The Brandywine Prophet

6.6 Batten Clamps

June

“You know what you need? A pink flamingo for your yard.”

“You know what you need? A lawnmower.”

Hyde and Will kicked back on the wicker and enjoyed their twentieth porch-date since the accident. Hyde wasn’t keeping track, but Kayla worked four evenings a week so the math was simple enough.

“I like messin’ with the HOA. Six-and-a-half inches; what’s the worst they can do to me?”

“They can throw you in jail. It’s happened before.”

“In Brandywine?”

“Not yet. But there’s always a first.”

A stream of Puccini’s Madame Butterfly flooded the Brandywine streets and homes with dark, melodic pretension. 

Will must have sensed Hyde’s distaste. “I can get you free tickets for tomorrow’s show.”

“Ha! I don’t think I’d ‘get’ opera.”

“Puccini’s operas are otherworldly, but I must say I’m sick of it too. Especially the guy who thinks Pinkerton is supposed to sing every high note a touch flat.”

“Only two more days?”

“And ‘Butterfly’ is out.”

“What’s next?”

“Another weekend dance competition, then back to church services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. I’ve got the rights coming in for some old Shirly Temple movies too.”

“I’d put a gun to my head if Kay decided to dance in that show. Sparkle Motion was enough competition for one year, and we still have nationals next month.”

“In Chicago,” Will drew out the “a” with his best midwest accent. “We’ll get ‘em here next year.”

“Is Janie still practicing... what was it? Ave Maria?”

“Every day.”

Hyde cracked the top off his beer and caught the foam in his lips. It was his second summer in suburbia and he already loathed the neighborhood conventions. The bird houses, the tiki-torches, the plastic swing sets. The bees were back in numbers that exceeded last year’s swarm but he didn’t mind them anymore. He enjoyed watching the bugs dance and sway with Puccini’s opera. And if a rouge bee found his way into his beer, then good for him. Drink up little buddy.

“Does it make you nervous?” he asked and nodded to the fresh holes and mounds on the lot next door.

“Nervous? Nah. I’ve still got a while.”

(There was more on Hyde’s mind tonight than opera, bees, and suburbia, but finding the right moment was essential. His heart fluttered at every potential opening, but before he could muster the courage, the relevant topic changed and he kicked himself for the missed opportunity.) “How are the tiny martyrs?” he asked. “Done with the sling already?”

Will lifted his left hand. “The sling got in the way.” A plaster shell locked all four fingers in place and continued down his hand and enveloped his wrist. Janie’s name was written in red marker on the crusted palm with a heart dotting the “i”. His free, yellow thumb served as a barometer for the severity of the hidden bruises.

“Can’t feel anything?”

“My pointer still has nerve-endings. I can feel the fingernail rattling around in there.” He held the cast to his ear and shook it. “I can hear it too.”