The Good Luck of Right Now

by Matthew Quick

  “I don’t get how it will protect us from future vandals,” I said to Father.

  “You’re missing the point!” Father McNamee said, smiling and chuckling—like I was a young boy, like he was about to tousle my hair, even though I was a grown man.

  “What is the point?”

  “You’ll understand it one day, Bartholomew. Without my needing to explain it to you. You will understand. I promise.”

  Richard Gere, I’m not sure I understand any better now than I did back then.

  Even still, I’ve been wondering what good might have happened when Mom died to balance out the heavy bad of the hungry brain cancer squid ending her life. I’ve been trying to pretend that The Good Luck of Right Now produced something extremely beautiful when she passed, because Mom was full of love—enough to wipe out much, much bad. But I’m finding it hard to believe in her philosophy these days.

  Father McNamee said nothing when I asked him about it on the beach the night after the funeral. And lately, given how manic he’s been acting, I’ve been too afraid to ask him again, or even say “The Good Luck of Right Now” to Father McNamee, because I get the sense that he’s having a hard time pretending himself, especially since he never brings up Mom’s philosophy anymore.

  And yet, your being born during the same year that China became a threat to Tibet gives me hope, because maybe you were really conceived to equal out the bad the Chinese government would do to Tibet. It seems like proof. Too significant to be coincidental. Jung would agree here.

  And if you were a response to China’s planning to invade Tibet, it helps me believe in Mom’s philosophy, which gives me hope for my own postmother future and life in general.

  I found this Dalai Lama quote on the library Internet: “Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.” And it seems to agree with Mom’s mantra.

  I also found this other Dalai Lama quote: “There is a saying in Tibetan, ‘Tragedy should be utilized as a source of strength.’ No matter what sort of difficulties, how painful experience is, if we lose our hope, that’s our real disaster.”

  What do you think?

  Can we find some common ground here, Richard Gere?

  Maybe our letter correspondence will be the good that comes of Mom’s death?

  Maybe you will help me move on to the “next phase of my life,” like Wendy wanted me to do, when she was still around, before we figured out her secret?

  Stranger things have happened, I suppose.

  And this is the only hopeful outcome I have available to me at the present moment. So it’s important for us to continue the pretending, even if we can’t believe 100 percent.

  Your admiring fan,

  Bartholomew Neil

  11

  I DIDN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT TYPE OF MATH MAX WAS USING HERE, BUT HE SEEMED SO EXCITED THAT I DIDN’T INTERRUPT HIM

  Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

  After Wendy left, Father McNamee ceased praying and began drinking even more heavily than previously described.

  Jameson straight from the bottle—about a bottle a day.

  He called it his “Irish purification ritual.”

  Sometimes I’d hear him throwing up in the bathroom late at night, although he never left a mess. The toilet flushing over and over. And the retching reminded me of my mother at the end of her life, after the treatments—but, unfortunately, Mom hasn’t visited my dreams at all lately, so I haven’t been able to consult her.

  I’d try to speak with Father McNamee through the locked bedroom door, asking if he needed assistance, but he only said, “I’m okay. Riding out the downswing. Just need to be alone.”

  Like when Wendy was on the couch, I attempted to take care of Father McNamee the best I could, leaving grilled cheese sandwiches or ramen noodles by his door, which he sometimes ate in the middle of the night and sometimes left cold and untouched for me to take away in the morning.

  I’d knock on his door before every meal and ask if he wanted to join me in the kitchen, but he would hold my eye for only the briefest of seconds before he looked away in silence. Sometimes he was in bed; other times he was standing, staring blankly out the window.

  He wouldn’t talk at night either or take a walk with me or even listen to the birds’ symphony over morning coffee.

  After a day or two of this, I began to worry.

  I went to Saint Gabriel’s to seek help from Father Hachette.

