As I worked up the Prologue to my story, I had to answer the question of how important it truly was. There is a danger to using a prologue—is it really necessary, will it kill the story before it even starts? The original start to the novel did not have a prologue. But the more I thought about it, I realized it would provide vital info on not only my main character’s backstory, but that of his father. The story of Nathan is almost a shadow of David’s, running as an undercurrent to everything that happens to him.
David’s eyes stung and everything went dark for a moment. He realized he still bore the ash cross from Mass smudged onto his forehead by Father Charles. David had gone straight to his father’s house after service. He was not much of a churchgoer, but he’d hoped the Lord would appreciate the visit before having to face Nathan.
David’s eyes cleared as Nathan tottered back to take a seat in his creaky chair. Behind him was his old upright piano. The keys still looked pretty clean, considering the rest of the disheveled room. Nathan turned the chair around and started playing an old ragtime tune.
“C’mere, boy.”
David scrambled to stand at Nathan’s side. He watched his father play masterfully, as always. As he played, Nathan appeared to drift away to another world.
“Why you here?” Nathan eventually asked. “Your mama know what I said.”
David gulped.
“Mama real sick. I don’t know if we can afford to keep living in Harlem—”
“Who told ya’ll asses to stay up there?” Nathan asked. He continued to play.
David was stunned by the question. He felt anger rise up, but he swallowed it. He wiped away an ashy tear.
“You left us there. Daddy, please—”
“You gotta git, boy,” Nathan said. “Ain’t nothing I can give ya’ll. You still got that cornet I gave you?”
“Yessir.”
Nathan stopped playing and swiveled on his son. His eyes were black holes.
“Sell that.”
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