The Good Luck of Right Now

by Matthew Quick

  “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.

  “I understand that Father McNamee has been your religious leader for your entire life—that your faith and the Catholic Church are very important to you. I understand that Father McNamee cares about you a great deal. Furthermore, he was the one who put me in touch with—”

  “What happened to your wrist?” I said. The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself from speaking. There was a purple and yellow bruise on her left wrist that looked painful and awful. I saw it jump out of her sleeve when she was motioning with her hands.

  “What?” Wendy said, and pulled down her sleeve, covering the bruise.

  The look on her face made me wince.

  “Oh,” she said. Then she looked up and to the left, which I’ve read is a classic sign that someone is lying. “I fell Rollerblading. Down on Kelly Drive. Should have worn my wrist protectors. But they are so dorky. I’m okay.”

  I didn’t believe her, but I didn’t say anything more. Wendy is a terrible liar. She began talking about Father McNamee again, saying something about how she had been contacted by Father Hachette, who is very concerned about Father McNamee. He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. He hadn’t even said good-bye to anyone. She’d have to report his whereabouts to Father Hachette. I remember hearing the words “mental health” several times, but I can’t elaborate more because I was creating scenarios in my mind regarding Wendy’s bruise—trying to explain why her wrist was yellow and purple—instead of listening to her rant about Father McNamee. If she had fallen Rollerblading, she might have sprained her wrist or broken it—this was true—but I don’t think it would have turned such awful colors, but maybe I was wrong about that. I am no doctor.

  I imagined maybe a dog had bitten her, but I hadn’t seen any puncture wounds or scabs. Maybe she had a pet snake that had wrapped itself around her wrist too tightly, and she was afraid they’d take her pet away from her if she told the truth?

  Maybe.

  But I couldn’t make any of these scenarios stick. I feared the worst—that something horrible was happening, and Wendy was pretending.

  The angry man in my stomach wasn’t happy.

  “Are you worried about me, Bartholomew?” Wendy said, and then looked at me the way Mom did when she first started calling me Richard—like the sexually active girls back in high school, tilting her forehead forward, staring up from under her eyebrows. Just like Tara Wilson looked at me before she took me into the high school basement. “You haven’t taken your eyes off my wrist.”

  I looked down at my brown shoelaces.

  “How sweet,” Wendy said in an almost mean way.

  I didn’t like what she was doing. Using my concern for her against me. Using her beauty as a weapon.

  “Father McNamee is not insane,” I said. “He’s just . . .”

  I thought about telling Wendy about Charles J. Guiteau—that there are good and bad types of crazy—but I knew she wouldn’t understand.

  Wendy said, “Regardless, I don’t think you’re emotionally ready for another housemate—especially one who is your mother’s age.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you need to work on making age-appropriate friends. Finding an age-appropriate support group. Finding your own way.”

  “Being a bird,” I said.

  “Okay, maybe that was a stupid metaphor. I’ll admit it.” Wendy watched me stare at my shoelaces for a long time—I could feel her eyes on me—and then she said, “You okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Have you thought any more about coming to the support group I told you about?”

  “I’m still thinking about that.”

  “Is there anything you’d like to talk about this week?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “What do you and Father McNamee do together?”

  “Guy things.”

  “Guy things?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re not going to tell me?”

  “You are not a guy,” I said and then smiled, because it felt good to have guy secrets—like I was one step closer to having a beer with a friend at the bar. You would have been proud of me, Richard Gere. Truly.

  “I see,” Wendy said, and then laughed in a good way. “What have you been reading about at the library this week?”

  “The Dalai Lama,” I said, because it was true. “And Tibet.”

  “Interesting. Any particular reason why?”

  “Did you know that Tibetan monks have been performing self-immolations to protest China’s rule?”

  “Self-immolations. Like burning themselves to death?”

  “Not like. Exactly so.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why don’t you know about that? Why doesn’t anyone know about that?”
<
br />   “I don’t know. If it’s true, you’d think it would be on the news.”

  “It is true. You can look it up at the library. On the Internet.”

  “You’d think Richard Gere would be promoting that more,” Wendy said, and then laughed. “That’s his thing, right? Tibet?”

