Cat's Cradle

A girl and a boy sit in the nave of the church, playing cat’s cradle with a black rosary. The warm smell of gingerbread sits with the rows of naked candles. And the pine trees in the distance were covered with a thick layer of snow, as if they were finally being embraced after months of falling. Earlier this morning, my skates carved sloppy arcs across the ice, and the sculpture above me reminded me of the cuts in the hockey rink. I forgot how cold winter was. 

“Enjoying the quiet?” Father Louis’s voice is throaty and deep, like belting toads in the spring. 

“Trying to.” A strained smile spreads through my face. Grief was a way of life for the Montanari family. The death of my cousin changed the courses of our lives more than I thought it would’ve. I look for answers in him. Anything to tell me that the mourning is temporary. But he keeps his gaze down. 

“Are you?” I ask. Father nods, tucking his hands behind his back. 

“Always.” I stare up at him, like a lost mut, I crave his guidance. 

“I’ll be here if you need anything, son.” His robe drags along the aisle. Watching him slug his way out of the church, shivers lick down my spine. I slide out of the pews and catch up with him.

“Father Louis?’ I call out, walking alongside him now. 

“Are you going to the ballet tonight?” He shakes his head, his pruned hands cupped gently together,

“I will be leading mass this evening.” I nod, trailing behind him in the salty snow. My breath fogs up my view in the cold,

“Have you spoken to my uncle since the incident?” 

“No, I have not.” He says quickly. I cock a brow,

“So you haven’t heard?” Father Louis grins, a hearty chuckle releasing from his chest,

“I hear everything, Baron.” My eyes narrow down at him. 

“Well, I’ll be the heir to the Montanari family when I’m of age.”

“Next month you mean?” I wince when the timeline hits. The mountain ranges are capped with ice, and the world around us feels devoid of air. I feel lost in their sunless gaze. 

“If I’m alive by then.” He scoffs and pauses in our tracks. I know what he’s thinking. I’ve thought about it myself. But I interrupt him before he scolds me,

“Father, it’s unlikely I’ll still have my hands by next week.” If he knew about the city’s threats, he should be worried about someone taking it seriously. I look away,

“I don’t want to hurt people to protect them.” 

“Stop being selfish, boy. These people rely on you.” His voice is bitter. It was easy for him to say things like that. He’s been in power his whole life. He’s been forced to be there for the community, whether he likes it or not. I haven't. This was never meant for me. And maybe that makes me selfish. But I don’t want to spend my whole life like my uncle, living as something I’m not. He sighs, gripping my shoulder,

“You have a month. Use it wisely.” Those are his last words before trailing off into his rectory. They sounded like a threat. The nettled wind chaps my lips and I’m left in the snow. I thread my red fingertips through my hair, my thoughts lingering on the words thrown at me. A few moments later, car tires crackle up the road and I toss myself in the backseat. Father Louis must have informed Richard. 

“Hello, Mr. Montanari.” Richard’s soft voice was a drastic change from earlier. 

“Hello, Richard.” I smile softly as he eases out of the church’s domain. 

The drive to the manor was good for me. The quiet allowed me to process everything. Rowan and Malak’s deaths left burdens on me I can’t ever forgive myself for not embracing. So I have to do it the only way I know how. Puck and Thomas await my entrance patting me on the back with drunken grins.

“Ready for tonight?” Puck asks with a slobbery sigh. I snort, walking into the warmth of the manor. I hold the door open for Richard while Puck and Thomas rush for the living room. Bright scents of rich cologne and a sea of black and blue fold over me when I walk through the foyer. 

“What the hell happened?” My face sours and I somehow finally understood why Puck was so excited. 

“Another attack by the south shore.” Thomas says with a heavy release, like it’s been weighing down on him. Riots from all over Vison have been rising since the Montanari and Capello family announced their reconciliation. People know, anyone under the family name will have and get whatever they want. I wished I could ignore the power we had over Vison, but everyone knew. The politics we were involved in, the laws we had created, the businesses we shut down, it was all for our benefit. At least we stopped fighting. But I can’t shake the feeling that this is worse. I swallow at the bruising of the men in front of me. This whole time, and I was mourning at a church for hours. I should’ve been there. My frown deepens into my eyes,

“What’s the plan?” I turn to Puck. A nasty smile smears across his narrow cheeks as he grabs something from under the black coffee table. Guns. My jaw clenches. The snipers laid in front of us in a velvet cage. It was shown off like a reward. And for some people in this room, it was. I look to Puck for an explanation. I didn’t and couldn’t assume anything for my own sake. 

“Tonight.” He says, plopping down into a navy leather chair. 

“We overheard rebel groups planning an attack during the ballet.” I scoff. Town’s people will be attending too. Not just us. Why would they risk it? 

“So we’ll be ready if they show.” Malak’s brother, James says with a sincere grin. I knew his brother’s death was hard on him. They never got along and when James heard the news, he moved back to Vison to support the Montanari family. I cross my arms. 

“What’s their end goal?” 

“The assassination of the Lady and Lord Capello.” Thomas hands me the information on a file they got from runaway rebels in the south. I thumb through the packet, skimming the information. 

“Do we really think fighting fire with fire is going to stop them?” I set the files down and Puck looks at me with what I can only describe as disgust. 

