The Masterpiece

by Francine Rivers

  Grace lifted her chin in surprise. “You did?”

  “Yes, I did. Unlike Patrick Moore, who never cared enough to consider your feelings about anything, Roman was very defensive of you. He thought I was treating you badly.” She shrugged. “Which, of course, I was. Roman Velasco also couldn’t take his eyes off you, another thing that set him apart from your ex-husband. The man loves you, Grace.”

  “Not enough.”

  “He’s an idiot, but then most men are, where women are concerned. I imagine you were something new to him, a girl with moral values and faith. What do I tell him when he calls?”

  “He won’t.” She imagined Roman back at a nightclub, picking up some pretty blonde on the make, just like the one who had come on to him at the gallery. He’d be careful, of course. He’d want someone who knew the rules. She kept telling herself she was glad any chance of a relationship was over, but her heart beat faster at the mention of his name.

  Aunt Elizabeth studied her. “Well, we don’t have to talk about him until you’re ready. We have plenty of other things to discuss. The past, for one thing.” She stood. “Why don’t you set up the playpen in the kitchen so we can keep an eye on this little wanderer while I finish getting dinner ready?”

  Grace did as her aunt suggested. Samuel wasn’t particularly pleased to be caged. She put an activity center in the playpen to keep him occupied. Aunt Elizabeth stood at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes, rousing memories from Grace’s childhood. She’d come into this house traumatized and grieving.

  As an adult, Grace could understand and forgive her aunt’s inability to show compassion to a traumatized child. Aunt Elizabeth had been grieving, too, and angry over the circumstances of her sister’s death. But as that child, Grace had lived in constant fear. Not just when she moved in with Aunt Elizabeth, but well before that, when she witnessed her father’s rage, and when her mother taught her to play hide-and-seek. She’d learned to hide from so many things. Was she hiding now?

  Aunt Elizabeth spoke over her shoulder. “Your hair looks nice down around your shoulders.” She cut the peeled potatoes, dumped them into a pot, and added tap water. She dried her hands, added salt to the water, and put the pot on the stove. She faced Grace and leaned against the sink counter as though bracing herself. “You’re very quiet.”

  “Just remembering things from the past.” Grace regretted saying that when she saw the pain flicker in her aunt’s eyes.

  “Nothing good, I imagine.” Aunt Elizabeth slipped her hands into her apron pockets as she looked away. “I’ve done many things I regret, Grace, and most have to do with you.” She let out her breath. “You were only seven when I brought you home with me. And I took out all my bitterness on you.”

  “I can understand why.”

  Aunt Elizabeth sat at the kitchen table and put her hand on Grace’s arm. “We need to talk about the past.”

  “About my mother.”

  “Yes, and your father.” She gave a gentle squeeze and lifted her hand away. “But the trouble didn’t start with them.”

  After dinner, Aunt Elizabeth had to go to a deaconess meeting. Grace bathed Samuel in the kitchen sink and dressed him for bed, then held him close as he drank a bottle of warm milk while she prayed over him. She sang a favorite hymn softly and watched his eyelids grow heavier until he couldn’t hold them open anymore. Lowering him carefully into the playpen, she covered him with his favorite silky-edged blanket.

  Filled with an aching tenderness, she sat on the edge of the twin bed and watched her son sleep. He looked so peaceful, so content. Her little boy had nothing to worry about because he trusted his mother. Lord, I want to be that trusting of You.

  Nothing was happening the way she expected. Aunt Elizabeth wanted to talk about the past, but later—tonight when she got back, or tomorrow. Would she change her mind? Grace had questions to ask about the past, and she wanted to borrow some of her aunt’s courage in setting out for another place, a new beginning. Aunt Elizabeth had done it successfully, leaving family and friends in Memphis and moving all the way across the country. What had it taken to do that? Had Elizabeth Walker set off on a grand adventure, or had she run away?

  Samuel shifted. Grace readjusted the blanket. She remembered her first night in this room, how terrified she’d been. Night after night, she’d hidden herself away, just wanting to feel safe, praying Mama would come for her and tell her it was all right to come out.

