David had often wished Franz would visit more than twice yearly, thinking that more frequency might bridge the gap. He had certainly been much closer to Franz at one time. His uncle served as a pillar of emotional support for his parents, in fact—while they were still alive. Before he grew older and more reclusive, Franz had seemed to be his dad's best friend, and acted much like a second father to David, especially after his parents passed away. Franz and no one else had stepped up to pay all funeral expenses. David's parents had left the boy with a mountain of debt, too, which Franz took upon himself. He'd done his best by David, taking him to be raised at a foster home when he saw that he would have to continue working two jobs for many more years to repay his parents' lenders.
David remembered when Franz was far less distant and odd; he'd often expertly mediated his parents' fights. Franz always insisted that he knew David's parents really loved each other, hoping they would one day see past their differences and pay more attention to his only nephew. Upon their deaths, he'd told the boy he would make sure he never felt responsible for their debts and that he'd prayed over the decision to send David to Dlasky. And he'd continued to check frequently on David all those years.
Now David pulled up a chair alongside Franz, and the two turned the delicate pages carefully, skimming through the book. Franz ran his gnarled fingers gently over sections with precious gems embedded in them. Breathtaking illustrations filled nearly every page save for a sparse few filled with exquisite handwritten text.
“Virtually without error,” Franz commented.
On each page were handwritten notes and quotations, some sections bookmarked, others loose-leaf pages tucked safely inside the folds as addenda. Several of the vellum pages even acted like pockets, unfolding to reveal old photographs tucked inside. David could barely contain the grief that welled up inside when he recognized the people in the first photograph that tumbled out: his parents and grandparents.
Amy went over to his side and placed one hand on his shoulder. She'd known when she met David that he didn’t have any family but Franz, and she, too lamented for him. Although his vulnerability was shrouded in arrogance, moments like these garnered her compassion for him.
“Stephen, honey—” Sandra gave her husband a nudge, “and Jeremy, come help me wash off these dessert plates.”
“But Ma—”
“Now, son.”
Jeremy reluctantly left Lucas—still standing in the doorway—and followed his parents toward the kitchen.
David continued thumbing through the photographs, tears finally taking command and rushing down his cheeks. Though he missed his parents terribly, he was ecstatic over the memorabilia Christophe had found. He couldn't remember when he last felt so—enriched by memories. David turned to his younger son and took his face in his hands.
Christophe, perplexed, peered into his father's eyes. “What is it, Daddy?”
“Thank you, son.” David cleared his throat. “This book is a Bible that belonged to my grandfather, you see . . . and it means so much to me. Nothing has made me this happy in a long time.”
Christophe reached up and carefully smudged away a tear on his father's cheek. Lucas kept his distance, studying old Uncle Franz as he mouthed words, silently reading the ancient inscriptions written in German.
Since he was lost on the language, David turned helplessly back to Franz and watched him read. Deciphering and translating what this book contained could take the effort of several lifetimes, he knew. David produced a kerchief from his pocket, wiped his face, and sipped his coffee. Franz seemed so intense, he thought, as if he thought he could decode the entire book in one night.
David glanced across the living room at Lucas, still transfixed by his scholarly uncle. If only he could discover something as movingly beautiful and innocent for his son Lucas, he thought. The boy deserved a magical experience as well, but David knew he couldn't orchestrate it if he tried. He longed to connect with Lucas in the way he did with Christophe, but the moment never seemed to present itself, and once again, Lucas silently turned away and took the stairs alone toward his room.
The Watermans soon bade good night to their friends, and Amy walked them out to their station wagon. While Stephen and Jeremy loaded the cooler in the back, Sandra pulled Amy aside.
“Is David okay?” she asked. “I know how his past can dredge up trouble for him.”
Amy nodded. “I think he'll be all right.” She sighed. “I just don't know what to expect lately.”
Stephen slammed the station wagon's tailgate and looked at Jeremy. “Where's your coat?” He grinned at the girls, marching Jeremy back toward the house. “Back in a few minutes.”
Sandra smiled at Stephen and turned to Amy. “I have to hand it to you.” She lowered her voice. “I've never been able to put my finger on David. He's always the utmost gentleman—and yet he keeps his distance, after all these years.”
“I know,” Amy said, looking at the ground.
“You've stood by him when he had no one else—not even Uncle Franz,” Sandra stated.
Amy knew her friend was right. Her husband, though drop-dead handsome, notably talented, and commercially successful, had a huge hole in his psyche that even she could not fill. Sandra, well-aware of the many ups and downs the couple had weathered over their sixteen-year marriage, truly believed that Amy had given far more than her fair share of keeping their family together.
She'd first met David late in her senior year, where she worked twenty-six hours a week—at Piggly Wiggly. Amy had grown up poor, struggling to help her single mom make ends meet. She remembered the way he'd first stared at her—hair up in pigtails, wearing that awful aqua PW apron—and she, not believing that such a good-looking guy was fawning over her, even if part of that allure involved talking her into giving him an employee discount on three club sandwiches. He'd only used her that one time, though—or so she'd thought. Soon after, she married the man she'd always dreamt about, her love at first sight. He'd swept her away to movie sets all around the world, wined and dined her from Paris to Aruba, and she'd never once worried about finances since. After Christophe was born, traveling on work assignments with David came to a rushing halt. Amy devoted herself largely to raising the two boys—alone.
