Walking Wounded

by Lauren Gilley

  Hal raises his brows. “I’m just that good looking, huh?” Self-mocking tilt of his head, frown lurking.

  “Yes,” Luke says, because it’s true. “And I don’t think your job keeps you so busy that you don’t notice.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “Maddox’s kid likes you,” Luke says, grinning. “The little one. She’s got it bad for the security man.”

  “You’re gross. I forgot how damn gross you are.” He flicks a greasy penne noodle across the table.

  “Dude.”

  “Maddie’s just got a little crush, alright? I like to pretend she doesn’t.”

  “You better. Or it’s five-to-ten and don’t-drop-the-soap, pretty boy.”

  “Ugh. Like I said.”

  Luke actually feels light inside. Buoyant. A foreign feeling for him.

  ~*~

  “Friends?” Luke asks when they’re in the Jeep and putting on their seatbelts.

  “There’s the guys from work. We hang out at the gym together. We have beers sometimes. Watch the game.”

  “Ah, your people: the jocks.”

  “Luke,” Hal says with a sigh as he pulls out into traffic. “Why do you always have to say it like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “You know like what. Like we’re so different or something. Like I’m a jock and you’re a–”

  “Nerd?”

  “You’re not. I wish you’d quit saying that.” And there’s more of that frustrated anger, like back at the restaurant, when Hal was trying to insist that Luke seemed unhappy in New York.

  “I say it cause it’s true,” Luke says, deciding to pull at the thread, just because he’s a little shit, just to see what will happen. “It’s always been true. You with your giant shoulders, and your big square head, and football practice. And me hiding under the bleachers, getting swirlies at halftime. In the women’s restroom, I might add. Jock.” He points at Hal. “Nerd.” And then at himself.

  And then he sees the way Hal’s jaw clenches in the dash lights; his knuckles whiten as his hand curls tight around the wheel. “Stop talking like that.” It sounds like an order.

  And because he really, really is a little shit: “Why?”

  “Because.” The word bursts out of Hal’s throat, half-growl, half-gasp. “I’m tired of the way you keep stereotyping people. You stereotype me, and you stereotype yourself. Like I’m this dumb ball player and you’re some ugly little dweeb nobody ever liked. Like we’re just…just…stuck being those things. And we can’t change, or grow, or be our own people. Like we have to be what other people think we are.” He’s panting at the end, fighting to catch his breath.

  Luke lets his head fall back against the seat, stunned. “But,” he says, quietly, “nobody ever did like me. Nobody but you.”

  Hal’s jaw could cut stone, but he doesn’t say anything else.

  ~*~

  The silence verges on oppressive by the time they step into the elevator at Hal’s building. Luke knows he fucked up, because he’s always the one who fucks up, but he has no idea what to say after that last stupid thing he said.

  He glances over at Hal as the car trundles silently upward, but his awkward apology shrivels on his tongue. Hal looks straight ahead at their golden reflections, brows and mouth drawn in an expression of acute sadness.

  So Luke faces forward, lets the words build inside him until they’re a physical pressure behind his breastbone. He’s used to that feeling; he’s been checking his words when it comes to Hal for years.

  It’s once they’re inside the apartment that Hal says, too casually, “So what about you? Anyone special in your life these days?”

  Luke’s fingers go numb and his messenger bag slips off his shoulder, hits the floor with a thump. “No.”

  Hal stares at him, though he shifts, uncomfortable, rubbing at the back of his neck. “No boyfriend?”

  Luke can’t swallow. Can’t breathe. Can’t bend at the waist to retrieve his bag. “What does it matter?” he asks, quietly, breath catching.

  Hal finally looks away. “I just want you to be happy, is all.”

  “Well…I am.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you said.” Hal shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up. “Look, if it’s alright, I’m gonna grab the first shower and then hit the sack. It’s…I’m kinda tired.”

  “Right. Yeah…that’s fine.”

  But the bathroom door closes before he finishes the sentence.

  ~*~

  He needs to email Linda again, and spend a few hours preparing himself for tomorrow’s continued interview with Will. He needs to wipe all of tonight’s conversation from his mind and worry about the job. Worry about writing the best story he can, and getting the hell out of this place, heading back home to his sad apartment and his sad caffeine and nicotine habits.

  But instead he lingers in the shower, hot water pounding his head, his neck, his shoulders as he braces his hands on the tile and wonders if Hal stood like this just minutes before him. He imagines he can see the handprints, the outlines of Hal’s long fingers in humid relief.

  He should never have come.

  ~*~

  It started like this:

  Two families sharing a duplex in Roanoke, Virginia. An old white clapboard house with ivy crawling up one side, and a staircase in back that led from the front door of the upstairs apartment, to the back porch of the downstairs apartment. A flat front yard perfect for impromptu whiffleball games; a backyard that overlooked a Texaco. A neighborhood frozen in the transitional stage.

  Luke lived upstairs with his mother and sister.

