Page 64 of Walking Wounded

“Yeah, alright, Mr.Writer. I didn’t set this up. I got better things to do with my time than talk to some entitled millennial brat about what I’ve been through.”

Luke lifts an eyebrow. “Better things to do?”

“Shut up, I do.The point is, I didn’t ask for this either, but by God, if somebody’s gonna write something about me, I want him to have the whole story.”

“Because I need the history of your life to figure out why you hit some dude upside the head with a cane. Yeah. Makes sense.”

“No, because…” Will makes a frustrated sound. “Your boy, Hal–”

“He’s not my boy,” Luke says through his teeth.

“–there’s people who’d look at him, and look at you, and think you’re getting the short end of the stick. Think you ought to cut ties and go find something better for yourself.”

“What in the–”

“But those people don’t know you, do they?” He leans forward in his chair, gnarled hands gripping tight to the arms. “Or him. Or any of it. And a person who doesn’t know you doesn’t have a right to tell you what to do – or tell your story. ‘Cause that’s the thing about storytelling – the person who tells it always has to tell you what they think, at the end. And what you ought to think when you read what he wrote.”

Luke takes a deep, unsteady breath. “Will, are you gay?”

“No,” the man says, easily, “but it don’t mean I hold that against you, kid. I’m telling you a story. My story. Because it’s something you need to know before you go writing a buncha bullshit about my boy and his family.”

“I’m not writing about Matt,” Luke insists.

“Oh, yes you are.” Will smirks a little, a quirk of his wrinkled lips, and leans back again, eyes dancing. “You just don’t know it yet. You can’t write about anybody attached to politics without a buncha opinions getting thrown in the mix.”

The fine hairs on the back of Luke’s neck prickle. “Says who?”

“Says me. And I don’t know everything, but I do know a bit. I know you want to write books instead of magazine articles. I know you think I’m an old fool. And I know Hal didn’t bring you down here for me, or Matt, or that sad thing you want to call a career.”

“Why, then?”

Will shrugs. “That’s between you and him.”

Luke breathes a moment, in and out, shallow and fast, skin tingling beneath his clothes. His scalp feels tight and his palms ache like when his blood pressure is too low. He might pass out.

“I gotta go.” He lurches toward the door, feet like cinderblocks. But pauses at the door, turns back. “You’re wrong, though. I don’t think you’re an old fool.”

Will smiles. “Go on, then.”

He goes.

~*~

“Making any progress?” Sandy asks when he reaches the kitchen. She’s sitting at the long table, surrounded by dozens of little cellophane bags, slips of paper, bags of tiny candy bars, and a thick roll of twine.

“Yeah,” Luke says, because, oddly enough, it feels like they have today. And also because he isn’t willing to share what was just said, the strange way it left Luke feeling. At some point, he’ll have to tell the Maddox family that their old man is sharp as a tack, but today isn’t that day.

Since he has no immediate plans to rush back to the apartment and write up a storm, he asks, “What are you working on?”

“Ah.” Like she hoped he’d ask. “Swag bags for a dinner I’m hosting.”

So far, a basket overflows with the things, and she’s assembling more. “Here?” He can’t imagine that many people fitting inside the townhouse.

She laughs – that musical, Southern woman laugh like she thinks he’s adorable, but doesn’t mean it to be an insult at all. Southern women astound him, really. “Goodness no. It’ll be at an art gallery; industrial chic, don’t you know.” Luke has crept closer as she talks, and now he’s near enough to the table that she lifts the twine up toward him, close enough for him to see the little wire threads running through it; not real twine, but decorative shit. “I’m going for that whole rustic look. What do you think?”

Each cellophane bag contains gift cards from local small businesses, sample size lotions and lip balms he assumes are expensive, squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, and strips of shredded, crinkled paper for filler. Sandy has tied each one with twine, and a little card printed with the name and date of the event. Simple things, throwaway things, really, each one a little palmful of money. He can’t imagine spending hard-earned cash on this kind of thing – mainly because he doesn’t have that kind of cash. But he knows, deep down, that someone like Sandy is held to an impossible standard – a lack of gift bags could mean social suicide…and a possible bleed over into her husband’s career. Washington hates poverty as much as it hates wealth; it’s not possible to win favor if you don’t run in the “right” circles. And he also admits that, via the gift cards, Sandy and her charity have put much-needed cash in the hands of local entrepreneurs. So…

“They’re great,” he says, shrugging. “If you go for that sort of thing.”

---