The Brandywine Prophet

By Jake Vander Ark

The Brandywine Prophet is one of four books in the Blank Canvas Series. Books can be read in any order.

Suburban life has turned William Carmel from a drug-fueled creative prodigy to a gentle husband and father. When the voice of God commands him to construct a million-dollar amphitheater on the hill behind his home, the budding prophet obeys and unleashes his dormant madness and savage narcissism on his family and town.

From the tragic prologue to the breathtaking climax, the themes of family, faith, and obsession provide an epic backdrop for this fast-paced character study.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jake Vander Ark
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781300113324

Jake Vander Ark

"I want to offend my readers. I want them to fall in love, to lose their minds, to think and feel and dream. If they're not shellshocked and hungry by the final page, I haven't done my job." Whether it's a modern-day fairytale or hardcore science fiction, Jake Vander Ark attacks every story with brutal realism and down-to-earth characters. No subject is taboo. Truth is paramount. The School of the Art Institute of Chicago influenced the experimental quirks of his stories, while his pursuits in Hollywood hammered the importance of traditional storytelling. This unique fusion of structure and innovation gave life to the most beautiful girl in the world in THE ACCIDENTAL SIREN, the gritty morality tale of LIGHTHOUSE NIGHTS, the cryptic prologue of THE BRANDYWINE PROPHET, and the mind-melting climax of THE DAY I WORE PURPLE. When Jake isn't writing, he's building rustic furniture for his small business, engaging with his readers online, and livin' it up with his wife and dogs. For writing tips, politically-incorrect rants, or TV show recommendations, check out his blog at JakeVanderArk.com.

Book preview

THE BRANDYWINE PROPHET

Jake Vander Ark

Copyright 2012 by Jake Vander Ark

Smashwords Edition

For Dad

"When we’ve been there ten thousand years

Bright shining as the sun..."

www.jakevanderark.com

[e-mail]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PROLOGUE The Third Jeté

ONE Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice

TWO The Evolution of the Brandywine Prophet

THREE Whitaker and Reid

FOUR Setting the Stage

FIVE Young Love

SIX Batten Clamps

SEVEN Marionette Strings

EIGHT The Rise of a Listening God

NINE Lilapricot’93

TEN Young Love (Reprise)

ELEVEN The Chorus Room

TWELVE The Silence and the Storm: A Parable

CODA

AFTERWARD The Music Box On the Hill

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

PROLOGUE - The Third Jeté

"T’was grace that taught my heart to fear..."

Monday: The Sparkle Motion National Championship

Even the lightning tried to stop Janie’s dance. It webbed and pealed thick ivory streaks in a terrifying display of power, but her father could not be moved.

The Amphitheater sat on a plateau above the Brandywine subdivision. The town’s inhabitants were gathered in a crescent around The Theater, roaring with the thunder, unaware that The Stage was binding them in the glow of its electric foot-candles.

A row of sequined girls shivered in the lee of the cinderblock wall. Their teeth chattered behind made-up cheeks as they whispered in unison after every bolt, One-watermelon, two-watermel— then trembled when a thunderclap cut them short. The chorus room would have kept them warm, but they wouldn’t—

—they couldn’t use the chorus room.

Forty-two tents were erected along the perimeter fence to provide shelter from the impending rain. The torn white plastic ignored the spectators huddled below, flapping and whirling in a desperate plea for surrender. The only tent that didn’t bend was reinforced with two rolls of duct tape and tethered to the ground with stakes and sandbags. It housed cameras, monitors, and reporters from the local news.

Any earthly production would have been cancelled at the slightest suggestion of rain, but this was William’s Stage—it was William’s call—and if the children danced and the congregation remained transfixed, the show would go on.

Chase—Sparkle Motion’s fifteen-year-old stage manager—zip-zagged again with his push broom, sweeping the glitter, feathers, and wetness from the wooden floor of The Stage.

The peppy voice of the announcer blared through the overhead speakers to introduce the next dance. Next up we have competitive ballet, age fourteen. Please welcome Janie Carmel performing ‘An Elegy for Miracles!’

Janie’s fingertips brushed the meshwork edge of her cream tutu. William released his fingers from her temples, kissed the twirl of brown hair secured tightly atop her head, and backed into the shadows of the right-wing as his daughter took her position on the dance floor.

A crack of thunder signaled another surge of applause as the girl assumed her stance, arms poised above her head and overexposed in the spotlight. For an instant her eyes met her father’s. He mouthed Thank you, but her stoicism refused a smile.

Her decision was final.

As William awaited the music, his cinnamon gum began to lock his jaw, already overworked from a month of grinding teeth. He didn’t care; he chewed more furiously and reveled in his stiffening cheeks and the sound of every squished chomp. If his muscles cramped, he would gladly take the pain.

William didn’t know it yet, but The Stage he built was about to take his daughter’s life.

* * *

Tonight marked the first day of Sparkle Motion’s National Dance Championship. Janie’s ballet was one of three-thousand acts that would grace William’s Stage in less than a week, and the event marked the third Sparkle Motion show in The Theater’s two year history. Will remembered the humble roots of his enterprise; how it housed recitals for children, church services, local and national theater troupes, country and rock concerts, operas, and more.