“Cousin. This is war. If you don’t have the stomach to knock a few inconveniences from our path then what the hell are you doing here?” He was right. This was war. I close my eyes for a moment, my jaw clenching and my skin frozen from the information. 

“Are you going to inform the Capellos?” Thomas nods,

“Already did.” I nod and grab a sniper, inspecting the body and ammunition. 

“For Rowan and Malak.” I look up at the group. James’s teary eyed grin burns into my gaze and I wait as everyone picks up a gun. I fight hard to stop myself from putting the sniper back down and never looking back. But that wasn’t my job anymore. Lazy smiles are poured into the pit of guns as we start to discuss strategy. Nausea bubbles within me and I keep my gaze on the clock. 

The theatre was hot and bouncing with adrenaline from every corner of the gold and carmine seats. I control my breathing carefully, my aunt and uncle in front of me in the perfectly adorned box seat. Puck and Thomas were below us with a few other relatives. On the opposite side of the theatre, I can pick out Lady Capello’s long red hair loosely braided down her chest. The thought of her green gown soaked in blood sent chills up my neck. I shut my eyes, flinching at every creak within these walls. The muttering below us mellows out, and classical music pours in. Rosemary Capello was performing tonight. Everytime I hear her name I think of Rowan and his wanderlust for love. I hope he finally found it. Wherever he is. I softly open my eyes and watch her back arch, aligned perfectly with her pointed toe. Ballet was similar to skating. Only the gentle movements. Ballet was nothing similar to hockey, but the straight ridge down her body reminds me of the graceful ticks on ice. It reminds me of the discipline I endured. Rowan’s desperate eyes flicker like movie scenes across my now black gaze. Malak’s grave and James's watery eyes looking down at me, knowing I should’ve done something to stop it from happening. It was too much. I loosen my tie before slipping out from the box, not capable of bearing the sight of anyone anymore. I couldn’t see them die. I couldn’t see anyone die again. My heart burns and I grip the suit with my cold hands. Falling to the floor, my hands brace the drop against the theatre’s walls. I race with my body to catch my breath. 

“Come on, Baron, breathe.” My chest rises and falls rapidly. It’s not your fault. Tears tease their way down my cheek and I slap myself to leave this headspace again. It’s not your fault. Gunshots jolt my body up from its decaying state. My mouth goes dry when screams echo throughout the theatre like wailing spirits. My hand shakes as I go to open the box. And the only thing that scares me is the fact that neither Lady and Lord Montanari have left it. I grip the wooden handle, pulling it towards me as a warm draft rubs against my skin. Blood bubbles and oozes from my uncle's throat. A little black hole bulges on the side of my aunt's skull. And my sight becomes dizzy. I watch as Lady and Lord Cappello are escorted from their box. I dont blink. Not once. Not when the first responders push me aside to collect the bodies. Not when I follow the ambulance to the hospital. Not when they flatline. I knew if I closed them, I’d see how disappointed Rowan would be in me. I’d see how Malak worked hard to keep the blood in the family’s veins. And I’d see how I’d done nothing to stop it. Puck was right about the assassination. He just got the wrong family. It was as if in a blink of an eye, the crown had been punctured into my scalp the second the bullet hit them. 

I couldn’t face anyone for days. Embarrassment took its toll on every aspect of my health. Three nights after their death, I snuck to mass. Father Louis didn’t see me at first. But by the shift in the room, I think he knew he was at the frontlines for death once again. Once everyone left, he sat down next to me in the pews. 

“Good evening, son.” I grind my teeth. I was in a stained sweatshirt and sweatpants, my hair was facing many different directions, and my body felt worn. For the past few days I’ve had to put on a new skin for people to trust me. To pretend, to show them I'm grieving but not falling apart. 

“Father-” My crackled voice scares me and I reach for my throat to soothe it. 

“Are you holding up well?” He asks me with a tilt. I laugh, my lips splitting like daggers. I had no family left. No preparation. No warning for the rise and fall of what it means for people to be under your gaze. I’ve let everyone down. I look at Father Louis,

“Trying to.” His frown buries into me. He opens his mouth but doesn't say anything. I crack my knuckles, feeling the blood pump to my hands. 

“Are you?” I swallow.

“Always.” He says in a deep baritone voice. I wait a moment. Soaking in the emptiness. 

“Why couldn't it be me?” I ask, my gaze focused on the red burning candles. Father sighs,

“It will be someday. Too many prematurely depart. It would be devastating to see you gone too.” My mind was in awe with the words I was hearing. He always made a serious moment feel pathetic. He made death seem simple. But as a priest I assume he lives side by side with death everyday. 

“I don’t want them to suffer.” I sigh, leaning my head back on the ledge of the pews. He smiles, a warm comforting smile I rarely get out of him. 

“Death is a mother’s embrace. I don’t feel sorry for them, son.” And with that, he squeezes my shoulder and removes himself from the bench. I was alone. Candle light shining on the parts of my face I never see in the day. I turn to watch Father Louis leave me in the church with the silence I felt days ago on that snowy afternoon. A blanket of warmth fell over my shoulders. The same way a mother would embrace her child when tucking them to bed. I fell asleep for the first time in a week that night. And when I woke up, the candles were still burning.