The Good Luck of Right Now

by Matthew Quick

  I looked over at Elizabeth, and her fists were clenched.

  There were also wooden carvings of all the disciples, depicted as long, stretched-out giants—like what you might see reflected in a fun-house mirror, only wearing robes and the hairstyles of biblical times. We found my namesake Bartholomew quite easily, although he is labeled by his other name, Nathaniel. He is holding some sort of leaf, and his left index and middle fingers make the peace sign, the fingertips of which rest on his chin.

  “These fuckers look like aliens,” Max whispered, and I had to agree, as they were elongated and skinny and otherworldly looking. “What the fuck does it mean? The disciples of Jesus carved to look like giant fucking aliens?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Father McNamee would have known,” Elizabeth said.

  “Perhaps,” I whispered, and then we gazed at the other apostles, who all looked stern and stretched and wooden and dusty and even alien.

  Yes, alien indeed.

  I wondered how many prayers had been sent up from this building—up to heaven like we beam information up to our satellites now, when we are in our cars and need directions.

  We wandered out of the basilica, down escalators, and into a great hallway of candles where you could pay money to light one for many various reasons, sending prayers up to Saint Joseph.

  I made the requested donation, lit a white candle in a red glass cup for Father McNamee, and prayed to Saint Joseph, asking him to put in a good word with Saint Peter, petitioning to let Father through the pearly gates and into heaven, even though he had sex with my mother while he was a priest, drank himself to death, and never told me he was my father. Even still, he helped many members of our church over the years—and many nonmembers too.

  Father McNamee was a good man, I prayed to Saint Joseph, and meant it too.

  So many other people and pilgrims were lighting candles and praying; some were crying. It felt like a holy place, and even Max refrained from cursing for a time, which I interpreted as a great sign of respect.

  We walked by walls on which hung hundreds of wooden crutches and canes donated by people who had supposedly been healed by Saint Brother André, a simple uneducated doorman who had dedicated his life to Saint Joseph and inexplicably became a miracle worker.

  And then we went to Saint Brother André’s final resting place.

  His body is entombed in a shiny black marble box that sits under a brick archway. There is a painting of a red cross on the wall between the arch and the sarcophagus. In Latin, an inscription reads: “Poor, Obedient, Humble Servant of God.”

  But Saint Brother André’s heart was not there.

  I asked another pilgrim where I could see the heart, and she pointed me toward an information booth. The man there showed me where to go on a map that cost me two Canadian dollars.

  We took another escalator up and climbed a flight of stairs to a room of dioramas—Brother André’s bedroom, a mannequin of him standing in his office, a mannequin of him standing next to a chair, all behind glass.

  “He was so short,” Elizabeth said. “It’s hard to believe such a fragile-looking man is responsible for all this.”

  “Yes,” I said in full agreement. Saint Brother André didn’t look like the type of man who accomplishes great things. He really didn’t. He looked nothing like you, Richard Gere.

  And then—when we turned around—we saw it.

  The very place Father McNamee wanted me to go.

  Where Father McNamee first heard the voice of God.

  Opposite the dioramas was what looked like a vault fenced off by iron. Behind the gate stood a gray pillar, on top of which sat a square glass box, lined with ornately carved stone. There was a human heart inside this box. The lighting inside the vault was red, so it looked like you were peering inside a giant’s chest—a giant wearing a great breastplate of armor that opened to reveal a heart encased in glass.

  “What the fuck, hey?” Max said, ending his run of non-cursing.

  “Do you think it’s real?” Elizabeth whispered.

  “I do,” I said.

  “Who the fuck cut it out, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying not to think about the act of cutting a human heart out of a dead body—trying not to think about Charles J. Guiteau’s dissected brain, preserved forever at the Mütter Museum.

  “What do you think the aliens would think if they came down and saw this human heart on display?” I asked Elizabeth. “If they saw so many people worshipping around Saint Brother André’s heart, lighting candles and praying to Saint Joseph?”

