In his book A Profound Mind, the Dalai Lama writes, “To change our lives we must first acknowledge that our present situation is not satisfactory.”
It would seem that both Wendy and Father McNamee want me to change my life.
But I wouldn’t say that I am unsatisfied at all, especially since I have you, Richard Gere, to advise me.
Your admiring fan,
Bartholomew Neil
7
HIS USE OF THE PLURAL PRONOUN MADE ME VERY SUSPICIOUS
Dear Mr. Richard Gere,
There was a knock at the front door the other night, and when I answered, Father Hachette was looking up at me through his round glasses, the white of his priest collar illuminated by the porch light. He said, “I know he’s in there.”
“Who?” I said, because Father McNamee had instructed me to “play dumb” if Father Hachette should come looking for him. The night before, when Father McNamee was very drunk, he called Father Hachette “the one left behind” and “the man with no eyes to see nor ears to hear.”
“I think you know exactly who I mean,” Father Hachette said.
“Sorry,” I said, and tried to shut the door.
“Okay, okay,” Father Hachette said. “Will you at least come outside and speak with me?”
I hesitated for a second, but couldn’t see the harm in speaking with him, so I went outside.
“Cigarette?” Father said to me as he lit up.
“No, thanks.” He knows I don’t smoke.
We both surveyed the street as he took a few puffs. It was cold, so no one was out on the stoops.
“Father McNamee is sick, Bartholomew.”
I immediately pictured the squidlike cancer attacking his brain. But I didn’t say anything, because I knew the probability of knowing two people with brain cancer was unlikely. Still, I couldn’t help having some irrational fear.
“He has bipolar disorder. Always has. But he went off his meds right around the time your mother passed.”
“He doesn’t seem sick,” I said.
“Do you know what bipolar disorder is?” he said, blowing smoke into the night.
“Yes.”
“What is it, then?”
I didn’t speak, because I wasn’t exactly sure. I had a general idea. But I’m not a doctor.
“It’s a chemical imbalance,” Father Hachette said. “Bipolar people sometimes have too much of the happy chemicals in their brain—which makes them feel as though they can do anything. And this can lead to erratic, impulsive, and dangerous behavior.”
I thought about Charles J. Guiteau killing President Garfield.
“These manic upswings are always followed by terrible downswings—fierce depressions. The bipolar person can become suicidal and dangerous. Do you understand what I mean?”
“Father McNamee is not depressed,” I said. “I’ve known him for a long time, and I’ve never seen him dangerously sad.”
“We took care of him when he wasn’t feeling well, Bartholomew. Sent him on retreats. Listened to him rant, made sure he took his meds. It was a great responsibility—and a tiresome one. Often it was more work than any one of us could handle. We had many resources through the church. I say all of this to you because—frankly—I think you’re in over your head. We are many, you are one.”
He was wrong, of course, because I have you, Richard Gere.
“I enjoy Father McNamee’s company,” I said.
“So you admit that he’s living here?” Father Hachette said and then laughed.
“I admit nothing,” I said.
Moron! the little angry man inside me yelled.
Stay cool, you, Richard Gere, whispered in my ear, and I imagined I could see you standing next to me. You were translucent, like a ghost. But then you were gone.
A noise came from inside the house—it sounded like heavy footsteps.
Father Hachette turned around, and when I looked at the window, the curtains closed very quickly. Father McNamee had been spying on us, and I thought maybe he wanted Father Hachette to know I was hiding him, because he was not being very secretive.
“Since he’s a grown man and he publicly defrocked himself, legally there is nothing we can do at this point,” Father Hachette said. “But I wanted you to know that when Father McNamee goes into a downswing—and he most definitely will—you’re going to need help.”
I nodded because that was the easiest thing to do.
“He’ll see rain when there’s only sun. He’ll become suspicious of people. He’ll be unbelievably gloomy and will start to yell at you, twist your own thoughts. That’s when you’ll know you’re really in over your head.”
“Okay,” I said, although I didn’t believe Father Hachette.
“I understand why you would be attracted to Father McNamee. His passion can be beautiful,” Father Hachette said. “Extremely beautiful. John the Baptist beautiful. Elijah beautiful even.”
“Beautiful?”
“Incredibly so. We’ve all been seduced by it over the years. Sometimes it even seems divine. And he can be quite prophetic—uncannily prophetic. We’ve all been attracted to his passion—pulled in.”
I remembered Father McNamee’s eyes sucking at me like whirlpools.
“Any questions, Bartholomew? This is a lot for you to swallow, I imagine.”
“Do you think God has stopped talking to Father McNamee?” I asked. “Is that why he left the church?”
“God speaks to all of us, but He says more to some than others.” Father Hachette flicked his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk and patted my chest again, like I was a Great Dane. “I’ve said all I needed to. You know where to find me, day or night. Right down the street at Saint Gabriel’s. Tell Father McNamee we miss him, okay?”