Waking up without David at her side was always difficult for her, and the conversations when he infrequently was home grew strained. Though David claimed that he attended Mass and made confessional while he was away, Amy saw evidence that his faith was eroding. When Christophe was just a baby, he'd told Stephen over drinks one day that having a life partner in the industry would've been better suited to his personal beliefs. She'd called Sandra on one of those bleak evenings after David had stormed out, contemplating out loud with her friend whether she should leave him. Perhaps, she'd said, they were destined to the fate of having married too young and were growing apart. The two women had prayed over the phone together; Amy then decided to continue to pray for her husband's reconciliation, and that she would always love him.
Sandra put her arm around Amy and squeezed her. “I'm always here if you need to talk, okay?”
Amy nodded, a single tear claiming her cheek. “I have to believe God will ultimately hear my prayers, don't I?”
Sandra wistfully regarded her friend, her expression lightening as another idea bloomed. “Perhaps—this special Bible that Christophe just found is a start.”
Have only one goal to serve others, and you’ll be a success at everything.
Chapter Three
Past Wounds
After Uncle Franz had left, David sat in his recliner for a long time with the Bible in his lap, studying the clock face on its cover. Amy passed through the foyer to switch off the porch light, continuing quietly past the living room to put Christophe to bed. When she didn't return, David laid back and mentally retraced childhood events he hadn't recalled in years. As a youngster, he once regarded his father as a superhero. He'd wanted to grow up to be just like him—from his worn khakis to h
is city-slicker hairstyle that he frequently tucked under a brown bowler. David's father was a complicated man, with his own foibles and sorrows—but at one time, there was no one David idolized more. It seemed only yesterday that he'd taken David on a day trip to Chicago to see his mother perform. David remembered following his dad through the dark, smoke-filled jazz club for the first time. He'd never been allowed to attend one of his mother's shows before he turned ten, and that night, he readily realized just why. Rowdy men crowding around the bar wolf-whistled at scantily clad women wearing knee-length dresses with tassel, the waitresses reminded him of kewpie dolls with their heavy eyeliner, rouged cheeks, and cerise-painted lips.
Everything around him seemed so foreign and strange as he blinked his little blue eyes, peering through the haze. At the time, he did not fully understand that much of the excitement and freedom adults craved in the post-war climate of the First World War that found its way into bars like this one. Women were freer to pursue androgynous fashions, their bodies no longer caged by nineteenth-century femininity. They bobbed their hair to their ears and switched long, layered clothing for sheer; low-waistline dresses cropped to their knees. Leisure time in celebrity bars like this one was no longer considered taboo, either. Smokey contralto vocals and unique instrumental rhythms borrowed from Africa birthed the age of jazz, the melody of soul and sorrow transmuting the country's social ills into something majestic.
Momentarily, a petite, blonde-haired woman peeked around the crimson stage curtains and waved them over, and David's father ushered him swiftly backstage.
“Edmund! My darling! And of course, my precious little David, how are you?” His mother, Krista, hugged and kissed both of them before standing back to inspect David's new suit, her face glowing. She wore a black silk gown off one shoulder that hugged her body and starkly contrasted her platinum blonde hair. Her vintage-wine lipstick left a smear on David's cheek, but he made no effort to remove it, for this—was precious to him. He was here with both parents, and they were talking instead of fighting. As they discussed the upcoming performance as well as their post-show plans, two rows of women wearing pastel dresses with sequins and giant feathers took their places onstage. Never before had David seen so many stunning, glamorous performers, and this first magical experience was already enticing him to a career onstage himself.
The jazz hit “Tiger Rag” kicked off; swelling its plucky saxophone and trumpet duet from the back curtains, and David's father led him down to their reserved front-row seats to watch the New Orleans Rhythm Kings perform. David had heretofore only heard the famous group play on the radio, and could barely contain his excitement. The musicians played and gyrated across the stage with an energy that set David's heart on fire. He immediately knew this was exactly the kind of world where he belonged—bright, shiny and fun—not the drab, lifeless one that invaded his senses outside.
David caught up with the opening performance, lost track of time—and before he'd realized his mother was blowing a kiss toward him as she walked onstage. A bearded man with wiry brown hair followed her and took his seat at a piano stage left. Shock passed over David's face as he recognized the pianist—his Uncle Franz. The stage lights dimmed, and a spotlight shone down on Krista and Franz as they began their act. One soulful melody after another entertained patrons for the next hour, and just before midnight the couple made their curtain call to boisterous applause and a standing ovation. David was old enough to realize that his mother was famous, but he was in no way prepared to witness how many people adored her.
That performance was one of David's best memories, one he emotionally gripped with all his might following his parents' deaths. He never forgot to watch his mom doing what she loved. From her platinum hair to the tips of her black Mary Janes, he held onto that image of her. Though his relationship with his father inevitably became strained, David loved his mother ferociously—with much the same intensity that Lucas loved Amy.
