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The Man I Hate

Page 13

by Hildreth, Scott


  I glanced at the security monitor on the kitchen countertop. In the upper right-hand pane, there was an image of Anna running across my yard. I laughed to myself. I meandered to the front door and opened it.

  She’d placed an open-top box directly in front of the door. A folded sheet of paper sat atop several filled Ziploc bags, a bottle of wine, a bottle of canola oil, and a small box sealed with Amazon Prime tape. I picked it up the box and gazed toward Anna’s door.

  She stood in the threshold of the doorway. Her frumpy sweats and oversized tee shirt had been traded for a form-fitting turquoise dress and pumps. Her hair was pulled close to her head and braided tightly.

  She looked remarkable.

  “Read the note, and then call me,” she said with a smile. “We’re having dinner together.”

  She closed the door.

  I carried everything inside and placed the box on the kitchen island. I unfolded the note and read Anna’s neatly written offering.

  Braxton,

  Let’s make our own new normal, together. We’ll start with Italian Wednesday (Taco Tuesday is so overrated).

  We’ll be having chicken parmesan, a tomato-mozzarella salad, and cabernet sauvignon. Everything you’ll need is in the box. Well, almost everything.

  Please shower and get dressed as if we were going out. I refuse to eat Italian unless I’m dressed for the occasion.

  When you’re ready to get started, call me. We’ll cook it together. Make it quick, I’m starving.

  Your friend,

  Anna

  I couldn’t help but smile. The only part of the entire thing that bothered me was the way she signed the hand-written note. I don’t know how I could have expected her to sign it in any other manner. It troubled me, nevertheless.

  As Anna requested, I showered, got dressed, and returned to the kitchen. After separating the contents of the box out onto the countertop, I was mildly confused. One of the items seemed out of place.

  I called Anna, hoping for clarification.

  “How do you feel?” she asked upon answering.

  “Fine.”

  “Any fever?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Good,” she said. “Are you ready to get started?”

  “I think so,” I replied. “I’ve one question, though.”

  “What is it?”

  “What part does the tripod play?”

  “That’s going to come in handy,” she said. “Believe me.”

  I lifted the small box and looked it over. “What am I going to do with it?”

  “Your phone’s an Android, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a Samsung.”

  “A new one?”

  “I got it last year.”

  “Inside the Google options icon, there’s Google Drive, Google Photos, Gmail, and a little movie camera symbol that says ‘Duo.’ When we get off this phone call, you’re going to attach your phone to the tripod, situate it to point at you, and then you’re going to call me on the Google Duo app. It’ll let us do a video call.”

  “Sounds good,” I replied.

  “My phone is on the tripod right now,” she said. “Get yours all hooked up and then message me using the app. Okay?”

  “Will do.”

  I unboxed the tripod, attached the phone cradle mechanism, and adjusted the height to where I thought it should be. When I was satisfied, I called Anna using Google’s Duo application.

  When she answered, her face covered the entire screen, and a toothy smile covered her face. A small window in the lower corner contained a real-time video image of me.

  She backed away from the camera and waved. “Hi.”

  “This works pretty well,” I admitted. “The picture is great, and the sound is clearer than the phone.”

  “I like your choice of clothes,” she said. “Is that shirt purple?”

  I thought a suit would be too much and knew a tee shirt would be too little. I decided to wear my favorite button-down shirt with jeans and a nice pair of shoes.

  “It’s somewhere between pink and purple,” I said. “It’s perfect Italian Wednesday.”

  “Agreed. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Roll up your sleeves,” she said. “I don’t want you to get chicken on your cuffs.”

  I didn’t want chicken on my shirt, either. I did as she asked and rolled up the sleeves.

  She wagged her finger toward the camera. “Do you have a rolling pin?”

  “I do not.”

  She frowned. “A meat mallet?”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like a hammer, but it’s probably square. The face of it is covered with little spikey things.” She made a striking motion with her clenched fist. “You tenderize meat with it.”

