The Good Luck of Right Now

by Matthew Quick

“I never thought I’d see Canada.”

  “Me fucking neither.”

  We were standing on a shoveled concrete deck of sorts with our backs to the pool, looking over a five-foot wall.

  “I guess for many normal, regular-type people, this wouldn’t be any big deal,” I said.

  Max nodded again, and then he said, “Why the fuck do you think we ended up being so fucking different from everyone else? Do you ever fucking think about shit like that? People like you and me and Elizabeth—why do we even fucking exist?”

  I thought about it and then—after searching my entire brain for the answer to Max’s first question and finding none—I answered the second by saying, “All the time.” After a minute or so I had a thought, and so I said, “Maybe the world needs people like us?”

  “What the fuck for? We don’t fucking do anything! I just rip tickets at the fucking movies! Anyone could do that!”

  “Well, if there weren’t weird, strange, and unusual people who did weird things or nothing at all, there couldn’t be normal people who do normal, useful things, right?”

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max squinted at me.

  “The word normal would lose all of its meaning if it didn’t have an opposite. And if there were no normal people, the world would probably fall apart—because it’s normal people who take care of all the normal things like making sure there is food at the grocery store and delivering the mail and putting up traffic lights and making sure our toilets work properly and growing food on farms and flying airplanes safely and making sure the president of the United States has clean suits to wear and—”

  “Little help?” a voice said. “It’s too cold for me to hop out!”

  When we turned around there was a beach ball at our feet.

  A family must have swum out from under the glass divide and into the outdoor open-air water behind us.

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max sort of whispered as he kicked the brightly colored ball toward the man.

  The man caught the large ball between his two hands, lowered it so we could see his face, and said, “Thanks!”

  He looked like a younger version of you, Richard Gere. Handsome, confident, many muscles in his stomach and chest and arms. Shaggy hair that—even though it was wet—looked like it cost a lot of money and effort to style and maintain. He also reminded me of those underwear models you see in the ads that fall out of the Sunday newspaper. His wife was wearing a green bikini, and while she was no Cindy Crawford, she was just as beautiful as Carey Lowell, which is pretty lovely, as you well know. They had a boy and a girl between them—maybe five and seven years old, both blond with pearly white teeth, the type of kids you see smiling a lot on TV while eating breakfast cereals—and they were all throwing the beach ball around, laughing and trying to catch snowflakes on their tongues, which was when I realized it was indeed snowing.

  The steam that rose off their bare skin looked like their souls rising up and mingling above their heads in a playful harmonious dance that made my chest ache.

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max whispered again as his index finger pushed his huge glasses to the top of his nose, and it was like he was saying what I have thought many, many times: What is wrong with us? Why are we so strange? Why does that—the normal family in the pool—seem so right, and what we have and are seem so wrong in comparison?

  Even though my mom and I had never gone swimming outside in the winter on a hotel roof that overlooked a foreign city, the scene made me miss Mom, and I said a quick prayer, asking God to let Mom appear to me in my dreams at least once more.

  The man who looked like a younger version of you, Richard Gere—he kept glancing over at us, and it took me a few looks to realize that our staring was starting to make them feel uncomfortable.

  Two misshapen, ugly, strange men in out-of-style boots and coats staring at anyone is a recipe for misinterpretation, right?

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Max nodded and followed.

  He didn’t need an explanation.

  Max knew what I knew—probably because he has lived the same sort of life as I have, even if his personal details were and are completely different.

  Metaphorically, we—and our stories—are the same.

  We went to our respective rooms, showered, and dressed for dinner.

  Father McNamee took us to Old Montreal and we dined at a small fancy restaurant. Father asked if he could order for all of us, and when we agreed, he surprised me by ordering in French.

  “What the fuck, eh, Frenchy?” Max said, eyes wide, nodding, impressed—like Father had done a magic trick—when the waiter left.

  “I hope you will indulge me,” Father McNamee said. “This is a last supper of sorts for us.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Everything will change when you meet your dad tomorrow,” Father said, looking really uncomfortable. “Nothing will be the same afterward.”

  I nodded, just to be easy.

  It was snowing outside, and we watched the flakes fall through the steamy window.

  The waiter arrived with red wine and glasses. Father tasted, approved, and then the waiter poured glasses for all of us.

  “To new beginnings, however strange they may be,” Father McNamee said and then raised his glass.

  We all clinked and drank.

  Baguettes and French onion soup—small round brown bowls covered with bubbling cheese—came next.

  Father broke a baguette into four pieces, handed one to each of us, and said, “We four are at pivotal points in our lives. To the miracle of our finding each other and being right here, right now together, which is indeed remarkable.”

  Elizabeth and Max didn’t say anything, but bit their bread and began to chew.

  “It’s best when dipped into the soup,” Father said and then poked the baguette through the cheese in his bowl until the bread turned brown and began to fall apart.

  We all did the same.

  “How do you feel about meeting your father, Bartholomew?” Father McNamee said, while examining his soup.

  I didn’t know how to answer.

  In my mind and heart, my father had been dead for years, and there was a part of me, deep down inside where the tiny man lives, that wanted to keep it that way.