  I found him in the church office, playing solitaire on the computer, looking rather bored. As soon as Father saw me, he said, “Why weren’t you at Mass, Bartholomew? Your mother would be gravely disappointed in you.”

  (Do you think that his using the word gravely to describe my dead mother’s theoretical disappointment was in poor taste?)

  It’s true that Mom would not want me to miss Mass, and since I didn’t have a good answer for him, I tried to change the subject. “Father McNamee is not well.”

  “Edna told me about your attempt to save her daughter,” Father Hachette said. “Quite dramatic. Quite dramatic indeed.”

  “Why are you smiling?” I asked.

  “I’m not smiling,” he said, even though he was clearly grinning, as if he knew a secret and enjoyed keeping it from me.

  His yellow teeth looked like petrified pieces of corn, and the way he was looking at me made the wrinkles in his face appear deeper than usual—so cavernous, I wondered if he had to clean them with a Q-tip.

  The little angry man in my stomach woke up and got to work.

  “Are you not worried about Wendy?” I asked.

  “Actually, I’ve been to visit her and Adam. Edna came with me. The four of us had a very good talk just yesterday.”

  “You did?”

  “I prayed with them. We had a productive back-and-forth. Wendy confessed to me afterward, here at the church. Let’s just say, to ease your conscience, Bartholomew, things are looking up for our young mutual friend. So do not worry too much about her.”

  It was hard to believe Father Hachette was able to do what Father McNamee could not. Also, I knew he shouldn’t have told me that Wendy confessed, because confessions are confidential. It was like he was bragging—like he wanted me to believe he was a better priest than Father McNamee. Father McNamee would never have bragged like that. Never. Nor would he have betrayed the confidence of a parishioner.

  “Is she really okay?” I asked, thinking Adam should have been the one to confess, not Wendy, and wondering exactly what Wendy had told him. Did she mention the hurtful things she’d said the last night she stayed in our house? How much did Father Hachette really know?

  “She’s wrestling with her soul. Adam is too. They have a lot to sort out.”

  “He’s evil, you know. He beats her. Didn’t you see her bruises?”

  “People are not evil or good. It’s much more complicated than that. Much.”

  “How could it be complicated when a man hits a woman repeatedly?”

  Father Hachette looked down at his desk, took a cigarette out of a hard pack, tapped the filter twice, and lit up. “Why did you come here today, Bartholomew?”

  I understood that he wasn’t going to talk about Wendy—and to be fair, maybe this had to do with keeping what was confessed confidential—and so I said, “How can I help Father McNamee overcome his depression?”

  Father Hachette frowned, blew smoke out the corner of his mouth, back over his left shoulder, and said, “You should come to Mass, Bartholomew. You should continue what you and your mother have always done. The routine of our shared faith will save you. In the end, the routines will save us all.”

  “Yes, I will. But what about Father McNamee?”

  Father Hachette held my gaze for an awkward moment, and then he said, “Let me guess. He’s drinking heavily. He’s claiming God abandoned him. He’s sulking alone in a room and emptying his guts into a toilet nightly? That’s his ritual. Mountaintops and valleys. That is his pattern. And I bet he blames you for not hearing God�
��s voice—for not providing him with divine instructions. Am I far off?”

  He was not far off, as you know, Richard Gere, but it didn’t seem like Father Hachette was going to help me today.

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “You told me to come to you when I needed help. You came to my house specifically to offer your help. Was that a lie?”

  “I’m glad you came, Bartholomew. Saint Gabriel’s is your spiritual home. But you need to work on yourself. You need to grieve for your mother and then begin a new life without her. God can help you accomplish this task.”

  “But you don’t want to help Father McNamee? You’re not interested in his depression?”

  “It’s like trying to fight a hurricane with your bare hands—punching at wind and rain. Only a fool would try. You need to wait it out. Trust me. I have some experience with this. Father McNamee will right himself eventually. He always has in the past, anyway.”

  “Then why did you come to Mom’s house and offer your help?”