That was before the madness... before it consumed.

Squinting past the lights and rain and into the darkened sway of the audience, William knew his wife was watching. Brian Sherlock Cavenaugh and two other policemen were also peppered in the mass; their usual navy garb replaced by inconspicuous jackets and jeans. William wasn’t worried about Sherlock and his minions; everything was proceeding as planned.

He turned his attention to Janie and marveled at her honest expressions—nothing false—as if the beginning movements of the ballet were truly affecting her. The music fell in sync with her movement. She commanded the song as she commanded her body.

It was William’s song that moved her; his own pianistic creation written and performed by all seven of his fingers on a tuneless piano. Tombé, pas de bourrée, glissade, pas du chat; he mouthed the terms as his daughter executed every move with matchless grace.

William’s gum chewing slowed. He spit the wad behind the fiberglass set piece as he crossed from stage-right to stage-left where Janie was about to exit. He ran his deformed finger and thumb through wet, grey hair, then relinquished his stress to the sad tune. An arabesque. A grand battement. The movements were crystal in his mind’s eye. He recalled his daughter practicing days earlier in the living room, just the two of them. Then years earlier, a different dance but the same Janie, the same living room, twirls and giggles and good times accompanied by great music; just the three of them.

He emerged into the left-wing. He tapped the choreography’s timing with his toe. He eyed the young stage manager across the floor, standing motionless for the first time today with his chin on his broom and his eyes entranced on Janie.

The tempo increased but Janie didn’t miss a beat. William stepped forward. Chase stepped forward. The audience buzzed like TV static behind the rain. Even the thunder broke to give the child her moment. Another flawless arabesque followed by a fouetté.

The three jetés were next. Starting on stage-right, she would leap toward her father and land—off-stage—into his arms.

The first jeté began with a chassé followed immediately by the leap; arms stretched and legs split nearly three feet above the floor. Her back leg kicked and William sensed the judge’s approval. The second jeté; flawless again and he wished the corner of her lip would raise so he could see her satisfaction. Another kick of the back leg; another consummate landing.

The third jeté was the highest. Janie leapt, twisted her head away from William to the judges in the front row, and her form froze midair as she unknowingly said goodbye to the world. Her legs spread again, four feet off the ground and directly above the hatch William conceived and installed—unfinished—containing his daughter’s landing in its dead center. The hatch gave way under the precisely applied pressure of her slippered toe, broke open, and the ballerina fell.

Janie didn’t scream, but plunged into silence, then a thud and slap on the concrete eleven-feet below. A cry from the crowd—probably Sarah’s—but William remained motionless, his body not yet understanding what his mind did.

Chase reacted first, darting from stage-right as William snapped to life and bolted—not fast enough—from stage-left. His cheeks burned. He ignored the murmurs of the horde.

Someone call an ambulance!

The police forgot the real reason they were attending the evening’s spectacle and rushed toward The Stage.

The cameras arrived first, led by Robin-the-reporter pushing blond hair from her face while masking excitement with concern.

Janie! William yelled, jerking his head back and forth as if it would clear the blackness from the pit. Janie!

That boy—that stage manager he barely knew—slipped into the cutout square, clutched the ledge, and dangled his feet into the snapping jaws of the dark. His eyes flicked to William and narrowed. Five six seven eight, Chase said, then released his grip and fell.

"Janie! Janie! The boy’s screams echoed in the dark, muffled by the clamor of the crowd and the final cold chord of William’s lullaby. Janie!" he cried again.

As Will peered through that terrible hole, his stomach released a hatch of its own and dropped his heart like a hangman.

With Chase’s words ringing from the abyss and confirming the end of Janie’s life, William looked up... through his tears... past the catwalk and lights... past the sky... through the dark and clouds and stars and into the void where he once knew God existed, then turned himself outside-in, alone, and asked, Why?

* * *

Tragedy triumphed where the storm had failed; the remaining days of the Sparkle Motion Championship were cancelled.

The hatch was inspected. Neglect was to blame. The brackets and bolts—meant to last six months—had become crumbles of amber rust after two winters of swelling and contracting. How many plays? How many dances? How many toes tickled that lid in a colorful production of Russian Roulette?

The body was removed, the cement slab hosed. By eight AM Tuesday morning, a plastic cross had been anonymously purchased and placed in front of the orange cones standing guard at the open hole. Someone—William would never know who—turned the spotlight onto the lonely monument. Another rainstorm popped the breakers two weeks later, leaving the stage in darkness for the short remainder of its life.

Chase, the young Sparkle Motion employee who was first down the rabbit hole, was deemed a hero by the tragedy’s spectators. But he refused the title. After Janie was laid to rest at the Grand Rapids Memorial Cemetery, he flew back to Tennessee and quit the job he loved.

Mrs. Danthers was the only neighbor who had the courage and persistence to visit William’s house (for it was no longer a home) at the base of the hill. She clutched a foil-covered Pyrex, walked up the porch steps, and hopscotched fresh bouquets with their swelling buds, rainbow petals and foil balloons. The vases beside the front door stank of wet leaves and ash. A quick peek inside; she saw the carpet, unfurled except for the path from the couch to the kitchen to the stairs.

