The Epiphany of Grace

Published by

Clothesline Stories Publishing, 2020.

FOREWORD

(A Posthumous Novel)

Though her skin was thin and seemed only a pretext for her spirit to linger here in the physical realm, there was a thickness about her when it came to her children. Nothing, not Dad’s infidelity or financial trickery or even her sincere belief that her soul had been excommunicated and damned for eternity, could break this woman’s resolve to protect and provide for her children.  

David Pierson (excerpt from The Epiphany of Grace)

ON DECEMBER 10, 2019, David Pierson left this world in search of greater tales. He left this world with a promise from his family that we would publish his unfinished works, especially The Epiphany of Grace. 

David Pierson loved his mother the way his family loved him, with all of our hearts. It’s no surprise that such a great man was the progeny of such a great woman. He inspired people in so many ways and left behind a trail of students whose lives would be forever made better.  Lance Woodruff, Nephew

"MR. PIERSON WAS THE reason I loved writing and telling stories. God he told the best stories. He told stories that could make you cry, laugh, and sit on the edge of your seat. He inspired hundreds of students and colleagues around him. He’s a man worth remembering because he was

special. He taught us all that we are special too." 

Bailey A. Murphy, Student 

"I REMEMBER YOU SO WELL. I came to school barely speaking English and you were my first class. I was lost, confused, I felt stupid for not understanding you nor the people around me. But you made me feel welcome. Instead of an outsider in this American school, you made me feel special. But more importantly you taught me English. You encouraged me, helped me after school, after class, and you taught me your language with patience. And once I could understand you, I was so happy because I could finally understand all your funny stories. You were an amazing story teller and very funny too! You will truly be

missed." 

Heloise Trumel, Student

"IF YOU HAD MR. PIERSON as a teacher, you were blessed beyond measure. He taught me how to write, read, and learn from books in a way that I didn’t even know was possible. He gave me more than just tools to succeed, but he lived and breathed off of the work his students created. He was a fellow actor and mentor. We are all better off after meeting this man, and my own words don’t describe the love and passion Mr. Pierson had walking into each and every day of English class. 

He led us through the perils of the Trojan War, helped us bring Odysseus home, exposed the misfortunes of Oedipus the King, and guided us home through the depths of Hell. 

I will miss you, Mr. Pierson. But I also want to thank you for teaching me so much. I wish I would have realized the impact you had on my life sooner. You were a much bigger factor in my accomplishments than I realized. Thank you for being one of the greatest teachers in my life." 

Gabrielle Gonzales, Student

IF A MAN IS TO BE MEASURED by the scale and depth of the impact he’s left on the collective heart and mind of this world, then without question my grandfather is one of the greatest humans to have ever lived. He was the fullest, most authentic expression of his higher self and his beliefs, which is the most beautiful thing any man can ever hope to be. He strived not to impose ideas on others, but to inspire reasonable pursuit of Truth by friends and strangers alike. I often liken him to Socrates in my mind. And despite how much good he did in this life, he was always seeking to peel back the veil of reality and see into the inner workings of God on the universe. He would often quote Shakespeare’s Hamlet, ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ I take solace knowing he is free of his human body and the limitations it presented. Now he possesses the knowledge he always sought as he stands face-to-face with God. And now his soul may rest in peace, as his work lives on and continues to inspire. 

Taylor Tebbe, Grandson

1

My mother’s song

A TEACHER, THAT’S WHAT I am. Didn’t plan to be a teacher. Planned to be a writer. But a teacher is what I am, a seventh grade teacher. Anyway, something has been on my mind all day. The date, September 25. It’s twenty-three years, to the day. I look at my desk calendar and sigh. It’s Thursday. Twenty-three years ago it was also a Thursday. 

I have gone almost the whole day without mentioning anything to anyone. Then in comes my last class. 

Caitlyn tells me they have just taken a hard test. Then Jared says what he always says when he comes in my room, that he is too tired to learn any more that day. And Taylor, a girl who seldom has anything to say, looks up at me and says with a smile, "Mr. Pierson, tell us one of your stories. We don’t need to learn

English today." 

Like that, with no further prompting, it just comes out of me: "I suppose I should tell you about my mother. She died twenty-three years ago today. 

"At night I would help Mom hang up the wash on the clothesline, and we would talk to each other. I remember one night in particular. It was just the two of us out, me and her; and she smiled like she was proud of me and said, ‘But soft!

What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and David is my son.’ 

I always thought that was original with my mother until I was in high school and found out it was Shakespeare. Anyway, after she said that—after she quoted Shakespeare—she sang to me. 

I clear my throat and start into You are my Sunshine. I sing the first few lines that everyone knows, and twenty-seven children are staring at me in disbelief.

