“I’m going for the relaxed look,” I said.
“You accomplished it well,” she said. “I like it when you dress nice, but that looks pretty awesome, too.” She nodded toward my hands. “What’s with the gloves?”
“I disinfected everything with Lysol, including the box,” I replied. “Then, I washed my hands, put on gloves, and carried it to your door. There’s no such thing as being too safe.”
“Thank you.” She glanced at the box. “What’s in there?”
“Books. There’s three of them. Decide which one you want to start with. Let me know what you decide. We’ll read five or six chapters, and then discuss it.”
“Like a book club. Sounds fun,” she said. “I haven’t read a book in forever.”
I nodded toward the box. “Those are my three favorites.”
She picked up the box and peered inside. Seeming giddy with excitement, she looked up. “Give me a few minutes to decide, and then I’ll give you a call.”
“Okay.”
I’d read Angela’s Ashes twice, cover to cover. The winner of the Pulitzer Prize the year after it was published, the book was proof that there’s always someone whose struggle is worse than your own. The tale is told from the perspective of the Irish American author, Frank McCourt. He grew up in the early 1900’s, living in poverty with his mother, father, and six siblings. During his childhood, his sister and twin brothers died from various causes. His mother was manically depressed over the loss of her children but somehow managed to maintain her keen sense of humor. His father was an alcoholic who loved to tell Irish folk stories.
I’d probably read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time a dozen times. The book’s narrator, a teenage boy who was a mathematical genius with a behavioral disorder, had an entertaining voice. Although written by a man in his forties, the book seemed to have been written by the 15-year-old boy. I found each page of the story as interesting as the next.
The History of Love, one of Nicole Krauss’ many novels, spanned the lifetime of an 80-year-old man, Leo Gursky. Following the German invasion of Poland, Leo and his then girlfriend are separated, leaving her to raise Leo’s child in the United States without his immediate knowledge of being a father. It was a story woven with many pieces of yarn, each thread being a story in itself. I’d read the book more times than I could count. Every reading provided another morsel of the author’s intention.
I wondered which book Anna would choose. My father had carefully selected each of the stories, shipping them overseas when I was deployed. Ready to get started, I sauntered home and sat down at the kitchen table.
I thumbed through the books for thirty minutes or so before Anna called. Eager to find out which of the three books she had chosen, I answered the phone filled with nervous excitement.
“Did you decide?” I asked.
“These are really interesting choices,” she said.
“Have you read any of them yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Good. Which one are you thinking?”
“This is cute,” she said with a laugh. “You sound really excited.”
“I haven’t been this enthusiastic about something in a long time,” I admitted. “The last time I read a book was when I was overseas.”
I was excited for many reasons. I wanted to share the books with Anna more than anything, but I also hoped that reading could take me away from the reality of my life. A life in which my father was hospitalized, sickened by a disease that had no known cure.
“Well?” I asked, fanning the books out in front of me. “Which one?”
“I’m going to suggest we start with the one about the dog,” she replied. “It sounds fun.”
“The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. That’s probably my most favorite of them all.”
“How are we going to do this?” she asked.
“I was going to suggest we read five chapters or something like that, and then discuss what we’d read. The author in that book only used prime numbers for the chapters. So, it starts with 2, and then goes to 3, and then 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, etcetera, etcetera. I guess we could read 2 through 23. The chapters are really short. We can play it by ear after that.”
“Do you want me to call you when I’m done?”
I grinned at the thought. “Sure.”
“Okay. Dog book, it is. I’ll call you when I get done with chapter 23.”
I reached for the book. “Okay.”
“Talk to you in a bit.”
I hung up the phone and opened the book to chapter 2. It seemed that no time had passed and I was finished. Instead of re-reading the previous chapters, I read ahead.
I laughed at the antics of the book’s teenage narrator, Christopher. When I began chapter 41, my phone rang. Anxious to find out what Anna thought of the book, I nearly knocked the phone on the floor when I scrambled to reach for it.
“It’s official,” she said. “I’m in love.”
My heart faltered. “With?”
“Christopher. And this book. Oh my gosh, this is wonderful. It’s like a murder mystery.”
“It is a murder mystery, written by a 15-year-old.”
“I love it,” she said. “Let’s discuss the first few chapters, and then I need to get back to reading.”
“So, what do you think so far?” I asked. “Sounds like you’re enjoying it.”
“I find it interesting that Christopher doesn’t understand how people’s facial expressions correlate to their moods, but he can name every country in the world. It’s really cute how he talks to the reader just like he’d be talking to you if you were sitting across from him in the living room.”
“His voice is remarkable, isn’t it?”
“I’m enjoying it,” she said. “Immensely. I like how he said there will be no jokes in the book, because jokes require using words that have dual meanings, and words with dual meanings make him uncomfortable. And that he made little charts to explain how prime numbers are determined. It’s a really well put together story. It’s so cute.”