When ringing the doorbell proved fruitless (as it always did) Mrs. Danthers replaced yesterday’s untouched pan with today’s piping-hot casserole, then picked cigarette butts from the lifeless floral arrangement closest to the door. As she made her way back through the dying gaud, she examined the cardboard slips attached to every bouquet to see if they were addressed to William Carmel or William and Sarah Carmel.

Will only saw his wife once after the funeral. Her deep brown eyes had faded, the outside corners had turned down in a perpetual expression of indifference. She blamed him.

The days and nights and weeks and seconds ticked like a broken metronome with William stoned and hungover in bed, sobbing for sleep and abandoning his mind. When he did think—when his brain began the slow chugging of rusty gears—the only thoughts that came were unspeakable things like, what’s the worst age a child can die? Worse yet was—after hours spent staring at the ceiling until it became a real-life Escher print with fans on the floor, useless windowsills, and dresser drawers that spilled underwear when opened—worse yet was when his mind found answers to those questions. Two-years-old isn’t so bad, he mused. They barely had a life. Twenty? At least they got to experience life!

But fourteen... fourteen was the worst.

Basic human functions returned in the following weeks. William found himself stumbling down hallways (past her sealed bedroom door) to the bathroom or kitchen with the voice of Sarah, Kayla, and Baylee ringing like a three-headed beast in his head, It’s all your fault, it’s all your fault, it’s all your fault.

It was his fault. It was his fault for underestimating coincidence; for believing in supreme benevolence over divine apathy.

But the bare-bones truth was that the escalating madness of the last six months had been released that night like the blubbering mouth of an untied balloon. William’s problems—once piled high and precarious like Janie’s Jenga set—became meaningless upon her death.

He sold his property, house and hill to Silverman & Binder, the developer who wanted it from the beginning. Jaxon Silverman (that beady-eyed prick) paid no attention to the incident that sparked William’s sale, and ignored the man’s pain as he slipped him a torn piece of paper with his best offer as if they were negotiating used cars.

Silverman & Binder wasted no time demolishing the stage, spending a week with yellow behemoths crunching and hauling the remains of William’s dream. The chorus room—locked in brick and mortar—imploded with the rest. The machines paid no attention to the fossils in the rubble.

For a day, the stage became a heap from 1945 Berlin. William said goodbye among splintered wood and snakes of rope jutting and twining together in a sanctimonious alter.

A year later, the hill would contain Brandywine’s new expansion: golden homes, swimming pools and white picket fences creeping through William’s inherited and discarded property. But he wouldn’t be around to see it, nor would he ever visit that hill again.

ONE - Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice

Hyde Whitaker grazed a hand over his stiff blond hair in the lobby of Big Blue’s Piano Bar and asked himself again why the heck he was here.

He was here because women talk; they talk and they gather and they plan new ways to torture their husbands. William’s a good guy, Kayla explained that morning. He just doesn’t have many friends.

He’s old enough to be my dad, Hyde replied.

It would mean a lot to me.

You talked to his wife?

He used to be a writer or something...

That’s supposed to make me like him?

Kayla made her pouty face. Please, Hydey-Wydey?

The banter continued until she stormed to her puzzle of Van Gogh’s sunflowers and refused to acknowledge him for the next thirty minutes. Finally, she muttered, I just want our new neighbors to like us...

And Hyde agreed.

It was hard to believe that socializing could ever be a problem for Hyde Most-Likely-To-Succeed Whitaker. Since the loss of his mother to lung cancer and the uphill battle for business success, he had become quite proficient at meeting new people and sustaining lasting friendships. He was elected class treasurer his senior year of high school. The position not only taught him how to converse with peers and authority figures, but elevated him to a new level of popularity. The bulk of his friend base moved with him to Grand Valley State where he pioneered Colleges Against Cancer, an advocacy branch of the ACS. Business school and subsequent business ownership pushed Hyde into trade shows where he negotiated deals on electronics, presented them to investors, and sold them to customers. Before he and Kayla moved to the Brandywine subdivision a week ago, he led a monthly men’s church group in the living room of their one-bedroom apartment.

Yet here he stood, double-checking the fold of his yellow collar and pressing his sideburns flat against his temples. He rotated the clip of his gold chain to the back of his neck, removed the bluetooth from his ear, and triple-checked the gosh-darned collar.

A group of college girls sat at the center table, fifteen feet from the man Hyde was forced to befriend. He passed the women with a brief glance, then took a seat at the bar.

* * *

The first verse of William’s all-time least-favorite song didn’t deserve the red foot pedal hovering below the piano. It was a novelty song about a pussy cat; a double entendre that sees the kitten sore, wet and bald by the final verse. He would wait until the patrons of Big Blue’s Piano Bar became fully immersed in the stupidity of his all-time least-favorite song, then he would give in, push the damn pedal, and let the tips flow like a lucky slot machine into his jar.

