There was a long silence.
“Why?” Wendy said.
“Why what?”
“Why do you care about me? Why do you want to help me? Seriously. I want to know. Is it some religious thing?”
“Because you’re a really nice person. You tried to—”
“I’m not a nice person.”
“Sure you are.”
Wendy laughed, and it felt like being hit in the face with an ice ball. “I lied to you about not doing well in school just to get you to see Arnie. I actually have a four-point-oh average. I’m top of my class. It was my plan to transition you to Arnie so I wouldn’t have to work with you anymore.”
Ha! I told you! Moron of the century! the little angry man yelled, and I began to feel sick.
“You lied to me. Why?” I said to Wendy.
“Because I’m not a very nice person.”
The tiny man in my stomach pulled a fold of my innards into his mouth and began to gnaw with his sharp teeth as he dug his clawlike toenails into my intestines.
“Why don’t you want to work with me? Why? I have to know the answer. I want to hear it straight from you.”
Wendy didn’t say anything in response, but the little man in my stomach paused his chewing to say, Because you are an idiot. The lowest of the low. A man only loved by his mother, who is dead. A retard! A collection of atoms that should be recycled into the universe. A fat pile of shit!
I felt her lean in toward me, was warmed by her breath for a fraction of a second, and then her lips were on my left cheek and her hand was on my right.
“You’re a better person than me,” she whispered into my ear. “And I hate you for it.”
She left my room, and I felt the warmth of her hand and lips on my face—her words burned in my ears for hours as I lay on my back and looked up into the darkness.
For some reason, it reminded me of the time when Tara Wilson tricked me and then rescued me from the high school basement, but never talked to me again after that morning. She pretended to be an evil and uninterested stranger whenever we passed in the hallway. Somehow I knew the same thing was going to happen with Wendy. History was repeating itself. There were indeed patterns to the universe.
When the sun came up, I went downstairs, and Wendy was gone.
She had left a note:
I’m going to work things out with Adam. Please
don’t get involved. I hereby resign as Bartholomew’s
grief counselor. Arnie will treat him for free if
Bartholomew wishes to continue with his therapy,
because Arnie has funding and Bartholomew is the
right sort of test subject. I don’t want to see either of
you ever again. Please respect my wishes.
Wendy
Father McNamee read the note and stormed out of the house, not bothering to button up his coat. I followed him; it was hard to keep up, because he was moving so quickly.
I kept wondering what Wendy had meant by “test subject” and why I was the right sort. I didn’t like the way that sounded, but I knew it wasn’t a good time to ask Father McNamee, because his face was flushed and he was breathing heavily, like he does whenever he is extremely agitated.
We stopped at Wendy’s mother’s house, but Wendy hadn’t been there. Father McNamee explained the situation—that we were trying to help Wendy, but she left us in the middle of the night—and Edna began to cry.
“I was never a good mother,” she said.
“Pray,” Father McNamee said. “Pray. Believe. Have faith.”
Then Father McNamee bowed his head and said a silent prayer before he made the sign of the cross and turned to leave.
(I wondered if he was doing this instinctively, faking it, or if he had patched things up with Jesus.)
“Father?” the woman called as he walked away. “Father, wait! Please! I don’t know what to do!”
I stood there on the sidewalk, wanting to comfort the woman, but not knowing how.
“What should I do?” the woman screamed.
It was obvious that Father McNamee wasn’t coming back, so I caught up to him by jogging.
“Edna’s really upset,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
After a few blocks, I realized we were headed for Adam’s trinity. I did my best to keep up with Father McNamee, who was sweating profusely and breathing quite audibly.
When we arrived, Father banged his fist against the door, pressed the intercom button, and yelled, “Open up!”
“Wendy doesn’t want to speak with you,” Adam said through the intercom.
“She’s just a girl, you bastard!” Father McNamee yelled into the gray speaker-looking square. “She’s half your age!”
“You need to leave. She wants to be with me. Wendy’s made her choice. And I’m calling the police if you don’t vacate the premises immediately.”
“Wendy!” Father McNamee yelled into the intercom, with a force that scared me. “He’s not worth it! Run from this brute while you can, before he beats the best part of you dead and—”
“I’m calling the police now,” Adam said. “If you’re here when they arrive, I’ll be reporting the bruises that Wendy returned with after being in your care.”
“Wendy!” Father McNamee screamed like a madman.
People on the street had stopped to stare, and I could feel their eyes on us. One man had begun to film with the camera on his phone. I wondered if he would post Father McNamee’s rage on the Internet.
Everything was happening too quickly.
The police were coming.
The little man was ice-picking his way through my intestines.