  Elizabeth didn’t answer, but squeezed my biceps through my coat and walked away.

  Max nodded at me and followed his sister.

  It was almost as if they knew I needed to be alone—and I understood this just as soon as they left me.

  I stood and stared at Saint Brother André’s heart for a long time, wondering who he had been.

  They say a million people came to his funeral and walked past his casket in the freezing cold of Canadian winter.

  How did that happen?

  What separates men like him from people like Max, Elizabeth, and me?

  From the rest of the world?

  Father McNamee would have said Brother André had faith—he just believed more than other people.

  And I wondered if faith were not a form of pretending.

  I also wondered what Father McNamee would have said if he were standing there at that moment with me, in front of Brother André’s heart—the place where he first heard his calling.

  Would he have asked my forgiveness?

  Would he have said he was sorry?

  Would he have professed his love for me—his only son? Did he leave the church to finally claim me as a son and be my dad?

  I’d never get the answers to these questions now, but standing there gazing at the heart of a miracle worker, I started to feel like it didn’t matter—that I was going to be okay somehow, in spite of how uprooted my life had become.

  I found Max and Elizabeth on a large balcony of sorts, looking out over Montreal, which was breathtaking, and not just because it was cold outside—cold enough to freeze you from the inside of your lungs out to your fingers and toes.

  “Thanks for coming here with me,” I said to Max and Elizabeth.

  “No fucking problem,” Max said.

  Elizabeth smiled politely.

  Then we looked out over snow-covered Montreal for another few minutes as our breath slipped in and out of us.

  It kind of felt like we were supposed to be there in that time and place—almost like it was predestined. It just felt right somehow.

  I don’t know.

  But maybe.

  I thought about it and decided that I wasn’t going to attempt to answer life’s greater mysteries—especially given all I was dealing with presently—and so I figured it best to stick with the plan.

  “Let’s go to Cat Parliament,” I said.

  “Cat Fucking Parliament!” Max said, and then went back inside so he could exit the Oratory and hop into the Ford Focus.

  “We can stay here as long as you’d like, Bartholomew,” Elizabeth said. “If you need more time—”

  “I’m ready to go,” I said.

  Elizabeth did something unexpected—she pulled a silver chain out of her coat pocket and put it around my neck.

  “Another tektite necklace to protect me from aliens?” I asked.

  “No. It’s a Saint Brother André medal I purchased in the gift shop,” she said, and then walked away.

  I picked up the medal off my coat and studied it—Saint Brother André’s tiny wrinkled face etched in silver.

  I missed Father McNamee, but I knew he’d want me to carry on the best I could—I was certain of that.

  And maybe that good moment on the oratory balcony with Elizabeth was an inheritance of sorts.

  It was a nice thought.

  So I ran after Elizabeth—feeling
more alive than I have ever felt in my whole life—and we headed for Ottawa in the Ford Focus.

  Your admiring fan,

  Bartholomew Neil

  16

  I UNDERSTOOD OUR FORTUNE COOKIE MESSAGES BETTER THAN I HAD ORIGINALLY THOUGHT

  Dear Mr. Richard Gere,

  While sitting in the backseat of the Ford Focus, listening to the robotic woman navigate and watching the flat, white, empty land pass by, I became very tired—too tired to think about all that had happened, let alone try to make sense of any of it.

  Somehow—even though Max kept yelling, “Cat Fucking Parliament!” intermittently—I fell asleep.

  In my dream, I woke up and I was in my bedroom, in Mom’s house.

  Mom and Father McNamee were standing next to my bed, holding hands.

  “Is this a dream?” I said to them.

  But they only smiled back, looking extremely proud.

  “Are you two together in heaven?”

  They just kept smiling.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” I said. “Please. Say something. Let me know that you’re okay, at least. Give me a sign.”

