“Stop, Samantha. What the fuck?”
“Shit.” My clueless wife lifts the overflowing baking sheet. With one corner down, it appears she’s considering pouring extra liquid back into the can.
Quickly, I snatch it from her and drip the excess into an empty mug in the sink. “Sweet cakes, you can’t reuse oil after it’s been on chicken. It’s got germs.”
“No way. COVID doesn’t live on meat.” She places her hands on her hips and when she juts out her jaw, I chuckle.
“No, but salmonella does.” I raise my brows and the tops of her cheeks blush the cutest red.
“Oh, right. I knew that.” Sam is so damn good at everything, it’s hard to believe she can’t cook. No doubt, she was traumatized by a meatball as a kid.
Grabbing the last paper towel, I pat down our wings and sit, waiting for the room to stop spinning.
“Suds, do you have a broiler? Sam wasn’t sure.” Rose peers out of the screen and I start seeing double.
I wait until there’s only one of everything, open the oven door and slide in the sheet of wings.
“Huh. I thought that was for storage.” My wife laughs and I join her until my scratchy throat starts up again.
“Shit.” While I catch my breath, Rose calls out, “Take his temp. He looks like he might pass out any minute.”
A smart-ass retort rests on the tip of my tongue but is stopped by a plastic thermometer. When it beeps, she pulls it out, and frowns.
“One-hundred-and-three.”
Ah hell, this stupid virus sucks.
After pouring me a glass of ice water, she peers into the laptop, thanks her cousin, and hangs up. I had no idea a spatula could be wielded as a weapon but she aims it at me and points to the bathroom.
“Shower. And for God’s sake, take something for your fever.”
I do as I’m told and sit on the john like a fucking toddler while she adjusts the water. When she holds open the glass door, I place a palm on the sink, rise like an old man, and duck under the spray.
“Fuck, it’s too damn cold.” Shivering, I try to exit but she presses both hands on my back.
“No, actually, it’s not. You need to take something for the fever.”
“I will, I promise, if it goes any higher. L-Let’s see if this will b-burn itself out.”
After, things fog up a mite. She swears the wings are hot and spicy but to me, they taste like cardboard. She unfolds the futon, forces some juice down my throat, and covers me with a comforter. Weaker than I’ve been since getting blown up in Afghanistan, I sleep.
Chapter Seven
Sam
I scour the internet for hours with nothing to do except fret over the number of COVID cases and the lack of hospital beds. Drinking weak coffee, I long for the days where I could run downstairs for a cappuccino.
“Okay. Enough whining. There must be something constructive I can do.” I say this to Catrina because obviously, talking to myself would mean I’m going crazy.
When I first started my business, Rose insisted I let her create a Facebook page. Her first entry is how I found Frankie’s cat. The final one is from last summer where a guy electrocuted a bass player. The case of Fried Cal seems like a lifetime ago and I can’t help but wonder if our doors will ever open again. We were just starting to make ends meet, put a little aside, and now this.
Nope. Not going there. The pity party police will come and shut down my moping. I need to brainstorm. I need clients. I need to advertise!
Enthused, I make an account and soon realize creating a Facebook ad is worse than chemistry and calculus combined. Do I want to pay for the number of times people see my image or each time they click? What audience do I want? What the fuck is bid limiting and why do I care?
After a whole morning, I’ve got nothing to show for my time but a headache. Frustrated beyond measure, I phone my father. There has to be an easier way.
Again, he doesn’t pick up so I leave a message. “Hey, Dad. I think I found a cold case I want to help out with and yes, I’m going stir crazy. Please call back or send men with straight jackets.”
