The Good Luck of Right Now(61)

“How did he die?”

“I think he may have drunk himself to death last night. I found him dead in his bed.”

“What are we going to do now?” she said.

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t believe Father McNamee’s really dead,” Elizabeth said.

“Fuck.”

Max and Elizabeth sat on my unmade bed, and we were all quiet for a long time—it was like we were having a moment of silence for Father McNamee. Wendy might have said we were “processing what had transpired, taking in the weighty information.”

Finally, Elizabeth said, “Should we go to Saint Joseph’s Oratory?”

“What for?” I asked.

“Father McNamee would want us to go,” she said. “And maybe your father will be there?”

“Yeah! What the f*ck, hey?”

“I don’t think we’ll be meeting my father today,” I said.

“How do you know?”

I didn’t tell Max and Elizabeth this at the time, but when I was emptying Father’s wallet, I had found a picture of Mom, him, and me taken when I was a little boy; we were on the huge Ocean City Ferris wheel, spinning around in the sky, and—at the pinnacle of the ride—Father had held the camera out with his arm and snapped a photo of the three of us squished together. I looked terrified in the middle, but Mom and Father McNamee were smiling bookends and seemed so very happy, all alone in the sky with their arms around me. (The younger Father McNamee looks shockingly like I do right now, at the time of writing.) Finding this photo wouldn’t have made me suspicious in and of itself, but then I saw Father McNamee’s first name on his credit card and confirmed what I had seen when I gave the police his passport information.

His name was Richard.

Richard McNamee.

It’s funny how I had known him my entire life, but had never before heard anyone say his first name, nor had I ever thought once to ask. He’d always been Father McNamee. Even Mom had called him Father McNamee. Or Father. I’d never heard anyone call him Richard before.

Or maybe I had heard it, but my brain just didn’t register it.

Do you find that strange, Richard Gere?

Like maybe some part of my subconscious suspected and was protecting me—not allowing my mind to ever wonder what Father McNamee’s first name might be?

Looking back now, I’m sure his entire name was listed on the weekly church bulletin, but who reads those?

Mom had called me Richard at the end of her life. I had assumed she meant you, Richard Gere, but now I’m pretty sure she had meant Richard McNamee, her great love—and I was also pretty sure I knew why Father ate so many dinners at our house throughout the years and why Mom would confess only to him and why he would always be so quick to help us when we were in need—like the time those teenagers trashed our home—and why he had dedicated so many masses to Mom right after she died, even though I hadn’t filled out the proper card, and why he had cried on the beach after her funeral and why he had wanted to make a pilgrimage to Saint Joseph’s Oratory with me—the place where miracles happened—because he most likely understood it would take a miracle for me to forgive his lifelong deception and the fact that I had grown up without a true father, even if I had an excellent religious leader in Father McNamee.

But then again, can a Catholic priest be an excellent religious leader if he had sex with your mom?

All of this was starting to make my head throb.

“Bartholomew?” Elizabeth said.

“Let’s go to the Oratory,” I said, thinking I could use a miracle right about now, thinking we came this far, we might as well see what Saint Joseph’s Oratory had to offer us, if anything.

Then I picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, handed them to Elizabeth, and said, “Let’s pack up our stuff and get out of here. It’s already past checkout time.”

“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.

“Yeah. What the f*ck, hey?”

Max and Elizabeth were visibly frightened.

I nodded, and then we were off.

Your admiring fan,

Bartholomew Neil





15


POOR, OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT




Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

Maybe you think I should have been more emotional over Father McNamee’s passing?

Or maybe you even think I should feel guilty, because I let him drink an exorbitant amount of whiskey and never once suggested that he stop drinking to excess?

Maybe you think I should have protested when he said the rabbit dinner he ordered for us was our last supper?

Maybe you think I’m dim—retarded even—because I didn’t figure out the mystery of my own father before now?

You could ask me a million different questions at this point in our letter correspondence—and I realize that you’d probably be justified, especially since I cannot give you the sorts of answers that would provide “normal people” any semblance of understanding, regarding the workings of my mind, but regardless of all that, I have so many questions for you, Richard Gere, friend of the Dalai Lama, ghost of my thoughts, pen pal, women-wooing mentor, and supposed friend.

If Father Richard McNamee was the “Richard” Mom was referring to while dying—if he really was my father, and I’m virtually certain now that he was—then why did you begin to appear to me and continue to do so for the past few weeks?