The Brandywine Prophet

6.5 Batten Clamps

Hmm... so I forgot there's some sexual content in this book when I gave it a PG-13 rating. Kids, close your eyes.

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“We did everything we could for them! I picked up Janie. I brought Sarah food. You comforted her... They’ll be fine at the hospital. He’ll be released tomorrow and his fingers will be healed in no time at all!” Kayla danced around the kitchen island while Hyde picked at leftover Chinese-takeout from Sunday night. It was two in the morning and several hours since the last time they ate anything but vending-machine food, but Kayla was too bouncy for dinner. “It’s not my responsibility anymore. I’m free! Can’t you feel that? Can’t you feel that release? Like a weight lifted off our family?”

“That’s not funny.”

“What’s not funny?”

“Like a weight?”

“I didn’t mean that, silly. You need to smile!”

“You shouldn’t have told her.”

“Why? How was it so wrong? Sarah is all about ‘truth truth truth.’ I never hear the end of it! And now she has the truth. It’s what she wanted!”

“So simple.”

“I want this to be a new beginning for us. I want to start over. I want us to make new friends!” Kayla took the paper box of orange chicken from Hyde and set it on the granite. “Pretend like this is a year ago. Pretend that Will saw that engraved stone at my party and he asked about it and we told them the truth. Pretend there isn’t a theater outside our window. Pretend that we made love that night.” Kayla ran her fingertips over the blond hair on his arms. “Tell me you love me.”

Hyde’s breath was warm with flavored chicken and his shirt smelled like smoke. “I love you,” he said.

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Huh?”

“Say, ‘Yeah, sugar-muffin, of course I still love you!’”

“Yeah, sugar-muffin, of course I still love you.”

“Maybe when we start anew, you can quit smoking.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, sugar-muffin.”

“Wait here.” Kayla skipped to the bedroom, grabbed the vibrator from the storage bin beneath the bed, checked to make sure the batteries still worked, stripped down to her undies, touched up her makeup in the mirror, and rushed back to the kitchen.

Hyde was eating again.

She posed against the refrigerator. “You’re not supposed to use a fork to eat Chinese food.”

He careened his neck and she sauntered over. “Tonight?” he asked.

She pulled the takeout box away for the second time, then used her pelvis to pin Hyde to the counter. She took his hand in hers, pressed it to her breast, pulled it down her skin, and pushed it between her thighs. “Can you feel that? I haven’t been this turned on in a year.” She raised the toy. “How does this thing work, Hydey? Can you show me?”

Hyde unbuttoned his khakis and unzipped his fly. 

She worked her hand inside his pants. “No underwear? Dirty!”

“We haven’t done laundry in weeks.”

A quick yank and his pants were on the floor. Hyde kicked them away, then picked her up, spun her around, and dropped her on the counter. He didn’t speak, but worked her panties off until her bare ass felt the cold slab of granite. She gave him the vibrator and he flipped it on.

The pleasure arrived effortlessly and Kayla embraced the new feeling with elbows in bread crumbs, head tossed back, and eyes an inch from the overhead pendant-light.

It happened in less than a minute; her first orgasm in over a year and it pulled her shoulders to the counter and she grabbed the edge with clenched fingers. She wrapped her legs around her husband’s shoulders and moaned and squirmed and thrashed until it was over and she sat up and reached down and he was still soft. “What happened?” she asked between heaving breaths.

Hyde turned away and pulled up his pants. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Hydey? I’m sure I can--”

“Not tonight, Kay. Later.”

*  *  *

Hyde didn’t sleep that night. He left his wife in bed. He thought of Will. He smoked a cigarette in the backyard and strained to recall the arrangement of letters and numbers in a digital name once scribbled across his palm. Apricot-something-or-other.

*  *  *

Per their contract with the stage, the production of Madame Butterfly was required to stop their build for an hour long service on Sunday morning. The stage managers held the work. Several joined the congregation.

Sarah sat alone. Hyde and Kayla wouldn’t make eye-contact anymore and Janie was in the back row with Megan’s family. Her husband--her sickly-glorious husband with his fresh cast and blubbering naiveté--was backstage awaiting his recognition with the minister of their church. Their church? The only time they attended The Church of the Dunes was when they hosted a service at the theater.

News about Will’s accident helped fill seventy more seats than last week’s Catholic mass, bringing the total congregation to approximately three-hundred-fifty casually dressed believers.

Sarah didn’t want to feel this way about her husband. She wanted to love him. She longed to discover that attraction to his creative ambitions. She wanted to tell him the truth because this lie was dragging her down like a chain-gang of elephants and she needed to break free before she was trampled. The lie--or hidden truth, rather--was making itself visible. Less than a week after Kayla’s confession, Will was already asking Sarah why she was upset.

Because I don’t know how to lie! she wanted to scream.

Hyde appeared in the seat next to her. He handed over the first check. She dropped it in her purse.

The minister concluded the morning announcements with news that the amphitheater’s generous owner was injured in a stage accident. He called William from the right-wing, then detailed the disaster for a stunned crowd.

By the time the minister’s summary of events was complete, William was blameless in the mauling of his fingers. It was a freak accident, perhaps part of God’s mysterious plan. Three pastoral elders crossed the stage bearing a bushel of daisies and a fifty-dollar gift-card for a spa. They thanked William for the weekly donation of his venue, made a joke about shaking his hand, declared his three rotting fingers “tiny martyrs,” and prodded the audience to a standing-ovation.

Before the prank, Sarah had been a part of the church choir. There were twenty of them now, grouped center-stage behind William, hands raised, clapping, swooping and swaying with red robes and hallelujah voices. She saw old friends on stage. She missed them.

When Will began to dance, Hyde put his hand over Sarah’s. He squeezed, and he left.

The congregation clapped; most were on the beat while others swayed in accidental syncopation. Some stood reverently still with their eyes closed and palms aimed at heaven. Morgan Demfield was among the righteous, arms in the air, praising God, forgetting that she condemned the theater in voice and in print. Sarah stood still too, but her eyes were open and watching the top curve of the bandshell. Something wasn’t right. On the left slope of the curved ceiling hung a tooth. It had the shape and texture of a shark's tooth with faded veins of yellow decay. It could have been some obscure prop from Madame Butterfly, but when Sarah looked right, the opposite tooth was already wiggling its way through the plaster.