Even odder, this song actually sounded familiar. I swore I’d heard it before.
Why do I think it’s from a horror film?
Instead of watching Cain, I closed my eyes and tried to guess what the song was about.
But what are they saying? It’s so beautiful.
Cain’s deep voice rose over the song. “Are you feeling weak?”
“No.”
“Are you tired?”
“I’m not.”
“Then why are your eyes closed?”
I opened them. “I’m trying to guess what they’re saying.”
He placed the potatoes in the pan. “The singers?”
“Yes.” I leaned forward in anticipation. “What is the name of this song?”
“Lacrimosa.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means weeping and tearful in Latin.”
I widened my eyes. “More white people are crying?”
He stopped stirring the potatoes and laughed.
“I’m sorry. They may not be white.”
“They’re white.” He cleared his throat. “And yes. It just so happens that more people are crying.”
“Why?”
“Well,” He went to the fridge and took out eggs. “The Lacrimosa is also a name that derives from Our Lady of Sorrows.”
“Which is?”
He placed the eggs on the counter. “The Virgin Mary.”
“I’m not big on religion.”
“Neither am I. . .anymore.” He bent over and rummaged in the cabinet near the stove.
“You were into religion before?”
“In another life.” He pulled out another pan. “Now, I’m smart.”
“What does that mean?”
“Now, I know that there is no God.”
I frowned. “There’s got to be a God.”
He set the new pan on the stove and looked at me. “Do you think that you would be here if there was a God?”
“Maybe He’s busy. Maybe He can’t be everywhere all at once.”
“Then he’s no god. He’s just a man up in the clouds, laughing at human pain.”
Alrighty then.
“Maybe. . .God is something else. Something. . .that we could never understand.” I took in the chapel and then looked back at him. “Did you come to this chapel to pray, before you turned it into a home?”
All humor left his face.
Not a good topic?
The song repeated.
Silent, he returned to making breakfast.
I listened to this singers’ lyrics. This time, I envisioned the Virgin Mary crying. “What are they saying?”
“Mournful that day.” He poured olive oil into the new pan. “When from the ashes shall rise, a guilty man to be judged.”
I leaned in some more.
The singers’ voices rose with dramatic intensity.
“Lord, have mercy on him.” Cain put the bottle of oil back on the counter. “Gentle Lord Jesus, grant them eternal rest.”
Their voices rose high and held a note for a long time.
He turned to me. “Amen.”
“Beautiful.” I placed my hands around my cup of tea. “I think I’ve heard this song before.”
“I’m sure you have. It’s pretty famous.” Cain tossed the potatoes around in the pan. “The song has been in tons of movies.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Mozart.” He glanced my way and curved his lips into a smile. “You’re a lover of music?”
“I used to love music. . .in another life.” Feeling uncomfortable, I sipped some of my tea.
I didn’t want to tell him too much.
He’d already cut me open and given me scars. Now he was feeding me like last night and slowly getting into my head. I couldn’t let him do that again. I had to figure him out, instead of reveal more about myself.
I won’t give him all of me. He has already taken enough.
Cain put the rosemary and garlic in with the potatoes. “Did you play an instrument?”
Would it matter if he knows that answer? Probably not.
I exhaled. “I played the violin, but only for a few years.”
“Why did you stop?” He studied me. “Too boring?”
“I moved.”
“And there were no violins where you moved to?”
“Not at all.”
He placed the spatula down and lowered the heat on both pans. “What sort of place has no violins?”
“One that’s not fun.”
He turned my way and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s play a game, Phoenix.”
Will this game involve knives?
I raised my eyebrows.
“Would you like to play a game with me?”
“What. . .are the rules?”
“When I ask a question, you truly answer me.”
Why?
Considering the request, I took another sip of my tea.
He unfolded those big arms, walked my way, and extended his big hand to me. “Do you agree?”
I continued to hold my cup. “Only if you agree to do the same.”
The line in his jaw twitched. He took his hand back and returned to cooking. “I’m not a fan of my own confessions.”
“Yet, you kind of have a confessional. Your soul coffin.”
He glared at me.
I tensed and gripped my cup.
The song replayed.
He kept his view on me.
I refused to turn away, even though I desperately yearned to. After a few seconds, I cleared my throat. “Why did Mozart write this?”
His face softened. “Officially, he didn’t write it at all.”
“What do you mean?” I set the tea down.
“Lacrimosa is part of the Requiem Mass in D minor which Mozart wrote the last year of his life.” Cain turned over the potatoes. “Many believe the Requiem Mass reveals some of the deepest feelings of human beings and exposes one of our biggest fears.”