The Brandywine Prophet

4.2 Setting the Stage

When Sarah approached William twelve years ago and announced she was pregnant--behind all the hugs and showers and classes and ultrasounds--Will wanted a boy. Boys fall down, they scrape their knees and they get back up. Boys masturbate. Boys beat up other boys and then shake hands. William could handle boys. But girls... girls were drama. Girls talk. Girls manipulate. They’re smart. At twelve, they can run circles around boys (and most of them know it.) Hell, Janie could run circles around him. 

The stable workroom smelled mustier than usual.

“Did you like him?” Will’s voice echoed inside the piano as he inspected the results of his procrastination.

“I don’t know.” Janie swiveled on the piano stool and lightly tapped the keys.

“How do you know him?”

“Goes to my school. It’s not a big deal.”

“Do you know why--”

“Meg heard from Brock that it was a dare.”

Boys may be less dramatic, but they could be ruthless. Will pulled out his head and slapped the dust from his hands. “Do you want to take piano lessons this fall?”

“If you think I should.”

“I do.”

Janie punched middle C with her index finger.

“Wait,” Will said. “Play that note again.”

Janie looked at him, then struck it again.

William closed his eyes. “Again.”

She did. 

Something wasn’t right. He opened his eyes. Where were his tuning forks in this cyclone-stricken shed?

“Why are boys so complicated?” Janie asked.

Will turned away so his daughter wouldn’t see his smirk. “Boy’s are God’s simplest creatures, Janie. None of them are smart, but they’re not all mean either.”

“I guess.”

“There was no way you could have known he would do something like that on a play date.”

“I’m too old for ‘play dates.’ I knew what he wanted.”

“I guess I should stop being surprised at how fast kids grow up.” 

“Yeah, that’s getting old.” 

Will rummaged through scattered tools on the workbench. The tuning forks had a fancy case, but most of them were scattered around the shed. “Middle C” was probably hiding on the shelves. He ran his hand along the jagged wood of the top plank, in and out of grease-dyed rags, batteries for electric screwdrivers and old TV antennas. His fingers hit something promising and he pulled it out. “C sharp.” So close. “So no more boyfriends for a while?” he asked.

“Maybe I’ll start dating girls... though they’re not much nicer.”

He laughed and opened the top cabinet door and a loose cigar fell in his hand. He reached higher and pulled out the whole box--six left--and tossed them in the trash. No “middle C.”

“Is your piano done yet?” Janie asked.

“Close. Only three strings left to attach and tune.”

“That means you haven’t touched it.”

“I have other priorities.” He moved to the stack of paint cans and wiggled his fingers between them. He couldn’t imagine it would be hiding back there, but when his finger couldn’t move any farther, he began unstacking the cans.