4
I WOULD EVENTUALLY HAVE TO GO INSIDE OF FATHER MCNAMEE AND TAKE INVENTORY
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Father McNamee seemed distracted this past Saturday night.
First, he announced that Mass would be held in Mom’s honor, even though I had not requested it, nor had I filled out the required card, nor had I made a donation to the church. What’s even stranger: he had already dedicated last week’s Mass to Mom. As a Buddhist you probably wouldn’t know, but it’s not customary to give two masses in one person’s honor in such a short period of time.
Then, even though it was not a funeral or Easter or Christmas, Father McNamee insisted on lighting and swinging the incense censer, much to the chagrin of the other priests, who tried to stop him by putting their hands on his shoulder and whispering fiercely, but Father McNamee would not be persuaded otherwise. The other priests stopped whispering fiercely only when Father McNamee’s efforts to overcome them sent the incense ball swinging all the way around like a slingshot and flying across the sanctuary. There was a collective gasp as it rocketed toward the stained glass window, but luckily, gravity won out and the censer smashed against the stone wall. A small cloud plumed up before the altar boys were able to extinguish the incense and clean up the mess.
And yet Father McNamee didn’t even acknowledge the interruption.
Under normal circumstances, he would have made a joke, perhaps referencing David’s victory over Goliath. Father McNamee can be quite funny and is very popular—his spirited bingo calls bring out old women by the hundreds, and he’s often raised money for worthy causes by doing stand-up where he combines “homilies with comedy”—but after the incense incident, when he failed to put the congregation’s fears at ease, you could feel the tension thickening inside Saint Gabriel’s.
Something was wrong.
Everyone knew it.
The other priests kept exchanging glances.
But the Mass continued and the routine settled everyone into the ritual of Saturday-night service—that is, until it was time for Father McNamee to give the homily.
He took the pulpit, lowered his chin, grabbed two fistfuls of wood, leaned out, and glared at us without saying a word.
This went on for a good sixty seconds or so and created more of a stir than the incident with the incense.
Mmmmmmmmm,” he finally said, or rather he moaned. The noise seemed to bubble up from deep within him like a monstrous belch that had been waiting a long time for the opportune moment to explode.
Then he began to laugh until tears streamed down his face.
When he was done laughing, he stripped off his robe—stood before us in an undershirt and slacks—and said, “I renounce my vows! I am now—at this very moment—officially defrocked!”
There was a great gasp from the congregation.
Then Father McNamee disappeared into the priests’ quarters.
Everyone began murmuring and looking at each other, until Father Hachette stood and said, “Let us sing hymn one-seventy-two, ‘I Am the Vine.’”
The organ started up, pews creaked as everyone stood in unison, and the congregation happily began to sing, relieved that we were once again on familiar ground.
Standing alone in the last pew, I hid my Interesting Things I Have Heard notebook inside the hymnal and scribbled away.
When we finished, Father Hachette said, “‘I am the vine, you are the branches; he who abides in Me, and I in him, he bears much fruit, for apart from Me you can do nothing,’ John 15:5. You may be seated.” (I also wrote that in my notebook. Accuracy confirmed.) I don’t remember what Father Hachette spoke about during his impromptu homily, because I couldn’t stop thinking about Father McNamee. A few times I thought I might get up and go into the priests’ chambers to see if he was okay—to encourage him, to tell him he shouldn’t quit being a priest. There was a warm feeling in my chest. It made me feel like I should help in some way—but what could I do?
Father McNamee is an accomplished and trusted priest; he helps many people—like, for example, his famous program where he organizes troubled inner-city youths and “transforms” them into counselors at his summer program for handicapped kids, which makes the local news every July.
He came to visit Mom often when she was sick and arranged for a church member to do all of the legal work required for me to own the house after she died, since she didn’t have a very good will. Father McNamee arranged for Wendy to visit once a week at no charge to me, because Mom left me with very little money. He also spoke so beautifully at her funeral, calling her a “Woman of Christ” (I wrote that in my notebook), and—because I have no other living family members—he drove me to the shore afterward and we walked the beach together to “get my mind off” her passing.
