hit my shoulder as I was trying to stand, and I said, “I’m sorry,” even though it wasn’t my fault, and I sort of felt like the man kneed me intentionally—like he wanted to hurt me.

We left.

After fifteen minutes or so of walking, Father McNamee said, “Has God spoken to you yet?”

“No,” I said.

“You can bet your ass God didn’t speak to Charles J. Guiteau,” Father McNamee said.

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t want to talk about Charles J. Guiteau anymore.

Mostly I didn’t want to think about his dissected brain preserved forever in a jar.

“How am I so sure God didn’t tell Guiteau to kill Garfield? Do you want to know?”

I felt Father McNamee’s eyes on me, so I nodded. I didn’t really want to know, but I knew nodding was the easiest thing to do—what he wanted, and what would end this discussion most quickly.

“God doesn’t tell you to do bad things. God doesn’t tell you to kill your president. Even when God told Abraham to kill Isaac, he didn’t let him do it. He sent his angel to stop him. That was a test. But God has already tested you, Bartholomew—with your mother’s sickness—and he has found you to be good, pure of heart. You endured it well.”

I didn’t like what Father McNamee was saying because it implied that God gave Mom cancer to test me, and if that were true, I don’t think I could believe in God anymore.

“Something tells me you’re soon going to help others in quiet ways,” Father McNamee said.

I thought about how maybe Charles J. Guiteau imagined he was doing what was best for the country when he killed President Garfield—that maybe he really truly believed he was doing the right thing. Or maybe he was just plain crazy. But I didn’t want to argue with Father McNamee. He looked so confident—like he had delivered the most important homily of his life. And I was starting to believe that maybe he was going crazy himself.

“God doesn’t always use words to speak to us, Bartholomew,” he said as we waited for a red light to turn green. “Sometimes we simply get feelings. Hunches. Have you had any of those?”