  And then the angel had come and her fears had gone away. She felt the wonder of him, her precious secret that she’d shared with Roman. He knew demons existed. Did he believe God sent angels?

  The garage door whirred. Aunt Elizabeth was home. Grace leaned over the playpen and put her hand gently on her son’s chest. “You’re safe in this room, Samuel. I had a friend who watched over me. God is watching over you, too.”

  Grace went into the kitchen just as her aunt opened the side door from the garage. Aunt Elizabeth looked resigned. “I thought you might be up.”

  “How did your meeting go?”

  Aunt Elizabeth set her purse on the table and removed her coat. “We all have our job assignments. I’ll put my things away and then we can talk.”

  “Should I fix tea?”

  “That would be nice.” Coat draped over her arm, she picked up her purse. She stopped in the doorway and looked back. “Why don’t we both put on our pajamas? It might help to be comfortable while having our conversation.”

  They sat in the living room in wing chairs facing each other across the coffee table, like girls at a slumber party, sipping tea and pretending to be adults. “Where do I start?” Aunt Elizabeth sounded weary, perplexed. “When you went away to college, Grace, I missed you. You probably won’t believe that, but the house felt empty.” She set her cup and saucer on the coffee table.

  “I spent more time at the office, if you can believe that. I practically lived there. It was hard coming back to an empty house and knowing it was going to stay that way. I didn’t think you’d come home, even for holidays. I was alone again. I thought that was the way I wanted it. The thing is, I couldn’t stop thinking how Leanne would feel if she knew I’d treated you more like a ward of the court than my niece.” She met Grace’s look with difficulty. “Your mother would’ve been hurt and disappointed.”

  “You took me in, Aunt Elizabeth. You didn’t leave me in foster care.” She would have been passed around, a few months here, a year there. Who knew what could have happened under those circumstances? Grace thought of Roman and the childhood he’d had.

  “I have many regrets, Grace, but the biggest of all is not raising you with the love you so desperately needed. And deserved.”

  Grace saw the cost of that confession and felt her heart softening. “I understood why you couldn’t love me. Every time you looked at me, you saw my father, and he—” She shook her head, unable to say the rest.

  Aunt Elizabeth put fingertips to her brow. “I’d forgotten you overheard that conversation.” She lowered her hand and raised her head. “I said lots of things I shouldn’t have said. I was so angry. It started long before Leanne died, though that exacerbated things. My anger goes back to childhood.” She put her hands on her legs as though bracing herself. “One of my first memories is seeing my father kick my mother in the ribs when she was on her knees scrubbing the floor.” She closed her eyes. “I must have been only four or five, because Leanne hadn’t been born yet.”

  Grace felt the hot rush of tears and didn’t say anything.

  “My mother never argued with my father. She never said a word against him. She taught us to obey, too. We learned early to discern his moods and stay out of his way. Mama had another baby a few years after Leanne. A little boy. He was blue. Something about his blood not being oxygenated. Cyanosis, I think they call it. I looked it up once.”

  She took up her teacup and saucer, sipping slowly, eyes dull. Her hand shook when she put them down again, calmer. “My father blamed my mother when the baby died, of cours
e. The sad part is she believed him. She felt she deserved the beatings.” Aunt Elizabeth fisted her hands, her voice lowering, tight and strained. “I tried to stop him once, and he almost killed me.”

  She shook her head. “Back in those days, people didn’t talk about abuse. It was a family matter, best kept secret. I got a job as soon as I was old enough, just to get out, just to save enough to leave home. Of course, my father expected the lion’s share of my earnings, but I found ways to squirrel money away. I stayed away so much, I didn’t know what else was going on when I wasn’t there.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment before going on. “Mama was sick. We never knew what was wrong with her because she wouldn’t go to the doctor. I think she saw an end to her misery and welcomed it. Who would blame her?” She sat for a long time, silent.

  “And my mother?”

