She brushed the wrinkles from her top. “I can’t decide whether or not to bring something up. There’s a part of me wants to mention it, but the part of me that’s reserved tells me to keep my mouth shut.” She looked up. “The part of me that’s reserved is a small part.”
I shrugged. “I say mention it.”
She smiled. “Alright, I will.” She nodded toward Braxton’s house, which was right behind me. “The other night you were standing on your porch talking to Braxton, and you pulled your shirt over your head. It looked to me like something that was deliberately flirtatious. Has there been progress made since we last spoke of him?”
My face went flush. “Uhhm. You saw that, huh?”
“Honey, I think the entire neighborhood saw it.”
“I was trying to cheer him up.”
“Did it work?” she asked.
I was so embarrassed. “he seemed to enjoy it, yes.”
“Well, I suppose that’s all that matters.” She touched the sides of her snow-white curls as if to make sure they were still there. “Are you two seeing one another now?”
“I wouldn’t say that, no.”
Her brows raised. “What would you say then?”
“Well, we had a virtual dinner the other night. It was fun. We did it over our telephones on a video call. Have you even seen one of those?”
“I have them with my sister all the time.”
“Well, we cooked dinner together on a video chat. Then, we ate together. We’ve been doing something together each day over video chat.”
“Sounds like you two are sweet on one another.”
“He’s nice,” I said. “Or, maybe I should say he can be nice.”
“Men are like watermelons,” she said. “It’s what’s inside that counts.”
I laughed. “I like that.”
“Braxton’s a good man on the inside. He’s just got a really tough rind that you’ve got to get through. He gave someone his heart and they didn’t take care of it, remember?”
“I remember.”
“Give him every reason in the world to believe you’ll never hurt him. That’s all you can do. I guess you could flash him from time to time.” She giggled. “That wouldn’t hurt matters.”
“I don’t know where we stand right now,” I said. “We’re really just friends.”
Her face scrunched up. “Honey. This is Marge you’re talking to. When you talk about him your eyes light up like a Fourth of July fireworks display. You can tell that old busybody, Fred, that lives north of you whatever you want. You should stick with telling me the truth.”
“I like him, but I don’t know if he likes me,” I said. “In the same way, that is.”
“Give him time, and he’ll come around,” she said.
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’m sure of it,” she said with a smile. “Because you’re an easy one to like.”
Braxton
Day 6
When I was deployed, there was one thing that helped me escape the reality of war. The exercise—although for only for a few hours at a time—was crucial to maintaining my sanity. Keeping a level head allowed me to remain in combat for roughly a decade without ever losing touch with my true self.
When my unit finally left the Middle East, many of my fellow Marines were already suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Once removed from the war, their minds were incapable of processing the atrocities they had been exposed to. Sadly, they would likely live the remainder of their lives fighting a new battle.
With themselves.
Fortunately, I was one of the few who would recall every battle, each loss of life, and all the combat-related mistakes I felt I’d made without allowing those things to become controlling of my mind or my life.
The difference, I was convinced, was how I spent my idle time while at war.
What was my saving grace?
Reading.
When the war was over, I cast my books aside. Over the years, I wondered if I associated reading with the war, and therefore chose not to risk resurrecting those memories by cracking the cover of a book.
Feeling I needed a means of escape once again, I was willing to determine if the risk of opening a book was worth the reward of peace of mind.
I joined Amazon Prime and ordered two copies of my three favorites, Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love, and Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes.
I anxiously waited all day for them to arrive. Disappointed somewhat with their midafternoon arrival, I unpackaged the books and looked them over. I removed one set for myself. After disinfecting the other three books, I placed them in the box with gloved hands, and then added a hand-written note. I carried the box to Anna’s door and rang the doorbell.
I walked to the middle of her yard, paused, and faced her door.
It swung open. Waves of caramel-colored curls cascaded over her shoulders. She was wearing a cotton mask over her mouth. Dressed in khaki shorts, a sleeveless leopard-print silk top and leather sandals, she looked adorable.
“I like your outfit,” I said. “You look cute.”
“Thank you,” she replied, her voice muffled slightly from the mask. “I like yours, too.”
I was wearing a pair of sweatpants, a ribbed tank top, and house slippers. Normally, I reserved such outfits for my Sunday morning cups of coffee in my kitchen. Now, things were different. There were only three days to be concerned with. Today, tomorrow, and yesterday.
“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.