“Who killed the dog?” I asked.
“I have no idea!” she blurted. “That’s part of what’s so exciting about it. I know it wasn’t Christopher, because I think it would be impossible for him to tell a lie. I also don’t think he could stab a dog with a pitchfork. A pitchfork and a gardenfork are the same thing, aren’t they?”
“I think so.”
“It was also kind of funny that the police made him remove his shoelaces and all the stuff from his pockets when they arrested him, so he couldn’t hang himself or attack one of them with his pocketknife. The way he describes things is so no-nonsense. I’d like to have a friend like him because you’d know what you were getting. No bullshit, only the facts. He’d tell you up front how things were going to be, and that’s the way they’d be. I love it.”
“How would you like to proceed?”
“Are you kidding me?” she asked excitedly. “I want to read the book. All of it. Call me when you’re done.”
“Okay.” I laughed. The laugher started a coughing fit. Before I knew it, I was out of breath.
“Are you alright?” she asked.
“I’m…” I coughed until the fit finally subsided. “I’m fine.”
“You sound awful.
“Thanks.”
“No fever?”
“No, just a nasty cough.”
“Do you feel pressure on your lungs?”
I did, but it wasn’t terrible. Not worth worrying her over, that was for sure. It was nothing more than a tight chest and a cough.
“No,” I replied. “Not yet, anyway.”
“They say it creeps up on you. You go from feeling like you’ve got a chest cold to having full-blown pneumonia in an instant. I want you to call me if it gets worse.”
“I will.”
“I mean it.”
“If this turns into more than a cough, you’ll be the first to know,” I assured her.
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s all it is, let’s stop talking about it and get busy reading.”
“Sounds good to me.” I stifled an oncoming cough. “Let’s get to it.”
“Call me when you’re done.”
There was an annoying tickle in my throat. I needed to end our call, or I was going to end up in another coughing fit.
I tried to keep from drawing a breath. “We’ll talk then.”
“I meant what I said,” she said. “About the cough.”
“I heard you,” I replied. “We’ll talk later. When we’re done with the book.”
As soon as I hung up the phone, the coughing started. It didn’t end until I was too exhausted to continue.
A wave of body aches surged through me, repeatedly.
The high fever and accompanying chills were next.
Anna
Day 7
I finished the book a little after midnight. I enjoyed it so much that I reread at least half of it, immediately. I eventually fell asleep at about 4 am. When I awoke five hours later, I felt like I’d been cheated out of half my day.
Feeling invigorated by my resurrected love of reading, I sprung from my bed and checked my phone. There were no messages or missed calls. Assuming that Braxton stayed up all night reading no differently than I did, I dismissed the fact that he had not called.
I ate breakfast, showered, and picked my outfit for the day. Braxton and Marge’s consistent presence in my day-to-day life had changed my outlook on everything from the food I ate to the clothes I wore.
The friendship Braxton and I now shared was playful, expectation free, and without the problems associated with a sexual relationship. I looked forward to the time I shared with him as much as I did my afternoons with Marge.
At 11:00, after hearing nothing from Braxton, I sent him a text message confirming I had finished the book.
The next hour seemed to drag on forever. Braxton didn’t contact me, leaving me wondering if his cough worsened, or if he had grown sicker as the night progressed.
I tried calling, but there was no answer. I recalled what Braxton said during my makeshift interview about his sleeping habits. He claimed he never slept more than 5 hours a night. He shouldn’t be sleeping.
I began to wonder if he’d grown sicker, or if he needed help.
I called again. And then, again.
I debated whether or not to beat on his door. By the time 1 o’clock arrived, that’s exactly what I did.
Donning a facemask, rubber gloves, and a package of Clorox wipes, I sterilized Braxton’s door. Then, I pounded on it with all my might. I paused. The sound of a distant truck on the highway was the only sound to be heard. I tried the handle.
Locked.
I pounded and pounded, calling Braxton’s name as I pummeled the door with my knuckles, fist, and foot. Continued silence. It was time to call the police. I fumbled to retrieve my phone with my sweaty hands slathered in rubber.
Someone unlocked the door.
I took a few steps back and waited for it to open.
The door opened, slowly. Braxton was leaning against it to keep from falling over. It appeared he was wearing the same outfit as the day before, but with one difference. His clothes were drenched in sweat.
My heart sank into my stomach.
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He shook his head. “I ache.”
His voice sounded like he had eaten sand for breakfast and washed it down with salty crackers. He looked like recycled death.
“Do I need to call an ambulance?” I asked.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he muttered.
“You look like death.”
“I feel worse.”
He struggled to catch his breath between responses. His raspy breathing was impossible to hide. He was sicker than he wanted to admit. I needed to convince him to let me call an ambulance.
“Do you have a fever?”
He nodded. “103 last time I checked.”
“Chest pain?”
“Pressure,” he said. “Not pain.”
