Though David loved Dalí and Hemingway, he was a patron of the local arts community. If it was beautiful, he sought after it–like my mother
David saw the beauty in religious art–art, he believed, that breathed humanity into the dark texts, even as hymns sang only of grace.
David was known as the god of the Arts where he lectured, for he was the only professor to have the talent of the subject he taught.
David was academia, with his tweed blazers and corduroy trousers. He taught Art History—this artist whose history was hazy.
I basked in David’s presence, drawing near to him with my heart, just as my mother drew near to him with her lips.
I saw every man who had looked my way as someone who could take me from David. I had bottled it up, and twas because of David, I was pure.
The light from the bronze chandelier in David’s study gave his face an amber glow, illuminating his smoldering, smoky-black eyes. Troubled eyes.
It excited me to see David like this–his fervor making me become feverish in anticipation. In anticipation of what, I did not know.
“Your mother has found a truth that will give her peace, not penance. Though truth itself isn’t a dangerous thing, the belief in an absolute is.
I knew an absolute truth existed, but no one knew what it was. They only thought they did, or spent the rest of their lives wondering.
Though David had never spent the night at our house, nor had Mother ever spent the night at Maxwell Manor, I knew they had been intimate.