  “Honestly? It’s you I’m worried about, Bartholomew. Not Father McNamee.”

  “Me?”

  He nodded slowly behind a skinny finger of cigarette smoke that cut his face in half.

  “Why?”

  Father Hachette took a few more puffs of his cigarette, studied his hands like there was something written down on them, and then said, “You still don’t know why Father McNamee came to live with you, do you?”

  “To help me get over Mom’s death—to help me move on with my life.”

  Father Hachette smiled, and I noticed how thin his neck looked wrapped in that black-and-white collar, like a fishing line leading up to a red-and-white bobber.

  “And yet it’s you who wants to help Father McNamee now. Things got flipped. You see?”

  “Why are you talking to me like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “In riddles. Like I’m slow-minded. Too stupid for the honest truth.”

  Because you are a retard! the tiny angry man yelled.

  “I’m sorry, Bartholomew. You see, I’m in an unfair position. I have an advantage, because I know more than you’ve been able to piece together. But it’s not my place to tell you what you need to know.” He stubbed his cigarette out in a bronze bowl full of butts. “Has he mentioned Montreal yet?”

  The man in my stomach froze when I heard the word Montreal, because that’s where my father supposedly was from.

  “So he hasn’t talked to you about that yet,” Father Hachette said. “Hmmm.”

  I wanted to ask Father about Montreal’s significance.

  The little man in my stomach was screaming. Use your words, idiot! He has information you need! And yet you sit here with your mouth shut, like a moron. Ask him about Montreal! Ask about your father! He gave my spleen a few good digs with his clawlike toes.

  But I couldn’t make my mouth work, Richard Gere. I kept hoping you would appear to me, so that you might coach me through the situation, but you did not materialize, and I wondered if my being in a Catholic church had anything to do with it, since you are a Buddhist. Maybe Catholic churches limit your ability to appear to me—almost like a denominational force field.

  “I can tell you this,” Father Hachette said when he understood I wasn’t going to open my mouth. “Father McNamee may not deserve your help, but he definitely needs it. He needs saving. That’s why he came to live with you. The drama is all part of his spiritual process. He’s a difficult man. But he is a man of God. To the best of his abilities, anyway.”

  “So what should I do?”

  “Pray.”

  “Just pray?”

  “And be patient.”

  “Should I be listening for God’s voice?” I asked, hoping he would say that was delusional, ridiculous, thereby letting me off the hook.

  Father Hachette smiled, tilted his head to the right, wagged his index finger at me three times, and said, “Always.”

  We looked at each other for what seemed like an hour. He seemed to pity me, and I started to hate him, even though it is a cardinal sin to hate a priest, one of the deadliest, I do believe.

  The man in my stomach was wreaking havoc on my digestive system. He was absolutely furious.

  “That’s it?” I said to Father Hachette when the silence became too much to bear.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Try to get him to take these.” Father reached into his drawer and pulled out a small orange bottle. He gave it a shake, and the pills inside sounded like an angry rattlesnake.

  “What are these?” I said as I took the bottle from him.

  “Mood stabilizers. Lithium. The directions are on the label.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell Father McNamee that I miss him. I pray for him daily, and for you too, Bartholomew. I know you are unhappy with me, but I am serving you the best I can, given the unusual circumstances. I wish I could make it easier for you, but I can only offer my daily prayers at this point. You will understand soon enough.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and then left.

  Back home, I knocked on Mom’s bedroom door and said, “Father Hachette is praying for you, Father McNamee. He sent medicine.”

  The door flew open.

  Father McNamee’s eyes were tiny black snowflakes again.

  He grabbed the orange bottle out of my hand, stormed down the hall, dumped the pills in the toilet, flushed, and then returned to his room, locking the door behind him.

  He had looked like an insane bull, charging through the hallway, storming toward some imaginary red cape.

  It was like he’d become a completely different person.