  Aunt Elizabeth pressed her lips together, face pale. “I came back for her after Mama died, hoping she’d come with me. She insisted Daddy needed her. He hadn’t been well. I could see he wasn’t. Maybe he was sorry for the way he treated our mother. Maybe he was looking hell in the face. I don’t know. I didn’t care.” She rested her head against the back of the chair. “I went to see her as often as I could. Leanne would call, and we’d talk. Dad didn’t make her life easy. Everything that ever went wrong in his life was always someone else’s fault.” She gave Grace a sad smile. “Your mother was a good caregiver.” The curve of her mouth turned bitter. “As for me, I stood over him once, near the end, and said if it was up to me, I’d leave him in his chair and let him rot in his own feces.”

  A cold chill prickled Grace’s skin.

  Aunt Elizabeth’s expression wavered between shame and guilt, anger and regret. “Leanne became like our mother. I became like Dad.” She looked at Grace, her eyes growing moist. “I just didn’t use my fists.”

  Grace moved to the sofa and sat on the edge so she could take her aunt’s hand. “I love you, Aunt Elizabeth.”

  “I know you do. God knows why. You are like your mother. She could forgive anything.” She turned slightly, her hands around Grace’s, holding on firmly, expression intent. “We need to talk about your parents. What do you remember about that night?”

  “I didn’t see anything that happened. Mom said we were going to play hide-and-seek. I heard Mom talking fast. Daddy shouted at her. Something crashed, and I heard Daddy sobbing and saying, ‘Leanne’ over and over. Then I heard him coming. I thought he was looking for me, so I didn’t dare move. He opened the closet door and threw boxes off the high shelf and then found a gun. He saw me then. He pushed the clothes aside and stared at me. He didn’t say a word. He closed the closet door. I just huddled there, waiting in the dark. And then . . . I heard the shot.”

  She shook her head, remembering bits and pieces of that awful night.

  “Everything was confusion after that. I was too scared to move. I heard a loud crash and men’s voices. The lights came on and a policeman found me. I ended up with the nice couple who kept me a few days.” When Grace had first met the Garcias, she’d thought of that kindly couple. “And then you came.”

  Aunt Elizabeth’s hands loosened. “I’m so sorry all that happened to you, Grace. I didn’t make things any easier by talking about your father the way I did. Life was hard enough on you without having me play jury and judge. Whatever happened that night caused your father to take his own life. He could have taken yours as well, but he didn’t.”

  Grace felt the tears coming and held them back.

  Aunt Elizabeth lifted a hand and tucked a curl behind Grace’s ear. A nervous gesture. “Brad and Leanne loved each other, maybe too much, maybe in the wrong way. Relationships don’t always make sense. What happened was a tragedy. But when God offered me a gift, instead of receiving you in gratitude, I held on to my anger. I’m an architect when it comes to building walls. The only person I’ve ever allowed close is Miranda Spenser.” Her mouth tipped in a wry smile. “She came from the same kind of background, but didn’t allow it to embitter her.” Aunt Elizabeth patted her hand. “I tried to give you to her once, as though you were an unwanted puppy someone dumped on my doorstep.”

  Grace wasn’t surprised. “When?”

  “The day after I brought you home with me. Miranda said no, of course. She said I needed you.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “I was so angry. She and Andrew have always wanted children. I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t take you. But she was right. I just didn’t learn fast enough. Life would’ve been so much better for you and me if I had let down my guard.”

  “You are now.”

  Aunt Elizabeth gave a bleak laugh. “High time, don’t you think?” Her voice thickened with emotion. She looked tired, but also relieved. She ran her hands over her lap. “I know you came to talk about other things, but can we wait until morning? I’m exhausted.”

  When they both stood, Grace stepped forward and embraced her. Her aunt’s arms came around Grace, and they held on tightly to each other for a moment. Aunt Elizabeth withdrew, letting out a soft breath. “I hope you plan to spend a few days.”

  “Three at least.”

  “Thank you.” Aunt Elizabeth cupped Grace’s cheek. “You’ve always been a sweet girl, just like your mom.”

  Roman had been sitting in Brian’s living room for hours. They’d talked about many things, but eventually Brian got Roman talking about life as a tagger in the Tenderloin.