We’re just like Jesus and his disciples hanging out by the sea,” I said to him while we were strolling past cold whitecaps, and Father McNamee must have got some sand in his eyes because he started to rub them. I heard him whimper in pain as the seagulls screamed above. “Are you okay?”
Fine,” he answered and waved me off.
The wind flicked one of his tears airborne, and it landed on my earlobe.
Then we walked for a long time without saying anything at all.
He spent the first night after Mom’s funeral with me too, in our home, and we drank more whiskey than we probably should have—Father McNamee doing three “fingers” for every one of mine got him red and drunk quickly—but it was good to have his company.
Father McNamee has done so much for Mom and me over the years. “God sent him to us,” she used to say about Father McNamee. “Father McNamee was truly called.”
A few years ago, I finally confessed the sin of masturbation to Father McNamee, and he didn’t make me feel shameful about it. He whispered through the confession screen, “God will send you a wife one day, Bartholomew. I am sure of it.”
Shortly after that, The Girlbrarian started working at the library, and I have often wondered if this was God’s work. Again, we are reminded of Jung’s Synchronicity. Unus mundus.
Now I pray to God and ask for the courage needed to speak to The Girlbrarian, who always seems to glow in the library the way Mary glows in the stained glass window whenever the sun shines into Saint Gabriel’s.
But courage never comes.
I pray for words, and those evaporate instantly whenever I see The Girlbrarian at the library and get so hot, it’s like my brain is boiling in my skull.
Perhaps the you-me of pretending would have a better shot, but the thing is, I want The Girlbrarian to fall in love with Bartholomew Neil and not us, Richard Gere. You would win her over with a flash of your smile or a wink—it would be so easy for you. I want to win her affection, but my ways are slower.
From what I have been reading about Buddhism, this desire is what keeps me trapped far away from enlightenment. But then I remind myself that you have a wife, and if Richard Gere the great Buddhist and friend of the Dalai Lama can have such desires, it must be okay for me too. Right?
When this past Saturday’s Mass was over, Father Hachette would not let me speak with Father McNamee, nor would he let me into the priests’ chambers. “Pray for Father McNamee, Bartholomew. The best thing you can do is pray. Petition the Lord,” Father Hachette kept saying over and over as he reached up and patted my chest like he would pat a large pet—perhaps a Great Dane. “Just calm down,” he kept saying. “Let’s remain calm. All of us—one and all.”
Maybe I was more upset than I realized. Although the angry man in my stomach was not trying to destroy my internal organs. It was a different sort of upset. I have a tendency to get agitated when I worry. Regardless, Father Hachette looked scared. People are often afraid of me when I get agitated or angry. But I’ve never, ever hurt anyone—even in school when people used to shove me and call me a retard.