That, I explain, "is the official song for the state of Louisiana. My mother used to love to sing. 

But, like I said, the thing we used to do most of all, the two of us, was talk about things. Sometimes I think she’s still trying to speak to me. Why, almost two months ago— I take out my cellphone and show it to everyone. —she called me on this phone right here. I was at a baseball game, and my phone rang. And when I answered it, she said, ‘David?’ And I said, ‘Yes?’ And she said, ‘This is your mother.’ ‘My mother?’ I said. And she said, ‘Yes, I wanted to talk to you, so I got your number.’ 

Wait a minute, says Collin. I thought you said your mother was dead.  That’s right, says Jack. You said she’s been dead for twenty-three years. 

She has been dead for twenty-three years, I say. 

But you just said you talked to her only two months ago? 

I can see the confusion in the kids’ faces. No point going any further. They probably wouldn’t understand. Well, I say, throwing up my hands, you just don’t know my mother.     

2

I try to defend Dad

THINGS BEGAN TO UNRAVEL for Mom and us on Christmas Eve, 1959. I was eleven, the oldest of four children, and didn’t know anything about divorce. I had heard of it, knew it was something scandalous, but I didn’t know anyone at school who was the product of a broken home. 

Mothers back then stayed at home, and fathers were the sole breadwinners. Mom was the exception to that rule. She had taken a job as a waitress at the Silver Bell Restaurant to help Dad start his practice as a public accountant. 

Mom was working Christmas Eve and would not get off until seven. The plan was for us to exchange gifts that evening at Grandma Gret’s. Grandma Gret was Dad’s mother. 

It was after four when Dad unloaded Peg, Donna and Philip at Grandma Gret’s. I remember proudly carrying in all my presents for everybody. Maybe they looked slightly crumpled but I had wrapped them all myself. 

After depositing the presents under Grandma Gret’s artificial Christmas tree, Dad asked me to go back into town with him. He told me he hadn’t gotten anything for Mom and he wanted me to help him find something she would like. 

I remember riding in our pink and white Pontiac station wagon that evening through the streets of Arlington, California, just Dad and me. Complete opposites we were. Dad was a big handsome man who stood a couple of inches above nearly everyone else in a crowd. And me? All of fifty pounds, I was the smallest boy in the sixth grade. Front row in every class picture since the second grade, I was about the same size as the smallest girl. 

All the stores look closed, I said, peering out the window. No problem, said Dad. 

And though night was setting in and all the stores, it seemed, were dark, I knew Dad would find something open. He oozed with confidence all the time. There was nothing he couldn’t tackle. 

And we did find something, an appliance store on the edge of town that was about to lock up. 

The store owner told us we had about fifteen minutes, so Dad went straight for the toasters. When he saw me examining the coffeepots, he asked if we needed a new one. 

No, I said, ours still worked. 

Then he asked what I thought about a toaster. 

I shrugged. The one we had, worked okay. 

He led me down one of the aisles. What about an iron? 

I told him Mom already had an iron. 

An ironing board? Did she need a new ironing board? 

Another shrug. Ours squeaked, I said. 

All ironing boards squeaked, he remarked. 

Then I brightened. An ironing board cover! Mom needed a new one, I said. There was a burn hole in the one she had. 

Dad wasn’t immediately sold. He continued to look around the store, leaving me again to inspect the coffeepots, but in the end he settled on the ironing board cover. Grandma Gret wrapped it up real nice with a candy cane in the bow, and we waited for Mom to get off work. 

Grandma Gret was really good at things like that. It was not what was in the package, she would tell me. It was what the package looked like. That’s the way it was with Grandma Gret. If I got a present for my birthday or Christmas from her, it was always wrapped like it was a million dollars; but after I had unwrapped it and found underwear that was too big or T-shirts that were too small, all I would have left was the peppermint candy she had tied in the bow. There’s something else that must be said about Grandma Gret. She was the oldest person I knew, but she didn’t dress that way. She wore blouses with frilled lace tops that showed her breasts. Her hair was always puffed up and stiff with hair spray. And she wore a strong perfume and lots of makeup, like she was trying to be young again. We never got kisses from Grandma Gret. That would have smudged her thick, perfectly-lined lipstick. 

Anyway, when Mom got off work, Dad picked her up and drove her to Grandma Gret’s. I remember Mom looked tired, standing there in her white tennis shoes and blue and white Silver Bell waitress uniform. But there was something else. I remember a vague sense that something was wrong with Mom, that behind her smile she was profoundly sad and hurt. 

