“Nice to meet you, Marge.”
She set everything down before turning to face me completely. “Likewise.”
“Crazy, isn’t it?”
She cupped her palm beside her right ear. “Pardon?”
“This is crazy,” I shouted. “Isn’t it?”
“Yes, it sure is,” she said. “Reminds me of what happened with polio, in 1952. I was 11 at the time. Scared to death, to say the least. A few years later they had a vaccine. We all let out a sigh of relief.”
I walked to the middle of the drive. “They’re saying it might be 18 months before they have one for this.”
She looked up one side of the street, and then the other. “Hopefully, we’ll all still be here when the time comes.”
“I sure hope so,” I replied. “Are you staying home?”
She shuffled to the end of her driveway. “I don’t have a choice. My asthma’s terrible. I doubt I’d last a week if I got it.”
“I’m not taking chances, either,” I said. “I’m staying here until this is over.”
“Were they your parents?” she asked, nodding in my direction. “The former owners?”
“Yes,” I replied. “They were.”
She lowered her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said, nearly choking on my reply.
“When this is all over,” she said. “You’ll have to come for dinner.”
I’d been alone, eating Little Debbie’s snacks, Cheetos, and sliced Swiss cheese for the past 9 days. Human interaction sounded like a wonderful idea, especially if there was a homecooked meal involved.
“I’ll look forward to it,” I said with a smile.
“I better go in.” She gestured toward the door. “It’s almost time for dinner.”
I hated to ask but I had to know. I cleared my throat. “Are you married?”
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.”
“Leave ‘em in the drive, Son.”
A former Marine and a Vietnam War veteran, my father was cantankerous, opinionated, and argumentative. Winning an argument against him, however, was impossible. Although I disagreed with his opinion about my shoes, I knew not to express my opinion in the form of defiance.
I kicked them off at the edge of the drive. “How’s that?”
He stood and looked me over. “Other than those ugly socks, I suppose you’re fine.”
I glanced at my feet. “What’s wrong with the socks?”
“Your suit’s black,” he said. “Ought to be wearing black socks. Those blue fuckers stand out like a turd floating in a punch bowl.”
“Go to hell.”
He shrugged and took his heat. “They look like shit.”
Unwilling to be lured into a discussion about fashion with an old man who wore khaki pants and a white tee shirt regardless of his surroundings, I meandered across the yard and stepped onto the porch. He sat in the first of four chairs that were evenly spaced along the length of the covered deck. A beer cooler was situated beside him.
He removed a bottle of beer and blindly tossed it into the air. “Heads up, Dipshit”
I caught the bottle and twisted off the cap. I flipped it into his lap. “Thanks, Old Man.”
He dropped the beer cap into a half-filled gallon jar that sat beside his chair. “Kid sent me a text message,” he said, referring to the missing neighbor. “Said him and the crew are living it up. Goose is cooking fresh seafood and steaks and they’re having parties on the roof. Sounds like they’re not bothered by this much.”