The Three Miracles of Will Davitt

By Stan Sulecki

"Point your toes toward the battle!"
With these words, Will Davitt, an aging Vietnam veteran, begins a mentoring friendship with Eric Webb, a neighbor boy, who has lived a lifetime of hurt in his short, young life.
A story of faith.
A story of trust.
A story of courage.
The Three Miracles of Will Davitt will take you on a journey of healing you won't soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483465487

Book preview

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ONE

BLAIR LAKE, PENNSYLVANIA, AUGUST 2016

W ill Davitt reached into the bed of his pickup and pulled out two empty cans of paint and a bucket full of supplies. Across the street, his wife Kathleen talked to their neighbor, Doris. He found it odd, in the widow’s driveway, a late model Dodge Caravan was being unloaded. Figuring it was none of his business, he limped into the garage and placed the cans next to a small stack of garbage bags. He carried the bucket back to his workbench, leaning against its edge. He began to massage his left hand and wrist with his right as he stared off into space, thinking, remembering.

Honey, let me do that, Kathleen said as she sidled up next to Will. She placed his hand between her hands and started kneading and rubbing his wrist and palm. Doris’s grandson is moving in with her. Probably for a long while.

Will leaned back slightly to get a better view of the neighbor’s home—at least now the minivan made sense. From which daughter?

Brenda, the youngest.

She has a kid?

Kathleen nodded as she moved to Will’s fingers, and with great care stretched and bent them at the knuckles. He’s a real quiet one. She smiled and looked far off as if she was collecting a memory. She bumped him with her hip playfully. You know, you got to watch out for the quiet ones.

Will lowered his head; he knew she was referring to him. He maneuvered his hand from Kathleen and lifted a paint roller from the bucket. He hung it in its designated spot on the peg-board wall, then picked up a second paint roller and spun this one in his hand as he mulled over his thoughts. He was grateful his wife was outgoing and so full of life. He didn’t always understand it, sometimes even envied it, but he knew what his world would have looked like without her—a world he wouldn’t have wanted to live in. He placed the roller next to the first one and turned to her. Today was the anniversary.

I’m‒ He took in a deep breath and looked down, shaking his head.

She didn’t wait for him to finish. Instead, she took his hand and led him to the front of the garage, pausing for a moment, and listening. Do you hear anything?

Will cocked his head. A part of him was annoyed; games, surprises, and such made him uncomfortable. He liked knowing what to expect, he rarely strayed from the known. What am I supposed to be hearing?

She pointed to Doris’s home. Listen.

He took a few steps forward, placing his bum hand on his truck’s hood. Faintly he could hear something. He glanced back at Kathleen. Is that the grandson?

She nodded. Doris said he hasn’t put it down since arriving. Sound familiar?

Will didn’t like where this was going. His wife knew better. The high E string is out of tune. So is the G. He paused and listened closer. Its B string is missing. Will turned to head back into the garage. She stopped him.

I saw it. It’s unplayable.

I don’t‒

You did, once.

Will unconsciously rubbed his left wrist. There were days he’d rather have cut it off than deal with the ache.

Could you at least put new strings on it and tune it?

Will shaded his eyes from the sun. How he longed to not get involved. What’s the kid’s name?

Eric.

How old?

Kathleen thought for a moment. He’s going into ninth grade, that makes him as old as Sarah.

Will let out a long breath. Sarah was the neighbor girl who seemed to spend more time at their place than her own home. Where’s the mother?

Doris said some kind of rehab, but Eric was within earshot. I believe it’s something worse.

Sickness?

She shook her head. I think he’s been abandoned.

No father?

Kathleen paused. No, not really. And that’s why I thought if you could at least make it sound better.

Will didn’t want to say no to her; she rarely asked for anything. She was good that way. I don’t know. . . He glanced at his wife. Her dark brown eyes filled with hope. Is this really important to you?

She crossed her arms and kicked at the ground. The music the young boy was making rivaled the sound of fingernails on a chalkboard. They couldn’t keep from smiling. Just a feeling, I guess.

Will studied his wife. Sometimes her eyes, her smile, the way she tilted her head, helped him to decipher what she was saying to what she meant. You already volunteered me. Didn’t you?

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Eric Webb sat on the front steps of his grandmother’s home. He tried in vain to play a broken down, beat up acoustic guitar he’d rescued from a store’s dumpster a month earlier. After weeks of practice, he felt he was no better than the day he started. His calloused fingertips ached, but he stayed determined. The library books on guitar music theory had helped him understand the instrument. If only he had a better guitar, one that was easier to play—one that had all six strings.

