Wendy’s mouth was open slightly, and the color was rapidly draining from her complexion. It was like someone had pulled a white blind down over a sun-filled window.
“Why did you just say Adam?” Wendy said. Her voice was anxious. Gone was the kind, bubbly girl who wanted me to have drinks in a bar with age-appropriate friends.
See! you, Richard Gere, said excitedly. See! This proves everything!
“Adam did that to you, right?” I said—my confidence growing. “The bruise on your arm. The black eye.”
See how she trembles! you said. Ease her pain. Take away the secret. Practice compassion.
Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but then she stood, grabbed her colorful trench coat, and headed for the front door with great haste.
“I’m sorry,” I said, following her. “I’m sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have—”
“What’s wrong?” Father McNamee said—still on his knees in the living room—as he watched Wendy exit. He looked at me and said, “What happened?”
Idiot! the angry man in my stomach yelled. Retard!
My underarms were damp, and my forehead felt moist. Nausea was overtaking me, and you were gone, Richard Gere.
Vanished.
I could hear myself breathing.
“It’s okay, Bartholomew,” Father McNamee said. “Let’s go outside and get some air.”
He opened the door, and I walked into the cold afternoon.
He followed.
I looked down the street, but Wendy was gone. She must have walked very quickly, and I began to wonder if she had run.
I tried to think—what did her reaction really mean?
What had I proved?
Richard Gere? I said with my mind, but you did not answer. It was like yelling into an empty cave and hearing only echoes.
“Breathe,” Father McNamee said. “In. Out. In. Out. Do I need to get the whiskey?”
I shook my head.
“What happened?” he said.
I took a minute to think, and the cold air cooled my chest and calmed me down considerably.
Eventually, I told Father McNamee exactly what had transpired in the kitchen, except I didn’t mention you, Richard Gere, for obvious reasons. Nor did I mention the angry man in my stomach, mostly because I didn’t want to say the word retard.
When I got to the part about hearing the word Adam in my mind, Father McNamee squinted at me like I had slapped his face, but then he said, “Her wearing sunglasses indoors and the bruises on her arm—anyone could have deduced that our Wendy is in an abusive relationship. But knowing the man’s name—now, that’s something. If she had mentioned his name to you previously—if there had even been the slightest possibility—she wouldn’t have rushed out of here as if we were demon possessed, now, would she have?”
“So what are you saying?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Father McNamee said. “A few years ago, I would have easily said, ‘Mysterious ways, Bartholomew, mysterious ways,’ without giving it a second thought. But I can’t do that anymore.”
I looked into Father McNamee’s eyes, and it looked like he had been broken into and robbed again.
He averted his gaze and said, “Are you well enough to go on a mission?”
“A mission?”
“Regardless of my crisis of faith, and your mysterious ability to name violent men you’ve never met, it’s pretty clear that our friend Wendy is in need.”
“What are we going to do?”
“What any decent human being would. Let’s grab our coats, shall we?” Father McNamee said, and then we were walking down the street.
Father McNamee was striding rapidly, and it was hard to keep up.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the source,” Father said.
“How did I know that Wendy’s boyfriend was named Adam?” I asked.
“For most of my life I would have said something like this: ‘You’re thirty-nine years old,’” Father McNamee said. “‘You’ve been a Catholic all those years. Do you really need me to explain where miraculous powers come from?’ But I can’t say that to you tonight, Bartholomew. I’m no longer your priest, and for good reason.”
I thought about what he was implying, and I wished that you, Richard Gere, would speak to me, but you were not with us at this point. I missed you. And I wanted to know what the Dalai Lama would advise. I was curious about that. It was clear that I wouldn’t be getting answers from Father McNamee anytime soon.
Father McNamee walked up three steps onto the porch of a row home and rang the doorbell. I stood behind him on the sidewalk. A middle-aged woman in a pink nightgown answered with her hair up in curlers. She was smoking a cigarette, and her naked shins were the light blue color of icebergs.
“Father McNamee!” she yelled and beamed. “What a surprise! Where have you been? We’ve all been worried sick about you! Father Hachette says you had a nervous breakdown! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Father McNamee said. “Well, I’m tired, truth be told. But that’s not why we’re here.”
The woman glanced at me for a second and then said, “Do you want to come in?”
“You know Bartholomew Neil from Mass, I imagine,” he said, ignoring the invitation. “Bartholomew, this is Wendy’s mother, Edna.” To Edna, he said, “Wendy has been counseling Bartholomew. It’s part of her schooling.”
I raised my hand and smiled.
Edna smiled back at me and said, “I recognize you from Saturday-evening Mass. I sit toward the front on the left.”