“You need to go to the hospital.” I raised my phone in the air. “I’ll call an—”
“No.” He drew a labored breath. “I’ll be fine. The hospitals need the room for people like my father. I don’t need their help. Not yet.”
It was difficult to admit, but Braxton was right. The hospitals were overflowing with critically ill patients who were much sicker than he was. Considering his notoriety, they’d probably admit him, nevertheless. Then, they may turn away a patient who needed the bed much worse than he did. I’d seen several cases on the news where institutions had turned away patients due to overcrowding only to have them die at home a day or two later.
He swayed back and forth, nearly too weak to stand. I fought against my selfish desires.
“If you’ll do this my way, I won’t call an ambulance.” I took a step in his direction. “If you won’t, I’ll call one right now and tell them who you are and demand that they take you in.”
He raised his right hand. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Will you do it my way?”
“Depends.”
“You’re going to go to bed, drink plenty of liquids, and take as much Vitamin C as you can swallow. Then, you’re going make sure your phone is plugged in. You’re going to call me and leave the phone on speaker—from now until you’re better. No exceptions. I want to be able to hear you. At all times.”
“What if—” He coughed until he was breathless. “—what if the hospital calls?”
“Disconnect the call to me and answer it.”
“Okay.”
“Are we in agreement?”
He nodded.
“Do you have Vitamin C?”
“Yes.”
“Plenty of it?”
He nodded.
“Bottled water?”
He nodded.
“Do you need anything?”
He shook his head. “Thank you.”
I wanted to lead him to his bed and tuck him in. The disease was far too contagious for me to get within six feet of him. “I mean it, Braxton.”
He glanced at his feet. “I’m going to get a key and drop it here. In an hour or so, come sterilize it. Keep it on your keyring. Only use it if you absolutely have to.”
The thought of needing it caused my throat to tighten. I swallowed against it. “Okay.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get to bed.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
If there was a hell—and I was convinced there was—Braxton was living in it. He sounded like his next breath was sure to be his last. He looked worse.
I stood in the middle of the yard with my face obstructed by a rudimentary mask I ordered on Amazon, my hands covered with rubber gloves, and a can of Lysol clenched in my left fist.
I wondered what had become of the world I once knew, and if it would ever return to normal.
* * *
I sat in silence and listened to the rhythm of Braxton’s breathing.
He drew a moisture saturated breath. A long pause followed. The sound of him exhaling resembled a distant freight train’s horn. Following another pause, he drew a gurgling breath. He often sounded as if he were choking. The process, as grueling as it was to listen to, continued in a predictable fashion.
I told myself if it worsened, I’d call an ambulance.
My phone’s alarm buzzing startled the hell out of me. I quickly cancelled it, hoping the vibrating sound didn’t wake Braxton from his sleep.
Thankfully, his labored breathing continued.
I hadn’t told Marge about Braxton’s condition, or that he’d tested positive for the virus. I didn’t want to alarm her, nor did I want her to worry about contracting the virus.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and fitted the earbuds into my ears. A final adjustment to my hair camouflaged the fact that I’d be paying attention to something in addition t
o my conversation with Marge. I didn’t want her to think she’d become any less important to me. If anything, I felt closer to her with each passing day.
Since the beginning of our afternoon gatherings, we had inched closer and closer to one another. Now, we were having our afternoon meetings no more than 30 feet apart.
With my earbuds and phone out of view, I ventured to the end of Braxton’s driveway. Marge was on her hands and knees, plucking small pieces of debris out of her rock garden.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
She looked up. She set her plastic bag of trash aside and sauntered to the closest edge of the neighbor’s driveway. “Good afternoon, Anna.”
I moved to the far edge of Braxton’s drive. We were only twenty feet apart. “How was the pot roast last night?” I asked.
“It was wonderful,” she replied. “I used the leftovers for lunch today, and it was remarkable. It’s funny. I can’t fathom putting mustard on pot roast, only ketchup. But, when I make a sandwich out of the roast, I want mustard on it.”
“I’m the same way with a meatloaf sandwich,” I said. “Ketchup on it when I eat it hot, but I put mustard on a meatloaf sandwich.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?” she asked.
I shrugged. “That’s how my mother always served it to me. Maybe that’s it.”
She considered my response for a moment, and then smiled. “My mother always served the three of us leftover roast beef sandwiches on white bread with butter. We didn’t get a choice, that’s how she made them. I don’t know that we always had mustard, I can’t recall.”
“I can’t imagine life without mustard.”
“Mayonnaise has got to be one of my favorites. That, and wine.” She laughed. “Not together, of course.”
“You like wine?” I asked.
“I drink it every night. Always have. Not in excess, of course. At least not always. I prefer the sweet wines.”
“I drink it quite often, too,” I admitted.
“They say it’s good for you.” She lowered herself to the curb. “In moderation, of course.”
The predictable sound of Braxton’s breathing became hypnotic.
The Man I Hate Page 15