  “Why did you do that?” I said to the door.

  “I’m not taking meds!”

  “Why?”

  “They make me piss all the time. They also make me fat—or fatter!”

  After a mostly sleepless night, I attended morning Mass to make up for missing the previous Saturday night. Afterward, Father Hachette asked if I was able to get Father McNamee to take his pills, and when I told him what had happened, he just nodded and smiled and then chuckled knowingly. “I’ll keep praying,” he said.

  Nothing much else happened until I went to group therapy with Arnie and Max, which is when I began to feel as though maybe God was really beginning to speak to me—if only circumstantially.

  I arrived in the yellow room early, before Max. Arnie was dressed in a tie, vest, and matching pants—like he was just missing the jacket of a three-piece suit—and he seemed very happy to see me.

  “So glad you decided to continue on with your therapy, Bartholomew,” he said. “Please have a seat.”

  I sat on the yellow couch.

  Arnie sat in his yellow chair.

  “I hear that you are no longer working with Wendy,” he said in a way that let me know he had heard much more.

  I nodded.

  “Things got a little too personal?” he asked, but nicely.

  I nodded again, because it was the easiest thing to do.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Wendy is a young therapist. She’s still learning.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Wendy?” he said, which was weird, because who else could I have possibly meant? “She’s fine. But it’s not your job to worry about her. Wendy’s not your responsibility. She was supposed to be helping you, not the other way around. She’s filled me in a little, regarding your treatment and progress, but maybe you’d like to tell me yourself.”

  “Tell you what exactly?”

  “Where you left off with Wendy. What sort of things you were working on. Your interactions with her, you could describe those. How your grief counseling was progressing.”

  “Do you want to hear my life goal?” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “My life goal. Wendy said it was important to have those. Do you want to know what mine is?”

  “Sure,” Arnie said, bridging his hands over his knee.

  “I want to have a drink at a pub with a woman my ag
e—a woman who could one day be my wife. I believe that at the age of thirty-nine, I am ready to go on my first date—or I want to believe that, anyway. It’s been a hard thing to believe in the past—especially when my mom was around. Do you think that this life goal is obtainable for me, even though I have never before gone on a date, nor am I well practiced at consuming alcohol recreationally with women?”

  “Absolutely,” Arnie said without the slightest hesitation. “It is a good, obtainable, age-appropriate, healthy, and extremely all-around positive life goal, which I encourage you to complete. How can I help you achieve this?”

  I was excited to know that Arnie would help me woo The Girlbrarian—so much that I was just about to tell him all about my secret crush when the door burst open.

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max said as he entered the room.

  “Welcome back to the word fortress, Max,” Arnie said. “I’m so glad to see you here.”

  Max pointed at me and said, “I’ve come to rescue you. We need to get the fuck out of here right fucking now!”

  “What?” I said. Max looked agitated and determined. I had never been rescued before, and I have to admit—even though I didn’t yet understand what exactly I was being rescued from—that Max’s ardent concern was flattering.

  “Now, Max,” Arnie said. “We talked about what happened. You don’t have to participate in the study if you don’t—”

  Max grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Fucking trust me. Arnie is a liar. He’s not even fucking human! He wants to lock us away in a room, take us far fucking far away, and film us. We need to get the fuck out of here. Right fucking now!”

  “Allow me to explain, Bartholomew,” Arnie said. “Max is perhaps being a bit unreasonable here.”

  “Fuck you, Arnie! Fuck your word fortress. Fuck the color yellow. I won’t be your fucking lab rat. Pretending to care about us. You should be a-fucking-shamed of yourself. If you even fucking feel emotions! I trusted you! Told you everything! Even about Alice! Fuck all of this!”

  Max grabbed my wrist, pulled hard, and I stumbled after him.

  “Bartholomew, you aren’t even going to entertain my side of the story? Max is obviously agitated, and maybe he isn’t the best person to trust at this point.”