Driving Blind

“Half an hour. An hour.”

“Is Reilly, Father Reilly taking a nap now? He must. How many dozen years of sin did you unload? Did he slip a word in edgewise? Was God mentioned?”

“Don’t joke.”

“Did that sound like a joke? So you trapped him for an hour, did you? I bet he’s chugalugging the altar wine right now.”

“Stop it!” she cried, and there were tears in her eyes. “I call you with good news and you spoil it.”

“How long ago did you make this appointment with Reilly, Father, that is? Your first appointment, for instruction. It must take weeks or months. He does most of the talking, right, at the start?”

“Most.”

“I’d just like to know the date is all. Is that asking too much?”

“January fifteenth, a Tuesday. Four o’clock.”

I figured swiftly, sending my mind back. “Ah, yes,” I said, and closed my eyes.

“Ah, yes, what?” She leaned forward.

“That was the last Tuesday, the final time you asked me to marry you.”

“Was it?”

“Asked me to leave my wife and kids and marry you, yes.”

“I don’t recall.”

“Yes, you do. And you recall my answer. No. Just like the dozen other times. No. So you picked up the phone and called Reilly.”

“It wasn’t all that quick.”

“No? Did you wait half an hour, forty-five minutes?”

She lowered her eyes. “An hour, maybe two.”

“Let’s say an hour and a half, split the difference, and he had the time and you went over. A glad hand for the Baptist. Jesus, Mary, and Moses. Give me that.”

I grabbed the wine back and did away with my third glass.

“Shoot,” I said, looking up at her.

“That’s all,” she said, simply.

“You mean you brought me all the way over here just to tell me you are a practicing Catholic and have unloaded fifteen years of accumulated guilt?”

“Well—”

“I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“Shoe?”

“That glass slipper I slipped on your foot three years back, the one that fit so perfectly. When it drops it’ll break. I’ll be on my feet till midnight picking up the pieces.”

“You’re not going to cry, are you?” She leaned forward, peering into my face.

“Yes, no. I haven’t decided. If I did, would you put me over your shoulder, like you always do, and burp me? You always did that and made me well. Now what?”