The Brandywine Prophet

1.3 Two Years Earlier: William Carmel Hears the Voice

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 he twisted his rubber soles into the glass, creating 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 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 prepared 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, Will found himself at the bottom of his hill. 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 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 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, and filling eggs with candy and money would offer a brief distraction from that fucking contract and Jaxon’s ridiculous letter.