  “No kitchen hammers.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Sorry.”

  She scowled. “You have a skillet, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “A cookie sheet?”

  “More or less.” I laughed. “It’s kind of a long story. Abbreviated version is this: Pratt used it to change the oil on his Harley. It’s kind of bent up, but it works just fine.”

  She scowled. “Who?”

  “Pratt. He’s a coworker and friend.”

  “I should have sent utensils.” She scratched the side of her head. “Do you have a big hammer?”

  “I’ve got a rubber mallet in the garage.”

  “Perfect,” she said excitedly. “Go get it.”

  I returned in a moment with a rubber mallet. I presented it to the camera as if it were for sale. “One rubber mallet.”

  “Okay,” she said. “We’re going to leave the chicken in the plastic bag, place it on the countertop, and beat it to twice its size with that hammer. First, you’re going to preheat the oven to 350. After you’ve done that, come back.”

  I turned the oven on and returned into the view of the camera.

  “Watch me,” she said, coming so close to the camera that she filled the entire screen with her face. “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  She backed away from the camera and panned it toward the countertop. She raised a rolling pin, grinned slyly, and then commenced to beat the absolute shit out of a plastic wrap covered chicken breast.

  “You. Pound. The. Meat. Like. It’s. Your. Most. Regretful. Ex,” she said, pounding the rolling pin against the meat with each spoken word. “Whoever. Screwed. You. Over. The. Most. Becomes. The. Meat.”

  When she was done, the meat was just as she’d described—nearly twice its original size.

  She faced the camera. “Do that to your meat.”

  I left the chicken in the large Ziploc bag, situated it in the center of the island, and imagined it was my ex-wife.

  An anger fueled tirade with the mallet ensued. When I came to my senses, I set the hammer aside and looked at the chicken. It was nearly see-through.

  I looked at the camera. “How’s that?”

  She laughed. “Wow. Your meat’s huge. Your chicken meat, not your…never mind. I’m stopping talking now.”

  I was as satisfied as I’d been in a long, long time. Something about preparing an impromptu meal with Anna was therapeutic. Beating the shit out of the chicken was an added bonus.

  “I’m actually enjoying this,” I said.

  “Me, too.” She smiled a cheesy grin. “Are you ready to continue?”

  “Sure.”

  “Put the two eggs in a bowl and beat them with a fork. Not like you beat the chicken. Beat, as in, whip. You’ve scrambled eggs before, haven’t you?”

  “I have.”

  “Do that to them,” she said. “Then, get three plates. Dump the flour-spice mixture on one of them, the breadcrumb mixture on the other, and leave the third one clean.”

  I gathered the things she’d asked me to. She guided me through the process of coating the chicken in the flour mixture, the beaten eggs, and the breadcrumbs. I then transferred the chicken breast to the plate.

&nb
sp; “We’re going to fry that in a skillet at medium high heat for about two minutes a side, and then we’re going to cook it in the oven,” she explained. “While it’s cooking in the oven, we’re going to prepare the salad. Get you skillet and grab the little bottle of oil, okay?”

  With Anna’s guidance, I fried the chicken, coated it in the sauce she provided, and then placed the two slices of mozzarella cheese on top.

  My past experience with cooking included hamburgers, steaks on the grille, a variety of eggs, and sandwiches. Feeling like an accomplished chef, I placed the rather attractive creation on the mangled cookie sheet and slid it into the oven.

  “I feel like I could do this on my own the next time,” I said proudly. “Hell, it was easy.”

  “The next step is this…” She pressed her hands into the flour mixture. She presented them to the camera. She then made two white handprints against the otherwise spotless midriff of her dress. She smiled. “Now, it’s your turn.”

  “Why would I do that?” I asked.

  “Because,” she replied. “It’s fun.”