  I couldn’t believe that she brought up your name at first, even considering Jung’s theory of synchronicity. Her saying those two words stunned me. But then—once her meaning sunk in—the tiny man in my stomach was enraged; he kicked and punched my internal organs.

  “You shouldn’t make fun of Richard Gere. He’s a wise and powerful man,” I said. “He’s doing good, important work. You wouldn’t understand. He’s helping people. Many people!”

  “Okay, okay,” Wendy said and pulled out my binder from her bag. “I didn’t know you were such a Richard Gere fan. Jeez Louise.”

  I wanted to tell her that not merely am I your fan, but you are my confidant. I wanted to tell her about the you-me Richard Gere of pretending, but I knew that it would cause me more trouble than it was worth. Wendy wouldn’t understand our correspondence. Wendy wants me to be a bird. And to go to her support group of age-appropriate people. But birds do not befriend famous movie stars and internationally known humanitarians.

  Do not hate Wendy.

  It’s not her fault.

  She really does want to help me.

  She just doesn’t know how, but it’s not her fault.

  Wendy is only in her midtwenties—the age I was when I was arrested for letting the undercover cop prostitute rub up against my leg. Nobody knows anything when they are in their midtwenties. Think back to when you were that age, Richard Gere. Remember your time in New York and London when you played the lead in Grease? Your reviews were sensational—you were much more accomplished than Wendy is now—but could you have been able to advise me back then? No. So cut Wendy some slack. She’s just a young woman doing her best.

  “Can I level with you?” Wendy said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m a graduate student.”

  I blinked at her, waiting for more, and she looked at me like she had said all I needed to understand.

  “You know what that means, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “It means I’m not a licensed therapist yet.”

  I looked at her.

  “I’m practicing on you. That’s why I don’t charge money.”

  “Thank you.”

  Wendy laughed in this very excited and surprised way—like I had told a joke. “Listen, I’m all for being honest with people. Going to group therapy would be good for you. Truly. It would help. You might even make an age-appropriate friend—maybe even have your beer at the bar. I really believe you should go. Truly. Truly. Truly. But I’m also required to convince you to go. I’m getting graded on this. All of my classmates have convinced their clients to attend group therapy already, and you’re starting to make me look bad. I shouldn’t be saying all this to you; I know that. But would you please just go to group therapy for my sake? So they don’t throw me out of my grad class? Would you do it for me? Please?” Wendy put her hands together like she was begging me. The bruise on her wrist jumped out of her sleeve once more, ugly as a cockroach emerging from under a floorboard. The tiny man delivered a swift kick to my kidney. Then Wendy raised her eyebrows and said, “Pretty please?”

  “My going to group therapy would help you do well in grad school?” I asked. This seemed to put the idea in a different light—going to group therapy to help Wendy rather than to help myself. I don’t know why this made group therapy more appealing, but it did, maybe because I didn’t need help and didn’t want to waste my time doing something that wouldn’t help anyone.

  “It would help a lot, actually. More than you realize. I’m not doing very well in school lately.”

  “If I go to group therapy, will you do something for me?” I asked, because I suddenly had a good idea.

  “Sure! Anything!” Wendy said, practically leaping from her chair.

  “Would you maybe give me lessons on how to impress a woman?”

  Wendy made a lemon face and said, “What do you mean?”

  “I want to know how to approach a woman so that she might want to have a beer at the bar with me.”

  “You’re elevating the stakes of your goal, Bartholomew.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s very good!”

  She seemed really happy. She is such a child. So easily pleased.

  “Can you help me?” I said.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling under those thin orange eyebrows. I made the heart constellation out of her freckles once very quickly. “I see how it is.”

  “I’ve never been on a date before.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “You don’t think of me as a retard now that I’ve told you I’ve never been on a date?”

  “I don’t think of anyone as a retard, because that’s a word that shouldn’t ever be used.”

  I smiled.

  “It’s an age-appropriate goal,” Wendy said. “I’m definitely in.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “How do I make it happen?”

  “Why don’t you let me think up a course of action, and we’ll talk about it next week. We’ll fix you up and do our best to get you the girl, Bartholomew. I promise,” Wendy said. She wrote something down on a piece of paper, tore it out, and handed it to me.

