Page 42 of The Man I Hate

She didn’t immediately reply. I wished I would have asked differently, or not bothered to ask at all.

“I’m widowed,” she replied after a moment of thought. “It’s been three years. He was two inches shorter than me and seven years older. He was always happy, but he got feisty if he didn’t eat at five. I’m maintaining the tradition.”

“What was his name?” I asked.

She smiled. “Raymond.”

“I won’t keep you from your dinner,” I said. “Nice to meet you, Marge.”

“Maybe see you again tomorrow?” She reached for her things. “I’ll be out here about four o’clock. I am every day.”

My heart filled with warmth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“I look forward to it.”

Braxton

I talked to my father every Sunday. When deployed, I either spoke to him via satellite phone or in the form of a letter. One way or another we communicated once a week, in person if possible. He was much more than a father.

An onlooker wouldn’t know it from listening to us argue, but he was and had always been my best friend.

Following my military career, our Sunday time together was quite predictable. Like clockwork, he meandered to the front porch with a cooler full of beer just after noon. He sat there until sundown, drinking beer with me, his neighbor, and whoever else might show up. The group discussed whatever subjects my father chose to speak of, most of which were entertaining to say the least.

Typically, he chose issues that he knew would get a rise out of whoever it was he was antagonizing. For the foreseeable future, that person would be me.

The neighbor, a former member of an outlaw motorcycle club, was a close friend of ours. Over the years my father had provided advice, watched the young man mature, and eventually attended his wedding.

Much to my father’s chagrin, every member of the neighbor’s now defunct motorcycle club was in San Diego spending their “shelter in place” time together at a former member’s beach house. Although my father was invited, he reluctantly declined. In his eyes, the possibility of infection was far too great.

The change in his Sunday routine, the lockdown of the entire state, and the fear of infection had him on edge.

I pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine. He was sitting on his porch of his two-bedroom ranch home drinking a beer, alone. Upon seeing me he raised his bottle of beer in toast of my arrival.

His face was long, and his trademark snow-white crew cut was in bad need of a trim.

I pushed the car door open and stepped into the warm mid-day sunshine. “How’s it going, Old Man?”

“Slow and steady,” he replied. “Did you stop anywhere?”

“No. I did not.”

Wearing a look of uncertainty, he sipped his beer. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not like you,” I replied. “I don’t forget shit. I’m sure. No stops.”

He tilted the neck of his beer bottle toward me. “Is that suit fresh, or is it some recycled shit from yesterday?”

“My clothes are clean.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

I cleared my throat. “Today’s the first day I’ve worn these clothes since they were dry cleaned.”

“Leave the shoes in the drive,” he demanded. “They said that shit can live on the soles for a goddamned week. I don’t need you tracking COVID-19 dust all over my clean porch.”

Pratt warned me on a daily basis of all things COVID-19 related. According to him, I needed to disrobe at the door and walk straight to the shower upon returning home. Infectious shoe bottoms was a new one, though.

“A week on my shoe bottoms?” I laughed. “That’s bullshit.”