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.
Marge’s outfit, as always, was awesome. The orange pants and a blue short-sleeved shirt she’d chosen were adorable. I realized I’d yet to see her wear the same thing twice. She took pride in how she presented herself, and I looked forward to seeing her clothing choices each afternoon.
I wanted to be like Marge in forty years. She was part of a generation that was nearly extinct. She came from an era that was easy to admire and difficult to duplicate.
I realized that there were many like her who wouldn’t live through the pandemic. People who were set in their daily routines of eating at five o’clock, watching Wheel of Fortune before bed, and eating toast with their cup of coffee when they woke up.
Men and women who had played their part in forming the country into a great place to call home. People who had made their contribution to the younger generations who lived amongst them. People who had lived nearly a full lifetime but weren’t quite ready to depart this earth, and now simply hoped to exhale and enjoy the last leg of their journey. Many had already been deprived.
Countless more were destined to.
Braxton’s cough brought me out of my dreamlike state. I smiled. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I love your outfit.”
“Thank you. I got this on sale at Neiman Marcus.” She swept her palms across the thighs of her pants. “I buy a lot of my clothes there. Did you see where this is going to cause them to declare bankruptcy? I sure hate to see it. They’ve been around since 1907.”
“That’s sad.”
She shook her head. “The entire thing is sad. They said on the news last night that of those tested, 10% were infected. The more people they tested, the more positive cases they found. They said 36% of those infected have died, and that 88% of the patients in New York that required a ventilator didn’t make it. It’s just awful. All of it.”
I’d all but stopped watching the news, I couldn’t take it any longer. Absorbing Marge’s statistics nearly brought me to my knees. The bottom line, according to the numbers, was that if you contracted the disease, regardless of your physical condition, there was a distinct possibility that you may die.
Braxton coughed. He fought to catch his breath. It sounded like he was blowing bubbles in a jar of mayonnaise.
I tensed from head to toe.
He drew a gurgling breath. He coughed. A few choppy breaths followed. The room fell silent for a few seconds before he settled into his routine.
I exhaled a breath of relief.
“Are you okay?” Marge asked. “You seem, I don’t know. Preoccupied. Worried, maybe.”
I put on a false smile. “I’m fine,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “I’ve just. I’ve got a friend who is…he’s uhhm.” I swallowed heavily. “He’s ill.”
She gasped. “With the virus?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. If I told her the truth, she might overreact. If I lied to her, I wouldn’t be much of a friend. I struggled with what to say for a moment as I watched the look on her face morph from content to worried.
At the instant I began to tell her an abbreviated version of the truth, Braxton coughed again. I paused. His coughing fit lasted much longer than normal. Eventually, he relaxed into his labored routine of breathing.
I sighed. “It’s Braxton,” I said, gesturing behind me. “He’s…he’s sick.”
I waited for her to gasp, make some distance between us, or explain that it wasn’t in her best interest to continue meeting with me until he was either diagnosed, or better.
She searched my face for clues as to what was wrong. “Does he have—”
“He…” I murmured. “He uhhm…”
I couldn’t say it. I bit against my quivering bottom lip and nodded. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Marge took a step in my direction.
“Oh, Honey,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
“Marge, no,” I blubbered, taking a step back. “You shouldn’t. We’re supposed to stay six feet apart. You can’t—”
“Honey, there’s a lot of things I can’t do.” She took me into her arms and pulled me against her chest. “But standing here watching my friend come unraveled in front of me isn’t one of them.”
Braxton
Day unknown
The blast from Ketner’s shotgun tore the locking mechanism from the doorframe. Standing free of the trafficway to the right side of the door, Ketner planted the heel of his left boot against the bottom edge of the door, causing it to swing open freely.
I rushed through the door and moved to clear my assigned sector. Each passing second became a moment long. Movements were exaggerated, similar to the slow-motion scenes of the many action-adventure movies I watched as a child.
From the blanket-covered window toward the floor on my left, a single ray of sunlight pierced through the darkened room, diagonally. Like microscopic ballerinas, particles of dust danced within the limits of the beam of light, each a hovering reminder that we were intruders in what was once a family’s safe haven.
There was no furniture or light fixtures. No interior walls. No rooms. Blankets were scattered about the dirty floor, each likely used as bedding for those who dared to occupy the space. The stale smell of sweat and cordite melded with the unmistakable odor of adrenaline.