  Mom pulled Father McNamee in a little closer, they looked each other in the eyes, and then they simply blinked out of existence.

  “Mom?” I yelled, and tried to get out of my bed, only to find that I couldn’t. The blanket was strapping me down, binding my torso, wrapping me like a giant anaconda—I couldn’t even free my arms. “Father?”

  And then I was being shaken, so I opened my eyes and saw Max looking back at me from the passenger seat of the Ford Focus.

  “What the fuck, hey?”

  “You were dreaming,” Elizabeth said as she drove. “You were yelling.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and adjusted my seat belt.

  “Elizabeth told me to fucking wake you up.”

  “Thank you.”

  No one said anything else, and I looked at my reflection in the window.

  I felt so empty all of a sudden, so lonely—and I felt guilty, like maybe I hadn’t been a good enough son to Mom or Father McNamee, like I should have told them I loved them more when they were here, or I should have done more things—or maybe just one thing—to make them proud. And I wondered if my being a fat, unemployed, friendless man made them feel terrible about themselves, like their love had created this monster of a son who embarrassed them endlessly. The worst thought was this: Even if I managed to do something worthwhile with my life in the future, even if the miraculous occurred and I finally got my act together in some small way, Mom and Father McNamee were no longer around to see it. They had died knowing the Bartholomew of the past, and I was not happy with the Bartholomew of the past—not one bit.

  Also, now that I knew Father McNamee’s first name was Richard, that I had misinterpreted Mom’s calling me by your first name, that Richard was an identity double entendre of sorts—at least in my life—I was finding it harder and harder to pretend that you, Richard Gere, were my friend and confidant. And so even though I am still writing you letters, I feel as though I am now writing to a dead person or a figment of my imagination—a fictional character—which also makes me feel like a gigantic moron.

  Writing you and talking with you when you appeared to me felt so right before that now it feels doubly bad—knowing that it was all fake, that I had been mistaken.

  Regardless of all that, I feel like I should tell you the rest of the story, maybe just because I need to tell someone.

  When we arrived in Ottawa, we asked the GPS system to find us a hotel, and she was able to do that no problem.

  There was a valet service, and we used it, so they gave Elizabeth a small piece of paper in return for the keys to the Ford Focus.

  Elizabeth told me I’d have to use my emergency credit card that Mom had given me long ago, because the receptionist might ask for my passport when we checked in at the desk, and it would need to match the name on the credit card, which seemed logical, so I did as she suggested. We rented one room for the three of us and said we’d stay two nights. The whole time Max paced behind us, because he was so eager to go to Cat Parliament in the morning that he had planned to go to bed as soon as possible so that the night would pass more quickly.

  “You’re all set, Mr. Neil,” the receptionist said, and then handed me two rectangular room keys.

  We keyed into our room on the fourth floor, and Max immediately began to get ready for bed by changing into his PJs—which were dotted with cat silhouettes and had these words blocked in red across the chest: THE CAT’S PAJAMAS—brushing his teeth, washing his face, and then diving into the bed closest to the widows. “Time to fucking sleep,” he said.

  “Max, it’s only eight and we haven’t eaten dinner yet,” Elizabeth said, but he was snoring almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

  “Should we get dinner?” I asked, and Elizabeth nodded.

  We bundled up and walked into the snowy city, feeling the sharp wind whip off the Ottawa River.

  “It looks like England here,” Elizabeth said as we strolled by the Parliament Buildings. “Clocks in high towers and whatnot.”

  “Have you been to England?”

  “No. You?”

  “Never.”

  “But wouldn’t you say this looks like England?”

  “I guess so.”

  We walked sort of aimlessly for a long time, taking in the city, feeling the cold on our cheeks, and it felt good to walk after driving from Montreal.

  Elizabeth stopped in front of a window full of Chinese zodiac symbols, behind which a fat jade Buddha sat cross-legged, and she said, “Do you want to eat here?”

