Page 42 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me
“Church.”
“It’s not Good Friday but okay, let’s go,” he said.
I shot him a look. “Are you high?”
“On life,” he said, and he and Devin doubled over laughing while I shook my head just as if I hadn’t gotten drunk on vodka only yesterday. I ran out of coffee but found a half-empty bottle in the cupboard. Desperate times.
“What are you going to church for?” Gabriel asked just as Devin said, “Dude, I’m gonna take off. See you tonight. Bring Cleo. And Cleo, bring your friends,” he called over his shoulder.
“I’m going to church to find Chuck,” I said, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “So I’ll see you around?—”
“Whoa. I’m coming with you,” he said, falling into step with me. “Chuck and I are buddies now.”
I gave him the side-eye. “You really are high, aren’t you?”
“No.” He laughed. “Maybe. But I ran into Chuck a few weeks ago. He was on the corner reciting Kaddish, and I told him I’m aloyal Ginsberg disciple. I also told him I’m friends with you. He knew who you were right away. He’s good people. We had a long chat and set the world to rights.”
“I’ll bet you did,” I said drily, but I secretly liked that he stopped to talk to Chuck.
“You look like the heroine from a Russian novel today.”
I was swaddled in shaggy vintage fur with a wool watch cap on my head. “I feel like one. Tragically hungover. I can still feel the vodka sloshing around in my stomach. Yesterday I listened to Coltrane and painted my soul on a canvas. I used lots of shades of gray.”
“Wow. You go to a dark place when you’re drunk,” he said. “It’s like we speak the same liquor-fueled language. I hope it was ‘A Love Supreme’ Psalm.”
“Of course, it was.” In the midst of my drunken stupor, I’d called Xavi and told him I was going to die alone and no one would find my body for weeks because I was sooooo alooone. I’d also requested that he read the W.H. Auden poem about stopping all the clocks at my funeral but change the “he” to she.
I only knew this because Xavi called me this morning to make sure I was still alive and conveyed the entire conversation, making sure to remind me that he’d offered to leave his warm apartment and trudge through the snow drifts and bitter cold to keep me company. Apparently, I’d assured him that it’s the thought that counts and I wouldneverask him to make such a sacrifice.
But that was his version of the story. I couldn’t remember mine.
The vestibule of the copper-domed Roman Catholic church smelled like incense and dead lilies. Funereal. I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.
An older Hispanic woman carrying a stack of hymnals greeted us. “I’m sorry but Confession has just ended.”
We must have looked like the two biggest sinners in the city.
“We’re looking for our friend,” Gabriel said. “A homeless man…"
My cue to whip out the photo.
The woman glanced at it. “He looks familiar. Father Francis might be able to help you. Follow me.”
Father Francis, Gabriel mouthed as we followed the woman down a labyrinth of dim, narrow hallways. I was trying not to get my hopes up but if Father Francis couldn’t help us, who could?
At the end of the hallway, the woman knocked on a heavy wood door and poked her head inside. A few seconds later, she informed us that Father Francis would be happy to speak to us. We thanked her and stepped into a small panelled room with threadbare, gray carpeting and wooden chairs arranged in a semicircle. A prayer booklet sat on the seat of each chair.
Father Francis stood to greet us. He looked more like a boxer than a priest with a solid build, dark hair cropped close to his scalp, and a prominent nose that looked as if it had been broken once or twice.
He invited us to sit across from him, and I folded my hands and crossed my ankles. I felt like a grade school kid getting called to the principal’s office. Gabriel looked completely relaxed, slouched in his chair with his arm draped over the back of mine like we were a couple.
“How can I help you…?”
“Cleo. This is Gabriel.”
“Would you like to make a confession?”
“Oh. No.” I stared at the crucifix on the wall. I’d always had a thing for Jesus. A rebel, an outsider, a man who stayed true to his convictions despite the consequences. He was the real rock star. “I’m not a Catholic.” It sounded like an apology.
