The Brandywine Prophet

3.2 Whitaker & Reid

If Jaxon Silverman was simply the head developer of the Brandywine subdivision, Will may have been able to tolerate him. But Jaxon Silverman was more than that. He wanted to be involved. He had a chair on the Association. He wrote the Covenants. He enforced the Covenants. Jaxon was the bulldozers that toppled the Joad’s home in The Grapes of Wrath. He was the discouraging Dad in teenage sports movies. He was the hunter who shot Bambi’s mom.

The man was fifty. His eyes were small like black saltwater pearls and the corners of his mouth were perpetually pulled up in a retarded-dolphin smile, even when he was pissed. A receding hairline gave Jaxon a wet football field for a forehead. The hair-loss was fairly recent; when Will met the man in the mid eighties, he sported a flock-of-seagulls cut with a suit and tie.

Will climbed the trio of steps to his own porch, took Jaxon’s extended hand, and was reminded of the tight, insincere handshake of a used-mattress salesman.

“William Carmel, Brandywine’s first resident!” Jaxon still knew how to get under his skin. “It’s been too long.”

Stan Bright stood behind Jax with an armful of computer cables. Silverman & Binder’s favorite construction worker always looked uncomfortable in a suit and tie.

“Nice car,” Will said, nodding toward the yellow Hummer in his driveway. “You couldn’t walk three blocks?”

“Not with all the equipment. Besides, Stanley’s knee has been bothering him again, isn’t that right Stan?”

He nodded.

“What was the paper you pulled from my door?”

Jaxon blushed; the only real expression Will expected to see today. “I didn’t want to embarrass you, so I tore it down.” Jaxon removed the folded sheet from his back pocket. “It appears to be an online article about delirium.”

Will snatched it and skimmed the first line: “A person with delirium has little in the way of rational consciousness...” He crumpled the article and turned back to Jaxon. “Why are you here?”

“The whole company wanted to meet with you in the board room, but since you refused our invitations I thought it’d be nice if Stan and I dropped by for a visit; just old friends chatting without all the suits.” Jaxon winked as if he wasn’t also wearing a suit. “I think it’s fascinating; we’re the original three! Brandywine residents since the very beginning. The rest may come and go, but Will, Jax and Stan will be a part of this community forever.”

Will gagged on his own vomit. “I guess I should invite you in,” he said.

“That would be lovely. How’s the wife? Is she home?”

“No.”

“We can come back later if you think--”

“Now is fine.” Will motioned to the door.

Jaxon grabbed the handle and it opened with a screaming creak. “I see the ol’ homestead is getting a bit rusty.” He closed and reopened the door, slower this time so the scream became a drawn out cry.

“It’s called ‘character’, Jax. You could learn a few things from that door.”

The living room was dim with the door open; nearly black when it shut. The curtains were still closed from a week of articles taped to the windows. Sarah made it clear that if Janie saw an article about false prophets hanging eerily from a window pane, she would blame William’s infamous piano-bar rant and the stage would be ka-put.

Will sat in his gunmetal-grey Flexsteel sofa. It was a seventies shade of brown when his parents bought it thirty-five years ago, but an elegant refurbishment updated the style significantly. He didn’t offer the men a seat.