  “Sure,” I said, and we went in.

  She ordered lo mein, so I did too, and we waited in silence for the food to come, while some sort of Asian-sounding melody played—high-pitched flutes and what sounded like a depressed music box.

  I thought maybe lo mein would taste different in Canada, but it didn’t.

  When we finished eating, the fortune cookies came.

  Elizabeth’s read: THE ONLY THING WRONG WITH HARMONY IS THAT BY DEFINITION IT CANNOT LAST.

  Mine read: A FRIEND IS A PRESENT YOU GIVE YOURSELF.

  “What do they even mean?” Elizabeth said.

  I didn’t have a clue, so I shrugged.

  We sat there for a time, drinking the rest of the green tea that came in a black kettle shaped to look like a dragon, which we poured into little white cups that had light blue Chinese symbols painted on them.

  “Why do you think we’re here together in Ottawa?” I said. “I mean, what are the odds?”

  Elizabeth stared out the window at the passing traffic, and her face seemed to turn to stone.

  When I had paid the bill, she stood, I followed her lead, and we ambled around the snowy city of Ottawa for what seemed like hours.

  Elizabeth kept her lips sealed, and so did I.

  We just walked.

  And walked.

  And walked.

  And even though I was very cold, I didn’t say anything about that either, because I wanted to walk with Elizabeth forever and I didn’t want to do or say anything that would prematurely end my being with her.

  Elizabeth seemed to be deep in thought, and I somehow knew that it was best not to say anything—and so I didn’t.

  In the hotel lobby she asked if I’d like to have a drink with her at the bar, and I said yes before I even realized that I was about to fulfill my last remaining life goal.

  Elizabeth ordered a dirty Ketel One martini on the rocks with extra olives, and even though I had no idea what that was, I said I’d have the same.

  The drinks came, and I paid with Father McNamee’s credit card.

  We sat down in the fancy leather chairs, and the bartender put a bowl of trail mix next to our drinks on the little table that rested below our knees.

  “Cheers,” Elizabeth said, and lifted her martini glass.

  Even though her voice wasn’t all that cheery, I lifted
mine and we touched rims, just like they do on TV.

  When I sipped, it tasted mostly like salty olives; I enjoyed the burn.

  I was having my first drink with a woman, but it didn’t feel all that special—not like I thought it would.

  I took a few tiny sips.

  She took several gulps.

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence, during which I could tell Elizabeth was having an argument with herself deep in her mind.

  Suddenly she reached into her purse, produced an orange bottle of pills, and set it down on the table next to her drink.

  “What are those?” I asked.

  “These were my exit strategy,” she said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Really?”

  I shook my head.

  “Max and I have no place to go. We have no home. No relatives. I promised my brother I’d take him to see Cat Parliament for his fortieth birthday. I’m going to deliver on that tomorrow. But then there’s nothing left. No other options. And I’m tired, Bartholomew. I’m really tired.”

  It took me a second to understand what Elizabeth was saying, but when I did, I snatched the pill bottle off the table and said, “What if you came to live with me? Max can live there too. We could make a go of it. As a family.”

  “What type of family would we be?”

  “The best kind,” I said.

  She smiled and looked at the floor. “You’re just being nice.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Maybe all of this, everything that has happened—my mom killed by cancer, Max and me meeting coincidentally, all of us needing to go to Canada, my seeing you at the library, noticing that you were different, and even Father McNamee dying—maybe all of it happened because the three of us are supposed to be together.”

  “You do realize how insane that sounds, right?”

  “I don’t know, does it? I mostly just listed everything that happened to us—facts—and then made my best guess.”

  I couldn’t believe how confident I sounded, Richard Gere. You must have really rubbed off on me.

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Bartholomew,” she said, swirling the olive-studded stick inside her glass. “I admire your willingness to offer kindness almost indiscriminately. But unfortunately, it takes a lot more than kindness to survive in this world.”