Driving Blind

“It’s too personal. I hate saying personal things on the phone. Are you that busy?”

“No, I just finished up some letters.”

“Well then, come and celebrate with me.”

“This had better be good,” I said.

“Wait till you hear. Run.”

I hung up slowly and walked slowly to put on my coat and reach for my courage. There was a feeling of doom waiting outside my door. I plowed through

it, made it to my car, and drove through a self-imposed silence, with an occasional curse, to Helen’s apartment across town. I hesitated at knocking on her door, but it sprang open, surprising me. The look on Helen’s face was so wild I thought she had come off her hinges.

“Don’t just stand there,” she cried. “Come in.”

“It’s not Tuesday, Helen.”

“And never will be again!” she laughed.

My stomach turned to lead. I let her pull me by the elbow, lead me in, sit me down, then she whirled through the room finding wine and filling glasses. She held one out to me. I only stared at it.

“Drink,” she said.

“I have a feeling it won’t do any good.”

“Look at me! I’m drinking! It’s a celebration!”

“Every time you’ve ever used that word, part of the continent falls off into space. Here goes. What am I celebrating?”

I sipped and she touched my glass, indicating I should finish it so it could be refilled.

“Sit down, Helen. You make me nervous standing there.”

“Well.” She finished her glass and refilled both and sat down with a great exhalation of joy. “You’ll never guess.”

“I’m trying hard not to.”

“Hold on to your hat. I’ve joined the Church.”

“You—what church?” I stammered.

“Good grief! There’s only one!”

“You have a lot of Mormon friends, and a few Lutherans on the side …”

“My God,” she cried. “Catholic, of course.”

“Since when have you liked Catholics? I thought you were raised in an Orange family, family from Cork, laughed at the Pope!”

“Silly. That was then, this is now. I am certified.”

“Give me that bottle.” I downed my second wine and refilled and shook my head. “Now, give me that again. Slowly.”

“I’ve just come from Father Reilly’s down the street.”

“who—?”

“He’s the head priest at St. Ignatius. He’s been preparing me, you know, instruction, the last month or so.”