The Man I Hate

by Hildreth, Scott

  “What the fuck’s he been doing?” he asked. “Not returning my calls, that’s for sure.”

  I paused 30 feet from where he stood. He was tall, lean, and in good physical condition. Tattoos peppered each forearm. His hair was short and spiky, and his pronounced brow jutted forward like a rock ledge.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Gordon Pratt,” he replied. “Are you Annie?”

  I was pleasantly surprised that Braxton had mentioned me. Even if his friend couldn’t get my name right.

  “Anna,” I said proudly. “Please. Don’t knock on the door. Braxton’s sick.”

  His gaze narrowed. “He’s not—”

  “Yes,” I said. “He is. I’m taking care of him.”

  He nervously stepped to the side, toward his truck. “He’s got the virus?”

  “Yes, he does,” I replied. “So does his father. His father’s in the hospital.”

  “Hap? Holy fucking shit.” He rubbed his temples with his palms. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  He tilted his head toward Braxton’s house. “You’ve been in there?”

  “I have not. But I’m going in there in a minute. He needs something to drink, so I bought him Gatorade.” I gestured toward my car. “I got a thermometer, too. I want to take his temperature.”

  “If you haven’t been in there, how…fuck, he could be…what if his lungs filled up with shit and he’s dead?”

  I brushed my hair behind my ear. “I’m on a phone call with him, listening to him twenty-four hours a day. I have been for a day and a half. I don’t know what I’m going to do if it gets disconnected.”

  “You got a key to his place?”

  “I do.”

  “If it gets disconnected, call me,” he said, folding his arms over his broad chest. “I’ll reconnect it.”

  I mentally rolled my eyes at his foolishness. “You’d have to go inside to reconnect it. He’s infected.”

  “He saved my life,” he said. “He could have been killed doing it, too. Been meaning for years to pay him back for what he did, but I never got the opportunity. I’ll take the stuff in, I’ll take his temperature, and I’ll reconnect the phone if it gets disconnected.”

  A sigh of relief escaped me. “You will?”

  He gave a sharp nod. “I sure will.”

  A light bulb went off. “Oh my God. You’re Pratt! The guy that squashed the cookie sheet and the guy from his dreams.”

  He seemed confused. “What dreams?”

  “His nightmares,” I said. “He had them all night last night. He was talking in his sleep. I remember him saying your name. It came up over and over.”

  He lowered his arms to his side. “What did he say?”

  “Uhhm. He said. Let me see. He said, ‘Hold on Pratt. That bird. The bird is coming, can you hear it, Brother?’ Something like that.”

  He swallowed heavily. Sweat burst from every pore in his brow. He began to speak several times but paused on each occasion, just before the first word passed his lips. I thought for a moment that he might break down.

  “That was a long time ago.” He wiped his brow with his forearm. “Seems like. Hell, it seems like yesterday, now.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?” I asked. “Can I ask? If I’m overstepping—”

  “Sniper caught us while we were on patrol.” He cleared his throat. “Fucker waited for us to all get where he could see us. Then, one by one, he started picking us off. Shot up the entire rifle squad pretty bad. Rourke was our Platoon Sergeant. I took one in the chest and went down, but I didn’t realize Rourke—”

  “One what?” I asked.

  “A round,” he said.

  I stared blankly.

  “A bullet.” He pounded his clenched fist against his chest. “Right here. Missed my heart by about a centimeter.”

  I couldn’t believe he got shot in the chest by a sniper and he’d lived to tell about it. Modern protective gear had probably saved more lives than I could imagine.

  “But you had on a bullet-proof vest?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Bullet-proof vests don’t stop sniper rounds. Small arms fire? Sure. But not a rifle round. SAPI plates are designed to stop them, but they’re too fucking heavy to wear, so we toss ‘em.”

  Confused, I stared back at him wondering how he could have lived if he didn’t have a bullet-proof vest.

  I shook my head in disbelief. “How then. How did you live?”