He shifted in his seat and took a quick look around. As long as he sat, a row of hedges kept him from being seen by anyone from the street. He liked the feeling of being invisible to the rest of the world.

Eric’s grandmother, Doris, stepped outside and took a seat beside him. She had two homemade brownies on a napkin—one for him, one for her. Mrs. Davitt made these and brought them over for us.

Eric reached for one; he made sure no crumbs fell on the guitar. For a spell, they sat in silence. Mom’s not coming back, is she?

His grandmother tapped his knee a few times than gave it a squeeze. No, honey, not yet. At least not for a while.

Eric hid his disappointment by focusing on his guitar, fiddling with a stripped out tuning peg, running his fingers along a crack on its side.

Oh, I do have some good news, though. Mrs. Davitt said her husband could look at your guitar. Maybe make it a little easier to play. She said you should just bring it over anytime the truck is in the driveway.

He straightened his back and peered over the hedges. The truck sat in the driveway. Could we take it over for him to see it right now?

His grandmother smiled, folded the napkin into a tight square, tucked it in her sleeve, and carefully brushed Eric’s bangs away from his eyes. Honey, this is something you’re going to have to do for yourself. If you’re really serious about playing, you’re the one that’s going to have to make it happen.

Eric pushed the thinnest string down on a fret and plucked it with a homemade pick. The clean note surprised him. He attempted to move up one fret on the neck and try it again. The sound left him smiling. Are you sure you won’t go with me? Is he mean?

His grandmother stood, smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt, and stepped up to the front door. She watched as Eric tried to push two strings down at once. Eric, hon.

He stopped his playing and looked up.

I guess we could go over after dinner, but after I introduce you, you’re on your own. She opened the door and glanced at the neighbor’s home. And don’t mistake Mr. Davitt’s gruffness or quietness or whatever you want to call it, for not liking you. Not all men are mean.

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Sarah Yeager plopped down on the spare stool next to Will in his makeshift basement workshop. She rested a stack of bridal magazines and a sketchbook on her lap. Will gave a slight nod as he focused his attention on gluing the machine gun swivel to the body of a model UH-1 helicopter.

Ooh, I love that smell, Sarah said. She then turned her attention to Bear, Will’s black lab mix who sat next to him in hopes of getting the occasional petting from his master. And how are you doing Boo Bear?

Bear wagged his tail lazily. At the ripe old age of thirteen, he found no need to exert too much energy when not needed.

When Will felt sure the part would hold, he placed the model down, then returned the cap to the tube of Testors glue. He pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. The pepperoni casserole he had for dinner had made him sleepy. Isn’t Kat upstairs?

Yeah, but she’s on the phone.

Sarah and her mother, Renee, lived next door. Soon after Renee’s divorce, Kathleen volunteered to watch Sarah when Renee went to work as a nurse at St. Theresa’s Hospital at the edge of town. Never being able to carry a baby to full term, this gave Kathleen the opportunity to love and care for a child in ways she thought, after her last miscarriage, would never happen. With Renee’s parents living on the west coast, almost naturally Will and Kathleen had become substitute grandparents, so much so that her yearly school photo hung on the wall next to the Davitt’s black and white wedding portrait. Besides Kathleen, Sarah was the only other person who could get Will to come out of his shell.

Will looked down at what Sarah was holding. What do you have there?

Sarah didn’t need to be asked twice. She pulled four drawings out of her tablet and laid them on the workbench in front of Will. She opened one of the magazines to a picture of a 1970’s retro style wedding dress and handed it to him. See how I made the veil shorter. She pointed to the first drawing and Will leaned in closer. I like that my collarbones will be seen. You see what I mean?

Sarah went on about how she would take the dress in the magazine and make it her own masterpiece. At fourteen, it seemed every other week she had a new career goal. Last week it was going to a pastry chef’s school when she graduated; today she was determined to be a famous fashion designer. She planned on specializing in all things related to weddings.

I think the baby blue beads at the cuff make a nice touch. Don’t you think?

Will knew this was all meant to be shown to his wife; he knew next to nothing when it came to fashion, but her enthusiasm lifted his tired soul.

I like how the color matches my eyes.

But aren’t your eyes more green than blue? Will asked, giving the magazine back to Sarah. He picked up his model and examined the piece he‘d glued. Do you have dresses picked out for your bridesmaids?

