Ask him, How is your sister weird? you, Richard Gere, whispered into my ear, so I did.
Ah, she always has her fucking hair in her face. She works at the fucking library. She pretends to be real skittish, and she had some bad shit happen to her a few years ago. But she’s okay now. Just a little fucking off. And she worries if she doesn’t know where I am. I didn’t tell her about having a beer with you because I didn’t even know who the fuck you were before tonight.”
It felt like all of my ribs had been crushed and my heart was on fire.
I had just drunk beer with The Girlbrarian’s brother.
Father McNamee would have called it Communion.
What the fuck is wrong with you?” Max said. “You look like you’re taking a shit in your pants.”
I’m okay,” I managed to say. “But I have to go.”
What the fucking fuck, hey?” Max said as I walked away from him and into the night. I walked quickly for an hour or so until I arrived home. Father McNamee was kneeling in the living room, praying.
Father McNamee?” I said.
He opened one eye and said, “Yes, Bartholomew?”
I have something to tell you. Something that will seem crazy.”
Sounds like it will require alcohol.”
Father McNamee groaned as he stood, poured us whiskey, and we drank in the kitchen while I told him the entire story—everything I outlined above, letting him know that I was madly in love with The Girlbrarian, admitting that to someone for the first time, which felt surprisingly good.
When I finished, he smiled at me and said, “I’m happy for you. Love is a beautiful thing.”
What do you think it means?”
What does what mean?”
My being randomly paired up with The Girlbrarian’s brother.”
Why do you call her The Girlbrarian?” Father said, sucking in his lips and squinting.
I didn’t know why, so I said, “My just happening to be paired up with her brother. Do you think it means something?”
I wouldn’t know.”
Could it be divine intervention?”
God and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms these days. But again, I’m happy for you, Bartholomew. Cheers!” he said, raised his glass, and then took a rather large gulp of his whiskey.
We finished our drinks and had another round.
I felt like I was giving off light, I was so warm and happy, but Father McNamee seemed off.
I was a little buzzed when I went to bed.
I dreamed of my mother again, only this time she wasn’t in any sort of danger.
Mom and I were sitting on the backyard patio, sipping her homemade tea brewed with the mint we grew in window boxes. It was a sticky summer evening. We could hear thunder in the distance and every once in a while we’d see a flash of heat lightning. We could taste the electricity in the air. Mom looked at me and said, “Why do you think Richard calls you ‘big guy’?” She made air quotes around the words “big guy” and said them in a deep voice, like she was trying to imitate the way a man would speak, although she sounded nothing like you, Richard Gere. And by the look on her face, I could tell she did not like your nickname for me.
It’s better than ‘retard,’” I said.
Mom slapped her knee and laughed until she couldn’t catch her breath—until tears ran down her face.
Finally, after she calmed down, Mom said, “Who would ever think you were mentally challenged? You’re more intelligent than most people, but most people don’t measure intelligence the right way.”
I looked away, and when I looked back, she had turned into a tiny yellow bird.
That bird sang to me for a minute or so, and then it flew up into the air, toward the heat lightning that was striking every few seconds, creating a strobe effect.
Mom!” I screamed.
And then I woke up.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
8
TO THE POINT WHERE WE ARE UNABLE TO BEAR THE SIGHT OF THEIR MISERY”
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
Wendy came to visit me wearing sunglasses.
They were rather large oval lenses that looked like eggs turned sideways (smaller sides pointing toward her ears, larger egg bottoms resting on the bridge of her nose). The frames were white. They covered most of her face, and made her nose look bunny-rabbit small.
Hello, Father McNamee,” Wendy said when we walked past him kneeling and praying in the living room.
He remained motionless, with his hands clasped tight, but then he opened one eye and tried to suck us in with it. It was like seeing the blowhole of a whale breach the water’s surface. It sucked all the air out of the room.
Or maybe like looking into a well, and feeling the urge to step away, so you wouldn’t fall in—and yet you lean in a little closer, anyway.
Then his eye snapped shut and he went back to praying, so Wendy and I made our way into the kitchen.
She sat down and removed her coat, but left her sunglasses on, which I thought was strange.
How was group therapy?” she asked me. “Arnie said very nice things about you.”
It was okay. Better than I thought it would be.” I smiled here, and you, Richard Gere, in my mind you whispered, Go on. Tell her. You sounded so proud of me. So I said, “And afterward, I accomplished one of my life goals.”
Really?” she said very loudly, enthusiastically, and then leaned in toward me. “Which one?”
I looked at her small knee—the left one; it was black because she was wearing leggings under her wool skirt—smiled, and said, “I had a beer with an age-appropriate friend at a pub. And after only one meeting with Arnie.”
Bartholomew! I’m so proud,” she said, but it sounded too enthusiastic—fake—which depressed me. “Who was your lucky drinking partner?”
Max.”