Read Online The Thieves of Faith by Richard Doetsch - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Doetsch
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today?” his dad asked without lifting his head from his work.
“Think so, we’ve got a few new plays. Stepinac is a pretty good team, though.”
Alec didn’t respond, seemingly lost in the moment. But then, after a good minute, he spoke as if it had only been seconds. “Yeah, but they don’t have a quarterback that can read a nickel defense like you.” Alec looked up, their eyes connecting. “You know how lucky you are that you don’t have your mother’s and my genes?” Alec patted his stomach.
“Did you play when you were a kid?”
Alec smiled. “I was the kid who felt lucky even to be picked last,” he said with an outstretched hand. “Let me have that gear back.”
Michael passed it.
“Actually, why don’t you place it right there?” Alec pointed at a small metal stem. Michael looked in the clock box and slid the gear over the spindle. His dad placed an impossibly small cap on the pin-sized rod and closed up the back of the box. He wrapped his short arms around the six-foot case and motioned to Michael to do the same. Michael took up position at the base of the clock.
“On three, now.” Michael’s father looked at him. “And…three.”
They hoisted the clock off the workbench and into the air, placing it upright on the floor. Alec opened up the glass cover over the face of the clock. “Time?” he asked, his index finger on the minute hand.
Michael glanced at the clock on the wall. “Eight fifty-nine.”
“Perfect timing, if I do say so myself.” He set the clock and opened the glass door over the pendulum. “If you would be so kind.”
Michael reached in, and with a gentle grip, lifted the pendulum back and let it swing.
Tick…tick…tick… The elaborate timepiece spoke in the common language of clocks. Michael watched as the numerous gears clicked and spun, the second hand sweeping around. And with a sudden thunk the main gear activated and the chimes rang out nine times.
Michael caught himself, mesmerized by the steady beat of the clock, its timing still as perfect as the day it was made twenty-some-odd years ago. He stared at the enormous timepiece, wishing he could wind it backward. Michael missed those mornings talking with his dad, who always had a way of seeing things so clearly. Michael had never fully appreciated the value of wisdom, of experience. Like so many, he took his father’s unconditional love for granted, never grasping how much he needed him. Michael’s father had passed away a few years back. It was sudden, brought about by complications from diabetes; his mother followed shortly thereafter of a broken heart. Michael wished that he could have had one more week with his dad, even one more day to ask all those questions he never got around to asking; always thinking that there would be time for them, always thinking there would be a tomorrow, always concerned with the future, forgetting to live in the moment.
Michael would have liked his company now, but like a year ago, when Mary died, he would have to forgo the sage advice of his father.
Mary’s plea dominated Michael’s heart, only to be reinforced by the business card reflecting the same address. The address of Stephen Kelley, an attorney Mary thought could help Michael in his quest.
Michael’s father had always urged him to find his birth parents, explaining that it was important to know where we come from, what we are made of. Alec had explained very early on that Michael had two sets of parents: the ones whose love brought him into the world and the ones whose love brought him up in it. But Michael banished the thought of seeking them out while the St. Pierres were alive. He had felt it to be a betrayal of his parents, as if he was turning his back on them, to abandon those who chose him for those who chose to give him up.
Michael stood in his great room, his two big dogs asleep at his feet, staring at Mary’s letter and the business card that sat side by side on the coffee table
“Think so, we’ve got a few new plays. Stepinac is a pretty good team, though.”
Alec didn’t respond, seemingly lost in the moment. But then, after a good minute, he spoke as if it had only been seconds. “Yeah, but they don’t have a quarterback that can read a nickel defense like you.” Alec looked up, their eyes connecting. “You know how lucky you are that you don’t have your mother’s and my genes?” Alec patted his stomach.
“Did you play when you were a kid?”
Alec smiled. “I was the kid who felt lucky even to be picked last,” he said with an outstretched hand. “Let me have that gear back.”
Michael passed it.
“Actually, why don’t you place it right there?” Alec pointed at a small metal stem. Michael looked in the clock box and slid the gear over the spindle. His dad placed an impossibly small cap on the pin-sized rod and closed up the back of the box. He wrapped his short arms around the six-foot case and motioned to Michael to do the same. Michael took up position at the base of the clock.
“On three, now.” Michael’s father looked at him. “And…three.”
They hoisted the clock off the workbench and into the air, placing it upright on the floor. Alec opened up the glass cover over the face of the clock. “Time?” he asked, his index finger on the minute hand.
Michael glanced at the clock on the wall. “Eight fifty-nine.”
“Perfect timing, if I do say so myself.” He set the clock and opened the glass door over the pendulum. “If you would be so kind.”
Michael reached in, and with a gentle grip, lifted the pendulum back and let it swing.
Tick…tick…tick… The elaborate timepiece spoke in the common language of clocks. Michael watched as the numerous gears clicked and spun, the second hand sweeping around. And with a sudden thunk the main gear activated and the chimes rang out nine times.
Michael caught himself, mesmerized by the steady beat of the clock, its timing still as perfect as the day it was made twenty-some-odd years ago. He stared at the enormous timepiece, wishing he could wind it backward. Michael missed those mornings talking with his dad, who always had a way of seeing things so clearly. Michael had never fully appreciated the value of wisdom, of experience. Like so many, he took his father’s unconditional love for granted, never grasping how much he needed him. Michael’s father had passed away a few years back. It was sudden, brought about by complications from diabetes; his mother followed shortly thereafter of a broken heart. Michael wished that he could have had one more week with his dad, even one more day to ask all those questions he never got around to asking; always thinking that there would be time for them, always thinking there would be a tomorrow, always concerned with the future, forgetting to live in the moment.
Michael would have liked his company now, but like a year ago, when Mary died, he would have to forgo the sage advice of his father.
Mary’s plea dominated Michael’s heart, only to be reinforced by the business card reflecting the same address. The address of Stephen Kelley, an attorney Mary thought could help Michael in his quest.
Michael’s father had always urged him to find his birth parents, explaining that it was important to know where we come from, what we are made of. Alec had explained very early on that Michael had two sets of parents: the ones whose love brought him into the world and the ones whose love brought him up in it. But Michael banished the thought of seeking them out while the St. Pierres were alive. He had felt it to be a betrayal of his parents, as if he was turning his back on them, to abandon those who chose him for those who chose to give him up.
Michael stood in his great room, his two big dogs asleep at his feet, staring at Mary’s letter and the business card that sat side by side on the coffee table
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