Sarah pulled out the bottom magazine from her stack and started searching. Yeah, I got it here somewhere.

Will took the moment of quiet to prepare the next piece to be glued. He glanced over at Sarah; she had her tongue slightly out and to the side as she whipped through the pages. He stopped what he was doing and just watched. She brought life to wherever she was. If she was in a crowd, everyone was smiling; even the meanest of dogs would wag their tail at her.

Here it is, she proclaimed, jumping off the stool.

Suddenly, Bear stood and gave his full attention to the stairs leading to the main floor. There was the sound of Kathleen opening the back door, then her greeting whoever was there. Seconds later, his neighbor Doris and a young boy he assumed to be her grandson, made their way down the steps. The young man wore a pair of oversized shorts and a worn out gray t-shirt. A stitch taller than Sarah, he held his guitar tight to his chest. To Will, it looked more like a shield than a musical instrument.

The kid couldn’t have looked more hopeless.

TWO

M r. Davitt, this is my grandson, Eric. Eric, Mr. Davitt. Doris, who had positioned herself behind her grandson, paused to allow them to greet each other. Neither did. Doris cleared her throat and gave a quaint smile. Well, anyway, he was hoping you could take a look at his guitar and maybe make it sound better.

Sarah, clueless to the awkwardness of the moment, spoke up. Hi, Eric, I’m Sarah. Come on, come in! I’ll get out of your way. She collected her drawings, stuffing them back into the top magazine, and gave Bear a pat on the head. She then whispered something in Will’s ear. He looked at her quizzically, then cracked a smile—but only for a moment.

Will, if it’s going to cost you anything I will gladly pay. Just let me know.

Will watched first Sarah, then Doris leave the basement, then he turned his attention toward Eric, studying him as they sat and stood in silence. The pain of being left here alone was evident on the boy’s face as he strangled the neck on the guitar and did everything in his power not to make eye contact. Finally, Will thought best to alleviate Eric’s misery. He gestured him forward.

Let’s see, kid. Bring it here.

Eric forced his feet to shuffle over to Will and hand him the guitar. He immediately stepped back to where he stood previously.

Do you have new strings?

Eric shook his head.

Will lifted the guitar and looked down its neck, then turned it every which way. He took extra time to examine the crack in the body. He plucked a string and then another. He played with the tuning keys, shook his head, and placed it on his workbench.

Where did you get this? he asked as he scratched his chin and let out a yawn. How long have you been trying to play this thing?

I don’t know, maybe a month.

His words were just above a whisper. He looked on the verge of tears.

Will pulled out a penlight and took another look inside the guitar’s body. He didn’t want to explain all that was wrong with the instrument; in fact, all he wanted to do was get back to his model—get back to being alone. Most of the bracing is either missing or loose, that’s why the front bubbles like that. And see how the neck twists; that’s not good. No, that’s really not good. He turned off the penlight and put it back in the drawer. He used the heels of his hands to rub his eyes and shook his head.

I’m sorry, kid. It would be cheaper to buy a new one or at least a good used one. When’s your birthday? Maybe your grandma could‒ Eric’s eyes reddened. He made no attempt to hide his disappointment. Will turned in his seat and took another long look at the guitar. It would take a miracle. No, more than a miracle to make this playable. He sighed, glancing at the time. I’m sorry. The neck alone is so twisted. You’ll never be able to play it.

Will picked up the guitar and slowly handed it back to Eric. He immediately clutched it tight to his body. Will felt bad for him, but what could he do? Sorry, I wish I could help. That was a half-truth at best.

Will watched Eric make his way up the stairs. He listened for the screen door to close then swiveled in his seat to face his workbench again. For the longest time he stared at the dozens of model helicopters that hung from the ceiling above his workbench. His mood had changed; it just didn’t seem important at the moment. For now, nothing had meaning. Giving up, he pushed his stool away from the workbench, reached down to massage Bear’s ears, and readied himself to stand. The guitar was unfixable he told himself. It would never stay in tune. And anyway, the kid was a teenager; if he were like most, he’d be on to his next dream in a day or two, so it really didn’t matter—or did it?

Will lowered his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Suddenly, he felt like a fraud. This boy wasn’t like most. He couldn’t put his finger on it. There was just something different about him and…. he could have helped. He glanced over to the far wall of the basement. There, covered in a brown, homemade quilt, stood a six-foot high, five-foot wide, and three-foot deep, gun safe that had been in his family for several generations—and in his basement for the last sixteen years.