A tacky bout of fog hissed from the nozzle above his head. The device was Big Blue’s response to the Michigan law banning smoking in bars. Will hadn’t even bummed a cig in twenty-four years, he missed the taste of real tavern atmosphere.

The customer chemistry was ideal tonight. A group of businessmen were in the far corner, bathed in the cobalt light, ties loose, cuffs open, singing along to the classic rock. A table of coeds enjoyed their spring break by making cat calls at Will, jotting numbers for the more attractive waiters, and belting along to the country songs. Folks sat in benches along the mirrored walls and on stools around the piano. Jesse and Milly filled orders from the bar; the clink of their mugs and rush of the draft added a syncopated beat to William’s silly song.

His fingers tapped the spunky tune and his smile told the crowd he loved his job. He wore a tweed fedora over bark-brown hair; at fifty-five, the grey was only evident in his stubble.

Stanley Bright was hunched at the bar. The man didn’t wear mid-fifties as confidently as Will, especially with construction drab over his left shoulder and crusted dust on his brow. Back in the ol’ days, Stan had potential. Now he was duller than the back of a butter knife and found his refuge in scotch.

Will enjoyed the physical act of tickling the ivories, but loathed his job at the bar. He was a writer and a director and a choreographer! If he wasn’t creating something, why not drill holes in a factory? He had passion like a tuning fork in his chest, reverberating through his organs, telling him to create something, anything, everything in the name of art. He longed to burn the Big Blue’s songbook, to banish his all-time least-favorite song, to engage his audience in music of his own creation. Eyes closed and neck slack, his fingers would not be his but God’s. He would relish the piano’s sound and thank the Lord for bestowing him with such deep passion.

This job disemboweled originality. Anyone could see the misery in Will’s eyes if they only bothered to glance up from their mugs.

But without missing a beat, he pressed his foot against the big red pedal and—to great applause and hollering—the piano began to spin as the artificial atmosphere twirled around his hat.

Will raised his voice. He bobbed his head. And as he zipped his fingers down the plastic keys, he longed to be home.

* * *

It took a solid minute for Hyde to realize that William’s song wasn’t about a cat, but then he got the joke in the last verse and laughed with the rest. From the little he knew of music, his new neighbor was insanely talented.

The song was over and the twisting piano came to a stop. That’s all for tonight, my friends, William said. Duane’ll be out in a few.

The man stood a head and neck taller than Hyde. His full breadth was exemplified in wide, boney shoulders. He removed a blazer from a hook behind the piano and tapped the bulging right pocket. As he turned to leave, Hyde jumped from his stool and intercepted him on the way to the exit.

William? William Carmel?

The man was already stuffing his arms into his jacket. He looked at Hyde and narrowed his brow. I’m not in the mood to sign autographs.

Autographs? Was he serious? I heard you play. I think you’re amazing. Can I buy you a beer?

Afraid I don’t drink.

Hyde laughed nervously. Neither do I. How does Coke sound?

The man’s eyes were grey without a tinge of color. Sarah sent you, he said.

I’m sorry?

My wife. She’s trying to hook me up.

Hyde grinned and looked at the floor. Somethin’ like that.

And may I ask the name of Sarah’s new stooge?

My name’s Hyde. Whitaker.

"I’ll tell you what, Hyde Whitaker; I’ll accept your Coke. We’ll chat. And if we don’t like each other in ten minutes, you can tell your wife we had an interesting time and she’ll tell my wife we had an interesting time and we never have to see each other again."

The tension was gone. If William was opposed to this as much as he was, they might just get along. Deal, he said.

They stepped to the bar and sat down. William Carmel... Hyde said. Like the candy?

Like the mountain.

Awesome.

And my wife calls me William. Will signaled the female bartender. Two Cokes, Milly? he said, then looked to Hyde. How does a boy make it through your generation without drinking?

I’m twenty-six.

It’s a moral thing?

I watched alcohol destroy my friends in college. I have too much to accomplish to let that happen to me.

I respect that.

My wife doesn’t like it much, either.

Will nodded. And what do you do for a living, Mr. Whitaker?

I run my own business; Whitaker Electronics.

So you’re a salesman.

Technically, but—

My brother-in-law’s a salesman. Owns an alpaca farm in Virginia. Waste of skin. William wasn’t the first to insult Hyde’s profession.

I guess I prefer speakers and blu-ray players over farm animals.

Where’s your store?

Three blocks down Boulevard. He nodded south. It’s nice working just over the hill.

You live in Brandywine?

Right across the street.

"So you’re to blame."

For?

The last house in ‘phase fourteen.’ Hyde and... Kylie?

Kayla.

Kayla. How do you and Kayla like the Brandywine experience? Will folded his arms, crossed his legs, and leaned back on his stool.

It’s friendly. And comfortable. We like the stability of the subdivision.

Perceived stability.

I’m sorry?

What does Kylie do?

Kayla.

What does Kayla—

She teaches dance. Well... Hyde paused. She’s about to.

Oh?

We just began renovating a new studio; part of the reason for the move.

Did our wives discuss the dance thing?

If there were any conversations about dance, they left me out.

Milly set two fizzing glasses in front of the men.

How did our wives meet and plan this little get-together? Will asked.

