Supposedly, pilgrims climb the many hard, cold steps that lead to the entrance on their knees—the pain providing penance. Do you find that strange, Richard Gere? No stranger than Buddhist monks dousing themselves with gasoline and lighting themselves on fire, you have to admit.
From the outside, Saint Joseph’s Oratory is beautiful and impressive.
Breathtaking would not be an excessive adjective.
We looked up at it from the parking lot.
“What . . . the . . . fuck . . . hey?” Max said slowly, in a reserved tone, using his hand to shield his eyes from the frozen winter sun. And I could tell he was in awe.
“It’s truly impressive, even from the standpoint of an atheist,” said Elizabeth.
Mom would not want me to fall in love with an atheist, especially a self-proclaimed atheist, I knew that—nor would Father McNamee, most likely—but they were both gone, and I was making my way in the world alone, and so when I looked at Elizabeth that morning, I felt my heart reach for her, and I thought, Better be brave now, Bartholomew, because these people are all you have left, and you will need strength and courage to keep them by your side fighting the great dark loneliness that looms.
These were strange new times, and for whatever reason, Max and Elizabeth were here with me, helping me face the day, helping me grieve for Father McNamee, and so I chose right then and there to make our relationships work by overlooking our small differences. I didn’t really believe in aliens, and yet I was willing to wear three tektite crystals around my neck. They didn’t believe in God, but were willing to gaze at the preserved heart of a Catholic saint with me and hopefully light a candle for the recently deceased Father McNamee. Maybe they would even kneel with me while I prayed for Mom’s and Father McNamee’s souls.
“You think you’ll find your fucking father in there?”
I smiled and shrugged. “Let’s see.”
I started to walk, but Elizabeth grabbed my shoulder and said, “Wait!”
When I turned to look at her, she pushed the hair from her face, so that I got a full, unobstructed view of her eyes, nose, and mouth. She was even more beautiful than I imagined. My heart was pounding.
“Maybe we should save this visit for later?” she said. “Considering what happened today—Father McNamee. That was already a horrific shock, Bartholomew. One we haven’t fully absorbed yet. And I don’t know what would be worse: if we actually find your father, or if we don’t. Either might be too much for one day, and—”
“It’s okay,” I said, gazing into her eyes, which were the soft gray-brown color of mushroom pizza toppings.
I could see that Max was equally concerned.
Maybe this was also what Mom called The Good Luck of Right Now. The bad of Father McNamee’s deception and death had led to the good of Max and Elizabeth taking care of me now. It certainly felt like Mom’s philosophy was in effect once again—that she was even wiser than I had given her credit for when she was alive with me here on earth. And that’s really saying something, because I gave Mom tons of credit.
To my concerned friends, Max and Elizabeth, I said, “My father won’t be in there. Don’t worry. I came to terms with this earlier this morning.”
“How can you be so fucking sure?” Max said.
“Because Father McNamee was my biological father.”
“What?” Elizabeth said.
“The fuck, hey?” Max finished.
Their eyebrows rose.
“My subconscious suspected this for many years, but I’m just finding out now.”
“How do you know?” Elizabeth said.
“He told me,” I said.
“When?” said Elizabeth.
“This morning,” I said.
“But he was fucking dead this morning,” Max said as a group of nuns in black habits exited a VW bus and began to stare at us.
“God bless you, Sisters!” I yelled at them, waving and smiling, because they looked offended by Max’s excessive use of profanity, which had become customary to my ear, but still rankled others.
“Bless you!” a younger-looking nun yelled back, and then almost all of them waved.
“Father McNamee whispered the truth from beyond the grave,” I said to Max and Elizabeth.
“Is this a Catholic thing?” Elizabeth said.
I laughed, and suddenly I felt light—like I had let go of a huge dark secret hidden inside of me for so, so very long.
I was still scared about the future—but I felt sort of free too, because the greatest mystery of my life was no more.
I wondered if I’d been subconsciously hiding the fact that I had known all along, maybe to protect Father McNamee. Even as a young boy I would have understood that Father’s fathering me would cause a major scandal in our parish, and would have prevented Father McNamee from doing all the good he’d done as a priest since I was born—almost four entire decades of altruistic deeds he was able to do because Mom kept his secret. Maybe I was part of the whole cover-up too; maybe I just played along, pretending I didn’t know, when really I did. I’m sure Mom would have gladly played this game with me—and, come to think of it, she did, telling me that my father had been murdered by the Ku Klux Klan, and therefore was a Catholic martyr.
We had all played the game together.
“Maybe it’s a life thing,” I said to Elizabeth, and then I led them into Saint Joseph’s Oratory.
We took several escalators up to the main cathedral, called the basilica, which was gigantic and felt a little like heaven, if heaven were a modern-style cathedral.