  Another part of me still didn’t believe that meeting my father was even a possibility, although Father McNamee seemed very confident, and he had never lied to me before.

  “Cat Parliament in two fucking days, right?” Max said.

  “Yes,” Father said, nodded, and looked out the window at the heavily bundled people passing by on the sidewalk.

  The waiter returned and said, “Lapin.”

  Four plates were put in front of us.

  Meat covered in tan gravy, peas, and carrots.

  “Bon appétit,” the waiter said and then left.

  We all began to eat, and the meat was tender and flavorful and seemed to melt like butter in my mouth.

  “What is this?” Elizabeth asked after swallowing.

  “Rabbit,” Father said. “Do you like it?”

  Elizabeth gagged, spit the food from her mouth, and ran out of the restaurant.

  I chased after her.

  She was retching over the mound of snow piled between the street and the sidewalk, so I held her hair and rubbed her back, just like Mom used to do for me whenever I was sick as a little boy. The entire restaurant watched us through the window.

  Max and Father McNamee came out next, and Father said, “Are you okay?”

  Elizabeth nodded and said, “I just need some air. Leave me alone, please. Please!”

  When she began to walk down the street, Father said, “Follow her, Bartholomew!”

  “Me?” I said.

  “What the fuck, hey, Elizabeth!” Max yelled. “This is a free meal. Isn’t it time you fucking got over this?”

  Father smiled, winked, and said, “This is your big chance. Go.”

  It’s snowing in Old Montreal
. How beautiful! you, Richard Gere, said. Suddenly you were there, bundled up in a leather coat and a plaid scarf, smiling at me, your eyes twinkling like my new tektite crystal. Use the charm of the moment! Step into the romance of now! You can make The Girlbrarian fall in love with you! Look around. This town is loaded with charm! Use it, big guy!

  “She doesn’t like to be called The Girlbrarian,” I said to you as I rushed after Elizabeth.

  Doesn’t matter, big guy. What matters is that you’re going to be alone with the girl of your dreams in Old Montreal as the snow falls gently all around you. Love is imminent. You cannot fail. This is your moment. The Dalai Lama says be compassionate and all will work out for the best. Just be kind. It’s time for love. This is the perfect moment. Give her the fairy tale!

  “She’s sick! She just threw up in a snowbank!”

  That’s The Good Luck of Right Now, right?

  The bad that will lead to good!

  The flip side of the same coin.

  The universe is sending you a sign. The universe has put you in this exact position for a reason. Now is your moment, Bartholomew. The Good Luck of Right Now! Remember your mother’s philosophy. What would she tell you? What would your mother tell us?

  You looked so proud of me, Richard Gere, and I wondered how you found me in Canada—but then I remembered the letters I had written you, explaining where I was going. Your coming and helping me—especially knowing how busy you are with your acting and official Dalai Lama business—it means so, so much to me that I almost started to cry.

  Thank you, Richard Gere.

  Thank you one million times.

  With a friend like you, I felt that I truly couldn’t fail to impress Elizabeth now.

  Cool tektite crystal, you said to me when you noticed it bouncing against my coat zipper as I ran down the sidewalk after Elizabeth, trying not to slip on ice.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  You winked and nodded, gave me the thumbs-up with your expensive-looking leather glove—and then you vanished like a ghost.

  When I caught up to Elizabeth, I could tell she was still upset, so I walked next to her for seven or so city blocks, catching my breath and allowing her to walk off her bad energy, like I had done before with Father McNamee.

  I decided to wait until she spoke first, before saying anything.

  When we reached the Saint Lawrence River, Elizabeth stopped and said, “Max wanted me to make sure you have your tektite crystal on at all times.”

  “Yes,” I said, patting it with my glove. “I haven’t taken it off since he gave it to me.”

  She pulled another leather necklace out of her coat pocket and said, “Max says put this one on too. You’ve worked up to it, wearing the first for more than twenty-four hours now, and my brother’s research suggests that alien abductions increase near rivers. So you will benefit from extra protection, according to Max.”

  I took the extra tektite crystal and dutifully put it around my neck. It was hard to do with winter gloves on, but I managed.

  We stood there silently for a time.

  Then Elizabeth said, “You probably think I’m insane, acting the way I did back there.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Yes.” She peered up at me from under her beautiful eyebrows, through her wispy curtain of brown hair that was now hanging down from within a homemade-looking purple knit hat.

  I bit my bottom lip and shook my head.

  We looked out over the river for what seemed like a half hour.

  Finally, she said, “You may think this is a stupid sentimental explanation, but I used to keep rabbits when I was a little girl. My mom bought them to breed and sell, but the guy who sold them to us lied and we soon found out both of our rabbits were male. Mom quickly lost interest, like she always did, or was too lazy to find a female. She ignored them, began to pretend they didn’t exist, probably because her pride kept her embarrassed about being duped. So I made the neglected rabbits into pets and loved them. Adored them. Talked to them. Even stole food for them from a nearby farm. Told them my secrets, whispering into their long, velvety ears for hours and hours.”