He looked upwards, knowing somewhere in the living room Kathleen was hearing all about Sarah’s latest career path. The thought made him smile, and lightened the heaviness in his heart. He stood and walked over to the gun safe. He purposely hadn’t been this close to it in years, let alone touched it. In fact, the last time he did was when he and three other men, using a refrigerator dolly, moved it into the basement. Why did he let Kathleen talk him into storing it here anyway? He knew the answer before ever asking the question. He could never say no to her.

He crouched down, moved the blanket to one side, and placed his good hand on the center of the door. The glossy black enamel felt cool to the touch and still looked showroom new. Frowning, he whispered to his reflection. Where did all the years go? When did I get so old? He leaned in until his forehead rested on the back of his hand. His eyes closed tight, he could see everything—the helicopter, his team, the fire from above. Will’s body involuntarily shook as he remembered the searing pain and the aftermath. Why God, why did you let me live? Hearing his master’s voice, Bear walked over and brushed up next to him. Will’s eyes popped open and the present came rushing back. Will took a moment to regain his composure and balance, then gave Bear a quick side hug. Standing, he let the quilt fall back into place, covering the safe’s door, and with it, all the memories he longed to forget.

Will, with Bear at his side, made his way back upstairs.

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Eric locked his bedroom door. He checked to see if the window was closed then pulled the shade down and drew the curtains tight. After turning the two nightlights on and switching the ceiling light off, he kicked off his shoes and threw himself onto the bed. It was too warm for a cover, but he used one anyway. It gave him a sense of security, plus he liked the smell of the clean linens, something he rarely experienced in the past.

He had leaned his guitar upright against the dresser. He liked how it looked in the soft glow of the nightlights—like it was new, like it was playable. Reaching under his pillow, he pulled out a small, pocketsize, transistor radio he’d bought for fifty cents at a garage sale. The casing was held together by black electrical tape and the speaker didn’t work, but he could still hear the music through an earphone.

Eric clicked on the radio and turned the dial back and forth till he found a song he recognized. For the longest time, he stared at his guitar as the music blared inside his head. He had no Plan B. He needed to find a way to make this guitar work; at least until he earned some money. Could he ask his grandmother for help? No, he’d learned early in life to never ask for anything.

He lay back on the bed, hands behind his head, imagining what it would be like to be on a stage, the audience listening to every note he played, being moved by his music. Again he glanced over at his guitar and his heart rate quickened. He couldn’t deny the deep longing he felt in his soul. Somehow, he just had to make it work. He resolved at that very moment to double his effort. First thing tomorrow morning, he decided. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning he’d reread the notes he took from the music theory books, then work on his fingering. He was sticking to Plan A. Satisfied, he moved to his side and let out a yawn. Maybe he could ask his grandmother for new strings. Maybe she could afford that. He yawned again. It was time to stop thinking and just listen to the music. Eventually, he closed his tired eyes and settled deeper into bed. Sleep soon followed.

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Will cracked open the window above the headboard a few inches then eased himself into bed. The sheets felt cool on his skin. Kathleen reached out and touched his shoulder. You’ve been quiet all night. Is everything okay?

I guess, Will said as he tried to relax his lower back which ached more than usual. Taking Kathleen’s hand, he lightly rubbed it on his day old beard as he thought about what to say, then turned to stare up at the ceiling. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix the guitar.

I know; if you could have you would have.

Outside, a neighbor’s dog barked. Bear, lying by Will’s side of the bed, gave a low growl then left it at that. Will sat up, fluffed his pillow, and lay back down. This time, he faced away from his wife.

Kathleen pulled herself close to Will. He felt her warm breath on the back of his neck. She took hold of his left hand, gave it a slight squeeze, then drew their hands to his chest.

I’m sorry, Kat. It just was unfixable.

I know, Will. Kathleen squeezed his hand again and snuggled in a little closer. I know you did your best.

THREE

Y ou say he’s an eleventh grader? You’re only going into ninth. What’s your mom say? Mrs. Davitt rinsed the silverware she held and placed them in the dish rack. Sarah then dried and tucked them in the drawer.

But weren’t you younger than Mr. D when you met him in high school?

Just one year, and anyway, things were different back then.

It’s just a dance, not a date.

Mrs. Davitt peered over her glasses at Sarah. I don’t know. You’re only fourteen and he’s supposed to be the most popular boy in school? Why isn’t he going with someone his own age? She paused as she set a plate in the rack. How did you meet him? What do you know about him?

"Do you remember my