  I had nothing to lose. I reluctantly covered my favorite purple-pink shirt in flour handprints, laughing the entire time. It was the first time in as long as I could remember that I had laughed out loud.

  I patted my hands against my shirt, repeatedly. When I stopped, I was covered in flour. So was the island, the floor, and the barstools.

  “Are you done?” she asked, trying to catch her breath from laughing, too. “Holy cow. You’re a mess.”

  “Done? I think so,” I replied. I looked at the mess I’d made. “I needed that.”

  “Wash your hands,” she said. “That flour had raw chicken in it. You don’t want to live through the coronavirus and then get salmonella.”

  After washing our hands, we prepared the mozzarella and tomato salad. When the salad was finished, I removed the chicken from the oven.

  With a glass of wine and a plate filled with food, I sat at the table and situated the camera in front of me.

  “I was raised in the bible belt,” she said. “When I was a kid, we prayed before we ate. It’s been a while, but do you care if I say a prayer? Before we eat?”

  Like most people I knew, I prayed when I saw no other alternative. Not having prayed in nearly a decade, I’d now said a dozen prayers in two days. Allowing Anna to say a prayer wasn’t going to hurt matters one bit.

  “Go right ahead,” I said.

  “What’s your father’s name?”

  “Hap.”

  “Bow your head,” she said.

  I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

  “Heavenly father, we come before you on this day to ask your blessing on this food. We also ask that you consider placing your healing hands on Hap Rourke—and on anyone else that’s been stricken by this awful disease—because recovery, at least for some, has been difficult. Lastly, we’d like to ask that you give us the gifts of understanding and of acceptance, because sometimes, understanding your will is difficult. That leaves accepting it equally as difficult. We humbly ask these things in your name, Amen.”

  Amen.

  Anna had provided just what I needed at the exact time I needed it. During the preparation of the meal, I had failed to feel guilty, wallow in self-pity, or openly worry about my father’s condition.

  I opened my eyes and looked at the phone. A smiling Anna looked back at me. She raised her wine glass.

  “To being alone, together,” she said.

  I lifted my glass. “To being alone together.”

  “Cheers.” She clanked her glass against her phone, knocking it askew in the process. After seeing several different views of her kitchen floor and a few seconds of total darkness, she righted the camera and pointed it in the proper direction.

  “Sorry,” she said. “This is going to take some getting used to.”

  “Yes,” I said in complete agreement. “It sure is.”

  Anna

  Day 4

  Braxton received word from the hospital that he was, in fact, positive for COVID-19. Even so, he hadn’t shown any signs of infection, whatsoever. He had no fever, no difficulty breathing, nor did he have a headache or sore throat. According to him, he felt no differently than he did on any given other day.

  He may not have felt differently, but there was no doubt that things had changed. Life was different. The new normal was worlds apart from what either of us was accustomed to.

  I had no complaints. My afternoons, from 4:00 until 5:00 were spent with Marge. I could have easily talked to Braxton all day but settled for a couple short video calls. I knew smothering him wasn’t in my—or his—best interest, so I kept our time on the phone low in volume and high in quality.

  I was surprised to see that he was wearing a black tee shirt when he answered my late morning call.

  “Good morning.” He glanced at his watch. “I guess it’s still morning.”

  “For another hour,” I said. “Any word on your father?”

  “He’s stable.” He looked away and shook his head. “That’s all I’m getting. It’s frustrating, but it’s going to have to be enough. Everything I’ve read says 10-14 days to rid yourself of the disease. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.”

  There was no assurance that the infected recovered over the course of a 10-14-day timeframe. Some took longer. The 14-day period was the window of time that the disease was contagious. Beyond that, the infected could remain sick, but they could not pass the disease to others.

  I kept my opinions to myself and put on a reassuring smile. “I’ll continue to pray.”

  “As will I.”

  Braxton looked remarkably well for having the virus. He stood as proof that the disease affected everyone differently.

