“Can we leave now?” I asked, wishing Father were wearing his priest collar again instead of the wrinkled red button-up that many washes had faded pink.
Father McNamee looked at me. “This upsets you, doesn’t it?”
“A little,” I said, thinking, Who wouldn’t be freaked out by all this?
“Let’s go, then,” Father said, and we did.
We walked for a few blocks before I asked if we could sit down for a second.
I sat on the steps of someone’s three-level home, which people around here sometimes call trinities.
“Are you okay?” Father McNamee said.
“Why did you wake me up in the middle of the night?”
“You were yelling. You were having a nightmare.”
“Why did you show me that cut-up brain?”
“Are you angry with me?” Father asked me.
I didn’t want to answer that question, so I remained mute.
I did feel a little angry.
Everything was happening too quickly.
Father McNamee sat down next to me, and we watched the traffic pass for a long time, but I didn’t answer his question.
The nausea subsided.
My anger lessened.
We sat so long my backside and thighs began absorbing the concrete’s cold.
A man in an expensive-looking overcoat and silk scarf walked up to us and said, “These are my steps, and you are loitering.”
Father McNamee nodded and said, “Forgive us.”
The man pushed through without saying another word. His knee hit my shoulder as I was trying to stand, and I said, “I’m sorry,” even though it wasn’t my fault, and I sort of felt like the man kneed me intentionally—like he wanted to hurt me.
We left.
After fifteen minutes or so of walking, Father McNamee said, “Has God spoken to you yet?”
“No,” I said.
“You can bet your ass God didn’t speak to Charles J. Guiteau,” Father McNamee said.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t want to talk about Charles J. Guiteau anymore.
Mostly I didn’t want to think about his dissected brain preserved forever in a jar.
“How am I so sure God didn’t tell Guiteau to kill Garfield? Do you want to know?”
I felt Father McNamee’s eyes on me, so I nodded. I didn’t really want to know, but I knew nodding was the easiest thing to do—what he wanted, and what would end this discussion most quickly.
“God doesn’t tell you to do bad things. God doesn’t tell you to kill your president. Even when God told Abraham to kill Isaac, he didn’t let him do it. He sent his angel to stop him. That was a test. But God has already tested you, Bartholomew—with your mother’s sickness—and he has found you to be good, pure of heart. You endured it well.”
I didn’t like what Father McNamee was saying because it implied that God gave Mom cancer to test me, and if that were true, I don’t think I could believe in God anymore.
“Something tells me you’re soon going to help others in quiet ways,” Father McNamee said.
I thought about how maybe Charles J. Guiteau imagined he was doing what was best for the country when he killed President Garfield—that maybe he really truly believed he was doing the right thing. Or maybe he was just plain crazy. But I didn’t want to argue with Father McNamee. He looked so confident—like he had delivered the most important homily of his life. And I was starting to believe that maybe he was going crazy himself.
“God doesn’t always use words to speak to us, Bartholomew,” he said as we waited for a red light to turn green. “Sometimes we simply get feelings. Hunches. Have you had any of those?”
I shook my head no.
We walked the rest of the way home in silence.
Father knelt down in the living room to give praying a go again, and I walked to the library, enjoying the feeling of being in motion and the cold air in my nose and the warm sun on my face.
The Girlbrarian wasn’t working.
I pretended to read current events magazines like Newsweek and Time, but mostly I thought about my dream—Mom falling into the great black pit under the boardwalk.
When I returned home several hours later, Father McNamee was still praying—eyes smashed shut, fists strangling each other white, lips mouthing words with alarming speed, and temples moist with sweat.
He didn’t come to dinner.
He was still on his knees when I went to bed.
I wonder what he says to God for so many hours.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
6
“A SITUATION COMPLICATED BECAUSE OF HIS OPPRESSIVE TENDENCY TO OVER-ANALYSE”
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Wendy came to the house for her regular visit while Father McNamee was praying in the living room, like he does for hours and hours, even when I am watching television. Nothing bothers him when he is praying. It’s like he goes into a deep trance. You could dump ice water on his head and he wouldn’t even flinch.
“What are you doing here?” Wendy said to Father McNamee.
“He’s praying,” I answered when Father McNamee failed to look up. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
“Why is he praying in your living room, Bartholomew?”
“He always prays in my living room.”
“Since when?”
“Since he moved in with me. He defrocked himself, and now—”
“Father McNamee?” Wendy yelled.
When he didn’t respond, she went over and poked his arm three times.
Father McNamee opened one eye—like he’d only been pretending to pray the whole time—and said, “Yes.”