The Good Luck of Right Now(20)

“He doesn’t seem sick,” I said.

“Do you know what bipolar disorder is?” he said, blowing smoke into the night.

“Yes.”

“What is it, then?”

I didn’t speak, because I wasn’t exactly sure. I had a general idea. But I’m not a doctor.

“It’s a chemical imbalance,” Father Hachette said. “Bipolar people sometimes have too much of the happy chemicals in their brain—which makes them feel as though they can do anything. And this can lead to erratic, impulsive, and dangerous behavior.”

I thought about Charles J. Guiteau killing President Garfield.

“These manic upswings are always followed by terrible downswings—fierce depressions. The bipolar person can become suicidal and dangerous. Do you understand what I mean?”

“Father McNamee is not depressed,” I said. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I’ve never seen him dangerously sad.”

“We took care of him when he wasn’t feeling well, Bartholomew. Sent him on retreats. Listened to him rant, made sure he took his meds. It was a great responsibility—and a tiresome one. Often it was more work than any one of us could handle. We had many resources through the church. I say all of this to you because—frankly—I think you’re in over your head. We are many, you are one.”

He was wrong, of course, because I have you, Richard Gere.

“I enjoy Father McNamee’s company,” I said.

“So you admit that he’s living here?” Father Hachette said and then laughed.

“I admit nothing,” I said.

Moron! the little angry man inside me yelled.

Stay cool, you, Richard Gere, whispered in my ear, and I imagined I could see you standing next to me. You were translucent, like a ghost. But then you were gone.

A noise came from inside the house—it sounded like heavy footsteps.

Father Hachette turned around, and when I looked at the window, the curtains closed very quickly. Father McNamee had been spying on us, and I thought maybe he wanted Father Hachette to know I was hiding him, because he was not being very secretive.

“Since he’s a grown man and he publicly defrocked himself, legally there is nothing we can do at this point,” Father Hachette said. “But I wanted you to know that when Father McNamee goes into a downswing—and he most definitely will—you’re going to need help.”

I nodded because that was the easiest thing to do.

“He’ll see rain when there’s only sun. He’ll become suspicious of people. He’ll be unbelievably gloomy and will start to yell at you, twist your own thoughts. That’s when you’ll know you’re really in over your head.”

“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t believe Father Hachette.

“I understand why you would be attracted to Father McNamee. His passion can be beautiful,” Father Hachette said. “Extremely beautiful. John the Baptist beautiful. Elijah beautiful even.”

“Beautiful?”

“Incredibly so. We’ve all been seduced by it over the years. Sometimes it even seems divine. And he can be quite prophetic—uncannily prophetic. We’ve all been attracted to his passion—pulled in.”

I remembered Father McNamee’s eyes sucking at me like whirlpools.

“Any questions, Bartholomew? This is a lot for you to swallow, I imagine.”

“Do you think God has stopped talking to Father McNamee?” I asked. “Is that why he left the church?”

“God speaks to all of us, but He says more to some than others.” Father Hachette flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and patted my chest again, like I was a Great Dane. “I’ve said all I needed to. You know where to find me, day or night. Right down the street at Saint Gabriel’s. Tell Father McNamee we miss him, okay?”

“Okay.”

We shook hands, and then he left.

As I watched him walk down the block I kept thinking that Father Hachette looked relieved—like he was floating, almost.

Why?

“What did the old man say about me?” Father McNamee said once I was inside, which was strange because he and Father Hachette looked about the same age.

“He said you have a bipolar disorder,” I said.

“And I should be on meds, right?”

I nodded.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“About what?”

“Whether or not I should be medicated.”

“I don’t know.”

“Do I seem crazy to you?”

“No,” I said, because I knew that’s what he wanted me to say. “But I’m not a doctor.”

“You know Jesus was most likely bipolar,” he said, nodding with great enthusiasm. “Preaching love your enemies one day and then flipping over the money changers’ tables the next. Turn the other cheek, and then it’s all swords and righteousness.” Father raised his right hand and said, “‘These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace,’ John 16:33. ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword!’ Matthew 10:34. Seeking out multitudes to heal and feed and awe—and then escaping on boats to quiet places, praying alone in gardens. What if Jesus had been medicated?” He raked his fingers through his beard. “Do you think he would have been so eager to give his life for the world? That’s not a reasonable, rational thing, after all. People don’t volunteer for crucifixion when chemicals are placating their minds, hearts, and souls. No one would want Jesus taking mood-altering pills, right? And as Catholics we’re supposed to live our lives as He did, right? Right?”