  “I had a crew. There were always guys who wanted to come along for the kicks. Some watched; some helped with the ropes. I had one dude, Lardo, strong as a linebacker, who got me up and onto a roof before the cops spotted me.” He felt the push inside to go deeper, pull up the pain by the roots. He finished his soda and crushed the can in one hand. He didn’t want to think about Lardo or what had happened to him.

  Agitated, he stood, mangled can in his hand. He didn’t have to tell Brian everything. “Where should I throw this?”

  “Recycling is under the kitchen sink.” Brian didn’t press.

  Roman threw away the can and came back. He looked at Brian, measuring his expression. Brian looked back at him. Roman sat. “I always picked heaven spots.”

  “Heaven spots?”

  “High buildings, structures—the higher, the better.”

  “Sounds dangerous.”

  “That’s the point. The bigger the risk, the more street cred. I did one piece on the Bay Bridge. Almost ended up in the bay. I hit a couple of five-story buildings. No problems. And then I picked an overpass, made the stencils, had my gear, and posted my crew. High risk of being seen, so I had two spotters. Then White Boy showed up. I wasn’t as close to him. He was a tagalong. Couldn’t shake him.” He shook his head. “I didn’t need or want his help, someone who couldn’t do any better than bubble letters, but down he came on his own setup.”

  Emotion gripped him, and he rubbed his face before looking at Brian again. “White Boy didn’t know the difference between dynamic and static ropes from the junk he stole out of a hardware store. He had a can and was coming down to spray. I told him I’d kill him if he did.” He heard the faint echo of White Boy’s laughter. You gotta reach me first. “I had an empty can and threw it at him. He dodged. That’s all it took. His rope slipped. He lost hold.” Roman’s eyes burned. He swallowed convulsively before he spoke. “He fell.”

  “You think it was your fault.”

  “I don’t know, but I felt responsible.”

  Roman still dreamed about the broken body in a spreading pool of red. A car caught White Boy’s body in the headlights. The driver slammed on the brakes, but went over White Boy before the vehicle came to a screeching, spinning halt. Other cars stopped, people getting out to stare at the dead boy shattered on the pavement. No one looked up to see the other one in the black hoodie. Bobby Ray Dean climbed fast, rolled over the wall above, kicked out of the harness. Lardo and the others scattered. Bobby Ray ran until he couldn’t run anymore, then slid down against a wall and sobbed.

&
nbsp; “I have nightmares sometimes. I hear him screaming on the way down. I see when he hit.” Roman felt hot tears welling. Was White Boy one of those lost souls in hell now? “I never used a crew again. I always worked alone. And I went higher and did bigger pieces.”

  “Sounds like you had a death wish.”

  Roman’s mouth twisted in a bitter, self-mocking smile. “Maybe, or maybe I thought I could be faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall buildings in a single bound.” He did learn how to make it across narrow alleys to lower roofs on the other side. He’d had plenty of practice street running as a kid, escaping foster families and outrunning police and social workers. He knew how to hit the ground, roll, and use the momentum to keep going. He used obstacles to propel himself. San Francisco’s city streets had been his playground.

  How many times had he heard a siren whoop and seen red lights glowing on building walls, a searchlight scanning the heights for him? The night White Boy died, Bobby Ray Dean had run until he felt like his heart would explode.

  He told Brian more about White Boy, a year younger, who wanted to be like Bobby Ray Dean, who loved the adrenaline rush of taking risks, painting high places, using parkour to outrun the police or rival gang members. Elbows on his knees, Roman rubbed his face. “There wasn’t even an obituary for him.” His voice was rough.

  Brian leaned forward, his eyes full of compassion. “What was White Boy’s real name?”

  Roman raised his head slowly. “I don’t know.” He couldn’t see Brian’s face through his tears.

  “But you didn’t quit after that?”

  “I did more. I blasted the hood with it. It was the only time I felt alive and in control.”

  Bobby Ray continued to tag for the gang, but spent more time on other pieces, his own ideas, his own voice. He painted a red-faced devil around the front door of an apartment house. The entrance swallowed people going in and vomited them out. He painted a chef roasting rats over the garbage cans in the alley of a famous steak house. He turned an air-conditioner grille into a grinning monster. “My gang tags got buffed within a few days. My other pieces lasted longer.”