(The worst day of my life turned into one of the best experiences I ever had in high school, but taken as a whole, it made me feel very much like a retard. This beautiful girl named Tara Wilson came to my locker and in this very sexy voice she asked me to go down into the high school basement during lunch period. I knew this was where students went to have sex during school, and I was excited that one of the most popular girls in my class wanted to take me there. I also knew it was a trick. The angry man in my stomach was cursing and kicking and stomping and telling me not to fall for it. Don’t be their retard! the little angry man yelled. But I knew it was my only chance with Tara Wilson, and it was just too nice to pretend that she wanted to take me down into the high school basement, even though she looked so nervous and was sweating in December, so the pretending was extra hard. She even held my hand as we walked down the steps, which was wonderful. That brief minute of hand-holding was probably the best part of high school for me. And I still think about Tara Wilson—the way she used to poof her bangs up with hair spray, the three gold rope chains she wore around her neck and the gold dog tag that read T-A-R-A and had a small diamond chip on the lower right corner, how she smoked Marlboro Reds like a movie star on the corner after school, and how she’d throw her head back and blow the smoke straight up at the clouds as she laughed—like a wonderful beautiful kind of smokestack—with her cigarette resting in the crook of a peace sign. Even though she tricked me, I still like her very much to this day and hope that she has a nice family somewhere and is doing well. I hope Tara Wilson is happy. When we made it down into the basement, Tara led me to a dark corner. There were a dozen or so classmates down there—all boys. They circled me and started chanting, “Retard! Retard! Retard!” Before I knew what was happening so many hands were on me, and then I was alone in a dark supply closet and couldn’t get out or see anything. I screamed and banged on the door for hours, but no one came. Eventually, I pretended I was in my bed at home sleeping soundly and dreaming up this awful nightmare. I pretended I would wake up soon, Mom would make breakfast, and that helped for a time. Then the angry man in my stomach became furious, kicking and screaming and commanding me to escape, so I tried to knock down the door with my shoulder, but it felt like trying to move a mountain with my mind—my biceps started to ache and swell—and I eventually slid down into the darkness, wondering if I would die down there. I prayed, asking God to save me, but no one came. The cold set in. I spent the night there shivering on the concrete and Mom worried terribly, even calling the police. When I had given up entirely, the light rushed in and blinded me. “Oh my God. Are you okay?” I heard. It was Tara. And it was the next day, before anyone had arrived at our high school. She handed me a bottle of water and a bag of homemade chocolate chip cookies. I drank the water immediately because I was so thirsty. “I’m sorry,” she said. “They made me do it.” My eyes adjusted to the light. Her makeup was running down her face, and she looked so apologetic and wretched that I forgave her right away. She told me that this classmate named Carl Lenihan had taken off her clothes when she was passed out drunk at a party, and then he took pictures of her. He was making her do things for him, using the pictures as blackmail. She begged me not to tell anyone that she had let me out. She was crying hysterically as she explained all of this, waving her hands around in the air, saying she thought I might have died from the furnace fumes and she was waiting outside the high school doors when the janitors arrived to open up for the day, and she was so glad I was okay—alive. But then—out of the blue—Tara Wilson did the strangest thing. She hugged me for a long time and cried into my shirt, saying she was sorry so many times. She cried and trembled so hard I thought she was going to die. I didn’t know whether she wanted me to hug her back or not, so I just stood there. Then she pulled my head down, kissed my cheek, and ran up the stairs and out of the high school basement. She never spoke to me ever again. When I’d pass her in the hallways, she would look the other way. And I never told anyone that I spent the night in the dark, cold supply closet in my high school’s basement. I don’t know why. I didn’t pretend that it never happened or was only a dream. I kept it to myself. You, Richard Gere, are the first person I have ever told. I told Mom I spent the night behind the art museum looking at the river flow—that the flowing water had hypnotized me and I had forgotten about time. I don’t think she believed me, but she didn’t call me a liar either, which I appreciated. She just looked into my eyes for a long time and then dropped it. Mom understood that it was better to let some things alone. Words could be used as weapons that do too much damage. All of the popular boys in my high school class called me “Tara” or “Closet Boy” until I graduated. Sometimes they called me “Tara’s retard.” And Tara never acknowledged me ever again. This is when I learned that nice people sometimes felt they had to pretend to be mean and awful. Since Tara, I’ve seen many people pretending to be rude and cruel and thoughtless. Have you noticed this too, Richard Gere? People choosing to pretend for evil rather than good? I don’t understand why people do this, but I understand that most choose the way of Tara, and this has often confused me.) Back at Saint Gabriel’s, I said to Father Hachette, “Will you ask Father McNamee to call me this evening?”
Sure. Sure,” Father Hachette said. His narrow face was the color of stop signs, and his few wisps of hair were blowing around under the heat vent on the wall. “Just go home and pray. I’ll have Father McNamee call you. Now off you go, Bartholomew. God bless you.”
