Daron's Guitar Chronicles Volume 12

1002 Divine Intervention

Divine Intervention

We were a good hour's drive from the catholic church that Claire liked, but somehow that didn't seem that far away. The bigger a state is, the farther one has to drive to make it seem like a long way. This is why in Rhode Island it's like, whoa, you're going 20 miles? You better pack an overnight bag. While in California we knew people who thought nothing of driving from San Francisco to Monterey for dinner in a hip restaurant–two hours each way if there was no traffic.

It did mean getting up a bit earlier than I had been in order to drive there in time for the English language mass, though. She roused me by shaking my shoulder.

"Mmph?"

"Time to get up. Sunday morning. I'll put on the coffee, all right?"

"All right. Thanks." I sat up and looked around the strange room doing that thing of trying to remember where we were for a second. This was a fairly usual thing for me to do.

I put on my cleanest, darkest pair of black jeans–the ones with no holes in them yet so they could pass for dress pants if you didn't look too carefully. And I pulled a Christmas-gift sweater on over a flannel shirt. In the mirror I looked almost preppy except for the rock-and-roll bedhead hair. I set about trying to tame it into an orderly ponytail and ended up braiding it to keep it neat.

Claire had made toast as well as coffee by the time I emerged from my bedroom. We ate our toast with jam. The coffee was very strong but I wouldn't really have called myself awake. Maybe she wasn't really awake yet, either, given how quiet she was.

We got in the car and I started the engine. The snow hadn't lasted. I didn't even have to scrape the car windows.

When we were getting near, I remarked, "Oh, we're way early. I guess we made better time than I thought."

"Not too early for confession," Claire said.

"Oh, did you want to go to confession?"

"We may as well, since we're here in time for it."

That didn't answer my question and I knew I wouldn't get one now. "I can't go to confession."

"Of course you can. Everyone can." Ah, there was the usual Claire who had been absent for the past few days. The stubborn one who refused to see if reality didn't conform to her ideas. "You had better. Especially if you're going to go to communion."

"But I never got confirmed, remember?"

"You don't have to be confirmed to go to confession. You only have to have your first communion."

I wasn't sure she was right. I was pretty sure there was some hoop at confirmation that had to be jumped through. But maybe it was just that first confession usually came with confirmation? I didn't really remember the rules. "And then there's the problem that I don't repent my ways."

"What ways? You're a perfectly nice boy."

I didn't laugh although it was kind of hilarious for her to be saying that. "I'm a perfectly gay boy and the church doesn't take kindly to that."

"Oh, pooh on that. Father Francis doesn't care about that."

"I don't think he gets a say in it."

She didn't reply to that, just sniffed.

Inside the church we got in line and then I noticed the sign with the posted times for confession. They didn't last very long. Could they really hear all the confessions necessary in only twenty minutes before Mass? I guess so. Maybe the people around here were so pious they didn't have a lot to say.