The Good Luck of Right Now(16)

I shook my head no.

We walked the rest of the way home in silence.

Father knelt down in the living room to give praying a go again, and I walked to the library, enjoying the feeling of being in motion and the cold air in my nose and the warm sun on my face.

The Girlbrarian wasn’t working.

I pretended to read current events magazines like Newsweek and Time, but mostly I thought about my dream—Mom falling into the great black pit under the boardwalk.

When I returned home several hours later, Father McNamee was still praying—eyes smashed shut, fists strangling each other white, lips mouthing words with alarming speed, and temples moist with sweat.

He didn’t come to dinner.

He was still on his knees when I went to bed.

I wonder what he says to God for so many hours.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil





6


“A SITUATION COMPLICATED BECAUSE OF HIS OPPRESSIVE TENDENCY TO OVER-ANALYSE”




Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Wendy came to the house for her regular visit while Father McNamee was praying in the living room, like he does for hours and hours, even when I am watching television. Nothing bothers him when he is praying. It’s like he goes into a deep trance. You could dump ice water on his head and he wouldn’t even flinch.

“What are you doing here?” Wendy said to Father McNamee.

“He’s praying,” I answered when Father McNamee failed to look up. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”

“Why is he praying in your living room, Bartholomew?”

“He always prays in my living room.”

“Since when?”

“Since he moved in with me. He defrocked himself, and now—”

“Father McNamee?” Wendy yelled.

When he didn’t respond, she went over and poked his arm three times.

Father McNamee opened one eye—like he’d only been pretending to pray the whole time—and said, “Yes.”

“What’s going on here?” Wendy said.

“I’ve moved in with Bartholomew.”

“Why?”

“I’m taking care of some old business that doesn’t concern you.”

“It’s a bad idea.”

Father McNamee sighed. “You are so young, Wendy. I admire your youth.”

“You asked me to help Bartholomew become independent—”

“Your point?” Father McNamee stood, looked up at the ceiling, and said, “Excuse me, God.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Wendy said.

“Let’s talk outside, shall we?”

Wendy and Father McNamee went out the front door and talked on the sidewalk. I watched them through the window, but couldn’t hear what they were saying. Father McNamee kept nodding confidently. Wendy kept pointing her index finger at Father McNamee’s face. This went on for fifteen minutes.

Finally, Father McNamee walked away down the street.

Wendy took a few deep breaths, lifting and dropping her shoulders, before she saw me staring at her through the window. She looked angry for a split second, but then she smiled and walked toward the house.

“Should we sit in the kitchen?” she asked when she entered, and then strode right past me before I could answer, which was unlike her.

She removed her floral-pattern trench coat and hung it on the back of Mom’s chair. Then we sat down at the kitchen table, but the birds were not singing, which seemed like a sign of some sort.

“Do you want Father McNamee to live with you?” Wendy said. Her orange eyebrows were scrunched together. Her orange hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The tops of her freckled ears were so full of light they appeared translucent.

“It doesn’t bother me.”

“That’s not an answer,” she said.

I shrugged.

“Father McNamee does not seem well. Has he been acting strange?”

I shrugged again, because he had, and I didn’t want to say that. Maybe I just didn’t want to be alone, and I knew that Father McNamee was likely to leave if I said I didn’t want him there. It was confusing, the way I felt, so I went into silent mode.

“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Wendy said, misinterpreting my lack of words. “Look, Bartholomew, I know I’ve been telling you to find a flock and make friends. Remember how we outlined your goal of having a beer at a bar with a peer sometime within the next three months?”

I nodded.

“Well, I think that Father McNamee living here will not help you accomplish that goal.”

“Why?” I asked.

“You’ve spent the first forty years of your life taking care of your mother. You haven’t been on your own for two months before a man much older than you moves into your home. Don’t you see a pattern developing?”

I had no idea what she was talking about, which made me feel like a Neanderthal. I’m sure you, Richard Gere, know exactly what she meant and probably saw the problem two or three letters ago.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

She bit her lip, looked out the window for a second, and then said, “Did Father McNamee tell you that he expects you to deliver a message from God?”

I knew that telling the truth would not be a good idea, so I said nothing.