Mom sat down on the ottoman with Philip in her lap and Donna beside her in the easy chair. Grandma Gret, disappearing for a minute with Dad into the kitchen, came out and put on a Christmas record, then sat on the couch with Gramps. Peg and I sat on the floor near the tree, and when Dad finally came out the kitchen, we started into the presents. 

There was the rich smell of Gramps’ pipe tobacco in the room, and I had the gritty taste of cinder in my mouth. (Grandma Gret, who didn’t usually bake, had burned a batch of cookies, so she gave them to us kids and said to finish them before Mom and Dad got back. They looked good in the pan, dark brown chocolate chip cookies, but on the bottom they were black as charcoal.) 

There were only a few presents left under the tree when Dad opened his from Mom. I don’t recall what it was, but with all the attention on him, someone—Peg, I think—asked what he had gotten for Mom. I remember his silence. 

Then Mom, sensing his embarrassment, asked if he had remembered to get her a present. 

I shot up from the tree and raced to Mom with her gift. Here, I said, handing her the present, this is what Dad got you. 

As I said, I had opened my share of gaily-wrapped presents only to find clothes, so I knew disappointment. But in my eleven years never had I seen such bitter disappointment on the face of a grown-up. 

The wrapping paper fell to the floor around Mom. She looked up at Dad and said, Gene, is this what you got me? An ironing board cover? 

Nervously, awkwardly shifting the weight on his feet, Dad clasped his hands and braced himself against the fake fireplace. This was not like him at all. Usually, he was so sure of himself, but on this occasion he looked apologetic, almost afraid to make eye contact with Mom. 

And Mom, this was not like her either. Short, petite, a southern belle who was usually demur to her husband in all matters, she shook the ironing board cover menacingly at Dad. 

I helped him pick it out, I said. Don’t you like it? 

She glared at Dad. You mean you couldn’t even spare the time to look for the gift yourself? You had David pick it out? 

Still no word from Dad or anyone else, for that matter. 

I could see Mom was angry, but I didn’t think it was right he should get the blame for me, so I spoke up in his defense. I’m the one who told him to get it. He was going to get you a toaster. A toaster? From Mom’s voice I could tell she did not want a toaster either. 

I thought you’d like it, I said as I stepped around the wrapping paper on the floor to face Mom. I knew you needed a new ironing board cover. The one you have has a big hole in it. You see the flower pattern on it? Doesn’t that look nice? 

Mom hugged me to her. She told me the ironing board cover was lovely and she did need a new one, but she had expected something else from Dad. David, I would’ve been happy if you’d given me the ironing board cover. 

But I gave you the butterfly pin. Don’t you like that gift either? 

I love the butterfly pin, Mom said. It’s adorable. It’s a much better gift than an ironing board cover. 

I turned to Grandma Gret. What, I asked, was wrong with an ironing board cover? 

Nothing was wrong with the present, Grandma Gret replied with a smile, but in that smile were daggers aimed at Mom. It’s the thought behind the gift that matters, she stated. 

I looked to Dad. Always the stylish gentleman in his business suit and tie, he seemed to draw strength from his mother. It was the thought behind the gift, he said, agreeing with Grandma Gret. 

But there again Mom had him. Gene, the thought behind this gift isn’t even yours. It’s David’s. She went on to say something about keeping house, raising four kids and working a fulltime job so he could get his business practice started. And this, she said, again waving the ironing board cover at him, is what you give me for Christmas? This is what I mean to you? 

Dad muttered something about the present he ordered not coming in on time. 

Mom rose from her chair. She didn’t believe him, she said; he didn’t order anything. Then she asked pointedly, What did you get her? 

There was an icy silence in the room. 

Dad pushed away from the mantel. He asked what she meant by that remark. 

My eyes went to Grandma Gret. I knew Mom did not particularly like her. She used to all the time tell me that Grandma Gret had been married more times than Elizabeth Taylor. (Gramps was her sixth husband, and the only ones Grandma Gret ever talked fondly about were the two who had died on her.) Still, it did not make sense why Mom would begrudge Dad for giving his mother some monogrammed handkerchiefs for Christmas. 

Grandma Gret, seeing my confusion, offered to trade Mom the handkerchiefs for the ironing board cover. 

Mom said that was not what she meant and Dad knew it. Then she repeated herself. What did you get her? I’ll bet it wasn’t an ironing board cover. 

At this point Grandma Gret reminded Mom about us kids. Grace, watch what you say. Little ears are in the room. 

Mom didn’t even cast a glance in Grandma Gret’s direction. Her eyes were locked instead on Dad, who stood frozen in front of the fake fireplace. Mom said she knew all about her. She said she hadn’t believed the rumors, even when Mr. Fred (Mom’s boss) told her it was true about his niece, but this Christmas had opened Mom’s eyes. What a fool I’ve been, she said, and she bolted onto the patio. 

