Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Three weeks after Annika abandoned me, the storm of the century swept up the East Coast and dumped a foot of snow on New York City.
The snowstorm, accompanied by gale force winds and thunder, was biblical.
We lost power for three days and I had to finalize my designs by the flat, gray light of day and candlelight by night.
Then a pipe burst on the roof and leaks sprang from the living room ceiling, so I had to shove all the furniture into the middle of the room and set out pots and pans to catch the overflow.
But despite the inconvenience, I had enough sweaters and blankets to keep me warm and I still had a roof over my head. I’d survived. Not everyone was so lucky.
According to the news, the death toll was rising.
When I finally ventured out to search for Chuck, waist-high snowbanks lined the streets, and it was so cold that a thin layer of ice formed on the woolly scarf wrapped around my nose and mouth.
I traipsed all over the Lower East and the Bowery, checking homeless shelters and asking everyone if they saw the man in the photo. They all shook their heads and said no.
After exhausting my list of places where Chuck might have taken refuge, I was about to head home to call the hospitals when I remembered him mentioning a church on East Twelfth Street that he frequented despite being an atheist.
It was worth a shot so I trudged up Second Avenue with my face burrowed in my scarf.
“Cleo?”
I lifted my head. Gabriel and a guy with blond hair in a ponytail were standing outside Moishe’s, the kosher bake shop. Gabriel wrapped his arm around my shoulders and introduced me to his friend. “Cleo, this is Devin, my weed supplier. He’s a hell of a guitarist too.”
“You wanna get high?” Devin asked. His eyes were glassy, and he already looked stoned.
“Um, no, I’m good for now, thanks.”
“Where you headed?” Gabriel asked.
“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 a loyal 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 would never ask 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.
“I used to be a choirboy,” Gabriel offered. “But I’m a lapsed Catholic now. I don’t believe in organized religion or all the guilt the Catholic church heaps on you?—”
I elbowed him in the ribs and gave him the side-eye. That’s what you say to a priest?
Gabriel held up his hand. “No offense, Father.”
Father Francis looked as if he was fighting back a smile. “None taken,” he said. “So what brings you here today?”
“We’re actually looking for someone.” I pulled Chuck’s photo out of my pocket and handed it to Father Francis. “He’s homeless and we’re worried about him being out in this cold weather,” I explained. “We were hoping you might have seen him?”
The priest only looked at the photo for two seconds before handing it back.
“Another one who doesn’t believe in organized religion,” he said with a smile.
“And yet, he shows up almost daily. Charles and I have had some very lively discussions over the years. You’ll be happy to know that your friend is safe and warm.
He’s been sleeping on a cot in the basement.
” Father Francis stood so we did too. “You might even find him sitting in one of the pews.”
I released a breath of relief. Why did I always expect bad news? “Thank you so much.”
“Thank you, Father,” Gabriel said, shaking the priest’s hand. On our way out the door, Gabriel asked, “By the way, does this church have an organ?”
“As a matter of fact, we do.”