The Good Luck of Right Now

by Matthew Quick

  Max also said that if I look up at the northern Vermont night sky long enough, I will definitely see a UFO at some point—“Look for lingering fucking orbs of lights that move too fucking rapidly across the sky and then stop on a fucking dime to hover,” Max said before he left me out here to write you, saying he was “crazy fucking tired” and had seen enough “fucking UFOs” already—but I’m not really interested in space or extraterrestrial life-forms, especially since Max has told me such horrific stories about these beings from far, far away and their plans for us.

  Father McNamee said that Jesus, God, the Holy Spirit, Satan, angels, and demons are all technically extraterrestrials, since they’re not “of this world.” But that’s all he would say on the subject of aliens. Well, except that he also said it wasn’t officially wrong for a Catholic to wear the special anti-alien tektite crystal, which is why I don’t feel any guilt, even though Mom probably wouldn’t have approved or understood the need. It was simply nice to receive a gift from a friend. If you can believe it, Richard Gere, this was the first present I have ever received from anyone except Mom. Life is really looking up.

  I don’t think Mom believed in aliens, but we never did have a conversation about that.

  This is also the first time I have ever left the Philadelphia area (if you count the South Jersey Shore as the Philadelphia area, and most do), and while it is exciting to be traveling north, about to leave the country even, it is also a little terrifying, especially because I am finally going to meet my biological father, who is supposedly alive and living in Montreal. Father McNamee has been in touch with him, which I will tell you all about shortly.

  It’s been an overwhelming few days, and it’s taken me this long to organize my thoughts before I could offer them to you in any sort of order that would make sense.

  After I met The Girlbrarian—Elizabeth, I mean—I came home that night and found Father McNamee kneeling in the living room, praying, which was an improvement, because he wasn’t drunk in Mom’s room or vomiting into our toilet.

  When he opened his eye, it wasn’t tiny like a black snowflake, but began to suck like a whale’s blowhole again—and I knew that the storm in his mind had passed.

  “I need a passport,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I need a passport.”

  Father studied my face for a moment and then said, “How did you know we’re going to Montreal?”

  “Montreal?”

  “Montreal,” he said. “Yes. My hometown.”

  “I’m going to Ottawa, not Montreal.”

  “Ottawa?”

  “Ottawa.”

  “No, surely you mean Montreal.”

  “Ottawa.”

  Father McNamee looked perplexed.

  “How long does it take to get a passport?” I asked.

  “You’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Father McNamee reached into the pocket of his sweater and pulled out two passports.

  “That’s a passport for me?”

  “And one for me too. Remember when we got our pictures taken at CVS?”

  He had said the pictures were for the church’s records. We went a few weeks before Mom died. I think I may have signed something too.

  “Why do you want to go to Ottawa?” he said.

  “Why did you get us passports?”

  “It’s time for you to meet your father. He lives in Montreal.”

  “My father was martyred,” I said. “Killed by the Ku Klux Klan.”

  “That was just a placating bedtime story your mother told you so that you wouldn’t have to think about why you didn’t have a father all of these decades. That was her pretending with you. Protecting you. Your father is alive. And he’s agreed to meet us at Saint Joseph’s Oratory in Montreal in front of Saint Brother André’s preserved heart, which is on display as a holy relic.”

  “What? Why?” I said. “My father is really alive? You’ve been in touch with him? There’s a preserved human heart on display?”

  I wasn’t sure which one of those questions was more absurd.

  “Yes, Brother André’s heart is preserved and encased in glass, and your father is alive. We’ll meet him there because Saint Brother André was a great healer. And you and your father need to heal.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed Father McNamee. I didn’t think my father was really alive. If he were, why wouldn’t he have contacted me before? Why would Mom have lied to me?

  Mom never lied.

  Never.

  Especially about something so important.

  Even the little man in my stomach was on my side this time—he didn’t kick or claw or anything but crossed his arms smugly and used the bottom of my stomach as a hammock, because we both knew that Father McNamee was mistaken.

  “Tell me how you came to believe you are supposed to go to Ottawa, Bartholomew,” Father McNamee said.

  I thought about Jung’s synchronicity as I followed Father into the kitchen, where he poured us coffee.

  “So?” Father McNamee said.

  I told him everything I told you, Richard Gere, in my last letter.

  Father McNamee smiled when I mentioned Max’s theory about Arnie being an alien, and even though I could tell that Father didn’t believe Arnie was an alien, he didn’t say anything to the contrary or interrupt me in any way, which was nice.

  (Polite listening skills really are rare, don’t you think?)

  Then I continued the story thusly:

  “When we arrived at Max and Elizabeth’s apartment, the first thing I noticed was the tint on the windows. They had put some sort of sticker sheet on every pane, so that each became a mirror and you couldn’t see in,” I told Father McNamee.

  When I asked Max about the windows, he said, “Alien abduction protection one-oh-fucking-one.”

  He opened the door and yelled, “Elizabeth! I’ve got fucking company. He’s been screened! You don’t have to hide! Fucking trust me!”