  “What about you?” I asked. “No fever?”

  “No anything,” he replied. “I started coughing last night, but it’s inconsistent. I feel like I have a hair caught in my throat or something.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “A dozen times a day.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. After I cough once, it’s over.”

  “No, I meant having a hair caught in your throat. Is that a common thing?”

  “You’re funny, Anna.”

  I smiled. “I try.” I raised my notepad and pen. “I have a notepad and a pen.”

  He moved close to the camera in hope of seeing what I had written on it. “Am I supposed to applaud?”

  I quickly placed the pad on the table, out of the camera’s view. “You can if you like.”

  “What are all the notes?” he asked. “Recipes?”

  “If you’ll be quiet for a minute, I’ll explain it.”

  He leaned away from the camera. “I’ll let you have the floor. For now.”

  “You’re familiar with Jimmy Fallon, and, what’s the other guy, Kimmel? Jimmy Kimmel??”

  “I know who they are.”

  “You’re aware they have talk shows? That they get guests in front of a studio audience and talk about things?”

  He looked at me like I’d offended him. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Anna?”

  “I’m just asking a question.”

  “Yes, I’m aware that late night talk shows exist. Furthermore, I’m familiar with the show’s architecture.”

  “We’re using big words today, are we?”

  “Which one threw you off?” he asked. “Aware, familiar, or exist?”

  “Architecture,” I replied. “I was surprised to see it used in that context.”

  “Architecture.” He raised his index finger. “The complexity of design.”

  I flipped the camera the bird. “I know what it means, Mister Rourke. I was setting the stage for a joke.”

  He grinned. “And I derailed your train.”

  “If you prefer, the train will travel along the tracks of seriousness.”

  “I have no preference.”

  “If you’re aware of the show’s architecture,” I said in a mocking tone. “This shou
ld be an effortless ride for you. Climb aboard.”

  His brows raised slightly. He seemed far from excited about matters. “You’re going to ask me questions?”

  “You’re smarter than you look.”

  He flipped me the bird.

  “Are you ready?” I asked.

  “I suppose,” he murmured.

  I glanced at my notepad and then at the camera. “Excluding any aircraft or motorized automobiles of any sort, if you had to choose one mode of transportation to utilize for the remainder of your life, what would be your choice?”

  “Only one?” he asked.

  I tapped my pen against my lip. “Yes, only one.”

  “A skateboard.”

  “A skateboard?!” I arched a brow in opposition to his response. “Mister Rourke, that would make simple tasks like getting groceries nearly impossible. There are no wrong answers here, but I’ve got to ask. Of all the modes available, why a skateboard?”

  “First, call me Braxton.” He situated himself in his chair until he was comfortable. “In response to your question, riding a skateboard is similar to surfing. It provides a feeling of freedom that can only be obtained through a handful of transportation options. It’s my first choice and that’s my final answer.”

  Braxton wasn’t a typical man, and he wasn’t going to give typical responses. Although I’d prepared a line of questioning assuming what his answers were going to be, I decided to ad-lib the remainder of the interview.

  I tossed my notepad into the air. As it fluttered to the floor, I continued. “You mentioned a feeling of freedom being found while riding a skateboard. Do value your freedom?”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied. “In fact, I value it enough that I fought in a war to preserve it for every citizen of this country.”

  “I’m sure the viewers appreciate the sacrifices you’ve made in that regard,” I said. “I know I do.”

  He gave a slight nod. “Thank you.”

  “You’ve recently tested positive for COVID-19,” I stated. “What do you have to say to the people of the nation regarding the stay at home order?”

  “Travel exposes us to the disease. With exposure comes risk of infection. Becoming infected isn’t the same for everyone. It’s like being blindfolded and diving into a pool of water without any knowledge of the water’s depth. For some, the pool is ten feet deep. For others, it’s six inches deep. If we can stay at home—just for now—why take the risk?”

 

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