The Brandywine Prophet

12.4 The Silence and the Storm: A Parable

Janie’s fingertips brushed the meshwork edge of her cream tutu. William released his fingers from her temples, kissed the twirl of brown hair secured tightly atop her head, and backed into the shadows of the right-wing as his daughter took her position on the dance floor. 

A crack of thunder signaled another surge of applause as the girl assumed her stance, arms superbly posed and overexposed in the spotlight. For an instant her eyes met her father’s. He mouthed “Thank you,” but her stoicism refused a smile.

Her decision was final.

Kayla Reid prowled behind the seated audience. The rain pelted her lashes but she didn’t blink. One eye stayed on Brian Cavenaugh, the other searched the crowd for Baylee. Fuck strength. Fuck belief. Kayla wanted that girl to die.

The Stage was no longer a link to reaffirming childhood memories. There was no God here. Just pain. Kayla knew it before, and she knew it now.

As William awaited the music, his cinnamon gum began to lock his jaw muscles, already overworked from a month of grinding teeth. He didn’t care; he chewed more furiously and reveled in his stiffening cheeks and the sound of every squished chomp. If his jowls cramped, he would gladly take the pain.

Squinting past the lights and sprinkling rain and into the darkened sway of the audience, William knew his wife was watching. Sherlock Cavenaugh and two other police officers were also peppered in the mass; their usual navy garb replaced by inconspicuous jackets and jeans. William wasn’t worried about Sherlock and his minions; everything was proceeding as planned.

(5, 6, 7, 8) Chase watched Janie blossom as the song began. From the corner of his eye, he watched William scuttle behind the set to cross to the opposite side of The Stage.

Sarah watched the beginning of the dance from her seat in the audience. As Janie’s impeccable movement exploded across The Stage, Sarah saw in her daughter the same dedication that she once admired in Will.

She still believed that true change is impossible. But who cares? Did William Carmel love her? The script—hiding from the rain beneath her jacket—was proof that he would do anything for his family. Janie assured her that he was clean. “Wild Bill Hikock” discovered that his Theater was a prank, his wife left him... and he didn’t lose his sobriety?

It took seven months to realize it, but Sarah Carmel still loved her husband.

Inside The Stage, William’s gum-chewing slowed. He spit the wad behind the fiberglass set piece as he crossed from stage-right to stage-left where Janie was about to exit. He ran his deformed finger and thumb through soaking grey hair, then relinquished his mounting stress to that sad tune. An arabesque. A grand battement. The movements were crystal in his mind’s eye. He recalled his daughter practicing days earlier in the living room, just the two of them. Then years earlier, a different dance but the same Janie, the same living room, twirls and giggles and good times accompanied by great music; just the three of them.

He emerged into the left-wing. He tapped the choreography’s timing with his toe. He eyed the young stage manager across the floor, standing motionless for the first time today with his chin on his broom and his eyes entranced on Janie.

What William didn’t see was the dedication behind Chase’s watchful eyes. Tonight, his games had become a reality. If Janie left The Stage on her father’s side, Chase would resign; he would finish out the week, then he would tell Pauline that he would never step foot in William Carmel’s Theater again.

If, however, Janie chose his side, he would find a way to win her back. They would fight the trials of a long-distance relationship for as long as she would have him. He would buy her flowers; he may never have the talent to write a song or choreograph a dance... but tonight, he could buy her flowers.