  Surviving Grief

  Monday 8pm

  1012 Walnut Street

  Third Floor

  Tell Arnold I sent you.

  “You’ll go?” she said.

  I looked at the piece of paper.

  Surviving Grief

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.”

  Just then, the front door banged open. Father McNamee was standing there, his face red with cold. “Has our dear Wendy talked you into throwing me out on the streets yet, Bartholomew?” he asked as he charged through the living room.

  Wendy took a deep breath—and then she exhaled audibly through her lips. She stood, met Father McNamee at the kitchen entranceway, and said, “Why did you ask me to help Bartholomew if you don’t respect my opinion?”

  “I respectfully disagree with your opinion,” Father McNamee said. “But I still respect it very much.”

  “I don’t understand what type of game you’re playing here,” Wendy said.

  Father McNamee chuckled and winked at me.

  “I’m reporting your whereabouts to Father Hachette,” Wendy said.

  “I no longer answer to the Catholic Church. I defrocked myself.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on, but I don’t like it! Not one bit!” Wendy yelled.

  She punched her way into her floral-pattern trench coat, grabbed her bag off the kitchen table, and then stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Father McNamee and I looked at each other.

  Then Wendy stormed back into the house and said, “You will be at that meeting, right, Bartholomew?”

  “What meeting?” Father McNamee said.

  “Bartholomew?” Wendy said, ignoring Father McNamee. “Promise me.”

  “I promise,” I said, but didn’t bring up her end of the deal. I didn’t want Father McNamee to know I was trying to woo The Girlbrarian. I don’t know why.

  “Good,” Wendy said, and then she stormed out once more.

  “She’s feisty,” Father McNamee said.

  He reached up, squeezed my shoulder once, and then went into the living room to continue his praying.

  I had no idea why Wendy didn’t want Father McNamee to live with me, nor did I understand why Father McNamee had asked Wendy to help me and then blatantly disregarded her opinions.

  But I really didn’t want to think about any of that.

  I sat in the kitchen trying to hear
the birds, but they just wouldn’t sing on that day.

  Wendy’s perfume lingered.

  Apricot.

  Lemon.

  Ginger.

  What was I going to do next, now that Mom was gone?

  I kept thinking about you, Richard Gere.

  In the biography that Peter Carrick wrote—on page 17, when he is discussing your relationship with Cindy Crawford, Carrick writes, “He [you, Richard Gere] admitted it was hard for him to make decisions and saw the process as something definite rather than transitory, a situation complicated because of his oppressive tendency to over-analyse.”

  When I read that, I knew the you-me of pretending was no accident, because I have always been kept paralyzed by my obsessive thinking, which is why I began playing the you-me Richard Gere game when my mother got sick. When I was you, I didn’t have to think for myself, and this protected me from making mistakes. I wondered if you have ever played such a game, and then it hit me that you are an actor who plays this game all the time, right?

  In his book A Profound Mind, the Dalai Lama writes, “To change our lives we must first acknowledge that our present situation is not satisfactory.”

  It would seem that both Wendy and Father McNamee want me to change my life.

  But I wouldn’t say that I am unsatisfied at all, especially since I have you, Richard Gere, to advise me.

  Your admiring fan,

  Bartholomew Neil

  7

  HIS USE OF THE PLURAL PRONOUN MADE ME VERY SUSPICIOUS

  Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

  There was a knock at the front door the other night, and when I answered, Father Hachette was looking up at me through his round glasses, the white of his priest collar illuminated by the porch light. He said, “I know he’s in there.”

  “Who?” I said, because Father McNamee had instructed me to “play dumb” if Father Hachette should come looking for him. The night before, when Father McNamee was very drunk, he called Father Hachette “the one left behind” and “the man with no eyes to see nor ears to hear.”

  “I think you know exactly who I mean,” Father Hachette said.

  “Sorry,” I said, and tried to shut the door.

  “Okay, okay,” Father Hachette said. “Will you at least come outside and speak with me?”

  I hesitated for a second, but couldn’t see the harm in speaking with him, so I went outside.