  I didn’t know what to say, even though this obviously explained why she threw up.

  It made me feel so sad.

  “Max never loved them as much as I did,” she said, and began to walk along the river.

  I nodded and followed.

  “Are you ever going to talk?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes.”

  “Say something.”

  “Something.”

  “Not funny.”

  I wasn’t trying to be funny, so I felt ashamed. And then I could feel the little man in my stomach laughing at me, rolling around in my belly, crying tears of merriment even, because I was failing so horrifically.

  We walked on for a block or so.

  Then she said, “My rabbits’ names were Pooky and Moo Moo. They loved lettuce more than carrots. You’d think rabbits would love carrots best, but not these two. Maybe they were strange rabbits.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Max, he loves cats,” she said.

  Somehow I found my voice and said, “Yes, he does. Was Alice a good cat?”

  “She was a doll. But she was Max’s cat, not mine. Pooky and Moo Moo were mine. There will never be another Pooky or another Moo Moo.”

  “Mom was mine,” I said before I could really think about what I meant. “There will never be another Mom for me either. She was one of a kind.”

  “You really loved your mother?”

  “Yes. Did you love yours?”

  “I hated her. I used to fantasize about killing her in her sleep. Slitting her throat with a steak knife—sometimes I’d imagine dragging the blade across her entire neck, making a huge red smile. And other times I’d just stab her jugular repeatedly. Sorry. I know that’s pretty sick. But, oh, how I wanted to kill my mother when I was a little girl!”

  “Why?”

  “A million reasons. Infinite reasons.”

  We walked for a few more blocks, gloved hands in pockets.

  “My mother killed Pooky and Moo Moo and fed them to me when I was just a child.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “She told me what I was eating only after I had finished. Like she was delivering the punch line to a joke, she told me with a grin on her face. You cannot imagine the guilt. I felt Pooky and Moo Moo inside me, trying to hop out of my stomach, for months. She made keychains out of the feet and gave me one as a present the following Christmas. I screamed when I opened it and began to cry. She called me peculiar and ungrateful and spoiled and weak and silly. Then she laughed at me and told Max his sister was sentimental. She actually used that word. Sentimental. As if it were a character flaw. Like it was horrible to feel. To admit that you missed things. To care. To love even.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven.”

  “Why did she kill your rabbits?”

  “We were poor. Had no food. We couldn’t really afford to feed them. My mother was a psychopath. I am prone to horrific luck. All of those things.”

  “Father McNamee didn’t know that—”

  “How could he?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Elizabeth said.

  I felt as though I had failed horribly in the romance department, as all we had managed to talk about were Elizabeth’s childhood traumas and her adolescent thoughts of matricide.

  Hardly romantic banter.

  “Tell me something nice,” she said. Elizabeth stopped walking, faced me, and looked up into my eyes with frightening desperation. “Please! Anything. Tell me one nice thing. Something that makes me feel as though the world is not a terrible place. I’m at the end, Bartholomew. I don’t care anymore. Tell me something that will make me care. Come on. Just tell me something good. One good and true thing. If you can do that, then maybe, just maybe . . .”

  She didn�
��t finish her sentence, but sighed, and I wondered what she was going to say.

  Elizabeth kept searching my eyes, but I didn’t have a clue as to what I was supposed to say here in response, and I hoped that you, Richard Gere, would show up to help me, because you always know what to say to women in these situations, in all of your movies, but you didn’t materialize.

  “Like what?” I said, stalling for time.

  “Something nice about your mother maybe.” She was choking up here, her eyes brimming with tears. “Something that will make me forget I just ate rabbit—that I have no place to live. That my life has been a cruel, sadistic joke—that everything is going to end shortly.”

  “End?” I said.

  I hated to see her so sad, but wasn’t sure what to do.

  “Tell me something about your mother. Something nice,” Elizabeth said, ignoring my question. “Really sweet. You seem like a sweet sort of man, Bartholomew. So please, please, please. Something sweet.”

  I thought about it—there were a million nice things to choose from when it came to memories of Mom.

  “The first sweet thing that pops up in your head,” she said. “Don’t think about it. Just talk. Please. You must have nice memories of your mother if you love her so much. It should be easy for you! I need to hear something sweet—something sentimental even.”

  Suddenly I was talking without thinking—the words were flowing out of me like air—and I was utterly surprised to be saying so much. It was like she had found my hot and cold knobs and now words were suddenly gushing out of my spigot.

  “When I was a little boy, my mother told me that if I wrote a letter to the mayor of Philadelphia—Mayor Frank Rizzo at first, and then it was Mayor William Green—asking for special permission to go to the top of City Hall, he might let me look out over Philadelphia from under the high dome atop of which William Penn stands. So I’d write a letter, and I’d take days to think up a persuasive argument justifying why I should be admitted. I’d write about how hard I was trying in school, what a good son I was, always completing all of my chores on time, doing what Mom told me to do, how I promised to vote in all of the elections when I was old enough—a promise I have religiously kept, as Mom taught me it was my patriotic duty as an American—and how I went to Mass every week and tried to be a good Catholic.