  “Rourke,” he said. “Crazy fucker dragged me behind a burned-out Toyota. Was the only thing on that entire street to hide behind. Wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.”

  Everything clicked into place.

  “Oh my God.” I gasped. “The ‘bird.’ That’s your lingo for a helicopter, right? He said he needed a medevac. You were that guy, weren’t you?”

  “Correct. I was one of ‘em. By the time it was over, six of us were shot up, Rourke included. He was the first one. Took a round to the shoulder right before me. Never said a fucking word. Then, while we waited for the medevac, he took another in the back of his thigh. Refused to leave me, though. He got us all out of there. Every one of us. We didn’t have one casualty.”

  “Was he in charge?” I asked.

  “Who? Rourke?”

  “Yeah. Was Braxton in charge?”

  He laughed. “He was the one we listened to. I can tell you that. Our LT was a shit hat. Rourke made all the calls. Without him, we would have lost our entire platoon. Man’s got a sixth sense. He knows things. About people. About situations. Kind of eerie the way he does it, too.”

  “He guessed my underwear color,” I whispered. “I’ll tell you about it some time when this is all over. Right now, I need to get him some water.”

  “Got any scissors?” he asked.

  It seemed like an odd request. “Sure,” I replied. “What do you need?”

  “Scissors.” He made a scissors motion with his index and middle finger. “I don’t know. Do they come in different kinds?”

  I laughed. “No. I meant what do you need them for?”

  “I’m going to cut a mask out of my shirt,” he replied. “Left my house so fast I forgot mine. Not looking to get infected if that fucker coughs on me.”

  “The pharmacist gave me a few masks and some rubber gloves. I’ve got some scrubs, too. I doubt they’d fit.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “I’m not going to snuggle with the grumpy bastard. I’ll put some Gatorade beside him, take his temperature, and—it’s not a rectal thermometer, is it?”

  “It’s all they had.” I shrugged. “They were sold out of everything else.”

  He winced.

  “I’m joking,” I said. “It’s one of those point and shoot deals.”

  “I was about to say you could don those scrubs and one of those masks and come with me. I’d spread his cheeks and you could poke it in.”

  “Reverse those roles, and I’m in,” I said with a laugh.

  “Not happening. Gimme the mask and gloves, and I’m good,” he said. “If that prick infects me through that gear, it was meant to be.”

  Although I was willing to do what I must, I was apprehensive to enter Braxton’s home. Now that Pratt had volunteered, I was able to exhale a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this. I’ve been nervous all morning.”

  He pulled a lollipop from his back pocket and peeled off the wrapper. “Want one?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Got a box of ‘em in the truck.” He poked it in his mouth. “If you want one, I got every flavor these little fuckers come in.”

  I chuckled. “I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself.” He chuckled. “Rourke got me to saying that. Suit yourself. He says it all the time.” He gestured toward my car. “Go grab the stuff. I better get in there before I come to my senses.”

  “If you don’t want to do it—”

  He pulled the sucker from his mouth and wagged it in my di
rection. “Women, the elderly, and kids.”

  I was lost. His comment made no sense. “Huh?”

  “Women, the elderly, or children. Can’t let harm come to any of ‘em, or Rourke would have my ass,” he said. “One of his rules. You ain’t a kid or elderly, but you’re one hundred percent woman. I’m just trying to make sure Rourke don’t furlough me for breaking the rules once he gets well.”

  I laughed. “Okay.”

  It was obvious the comments Marge made about Braxton a few days earlier were right. Contrary to what one might perceive from his sexual antics, Braxton was a good man on the inside.

  I glanced at Pratt and then turned toward my car. His existence on earth was proof.

  Braxton was a damned good man.

  Anna

  Day ten

  Pratt got home and had to come right back to reconnect Braxton’s phone. Then, four hours later, Braxton had a fit while dreaming, and he disconnected the phone again. Pratt returned again, without one word of complaint. He moved the phone to the far side of the nightstand, so Braxton couldn’t reach it as easily. After that, we hadn’t had another incident.

