Page 57 of Walking Wounded

“Yes, please.”

He gives her a brief but detailed recap of what was a rather brief, but detailed, encounter.

“What do you mean she made ‘this face?’”

Luke shrugs. “It was kinda spooky. Kinda like one ofyourfaces.” Before she can snark him back, he says, “Like you know all the secrets, and I’m an idiot because I don’t.”

“Ah.” A slow, sly smile crosses her face, very much like the one Kate gave him before the elevator doors shut.

“See.” He gestures to the webcam. “That look. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Hmm. Not telling. It’ll be more fun if you figure it out yourself.”

“Fu – yeah. Thanks for that.”

Linda gives him one last sharp, wicked grin, and then her expression grows serious. “Okay. The story, though, Luke.” This can’t be good. “I know it’s slow going, and that the old man isn’t cooperating. But this isn’t an indefinite assignment,” she says like she’s a doctor giving someone bad news. “I’m going to need a hundred words by six tonight. Time to get a move on, kiddo.”

His stomach clenches. “Yeah. I’ll have it to you.”

“Good luck.” The call disconnects.

Luke slumps back onto his stool. Does everyone in the world know how he feels about Hal?

~*~

To a writer, one-hundred words is nothing. A hiccup. It’s a paragraph. A small one, at that. And yet it takes Luke an hour to compose.

I arrive to the Maddox home in Georgetown – just as picturesque and historic as you’d anticipate – expecting to find a family out of step with the rest of the American public, and an elderly gentleman with high prejudices, and many moments of confusion. Instead I find a kind, realistic group of Southerners. And Mr. Maddox, while elderly, yes, is certainly no gentleman, and there’s not a hint of dementia in sight. I’ve come to DC to hear the story of the news-making protestor assault (if indeed we can call it an assault – Mr. Maddox is eighty-six) and find myself realizing that, like with so many stories, what we see on the surface isn’t the root of the issue at all. But a symptom of something deeper.

One-hundred-twenty-six words. All of them absolute shit. Partly because he’s tired, and frustrated, and nowhere near ready to put any of this into words. But also because…he gets the distinct feeling he’s missing the point of all this somehow.

Mired in the frustration of his own professional failings, Luke doesn’t hear the key in the door, and jumps out of his skin when the door swings open and Hal steps in.

“Did I spook you?” Hal asks with a knowing grin as Luke rights his glasses.

Luke tells his heart to calm the hell down. “I was working. In the zone, you know.” Yeah, the shit zone.

“Sorry. I texted you I was on the way.”

Luke checks his phone and yeah, sure enough, there’s a text. “Didn’t hear it, I guess.”

The text also says Hal was bringing stuff for dinner, which is revealed in the shape of a paper grocery bag, once he hangs his coat up.

Luke closes his laptop, the hundred-twenty-six words unsent. “What’ve you got?”

Hal snorts as he moves through to the kitchen and sets the bag down, begins unloading it. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“Well yeah, that’s a given.” Luke stands beside him and knocks their shoulders together. Watches two heads of romaine, chicken breasts, a wedge of stilton, onions, and peppers land on the counter. “Salad?”

“Hey.” Hal’s cheeks start to pink. “I’ve got to keep in shape. Salad’s good.”

“Mmhm. Real good.”

“Shut up. Grab us some beers.”

Luke does, and helps put away the cold groceries while Hal gets ready to sauté the chicken.

“So,” he says, sliding Hal his beer and taking a sip of his own. “I met Kate today.”

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