Your wife—

Sarah.

—brought a Dutch-chocolate cake to welcome us to the neighborhood.

I guess I missed that.

They had lunch together. Mine made yours a salad with strawberries. Best she’s ever had.

Will’s eyes froze. Missed that too... he said, but his mind was detached from the words. The man’s brow curled over his eyelids and Hyde noticed a slight shift in disposition as if his body and brain were pushing out the sights, sounds, and smells of the bar to focus on a single thought. His hand jerked from the counter to his lapel. He patted his shirt and blazer, then said, Give me a pen.

Hyde didn’t have a pen but searched his pockets anyway. When he came up empty, he turned to Milly. Excuse me, Ma’am, he said, but the bartender was already a step ahead. In one fluid motion, she zipped a pen across the bar, right passed Hyde and into Will’s hand. He clicked it once and scribbled on his palm.

When he finished, he tossed the pen back to Milly, winked, and turned to Hyde. Where were we?

Can I ask what you wrote?

Sure.

...What did you write?

’Salad and strawberries.’ I like the phrase.

For a book? Hyde remembered Kayla explaining Will’s knowledge in the arts; writing, directing, drawing...

Maybe. He blew on his hand to dry the ink.

I don’t understand your wife’s concern, Hyde said. You don’t seem like a hermit.

Is that what she called me?

She used the word ‘introvert.’

Ha! A new voice chimed in and Hyde swiveled in his seat. The man was Will’s age with peppery stubble and a neon orange vest. He gripped his drink with a chiseled fist. The corner of his lip sagged where a cigarette longed to rest. Don’t let Billy Carmel fool ya. His extroverted side is playin’ possum.

Thirty years of diggin’ holes has made you crabby, Stan, Will said. And if you call me that again, I’ll wring your neck like a canary.

Why can’t he call you Billy? Hyde asked.

Stan knows better, Will said. He’s just had one too many drinks.

‘One too many?’ Stan grinned. That’s a new phrase for ol’ Billy Carmel!

Hyde could only grin like a chimp as the men played monkey-in-the-middle with inside jokes.

Will turned to Hyde but kept his eyes on Stanley. Stan was my partner-in-crime when he moved to Brandywine. Now he builds houses for the enemy.

Stan signaled the waitress, gathered his vest, and stood.

Leaving already? Will asked.

Stan ignored the comment and looked at Hyde. If you take a left at the gate, I’m the third house down. If this guy gives you a hard time, give me a holler. Oh, and welcome to Brandywine.

Hyde shook Stan’s hand; meaty, papery, and twice the size of his own. He felt like a child in the company of grizzlies. You too, man.

Will sucked the last of his pop, let the glass thud and ring on the wooden bar, then raised a hand to Milly. His drink goes on my tab.

* * *

Do you like what you do, Hyde?

For work?

When you were five years old, did you draw pictures of small business owners selling electronics?

I drew pictures of firemen.

Are you disappointed that you didn’t become a fireman?

I had a limited imagination when I was five.

Will slouched in his stool. His blazer bunched around his neck. This electronics business... you really feel like it’s your calling?

I guess. Yeah. Definitely.

When you punch out at the same time every night, you never feel like there might be something more? Like electronics isn’t your thing?

I don’t think so...

I have a passion for music. But as much as I love the piano, I can’t stand this job.

Maybe my passion for electronics is greater than your passion for music. Hyde meant it as a joke, but Will didn’t seem to find it amusing.

Passion isn’t ironing your shirt so people will feel a false sense of trust and spend more cash on technology that’ll be obsolete in a year. Passion is dirty. It’s knowing something inside-out and loving it with every molecule of your being; something you need to do or you’ll burst. Is that what selling electronics does for you?

Hyde wanted to tell Will that he spent his childhood dissecting broken calculators and stereos and VCRs; that he spent four years watching his friends revel in the college experience while he studied his butt off and stayed faithful to his girlfriend; that the money he earned as a sleazy salesman made him a business owner, a homeowner, a pet-owner, and a loving husband at only twenty-six years old. But all he could say was, Yes.

Well then, Will said, good for you.

* * *

By road, it was 2.3 miles from Big Blue’s Piano Bar to the front steps of Will’s home. As the crow flies, only a patch of woods and the hill separated the sprawling businesses of Boulevard Street from the Brandywine subdivision. Hyde offered Will a ride home, but the air was clear, the stars were visible, and though a spring breeze tugged his coat, he was comfortable.

The rear exit of Big Blue’s smelled like urine and bananas. The dumpster was emptied yesterday, but still held the pervasive smears and puddles of unidentifiable liquid. Will stepped around broken bottle necks that had missed the trash, and twisted his rubber soles into the glass to create a satisfying grating sound against the concrete.

The forest edge stood thirty feet from the dumpster, and a service road doubled as no-man’s land between the piano bar and the woodland creatures. As Will crossed the street, blacktop melded with dirt and the floodlight gave way to light from the moon.

He was able to move quickly. The harsh winter had rerouted last year’s path, but his feet and hands familiarized themselves with the new trail as he pulled himself along the smooth saplings. The orange glow from the suburb lights kept him in the right direction until the thicket gave way to open air at the base of his hill.