  We entered into a living room space. There was an old plaid couch with some rips in the fabric so that you could see the jaundiced stuffing poking out. In front of the couch was a scratched-up wooden coffee table, under which was a braided rug whose colors had long ago been vacuumed away. The TV was very old—not flat and streamlined, but a huge cumbersome cube.

  “Stay right fucking here,” Max said. “Have a seat.”

  I sat down on the couch.

  Max went into the next room, which I guessed was a kitchen, because I could see the side of an avocado-green refrigerator that looked like it belonged in a museum of time-forgotten kitchen appliances.

  “Elizabeth, what the fuck, hey? We have company!”

  I heard whispering.

  “He’s not a fucking man in black. He doesn’t even fucking wear the fucking color black fucking ever. I’ve had fucking beers with him fucking twice already! I saved him from Arnie, and if Arnie is an alien, and fucking Arnie wanted to capture Bartholomew, well then, do the math! It’s pretty fucking safe to assume that Bartholomew is human. When the fuck did you ever hear of a fucking alien coming to fucking Earth to fucking capture another fucking alien? That’s non-fucking-sensical!”

  There was more whispering before Max said, “Fuck this!” and then dragged Elizabeth into the living room by her wrist. He sat her on the couch and said, “Bartholomew, my friend—fucking meet Elizabeth, my sister. Elizabeth, my sister—fucking meet Bartholomew, my friend.”

  Elizabeth rested her palms on her thighs and stared down at them, hiding her face behind her long brown hair. She was wearing tight red pants, a baggy brown sweater, and black military boots.

  “You know Bartholomew from the fucking library,” Max said. “He calls you The Girl-fucking-brarian.”

  “Just The Girlbrarian, actually,” I said, using newfound Richard Gere confidence. Pretending.

  Movie-star suave.

  You’d think I’d be about to have a heart attack, but given all of the wild coincidences that had led to this exact moment in time
, everything seemed fated, making my deficiencies irrelevant.

  “Why?” she said. “What does that mean? The Girlbrarian?”

  “It’s just a nickname I made up,” I said.

  “I’m not a girl; I’m a woman. And I’m not a real librarian either. I’m just a volunteer.”

  “Jesus, Elizabeth. Be fucking nice, okay? This here is my friend. He wants to fucking meet you. When was the last time any-fucking-one wanted to fucking meet you?”

  “Why do you want to meet me?” she said. “And please do call me Elizabeth.”

  “I—” I said, but I couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t make me sound like a pervert.

  “He’s wanted to fucking meet you for fucking years! What the fuck, hey?”

  “Why?” she repeated.

  I felt myself beginning to sweat. My temples felt moist, my underarms hot. And then it was like you, Richard Gere, possessed me and began to speak. “Well. I’ve noticed you. You seem special.”

  “I’m not special.”

  “But you are.”

  “How am I special, then?” Elizabeth asked. She had turned her back on me and was now looking at the wall with her shoulders slumped.

  “Well, for starters, I like the way you put away the books so carefully—returning them to their proper places on the shelves. You’re always gentle. You give each a little tap with your forefinger, like you’re rewarding each book for providing a good reading experience to the library patron who had checked it out, encouraging the book to keep on being a great resource for everyone. And also how you don’t just throw away old books, but inspect them to make absolutely sure that they aren’t salvageable. You don’t give up on them unnecessarily, and I think that’s a beautiful and rare quality in a woman—in a person, I mean. Little things like that, I really admire. Most people don’t take the time to do the little things, let alone savor them. My mother used to savor the little things, but she’s dead now.”

  “You watch me do those things,” she said, peeking back over her shoulder at me, through a straight curtain of brown hair.

  “I do,” I said. “It’s the best part of my day, actually, whenever you’re at the library. You’re definitely the best librarian they have there.”

  “I told you already that I’m just a volunteer. They don’t even pay me.”

  “It doesn’t matter to me.”

  She stood up and darted into the kitchen.

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max said and then followed her.

  I heard them whispering in the kitchen.

  When they returned, Elizabeth said, “Tell him about our troubles, Max.”

  “That’s fucking personal, hey!”

  “We’re getting evicted,” Elizabeth said. “Isn’t that just grand?”

  “What the fuck, hey? That’s family business.”

  “What does it matter who knows?” Elizabeth said to Max. To me, she said, “We’re broke.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” I said.

  Max shook his head at me.

  “What will you do?” I asked Elizabeth.

  “We have just enough money to go to Ottawa,” Elizabeth said. “So we’ll go to Ottawa. As crazy as that sounds. We have no plan after that.”

  “We don’t have to fucking go,” Max said.

  “I promised you,” Elizabeth said. “And I never break a promise.”

  “What’s in Ottawa?” I asked.

  “Cat Fucking Parliament,” Max said.

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s the place where cats fucking roam free as they fucking please right next to what’s essentially Canada’s fucking White House. It is one of the best fucking places in the world, although I have only read about it. I’ve wanted to go for more than ten years now. It’s my personal fucking dream.”

  “I promised I’d take Max to Cat Parliament for his fortieth birthday,” Elizabeth said. “We’ve rented a car. We’re leaving in a few days. Once we’re officially evicted. And then we don’t know what we’ll do. Isn’t that exciting?”