  All in all, I felt that things were improving. Braxton’s wheezing was now sporadic instead of constant. His fits of coughing were shorter and sounded much less invasive. The bad dreams continued, but his fits of shouting often lasted for no longer than a few minutes. Those tense moments, for both of us, were hell.

  Pratt said on the day he got shot that everything happened in a span of 3- or 4-minutes, total. Hundreds of rounds—if not thousands—had been fired, six men were wounded, and one sniper was killed. All in less time than it takes to fill a car’s gas tank at the convenience store.

  When it was over, the men didn’t get to go home. The wounded were bandaged up and continued to fight as soon as they were willing. The fortunate few who weren’t wounded were fighting in another battle on that same street thirty minutes later.

  Pratt said he felt guilty during the time that he was prohibited from returning to battle. While he was in the hospital getting a blood transfusion, all he could think of was “when will they let me return to combat.”

  That mindset, from what he said, was typical of the good men.

  The devoted.

  I couldn’t imagine one 24-hour day of war. An entire day—1,440 minutes—of being shot at, shooting back, and trying to stay clear of the roadside bombs that littered the roadways. From my count, Braxton endured that living hell for just shy of 4,000 days.

  Ten horrific years.

  His devotion was nothing short of unimaginable.

  It was time for me to be devoted to him. To pay him back for what he’d done for the men and women of the country.

  My days ran into my nights. My nights were sleepless. I realized Braxton had no days or nights, only the passing of time. When I became frustrated or felt like I couldn’t stay awake a moment longer, I told myself at least no one is shooting at me.

  It seemed to help.

  I was convinced Braxton would overcome his illness in time. I wanted to make him as comfortable as I was able. Providing comfort from afar forced me to be creative.

  “Wentz!” he bellowed. “Two o’clock. Second window from the left, third from the top. Pop that motherfucker!”

  I nearly spilled my coffee. He’s been silent for the past hour and a half, which was enough time for me to make a pot of coffee and scramble some eggs.

  “Zebra, this is Echo-six,” he said in a muffled tone. “We’re taking fire. Repeat, taking fire. Two KIA, three wounded. Need an air strike, over.”

  A few seconds of silence followed. Then, he began pleading for help.

  “Zebra, we are under heavy fire,” he said, his voice etched with emotion. “Again, this is Echo-six, and we are under fire. Two KIA, four wounded. If no airstrike, we’re requesting extraction, over.”

  I finished my coffee and walked to the living room. I desperately needed some sleep. Braxton did, too. Hoping to put us both to sleep, I rocked back and forth against the back of the couch and began to sing.

  “Hush, little Braxton, don't you scream

  Anna's gonna take you to a fishing stream

  And if that stream don’t have no fish

  Anna’s gonna let you make a wish

  And if that wish don’t make you grin

  Anna’s gonna let you try again

  And if that wish is to hold her tight

  Anna’s gonna hold you with all her might

  She’ll hold you close and sing you songs

  So you can sleep all night long…”

  I paused.

  A light snoring sound was his response to my lullaby.

  I did a mental fist pump and closed my eyes.

  Sleep well, my Dear.

  Anna

  Day eleven

  Braxton’s nightmares continued on and off for four days. During his lulls from shouting I prayed that God would be gracious enough to release him from the disease’s grasp long before it was too late.

  As fond as I’d grown of Braxton, I knew only bits and pieces of what he may find solace in. Of those things, I was limited in what I could provide.

  I walked past the three books he’d given me. A light bulb illuminated. I’d done everything except what he wanted to do on the day he became ill.

  While he was in one of his periods of uninterrupted sleep, I picked up The History of Love.

  I opened the cover, read the first few paragraphs to myself, and smiled. Then, I began to read the book out loud, to Braxton.

  He was excited to provide me with the book, and equally eager for us to read them together. If his current state of being prevented him from reading it himself, it was only fitting that I read the book to him.