The evening already laid a veneer of dew on the grass so Will had to dig his shoes in the sod to secure his footing.

The hill was a geographical anomaly in this part of the state. Michigan was known for its rolling landscape, but Brandywine, Boulevard and the surrounding land was as flat as Illinois... except for his hill. Though few residents knew or cared, the bulge belonged to the Carmels. Will estimated the plateau could hold more than five football fields.

He reached the peak, put his hands on his knees, and watched the suburb sleep. The hill was not only his domain, it was his legacy. From here, William controlled the world.

It was twenty-seven years ago that he sold the bulk of his property to Silverman & Binder and houses began popping up—ten at a time—in the shape of ice cube trays. Last September saw the construction of homes within talking distance of his, and after fifty-five years in the same house, Will finally had neighbors: Hyde, the salesman and Kayla, the dance teacher.

The Carmel residence sat at the base of the hill askew to the neatly formed houses that were preparing to engulf it. It was the home where William grew up, the home his father built, the home he returned to when his life spiraled out of control.

Inside, his wife and daughter were asleep, awaiting the excitement of Easter morning.

Will stuck his hand in his pocket and rustled the change inside.

With a little fancy footwork, he found himself at the bottom. He ambled to his house, snuck through the backdoor, then removed his grass-stained shoes and kicked them to the checkered linoleum. He pulled a string to turn on the overhead bulb, then left it on just long enough to assure the path to the living room was clear of childhood debris. Sarah always left the TV on for comfort during his late nights, but the flickering blue glow and muffled sound of women selling painted-glass pigs made the room feel more dead than alive.

Will remembered the note on his hand—salad and strawberries—then marched to the living room, stooped to the oak cabinet beneath the TV, and retrieved a notebook from the top of the stack. He flipped to the first blank page and transferred the poetic snippet from his hand to the paper.

He stood, he arched his back to pop his sternum, then he shuffled to his recliner.

Giant bags of penny candy covered the coffee table and boxes of plastic eggs sat beside his chair. Sarah offered to fill them while he worked, but the Easter hunt was his tradition.

Will opened every egg (crusted with muddy fingerprints from last year’s festivities), removed a quarter from his jacket pocket, placed it alongside a Tootsie Roll, butterscotch drop, or Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum, then sealed each prize with a snap.

* * *

Kay?

Mmm...

Kayla? Honey?

Hmm?

Are you awake, honey bear?

Mm hmm.

I need to ask you something.

What is it, Hydey?

...Do you think I’m passionate about my job?

Hmm?

When you see me working, do I seem passionate?

Mmm. Sooo passionate...

Do I seem like I know what I’m talking about? Do I seem excited about electronics?

How’d it go with the neighbor?

I’ll tell you in the morning. Go to sleep, baby.

But I wanna know.

The man is a fascinating jerk...

Yeah?

But I think I can learn a lot from him.

* * *

Dad. Dad. Dad. Get up. Get up. Get up.

Sunlight pressed against Will’s eyelids making them impossible to open.

Dad. Up. Now.

It was less than a year ago that Janie would have jumped up and down on the couch to wake him, but now she was twelve and gone were the days of Daddy.

I’m up, he mumbled.

Why are you on the couch?

He grunted.

Trouble with Mom?

He grunted again.

She says you need to get up. Do you want the purple tie or the green?

Green, is what he tried to say, but it came out as een.

Janie leaned sideways just enough to block the light from his face. He stretched one eye open. His daughter—dressed in a lovely white dress with an emerald sash—stood above him with her face an inch from his. She smiled and poked his nose. Get. Up. Mister.

Will opened his other eye and noticed the scar that zigzagged from the corner of Janie’s left eye to her chin. The blemish had been a part of his daughter for so long that he rarely noticed it anymore, but something was different today.

Why all the makeup? he asked.

What makeup?

He grabbed her shoulder for leverage, sat up, and studied her cheek. Face cream—not quite the tone of her skin—filled the divots of the pink cut, and too much blush attempted to mask the awkward patch. Will squeezed her shoulders and said, Nothing. You look fine.

Mom got up early to hide the eggs.

He looked to his chair. Sure enough, the boxes were empty. Did she hide ‘em?

Said she hid ‘em good.

"Hid them well," he corrected.

"Yes, Dad, she hid them well. She saved the gold eggs for you. Says you have special hiding spots."

Will rubbed his eyes. Do you think you’re too old to hunt for eggs this year?

Daddyyyyyy!

Now she uses Daddy. If you’re still a little girl, I can do it myself.

Do what? Do whaaaaat?

Hide the golden eggs.

Janie pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. If I help you hide the gold eggs, I can’t look for them with the other kids?

That wouldn’t be fair, would it?

No. Janie looked away from her father... to the left out of habit. Can I pick the hiding spots? she asked.

Sure can.

She nodded. Then it’s a deal.

* * *

Will spent the morning dodging his wife’s questions about the ambush at the bar, but finally opened up on the way to church.

Didja at least have fun? she asked.

He’s young enough to be my kid.

His wife teaches dance.