David shook his head, returning to the present. Yes, Lucas loved his mother—like father, like son—and the rest of that incredible night faded into lost memories.
After they'd returned to New York the next day, David had watched his formidable years splinter. Uncle Franz always seemed supportive and mediated his parents' many fights. David was just old enough to understand the part about his parents having problems with money, and by age thirteen, he deeply resented his father for his poor financial judgment—and particularly for the times he struck his mother. As the fights escalated, David started spending more and more time away from home, staying over with friends or passing the hours at a local jazz club.
One murky evening in July, the news came. David was chasing away a hollow feeling around his heart by drinking in an alley downtown with a friend, where Uncle Franz found him. No one knew why his parents' car swerved off the road at Spinner's End, spiraling into a fifty-foot drop to the bottom of the valley. When the coroner tried to reassure Uncle Franz that their deaths were quick, David put his fist through the nearest wall. For the next few days, he mentally pored over the accident, trying to determine if one of their arguments had inevitably led them to their fate.
Franz beleaguered by financial concerns David didn't yet know about, forced the boy to pack his belongings in three small bags and leave his homestead. He managed to give Franz a black eye during the ordeal before being manhandled out to the car. Thirty minutes later, they pulled in front of a Victorian mansion where children were playing. At first, David loathed their shouts of joy, an emotion he hadn't felt for a long time. Soon his next mental quibble with himself was deciding whether this place was too good to be true.
Franz had handed David's bags to a friendly, heavy-set black woman named Beulah, who led the two on a tour of the foster home she called Dlasky. The basic house rules for room and board, she instructed David, were good manners, daily chores, services on Sunday, and punctuality for three squares a day.
Religion had never been a priority in David's life; he only remembered attending Saturday Mass a handful of times with his mother—when she wasn't performing. But Dlasky had its own chapel connected to the house, and the one window in his room looked down upon the chapel's west window—a stained glass nativity of Christ. He sat through weekly services for the next five years with a dozen other children, his most poignant memory, Beulah's robust alto. Her vocal ability reminded him of his mother's, but Beulah's talent was dedicated to singing as the chapel's lead cantor and humming nursery rhymes to the younger orphans.
Beulah had a broad smile and a steady, kind manner about her that ignited David's heart to live again, and he became an integral part of this new blended family. Over the years, he grew to think of Beulah as his second mother, and though he'd never told anyone, he'd suspected God had a hand in sending her angelic influence his way. Though her nightly lullabies were designated for the babies, he often cracked the door to his room around bedtime, allowing her throaty serenades to drift him into sleep.
Faith - The most precious asset you can build up for all generations.
Chapter Four
Winds of Change
Chimes coming from a long-case clock in the foyer jolted David from his reverie, drawing him up from the recliner, the Bible still in his hands. It had been so long since he reviewed childhood memories—including the grisly days following his parents' deaths, he'd tricked himself into believing he could no longer feel its pain. Standing in the middle of his living room in New York, he realized he'd buried that memory for months, maybe even years. He stood for a moment, then sat down once more and opened the Bible. Its clock face chimed three times, and David resumed trying to read his grandfather's inscriptions, written in English. With heavy penmanship he'd written: “Life is an opportunity to bless. Good is the way of life when one motivates others through a single kind deed.”
Guilt seeped into his mind, and he tried to shut out memories of the many wrong choices he had made in his life. Mostly, he hated the way he frequently ignored his wife and child
ren—but, from the first time he stood onstage, he was addicted to people's applause. For him, nothing equaled the adrenalin surge of audience adoration, and he was willing to cut some throats to maintain that renown. When people or circumstances threatened to turn the attention from him, the discomfort he felt compelled him to fight his way back to the top. As a result, he'd become very much like the dark, angry and greedy father he'd observed as a child. The exception was David stood in the limelight of his own notoriety and, unlike his father, he'd learned how to invest his money to his advantage.
Though he longed to follow more closely his mother's footsteps, he saw himself becoming more like his father every day. The superhero he'd worshiped was dead long ago, and, on days like this one, David was doubtful he would find his way back to become the man he really wanted to be.
“Honey, we're almost out of coffee.”
David, still in his recliner, opened his eyes to sparkling morning sunlight coming through the front living window. Amy was standing, fully dressed, in the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face. He sat up.
“I-I slept here?”
Amy gave him a pensive smile. “Better than you have in a while, apparently.”
“Well—” he rubbed his nose, “it's a comfortable chair.” He smiled at her. “And maybe—” he traced the Bible with his hand, “well, I dunno.”
Amy giggled. “You sound like Christophe.” She leaned against the door jamb. “Do you want to tag along? We can get some fresh brewed at Gaslight Cafe while we're out.”
“Absolutely.” He laid the Bible on the coffee table and stretched. “Just give me a minute.”
The Dawn of Grace :: A Mystery and Suspense Christian Historical Fiction Comprising of Enduring Love and Glory (Revelation Book 1) Page 3