  I read the first paragraph out loud, and then another. Before long, I’d finished a chapter. One chapter led to another. In no time I was submerged in the story and Braxton was lulled into a sound and uneventful sleep.

  I continued to read long into the night. Driven in part by a wonderfully woven tale and in part by a feeling of necessity to comfort Braxton, I continued.

  As the sun peeked from over the top of the Mediterranean home across the street, I realized I’d been reading to him for roughly ten hours. It was ten hours of uninterrupted sleep for him, which was nine more than he’d received for the past four days and nights.

  When I finished the story a few moments later, it was obvious why he’d chosen the novel as an all-time favorite. The story—and the book—were things I’d cherish for a lifetime.

  Exhausted, but unwilling to chance having Braxton slip back into his restlessness, I picked up Angela’s Ashes.

  “Are you ready for Frank McCourt?” I asked, speaking to him through the earbud’s microphone.

  I read the first chapter, and then the second. I had to stop after the second chapter, because I’d not only laughed so hard I nearly peed, I’d cried so violently I could no longer breathe.

  Through my tears, I continued. “This one’s going to be tough, Dear.”

  I realized I called Braxton Dear, out loud. I promptly dismissed it as being a snafu brought on by no sleep, little food, and hours upon hours of reading. Nevertheless, I liked the way it rolled off my tongue.

  I made a cup of coffee, regained my composure, and continued. By the time four o’clock arrived, I was not quite halfway into the book. My emotions were all over the map. Frank McCourt’s memoir was taking me for a ride I wasn’t prepared for.

  “We’re going to take a break for a while, Dear.” I had no more than spoken, and realized I’d done it, again. Feeling like a dork, I said an apology, even though I really didn’t need to. “Sorry, that just spilled out. I didn’t mean it.” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Just. We’re taking a break. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Exhausted, I set the book aside. I promptly marched up the street to Marge’s house.

  She was sitting on her stoop, dri
nking a glass of iced tea.

  I sat down at her side. “No chores today?”

  “I think I’m caught up for the moment.” She glanced around the yard. “It feels nice.” She reached to her side and produced another glass of tea. “Here, this one’s for you.”

  “Oh.” I took the glass from her grasp. “Thank you.”

  “It’s peach,” she said. “I like it strong.”

  I took a drink of the tea. It was wonderful, with neither the tea or the peaches overpowering the drink.

  I looked at the glass. It appeared to be nothing more than a glass of tea. Its taste was far more complex than its looks, that was for sure.

  “Is this something you made?” I asked.

  “Of course,” she replied. “It’s black tea and peach simple syrup. The simple syrup is nothing more than cooked peaches, sugar, and water. After the tea is made, you add the syrup to your liking. I thought it was a little strong, but I like it that way.”

  “It’s refreshing,” I said.

  “I’m glad you like it.” She shifted her shoulders to face me. “How’s our neighbor?”

  “Much better,” I replied. “I’ve been reading to him.”

  “Are you reading books you said he bought for you?”

  I nodded. “I thought if he liked them enough to buy them for me, that he’d enjoy them just as much if I read them to him.”

  “I’m sure he finds your voice comforting.” She raised her hand to my face and placed her palm against my cheek. “Sweetheart, you look like you haven’t been sleeping well.”

  I sighed. “I was up all night. I haven’t slept yet.”

  “Reading?”

  Sipping the wonderful tea, I gave a nod.

  She smiled. “Well, aren’t you a doll.”

  “I’m trying my best.”

  “How’s his breathing?” she asked.

  “Much better.”

  “What about the nightmares?”

  “Since I started reading to him, it seems like they’re gone,” I replied. “He hasn’t been screaming at least.”

  “I’ll thank the good Lord for that.” She gazed across the street, toward Braxton’s home. “I think that might have been the fever talking. Raymond used to wake up screaming all the time right after he got back from Korea. They said he was shell-shocked.”