Miss Alice is better.

You don’t know that!

Give ya the odds...

They might be at church today, so be nice.

You invited them?

Of course I did, darling.

Will’s grunt put the conversation on hold for the remainder of the ride.

The Carmel family had been members of the non-denominational Church of the Dunes for twenty-three years of its twenty-five-year history. Once a month, Sarah donned a burgundy gown and sang with the choir. Whenever Pastor VanDuyn could guilt him into it, William played the organ.

He dropped Sarah at the front door for choir practice and Janie at the back door for Sunday-school, then pulled his truck to his usual spot, cranked back his seat, and tried to relax.

Sarah wanted him to be social?

He could be social.

She wanted him to be nice?

He could be that too.

Will’s idea of nice was smoking a cigar with the guys. He wasn’t one for cracking a beer and talking shop, but he did have a box of Diamond Crowns saved for special occasions. There were only a few places in the States to find the Dominican smokes, so when he stumbled on a whole box in a Traverse City tobacco shop, he didn’t hesitate at the thirteen-dollars-per-stick price tag. Cigars were technically a substance, but they were the only vice that survived his transformation. Sarah didn’t mind as long as he kept them in the stables and tossed any defiled clothes directly in the wash.

He already counted them this morning. Ten smokes. Nobody would be left out.

* * *

Easter afternoon seemed torn from a coloring book with scribbled trees, baby-blue skies, and a big orange sun with wavy yellow lines bursting from its core. Girls with pale skin and pastel dresses skipped along the front of Will’s hill. Boys played at the end of Brandywine where the blacktop faded to gravel and weeds. A chalk maze wound through the unfinished cul-de-sac, complete with jump rope booby-traps and hula-hoop land-mines (though middle-schoolers on bikes posed a more realistic threat). Parents watched from the curb like helicopters.

On top of the hill, three white buckets were filled with Mrs. Danthers’ special bubble mix: seven parts water, two parts dish soap, one part glycerin. Pipe cleaners were fashioned into all shapes and sizes and tiny hands popped what little lips blew. The older kids mastered monster bubbles with circles of rope tied to sticks.

The hunt was a success. The woods and hill served as fair hunting ground while the fenced-in corral was sectioned off for toddlers. Every time a golden egg was discovered, Janie and Will shared a knowing glance. At the end of the day, the special eggs could be exchanged for a giant Easter basket with chocolate bunnies, jars of strawberry preserves, and Applebees gift cards.

When most of the eggs had been discovered (Will was bound to run over a few stragglers with the lawnmower later that summer) the Easter Bunny came hopping out of the woods with a bag of fun-sized candy bars. Although the rabbit was an established attraction and a hit with the kids, he was nearly banned last year after Morgan Demfield’s daughter screamed and kicked her way out of his arms. The helicopters converged and deemed the costumed stranger an inappropriate addition to the Carmel Easter Picnic. Will defended Sean Umbers—the man behind the mask—explaining that he was a retired high-school teacher of twenty years and a sponsor of six children through WorldVision. But the concerned mothers still demanded a meet-and-greet with the rabbit—sans furry costume—before this year’s event. Two empty boxes of wine later, the women were fully satisfied with the divorced Mr. Umbers signing autographs for their five-year-olds. By the end of the hunt, Sean would discover four candy wrappers with scrawled numbers pushed seductively in the crack between the bunny’s suit and head.

The broken heart necklaces that Jenny Johnson and Sloan Elfman refused to remove identified them as BFFs. Their lemonade stand sat at the foot of the hill between the corral and the Carmel’s back door. For two bucks, customers received a cup of shaved ice with freshly squeezed lemon juice poured on top. Will supported the young entrepreneurs by adding a fifty-cent tip, then he carried the slush up the hill.

He was breathing hard by the time he reached Sarah. She was gracing a picnic blanket among friends like the Venus de Milo with arms. She didn’t notice him, so he lowered the moist cup to her back and pressed the plastic against her freckled skin. She screamed and slapped his ankles, then accepted the drink, tilted her head, and accepted his kiss. (Kissing Sarah was more than a gesture of love, whenever Will pressed his lips against hers, he made himself remember how blessed he was. Eyes closed, he smelled the sweet summer aroma of watermelon body spray and recalled making love on the hill after a picnic she assembled as a birthday gift. She wore a black tank-top that day. They laughed at the grass stains on her shoulders.) He drew away from the kiss and Sarah mouthed I love you, but her circle of friends remained oblivious to their chemistry.

As Will turned from his wife, he saw them approach. He identified Kayla as a dancer by her defined calves, trim waist, and superbly toned ass. Red, natural curls stretched against her scalp and bounced freely behind her ears.

Hyde was an inch shorter than his wife. He gripped a cup of lemonade and a leash in one hand, and his wife’s hand in the other. A little Bichon lurched forward, jerking its leash and sloshing lemonade across Hyde’s shoes.

Will tapped Sarah on the shoulder and she stood.

Welcome, welcome! she said, leaping forward and grabbing Kayla with both arms.

Will shook Hyde’s hand and felt a sudden tinge of guilt for his passion rant the night before. How was the trek up the hill? he asked.

