Entanglements - Rachel McMillan

1

Boston, 1920

Once upon a time, Father Francisco told Nic Ricci that to find math in music he merely had to look to Mozart. There was something safe and precise in Mozart. Something calculated even as the composer’s Classical sensibilities withdrew from the rigid lines of the Baroque period before him. Nic liked a straight line. He liked strategy and problems with certain equations. Lately, his life had all been uneven colors: like those flourished by Spanish artist Picasso whose irregular shapes he had seen when sneaking into the Museum of Fine Arts with his friend Paul. Paul cared little about art-irregular or not- and mostly wanted to impress a girl, but Nic loved the exhibit. He squinted so the rich blues and reds of the vibrant painter blurred in wonderful confusion.

The colors of Nic’s life had muted the year before when news of the devastation at Purity Distilling Factory screeched over the North End in a tidal wave. Nic, overwhelmed with panic for his father, one of the workers at the Molasses Factory, pushed through a throng of reporters and medics until bodily restrained by a policeman. A large tank burst and the sticky substance ran through the streets in a murky river.

There was no mathematic calculation for a disaster that killed many and injured over one hundred souls. No way to make sure equation of the stretchers and sobs. No resolution to the death and the stench.

Finally, through frantic search and a few close calls, he found his dad. Milo Ricci seemed too angry at Nic being in the midst of the devastation and smoke to notice the extent of his own injuries. Later, they learned Milo’s left hand would be amputated due to severe burns and he would never regain complete sight in his right eye.

“Nic,” his dad muttered through a voice scratched by smoke and terror. “You must not be here. You could be hurt.”

Nic hugged his dad tightly and administered every motion of care he could in attempt to make him more comfortable. His father had already sunk so deeply when Nic’s mother passed and Nic was determined to keep his spirits alive and occupied. So, during Milo’s convalescence and beyond, they played chess. They read. They finished crossword puzzles. Nic perfected reasonable skills in the kitchen and swore he would never leave his dad. He quit school and taught math in Charter Street with a position found by Father Francisco. He even tuned pianos on the side. Didn’t everyone say Nic had a perfectly musical ear? Perfect pitch, even. Somehow they would make it work.

“But you must leave me someday, Nic.” His father would say, patting his hand over the chessboard. “And find your own path and your own happiness.” It was something he repeated time and again in the year or so since the factory disaster. Something Nic had no intention of obeying.

Now, he was used to distracted boys at a school in Charter Street and spending his free hours with piano keys, sneaking in spare moments to compose at the tuneless upright in their flat. Father Francisco, happy that Nic would step in as organist at a moment’s notice or perform a last minute tuning before the Feasts of St. Lucy or St. Anthony was happy to loan the parish piano to further Nic’s study. Nic was content. Not completely happy, perhaps, but in its near vicinity. His dad was alive. That was all that mattered.

Then fate, as disruptive as rainbowed confetti bursting over Hanover Street in the procession and promenade of a sacred feast, spilled uneven color on Nic Ricci’s life.

One evening, gas flickering low and with a rhythm that matched the meted measure of Nic’s forming composition, his father burst into the sitting room. His face was a study in consternation.

Nic stalled, turned, and spoke in his father’s first language: “Want to finish the game we started last night?”

“English, boy.” His father chided.

“I speak perfect English. Let me speak to you in your language when I am in the borders of our home.”

“Can I speak to you?”

“Of course.” Nic rose from the piano. “Tea?” He crossed to the kitchen and put the kettle on the hob. He took a loaf of bread from the cupboard and wiped the knife with a towel. His late mother always told him serious conversations never reached a resolution on an empty stomach. Nic rummaged in the ice box for lemon jam and arranged a small repast on a small wooden tray before rejoining his father in