The Brandywine Prophet

7.3 Marionette Strings

November

Granola and Judy Bauer always provided Will with refreshing nuggets of warm cynicism. Their house was the same as every other, properly cared for, showing no lack of respect for the HOA’s covenants. It sat at the elbow of Brandywine Drive’s final bend and, from the bottom of his driveway, Will could see the inflated fabric pumpkin at the end of their yard. The Bauer’s pumpkin was never on display for Halloween. Every year, old Granola waited until the day after Thanksgiving, then inflated the decoration as a spirited “f-you” to Brandywine’s technicolor Christmas sleaze. A letter from the HOA would arrive by the first of December, allowing him a week to remove the eyesore. One minute before midnight on the final day, Granola would turn off the electric pump and let the smiling jack-o-lantern shrivel to the ground.

But for now, the pumpkin stood fat and proud and Will gave the creature a nod.

Across the street from the Bauers (about eight houses down from Hyde and Kayla) Brian Cavenaugh stood on a ladder with a string of white Christmas lights draping neatly from a staple on the roof to a coil on his daughter’s arm. Sherlock--taller and wider than Will--showed his optimism with a smile to every friend and stranger he passed. He was a gentle, awkward man that one couldn’t imagine making love to a woman... yet the offspring at his side proved it happened at least once. The girl was Tracy, Janie’s enemy. Her chin was turned up as she observed her father’s skillful work with the stapler. When he lowered his hand, she lifted another clean loop of lights. The police cruiser sat in its usual spot on the street and still tricked Will into double checking his speed when rounding the corner. He wondered if it was Jolly-Saint-Cavenaugh who annually ratted out Bauer’s pumpkin.

Part One of William’s Christmas project sat on the grass at the end of his driveway: a hundred twelve-foot-long 1x3 boards to use as furring strips for the impending vinyl siding. The thin strips had to be nailed in vertical lines to the original siding, then the vinyl would be secured horizontally to the new wood. Will sported work gloves (with three limp fingers) to combat the slivers, and a heavy canvas jacket to combat the twenty-eight degree chill. Back and forth, back and forth; he made the long trek from the street to the house with six strips at a time. When half of the wood was repositioned, he looked to his distant theater and mouthed “I’m sorry.”

Two weeks ago, Sarah and Will bit the bullet and applied for a home-equity loan, marking the first time in his life that he owed someone money. After several days of slammed doors, dropped dishes and sarcastic remarks, he pointed out Sarah’s passive-aggressive attacks and she finally clarified her anxiety through a series of highly controlled screaming fits, followed by a sincere attempt at an apology. The loan seemed to bring her one step closer to the edge, but Will still didn’t understand why.

Janie stepped onto the front porch, trading one cold mother for another. She wore a puffy violet coat, her favorite knit beanie, and woolen mittens. As she clomped across the yard to the stack of lumber, she brought with her the season’s first snow. Small flecks salted the earth but she didn’t look up. She smiled at Will but didn’t speak, then wrapped her arms around three boards and pulled them toward the house with the ends dragging on frozen ground. One at a time, Will used his right hand to balance the boards on his left arm, then followed Janie to the new pile.

Father and daughter continued their silent routine until a single board remained in the driveway. The flakes grew to the size of hot-chocolate marshmallows and Will caught Janie’s adorable lapse in self-control as she stuck out her tongue and wobbled her head to lap a piece of falling snow. 

When she noticed him watching, she dusted off her mittens, composed herself, and asked, “What’s next?”

“My toolbox.”