Page 112 of The Man I Hate

Sporting a fresh haircut, Hap leaned over the table. He looked everything over and closed his eyes. He drew a long, slow breath through his nose.

Anna took her chair. “I hope everyone enjoys it.”

I sat down beside her.

Hap took his seat. “Smells divine.”

I glanced at the various offerings that were on display. It was the maiden voyage for the serving platters and a good portion of the dishes we were using. To be honest, I had no idea where most of the dinnerware came from.

I looked at Hap. I realized it was the first time he had eaten in my home.

Excluding Christmas and Easter, the last time I could recall eating a meal with my father that wasn’t out of a takeout container was when my brother was alive.

He’d been gone for over thirty years.

When I lived at home, we sat down every night and ate at the dinner table, as a family. We said please and thank you. No one got up from the table without being excused, and we didn’t complain about quality or quantity, regardless of what was served.

Yes, Sir and no, Ma’am were as common as pass the potatoes, please. We didn’t need to ask when dinnertime was, because it was at the same time every night, without fail.

5:30.

After my brother died, the Marine Corps became my only family. It wasn’t by choice. By design, every moment was consumed by training, combat, and travel, leaving no time for my blood family.

By the time my military career ended, my mother was gone. Although I loved my father dearly, I never felt that he and I comprised a family. We were merely two men who were bound by blood. Together, we were a father and son team. A family, we were not.

“Mind passing me that roast?” Hap asked.

“Not at all,” Anna replied.

Each item was passed from person to person until our plates were filled with all that Anna had prepared. When the last platter was set into its place, Hap cleared his throat.

“Are we saying grace, or just digging in?” he asked. “I feel like I ought to be thanking him for letting me make it to this meal.”

When I was a kid, my mother said grace before every meal. When I left home, the tradition stopped. Short of Anna saying a prayer before we ate the parmesan chicken, I hadn’t blessed a meal in over thirty years.

I was surprised Hap asked.

“I’ll say grace,” Anna replied. “If it’s okay.”

“Probably be best if you did it,” Hap replied. “I doubt Dipshit and the man upstairs are on speaking terms, and it’s been so long since I said anything over a plate of food, I’ll likely embarrass myself.”

Anna said a quick prayer, and we began to eat. The meal was as good as I remember it being when my mother cooked it, if not better. After I’d taken time to taste everything, I looked up. Hap was mopping gravy off his plate with a piece of bread.

“What do you think, Old Man?”

“I think it’s been a long time since I ate anything this good.” He looked at Anna. “You’re a damned fine cook, young lady.”

“Thank you,” she said, beaming with pride. “For the young lady comment, and about the food.”

Hap poked the gravy-soaked bread in his mouth. “What are you pushing?” He eyed her up and down. “About thirty?”

“Add ten,” she said.

“You don’t look it,” Hap said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Keep doing what you’re doing, it’s working well.”

Hap filled his plate and returned to the table. He gave the food an admiring look. “My appetite’s coming back. I’ll pick up a couple of lost pounds right here.”

“I need to pick up a few,” I admitted.