Page 8 of House of Sin
For a moment, there’s solace in the cadence, in the quiet familiarity of faith performed. But then Father Cyrus shifts slightly in his seat, a subtle realignment that carries with it a change in atmosphere, and I feel the softness in the room begin to curdle.
“How are you today, Bernadette?” He asks. His voice, barely more than a whisper, is interlaced with a tenderness that feels almost intrusive.
The question, simple and well-meaning, rakes across my skin like sandpaper, and I bristle. “I’m fine,” I reply, the words abrupt and precise.
He doesn’t challenge the lie, doesn’t try to pry it open. Instead, he pivots with the practiced grace of someone used to evasion. “It was lovely to see your friends at Mass today,” He offers, his tone softening even further. “That was ... a beautiful gesture.”
A wry smirk curls at the corner of my mouth, uninvited. “Nothing like a gang of whores filling up the pews to really stir the faithful,” I say, the sarcasm spilling out before I can tame it.
“They were there for you,” He reminds me gently.
“Yeah. They were.” I sigh. “And your sermon was beautiful, too. I mean that.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the wood protesting with a low, splintered creak that seemed louder than it had any right to be and I curse it under my breath.
“I knew you’d like it,” he says softly. “If you ever need anything, Birdie ... I’m always here. Your family—”
“Thank you, Father.” The words come too fast and a breath too early. Panic starts to flare up in my chest before I can suppress it, and I know I can’t let him finish, not with that pity in his voice that hangs in the air like a noose.
I push myself up from the booth, the old wood groaning under the sudden force of my escape. My body moves before my thoughts can catch up. I take quick, purposeful strides down the center aisle, eyes fixed ahead, refusing to glance left or right, as if acknowledging that the sacred space around me might unravel the last threads of my composure. The church blurs as I pass through it. The polished pews catch glimmers of fading morning light, marble saints watch in mute witness and stained-glass angels cast fractured rainbows across the floor. There is beauty everywhere and yet, none of it touches me.
Then I’m outside.
The door swings shut behind me with a hollow slam that echoes off stone. The sunlight is immediate, warm, blinding; I stand still for a moment, letting it wash over me. My chest heaves once, then again, as I try to remember how to breathe like a person who isn’t splintering from the inside.
“Don’t let them see you cry, Birdie,” I whisper, the sound of my own voice barely audible over the distant rumble of the street. It’s tight, threadbare with restraint, but it steadies me just enough.
I close my eyes. Let the warmth of the sun press against my skin. Let the breeze tug at my hair, teasing it loose from the pin that holds it in place. Let the city buzz around me while birds chatter in the trees, leaves skitter along the sidewalk, and a child’s laughter rises in the distance.
I inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. And again.
Get it together, Birdie.
I force a smile and glance around just long enough to be sure no one is watching. Then I take a step forward, then another, back into the living, breathing chaos of Butte. Back into the noise and motion and small-town eyes that always see too much and understandtoo little.
5
THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS TOGETHER…
THEN
“Mama!” The voice called from outside, urgent and full of excitement. I quickly set the dish towel on the counter and headedfor the back door.
“What is it, darling?” I asked, walking down the steps into our backyard.
Ray was standing in the grass, glancing over his shoulder with a smile so wide it lit up his whole face. A strand of blond hair fell into his eye, catching the evening light. I’d named him Ray because when he was born, he felt like sunshine, warmth and peace wrapped in a perfect little body. Holding him that first time was like stepping outside after a long winter, feeling the sun kiss your skin, and waking up to life all over again.
“Mama, look how good my aim’s gotten!” Ray called out, his whole face beaming with pride, eyes wide and eager.
Half a dozen battered tin cans stood in a crooked line along the old wooden fence, each one dented and weather-beaten, wearing the marks of weeks’ worth of ambitious target practice. The fence marked the farthest edge of town, where streets gave way to silence, and the backyard bled into miles of open land—untamed, sun-scorched, and stretching all the way tothe horizon.
I knelt beside him, lifting the hem of my skirt out of the dewy grass. Ray pulled his slingshot from his back pocket, his focus fixed, his little body brimming with a kind of quiet determination that seemed far too big for someone so small.
“Watch this,” He said, flashing me a sideways grin.
He loaded a yellow-and-white marble into the pouch, squinted with one eye while he adjusted his footing in the grass, and pulled the band back with steady fingers.
I found myself holding my breath alongside him, the whole yard suddenly still, as if even the birds and the breeze had paused to see how this would go.
Thwip.