  Elizabeth’s sarcasm was frightening—she was like a cornered animal lashing out, her words like claws.

  “Why are you getting evicted?” I asked.

  “We fucking ran out of money saving up for this trip. We didn’t pay the fucking rent.”

  “What if you did that study with Arnie? Didn’t he offer you—”

  “He’s a fucking alien, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I forgot.”

  “We have just enough money to get to Cat Parliament,” Elizabeth said. “We don’t have any idea what will come after that.”

  Max looked at me nervously and raised his eyebrows. He covered his mouth and whispered, “What the fuck, hey?”

  “Did my brother tell you about my . . . abduction?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Do you believe in alien abduction, Bartholomew?”

  I knew what they wanted me to say, so I said, “Yes.” I didn’t not believe in alien abduction, and I understood that it was important that I believe at this point—that this was a deal breaker for Max and Elizabeth. If she was ever going to be my girlfriend, I needed to give them this absolute right now.

  “We can fucking trust him, Elizabeth. He’s a good fucking person,” Max said, which made me smile. “I screened him over Guinness. What the fuck, hey?”

  “Okay, then. Why don’t you tell him, Max?” Elizabeth said. “Tell him my story. Why not? See what he says. Maybe he can even save us, like Prince Charming. Why not?”

  I swallowed hard, because Elizabeth was invoking fairy-tale language, Richard Gere, just like Vivian Ward in Pretty Woman.

  Synchronicity.

  Unus mundus.

  “O-fucking-kay,” Max said and went on to tell the story about how his sister was walking along the “Dela-fucking-ware River” one summer evening when over the water she saw a “white fucking ball of energy” that seemed to pulse and radiate—“like the most beautiful fucking star you have ever seen had floated down to earth gently as a fucking dandelion seed dancing in the fucking wind.”

  It was so “fucking mesmerizing” that she followed it thoughtlessly for hours, completely captivated by its beauty, but she never really seemed to get any closer to it—no matter how fast she walked, the “giant fucking orb of light” remained the same distance away from her. She walked for what seemed like an eternity without getting tired or thirsty. And then suddenly—“FUCKING POOF!”—she found herself at the exact place where she had first seen the bright light, as if she hadn’t been walking at all. She looked at her “fucking cell phone” and realized that no time had passed. In fact, she was pretty sure it was five or so minutes before she had seen the light—which is when she suspected that she might be going “fucking crazy.”

  She couldn’t sleep that night. Elizabeth kept trying to remember what had happened during that space of time when she followed the beautiful light in the sky, but the more she tried to remember, the more it receded into the dark forgotten part of her mind—almost like “a fucking dream” that is vivid in the morning, but completely forgotten by “fucking lunch.” Try as she might, Elizabeth couldn’t recall any of the details, and yet she suspected that so much more had happened to her than simply seeing a “fucking light in the fucking sky.”

  She became so anxious, the tightness in her chest became unbearable; Elizabeth began to worry that she was having a heart attack.

  The next day she went to the emergency room, and after a few tests that proved nothing was wrong with her heart or her circulatory system, she took the medical advice she was given. She checked herself into a mental health facility, where they gave her medicine and bed rest and “fucking mandatory singing classes,” and therapists conversed with her in “great fucking detail” about her childhood, teen years, and adulthood too.

  After a few weeks in the mental health facility, she began to remember what really happened.

  On that fated night she was pulled up
into a UFO by a “fucking tractor beam” of sorts that teleported her from the river walk up into an all-white educational mind laboratory. There were space men with “elongated fucking heads” and “shiny black fucking eyes” and “tiny fucking bodies”—their arms and legs were thin as pepperoni sticks and their skin was lime green and spotted like that of “fucking frogs.”

  She was strapped down to an operating table by “ropes made of fucking electricity,” and even though they experimented on her, she didn’t feel any pain and was not afraid at the time. The aliens’ mouths didn’t move, but she heard their voices in her head, which were deep and “fucking sonorous.” They said, “This will all be over soon. There is no use struggling. Just relax. We’re doing this for the good of your species. You are what’s known as a ‘scientific hero’ where we come from, because your brief discomfort will result in many great advancements that will benefit millions all over the galaxy. Do not worry. You will be returned to your planet shortly.”

  Max added a “What the fuck, hey?” here while opening his eyes extra wide and nodding enthusiastically.

  I looked over at Elizabeth, and she seemed to be studying my reaction to the story, but when she caught my eye, she shrugged, which seemed odd.

  Because she had missed so many weeks of work and hadn’t bothered to tell her boss she was in a hospital recovering from “alien fucking abduction,” her job at an advertising firm was no longer waiting for her, so she began to live off her savings and volunteer at the library, because she “always fucking loved stories.”

  “That’s also when I moved here from fucking Worcester, hey!” Max said.

  Elizabeth looked at me from behind that brown curtain of hair and said, “Crazy story, huh?”

  Back in Mom’s kitchen, I said to Father McNamee, “And that’s when Max invited me to go to Cat Parliament with them in Ottawa. And Elizabeth said she didn’t care if I went with them or not. What do you think it means, my having this experience and your already having the passports?”