Didn’t break a sweat. Hyde looked to his wife. Baby, this is Will Carmel.

Kayla flashed a wry smile as if she knew an inside joke that she couldn’t say. Good to finally meet you, Mr. Carmel! Hydey had such wonderful things to say about you!

Will took her hand and nodded. Good too meet you too, Mrs. Whitaker.

The next series of interactions took place in under a second, but Will deftly followed the minutia of the couple’s expressions. The moment the name Whitaker escaped his lips, Hyde squinted, freed his hand from Kayla’s, and raised it to visor his eyes from the four o’clock sun. He looked away, but then—as if he realized he made a mistake by breaking contact with Will—flicked his eyes to Kayla and back. The woman never took her focus off William, but readjusted her stance in a misguided attempt at confidence.

"It’s Kayla Reid, she corrected. I kept my last name when we married."

Ah, Will said. Not ‘Whitaker-Reid,’ or ‘Reid-Whitaker?’

Just Reid, Hyde said.

Kayla didn’t allow time for awkward silence. She pulled her hand from behind her back and revealed a pink gift bag with light-green tissue exploding from the top.

For us? Sarah asked.

Because it’s Easter, Kayla said. And for inviting us to your fabulous church and glorious picnic!

It’s heavy! Sarah dipped her hand into the bag and pulled out a rock. She turned it over and showed Will the engraved inscription. ’A friend is someone who knows the song in your heart and can sing it back to you when you have forgotten the words.’ Aww!

Will interjected, I prefer, ‘Build a man a fire and keep him warm for an hour. Set a man on fire, and he’ll be warm for the rest of his life.’

Sarah elbowed him in the side. He’s joking.

I was. The stone is lovely.

It’s Kay’s birthday on May first, Hyde said. Her parents bought her a rock engraver as an early present.

How neat, Sarah said.

I love arts and crafts, Kayla interjected. I think they go hand-in-hand with dance. And it makes me so incredibly happy to give personalized gifts! They always mean more than flowers or something from a wish-list, don’t you think? She crinkled her nose.

You don’t have to put it in your yard or anything, Hyde said.

Of course we will! Sarah playfully slapped him in the ribs.

Also, we’re having a little party next week if you’d like to stop by.

Sarah turned to Kayla. Thank you for the present. It was a great use of your new rock engraver. And yes, we would love to come to your party.

* * *

Months from now, Will would look back at this group of men and call it a divine joke. There was Marvin Gibson, the architect from NYU who—until today—Will only saw in passing; Brian Sherlock Cavenaugh, a county trooper and the only man here with whom Will had ever carried on a conversation; and Hyde, trailing in back and slurping the bottom of his melted lemonade. There were others—Matt Johnson, William The Other Will Rogers, Darrel Pelton, et cetera—but these men would fade from Will’s memory in the coming years.

The group stood outside the studio portion of the stables. Will removed a super-cluster of keys from his pocket, found the smallest of the bunch, slid it into the lock on the front door, then motioned for the men to filter in.

...then the man stands up, removes his shirt, and says, ‘Here! Iron this!’ Darrel accentuated the punchline of his joke with a giant grin. The guys laughed.

Will missed the first part of the joke but chuckled anyway. When the laughter died down, he spread his arms. This, he said as daylight flooded his workspace, is where miracles happen.

Brian whistled. I need my own shed. Dang HOA won’t allow it.

This is the front half where I do most of my work. The stables are behind that wall—an old bomb shelter too—but we mainly use it for storage.

No floor? Hyde asked.

I like the dirt, Will replied. This old box has been standin’ for a half-century. He raked a set of ratchets from the workbench into his palm and dropped them in a drawer. Forgive the mess. There’s an order to the chaos.

In the center of the dirt—six feet away from all walls—stood a cherry-brown grand piano. This is my baby, Will said.

Is it an antique?

Belonged to my parents. My mother taught me to play on these keys when I was a boy.

Hyde ran his hand along the lid, then brushed the dust on his pants. You play it out here?

Reconstructing. But she plays nice; low inharmonicity, exceptional overtones...

Crickets.

Looks like my garage, The Other Will said, but with hanging piano strings instead of tail pipes.

If you need it tuned, I got a guy, said Marvin-the-architect.

Will smiled. I enjoy the process.

After two years of tinkering with the piano, it came to represent all the songs that Will wasn’t allowed to play at Big Blue’s; the songs he could write if only he had the perfect instrument. The keys were more than imitation ivory. Each finger pedal was like a blank canvass; the combination of black-and-white keys represented infinite possibilities. He still remembered the evening Sarah pulled the blanket off the mysterious lump on the stable floor. At the time, he didn’t care to see some relic from his past, but after the dust snapped from the blanket, twirled for a moment in the air, then cleared to reveal the legless piano, something inside him clicked. Broken strings cascaded from the sides. The lid was dangling from the base like a loose tooth. But it didn’t matter.

Next month, it would stand majestically in their living room. Janie would learn to play. Sarah would take lessons again. William would write a requiem while his wife cooked dinner. The old piano would bring his family together better than any plasma TV