The Good Luck of Right Now(51)

I’m fingering my new crystal, looking up at the sky searching for hovering orbs of light, but I haven’t seen one yet.

Max gave me the tektite crystal at dinner. We ate at a diner called Green Mountains Food. He reached across the booth and put it around my neck for protection, as Elvis’s “Don’t Be Cruel” played on the jukebox.

Elizabeth said that tektite formed when larger meteorites crashed into Earth’s surface millions of years ago, according to scientists.

“So this f*cker,” Max said, drawing disapproving stares from the surrounding diner patrons, “connects you to what’s beyond Earth’s f*cking atmosphere, because it’s been in contact with the great f*cking unknown above.” He pointed up and said, “Fucking impact theory. The meteors struck Earth so f*cking hard, materials flew all the way up into f*cking space and then rained down on our f*cking planet like returning rock astronauts.”

Max pounded the table with his fists to simulate the impact of meteors striking Earth.

“And the connection to f*cking space means f*cking protection,” Max said, waving his plump index finger at me. “Fucking trust me. I know about these things—much more than your average f*cking Joe.”

I could tell that Max needed to pretend that this was true and that maybe Elizabeth was playing along—and so I quickly nodded and patted the shiny bronze-colored rock hanging around my neck.

“What the f*ck, hey?” Max said, nodding. “Fucking protection.”

I nodded back my agreement (or at least my acquiescence) at Max.

Then we ate dinner silently—but together, like a family. I couldn’t tell you the last time I ate dinner with more than two other people. Maybe it was after those teenagers broke into our house, trashed everything, and went to the bathroom on our beds.

It felt comforting, just having people around me—like being wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup of hot chocolate in your hands during a fierce winter night.

I wish you were there, Richard Gere. You would have really enjoyed the meal—well, the sharing of food, at least.

“Communion?” I said to Father McNamee when he snuck a sip from his whiskey flask.

“Indeed.” He smiled at Max and Elizabeth.

And then it was just the sound of knives and forks on white plates and oldies music playing softly in the background and other patrons talking about the weather and local politics and sports and gossip and the quality of the food they were consuming.

Father McNamee kept humming “Don’t Be Cruel” even after the song was over—he hummed it all the way to the motel as he drove the Ford Focus and is probably still humming it in our room as he lies in bed.

In our motel room, before I came out here to write you, Richard Gere, Father McNamee said my mom used to love Elvis, and she even saw him perform once before I was born.

He said “Don’t Be Cruel” was one of her favorite songs.

I never knew that.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil





13


THEY LOVED LETTUCE MORE THAN CARROTS




Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

When we arrived at the Canadian border, we were made to wait in a queue and then stop our Ford Focus at the border patrol inspection booth. It looked like when you approach a bridge, only there was no gigantic metal structure connecting two pieces of land, nor was there any water—what I mean is that there were several lines of cars and little booths you had to drive through, only no toll to pay.

When we reached our booth, a mustache-wearing, tall man asked—in a deep, angry, gravelly voice—to see all of our passports.

Father McNamee handed them over, and the man looked at each for longer than seemed necessary, ducking down into Father’s window at times, checking to make sure our faces matched the pictures. Our Canadian inspector wore an official-looking uniform and seemed to be disgruntled.

“Business or pleasure?” he said quickly, hardly even opening his mouth. The way his forehead wrinkled suggested there was definitely a wrong answer and he suspected that we would give it, which made me nervous.

“Depends on how you look at it, really,” Father McNamee said.

Elizabeth was in the front passenger’s seat, staring out her window, hiding her face from the inspector.

“What’s wrong with her?” the inspector said.

“These sorts of things tend to make her uncomfortable, that’s all,” Father McNamee said.

“Where you headed?”

“Montreal and then Ottawa. Saint Joseph’s Oratory is the main attraction.”

“Cat Parliament,” Max said from the backseat, managing to refrain from cursing. “Cat Fucking Parliament,” he whispered almost inaudibly, but with an intense look in his eye.

“I used to be a priest,” Father McNamee quickly added, which made me think he’d heard Max curse and was trying to curry favor with the border patrol inspector, since many Canadians are Catholic, according to Father McNamee, anyway.

“What is it you do for a living now?” Border Patrol said.

“I’m retired,” Father McNamee said.

“Priests can retire?”

“Listen, I just need to take a quick trip into your good country. You could say it’s a pilgrimage of sorts. A very necessary one.”