But then again, can a Catholic priest be an excellent religious leader if he had sex with your mom?
All of this was starting to make my head throb.
“Bartholomew?” Elizabeth said.
“Let’s go to the Oratory,” I said, thinking I could use a miracle right about now, thinking we came this far, we might as well see what Saint Joseph’s Oratory had to offer us, if anything.
Then I picked up the keys to the Ford Focus, handed them to Elizabeth, and said, “Let’s pack up our stuff and get out of here. It’s already past checkout time.”
“Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.
“Yeah. What the fuck, hey?”
Max and Elizabeth were visibly frightened.
I nodded, and then we were off.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
15
POOR, OBEDIENT, HUMBLE SERVANT
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Maybe you think I should have been more emotional over Father McNamee’s passing?
Or maybe you even think I should feel guilty, because I let him drink an exorbitant amount of whiskey and never once suggested that he stop drinking to excess?
Maybe you think I should have protested when he said the rabbit dinner he ordered for us was our last supper?
Maybe you think I’m dim—retarded even—because I didn’t figure out the mystery of my own father before now?
You could ask me a million different questions at this point in our letter correspondence—and I realize that you’d probably be justified, especially since I cannot give you the sorts of answers that would provide “normal people” any semblance of understanding, regarding the workings of my mind, but regardless of all that, I have so many questions for you, Richard Gere, friend of the Dalai Lama, ghost of my thoughts, pen pal, women-wooing mentor, and supposed friend.
If Father Richard McNamee was the “Richard” Mom was referring to while dying—if he really was my father, and I’m virtually certain now that he was—then why did you begin to appear to me and continue to do so for the past few weeks?
Was I making you up in my mind, like an imaginary friend?
Did I go mad and conjure you with my imagination—like a hallucination?
Or were you really appearing to me because you appear to many people who are in need—because that’s just what you, Richard Gere, do when you are not making movies?
Maybe as part of your religious practice?
Could this be a Buddhist thing?
I know you’ll probably just say that our case of mistaken identity and your appearing to me is just another koan, something to ponder deeply but never answer or solve.
The universe hiccups, and we poor fools try to figure out why.
I was tempted to cease writing you all together, especially since you haven’t shown your face lately—and at a time when I need you most! But the truth is that I have come to depend on these letters. Recording all of this, emptying my mind of words, has proved quite therapeutic. It calms me in a way that nothing else can. Also, you are the only link I have to Mom now that Father McNamee, my true father, is dead.
Mom was your biggest fan.
She boycotted the Beijing Olympics for you.
At this point, there’s no substitute for Richard Gere in my life, and therefore—regardless of how I feel about you right now—our letter correspondence will continue.
Do you think Father McNamee is in heaven?
Are priests who break their vows by sleeping with my mother welcomed through Saint Peter’s pearly gates?
Does drinking yourself to death—especially when you declare a supper your last—constitute a suicide?
Do potentially suicidal adulterous priests go to purgatory?
Hell even?
Why am I asking a Buddhist these questions?
It’s ridiculous.
I don’t even think you believe in heaven, purgatory, or hell—do you?
To put it in your religious language, Father McNamee definitely didn’t obtain nirvana, now did he, Richard Gere? Not in this lifetime, anyway. A man who drinks two bottles of Jameson and dies sleeping in his bed has usually not achieved nirvana, I would guess.
But he was a good man, overall. Yes, I think we can agree on that, if we decide to be objective, don’t you think?
He was not proud of abandoning me, I can tell now in retrospect, looking back. And whatever happened between Father McNamee and Mom happened because of love. Lust is not dutiful, and Father never neglected us during my lifetime.
How conflicted must he have felt—following his religious calling and carrying around the picture of me and Mom and him atop the Ocean City Ferris wheel, where he was free to put his arm around us, because no one could see us up there—he was unburdened from his vows and his calling.
We did actually go to Saint Joseph’s Oratory—Max, Elizabeth, and me—if your interest hasn’t faded, if you are even still reading, Richard Gere.
Elizabeth drove, and I used the GPS navigational system to find our way. A robotic woman’s voice told us when to turn and how many miles we had until the next street would appear and there was a computer screen that showed us moving on a map, connecting us with a satellite above, in outer space, which is alien technology at work, Max explained, when I asked how the little machine in the car could possibly know where we were.
The voice that navigated was definitely that of a machine, and yet you could tell that the machine was a woman, which hurt my mind a little. How can machines have genders? The machine also had an American accent. How can machines have nationalities? This can’t be a good idea, making machines talk like real people, can it? Giving machines humanoid identities?
The Oratory is on a hill—a great white building made up of steps and columns and turrets, with a giant copper-green dome on top.