I didn’t believe Father Hachette would do as I asked, because Father Hachette was not called by God in the same way that Father McNamee was—you can tell by looking into his eyes and by the fact that he doesn’t help as many people in the church; it’s not that he’s a terrible priest, he’s just not “truly called” like Father McNamee, or at least that’s what Mom always said—but even though I had that warm God-wants-you-to-do-something feeling in my chest, I went home anyway, figuring that Father McNamee would contact me eventually, because he has always been a regular visitor of Mom’s and mine.
When I arrived home, Father McNamee was sitting on the front steps. His white beard looked extra feral and his nose was shiny red. There were two brown paper bags to his left and a pizza to his right.
Communion,” he said. “Will you break bread with me?”
I nodded, but I did not like the wild look in Father McNamee’s sky-blue eyes, which sucked at me like powerful whirlpools.
Something was off.
If he were a house, one of the windows would have been smashed and the door would have been ajar. It was like he had been broken into and robbed. I wasn’t sure what was missing just yet, and I knew I would eventually have to go inside Father McNamee and take inventory, if that makes any sense. I couldn’t imagine Father McNamee ever hurting me in any way, but I also couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right about him—and that I should be careful. He had been compromised, as they say in spy movies and on TV shows about presidents and prime ministers and secret agents.
We ate and drank in the kitchen.
The body of Christ,” Father McNamee said when he placed a mushroom slice on my plate.
Father McNamee didn’t take a slice for himself; he only drank his Jameson.
I tried to eat, but I wasn’t very hungry.
I was still trying to figure out what had been stolen from inside Father McNamee.
The blood of Christ,” he said when he poured a finger of whiskey into my glass. “Drink.”
I took a sip and felt the burn.
He downed his in one gulp and his face reddened immediately.
Mom would have said he “had the blossom.”
Bartholomew,” Father McNamee said. “Now that I’ve left the church, I need a place to live. I don’t even own the clothes on my back, technically. My rather well-to-do childhood friend is sending money, but it’s not a fortune. If you take me in, I can also offer you my prayers.”
You’re really leaving the church? You’re really renouncing your vows?”
He nodded and poured more whiskey.
Why?”
Exodus.”
Exodus?”
Exodus,” he said.
Like Moses?”
More like Aaron.”
Mom had read me biblical stories as a child and I had gone to church every week for my entire life, where I often read the Bible, so I knew that Aaron was Moses’s spokesperson when he led the Jews out of Egypt.
I don’t understand what you’re telling me,” I said.
Father McNamee threw back another three fingers of whiskey and poured himself a fresh glass.
Do you ever feel as though God speaks to you, Bartholomew?” He searched my eyes until I looked down at my pizza slice. “Has God sent you any messages lately? Do you know what I’m talking about? Are you the answering machine recording God’s voice? Can you advise me? What has God told you lately? Has He sent you any messages at all—for me or otherwise?”
I thought about The Girlbrarian first—and then I thought about you, Richard Gere, and the letter Mom left behind for me. I wondered if your letter could have been a message from God, even though you are a Buddhist. (Mysterious ways.) But I didn’t say anything about you to Father McNamee. I don’t know why. Maybe because he looked like a broken-into house.
I’ve watched you grow up,” Father McNamee said. “You’ve always been different. And you’ve lived the life of a monk, really. Always at the library reading, studying. Living a quiet, simple existence with your mother, and now . . .”
He looked out the kitchen window for a long time, although there wasn’t anything to see, except the reflection of the ceiling light that looked like an electric moon.
Your father—he was a religious man. Did your mother tell you that?”
Yes,” I said. “He was martyred. Killed for the Catholic Church by the Ku Klux Klan.”
The Ku Klux Klan?” Father McNamee said.
According to Mom.”
Father McNamee smiled in this very bemused way—almost like he was being tickled.
What else did she tell you about your father?”