Dad followed her. 

Grandma Gret told us to leave the two of them alone, that everything would be all right, that Mom was just tired from a hard day’s work. Then she led Peg, Donna, Philip and me into the kitchen for some more chocolate chip and charcoal cookies. 

3

Dad’s Molly

SHORTLY AFTER THE FIRST of the year, Dad had to drive down to San Diego to see a new client. He would be staying overnight and return Friday, he said. 

When he did not come back Friday evening, Mom, fearing the worst, called the state police. Surely he would have called if he had been delayed, she said. 

The police assured Mom they had no word of any accident involving a Eugene Pierson. 

Saturday came. It was a cold gray day. There was a steady drizzle, and still no word from Dad. I remember our waiting anxiously all day for word, a telephone call, anything. Then after dark Dad returned home as if he had just returned from the store. 

Mom’s relief turned immediately to anger. Why hadn’t he come back Friday as he had promised? 

A terrible traffic tie-up outside San Diego, Dad said, no way he could have gotten home Friday night. 

Why hadn’t he called? 

No reason to, he said. By the time he stopped for the night, it was too late to call. 

Then why hadn’t he called in the morning? 

He decided in the morning to call on another prospect in San Diego. The meeting lasted longer than expected, Dad explained, and he got a late start coming home. He went on to say these were the kinds of things Mom would have to get used to if he were to carve out a successful practice. 

When Mom said he still should have called, that she had been worried about him and so had the kids, Dad laughed off the whole incident. She should have known there was nothing to worry about, he said. He was well-known, almost a public figure, he told her. (He had run for city councilman a few years earlier and had finished fourth or fifth out of seven candidates.) If something had happened to him, he said, admiring himself in the mirror, she would have heard about it on the radio. She had worried herself over nothing, he explained. 

Dad’s story seemed plausible to me, but again I was only eleven. 

Mom, on the other hand, seemed profoundly disturbed and questioned Dad repeatedly on particular details in his story. As I remember, his explanations never seemed to satisfy her, and many days afterwards she seemed still to harbor a lingering anger with him. 

Then a few weeks later Mom and Dad did something they had never done before. Leaving me, my sisters and brother in the care of an elderly woman who had babysat for us on several occasions, they went away to San Francisco for a few days. 

They returned Saturday evening. Dad drove the babysitter home, and upon his return Mom gathered me, Peg, Donna and Philip in the living room. She sat us on the couch, saying, Your father has something to tell you. Then sitting in the overstuffed chair next to Dad’s, she said, Go on, Gene. Tell them. 

Dad’s words fell heavy on me. I’m leaving, he said. I’m not going to live here anymore. 

Suddenly everything in the room darkened. It was as if the walls and the ceiling flew away, and Dad—I remember my dad—sitting in his chair, shrinking into the darkness, fading farther and farther from me. 

Someone let out a cry. I don’t remember if it was Peg or Donna. What I do recall is Peg got up from the sofa and went to sit on the arm of Dad’s chair. 

Dad stroked Peg’s long blond hair. That’s why your mother and I left you with the babysitter, he explained, to see if we could work things out, but there really isn’t any chance of that, so we’ve agreed it’s best I move out. 

Mom corrected him immediately. Don’t say we agreed it was best you move out. Don’t put words in my mouth. Tell the kids the truth. Tell them this is your idea, not mine. 

Dad hardly acknowledged Mom’s words. Addressing himself almost exclusively to Peg, the one person who had gone to sit with him, he continued to smooth down her hair. Your mother and I are getting a divorce, he said. 

I’m not giving you a divorce, Gene, said Mom, again contradicting him. If you’re going to move out, I can’t stop you, but I’m not going to give you a divorce. 

You’re not making this any easier, he complained. 

Mom shot back. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, but there was conviction in her tone. I’m not trying to make it easier. This is your idea. You face the kids and tell them. Don’t make it sound like this is something we both want. 

It’s better this way, if I simply move out, Dad explained to Peg, who had slipped from the arm of the chair into his lap. 

Mom was not letting him off with a simple explanation. You owe it to the kids, Gene. Tell them why you’re moving out. 

Dad coughed. He cleared his throat. I’ve fallen out of love with your mother, he said. 

Again Mom challenged his version of the facts. That’s not it, Gene. Tell them the truth. Tell the kids about Molly. 

Leave her out of this, he said. Don’t bring her into this. 

How can you keep her out of this? Mom asked. She’s right in the middle of the whole thing. She’s the one who’s breaking up this home. 

It was Peg who asked the question I also wanted to ask. Who’s Molly? 

Molly’s the woman he’s going to live with, Mom answered. Don’t say that, Dad said. I’m not moving in with her.