  Hal lived downstairs with his parents.

  Their mothers, Rhonda and Lynn, had been college roommates once upon a time. And after marriages, and Rhonda’s divorce, and a handful of bad luck tossed like dice down a craps table, the friends found themselves in a position to lean on one another for help. And so they took it.

  Luke and Hal were both four when the move took place.

  Hal’s father, Henry Sr., schlepped boxes from the moving van. The women dusted, and scrubbed, and aired out rooms, flinging up window sashes like a scene in a musical.

  And Luke and Hal sat on the back porch, melting popsicles in their small chubby hands.

  The start.

  ~*~

  Luke remembers that afternoon with aching clarity: the chemical cherry taste of his popsicle, the rough planks of the porch digging into the backs of his legs, the fireflies dancing in the twilight as the parents called back and forth to each other in the house behind them.

  “I’m in Miss Donna’s class,” Hal said, legs kicking off the end of the porch.

  “Me too,” Luke said, and his heart swelled with gladness.

  Of course, their mothers had orchestrated that, working them into the same first grade class that fall in the hopes it would help them transition into their new school.

  Luke hangs his head and lets the water run down his face, drip off his nose, swirl around the drain between his feet. It’s his fault, he knows. He’s the reason their relationship went to shit. From something pure and good to something twisted and complicated.

  He’d thought, maybe, by some stroke of luck, that three years would have been enough time for the wounds to heal over.

  But was wrong. Like always.

  6

  “Okay, Will. Let’s not play the game, okay? Let’s just talk.”

  Breakfast this morning is toast, grapefruit, and sausage patties. Luke doesn’t touch his, instead flicks on his audio recorder, sets it on his tray, and gives Will a stern look across the library.

  Will grumbles something beneath his breath and cuts the sausage in two with a fork.

  “I’m sorry, what was that? The answer to all my questions?”

  “I said I don’t feel like talking.”

  “Ah. Why do I feel like that’s an everyday occurrence?”

  Will sends him a mulish look.

  “Look. Mr. Maddox, I don’t want to be here a
ny more than you do. But I have to finish this job before I head home. So. Come on. Make it easier on both of us.”

  Will studies him a moment. “You’re all out of sorts.” Before Luke can respond: “More than you were yesterday. What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ha. That’s a lie if I ever heard one.”

  It’s a cloudy day, the light filtering through the window silver and pale, a herald of winter. The library lies partially in shadow, as clouds race past, heavy with moisture.

  Luke will blame the weather, though he knows it’s last night fraying his patience, making him restless.

  “Will,” he says, sighing. “Look. I’m gonna be honest with you, because God knows you’re being – mostly – honest with me. I’m not an investigative journalist. I don’t dig out the truth and go chasing leads. I’m a writer. I like to write. I like to string words together and make them sound pretty.”

  Will makes a face.

  “Yeah, I get that a lot, but it’s true. And I specialize in poetry in fiction. In fiction that’s poetic, actually. So. Cut to the chase: I think there’s a story here. Something. But I don’t actually think it’s news worthy worth a damn. But I have to take something back to my editor. So how about you tell me a story. And, bonus, it doesn’t even have to be true. It just has to be something I can sell.”

  He feels like a dishonest asshole, but it’s his only play at the moment.

  Will’s mouth draws up in a considering expression. “Doesn’t have to be true, huh?”

  “Totally made up,” Luke assures. “Shit knows I’d never tell my real life story.”

  Will smiles at that. “Well…”

  “Come on, old timer,” Luke says, and knows he’s pressing his luck. “Spin me a yarn.”

  The expected reprimand doesn’t come. Instead Will lets out a creaky laugh. “Alright, alright. What is it they always say? Best to start at the start, isn’t it?”

  “That’s generally how it works, yeah.”

  Will clears his throat and leans back in his chair, gets comfy.

  Luke double checks his recorder, and picks up a pen for good measure.

  It starts.

  ~*~

  June 1939

  Will Maddox turned eight the summer of ’39. In the way of all eight-year-olds, the world was a narrow ribbon, and time stretched infinite. He didn’t feel the fading scars of the Depression, nor could he hear the war drums beating in Europe. He lived in the green rippling fields beyond his mother’s garden. He would always have room for a slice of cake after dinner, it would always be summer; life would always be a hot-blooded adventure. And he would always be best friends with Finn Murdoch.

  The summer he turned eight, Will grew two inches, and it gave him an unfair advantage when it came to running. Finn was still lithe and quick, a fleet-footed little fox of a boy, but Will’s legs were longer now, and as they neared the old barn, and the hitching post that was their finish line, Will pulled ahead the last fraction and slapped the cross piece of the post first.

  “Damn!” Finn said with a laugh.

  “Damn,” Will agreed, surprised by his own sudden speed.

  Both of their mothers would have swatted their backsides if they’d heard them curse. But out here, two hundred yards from the house, they were free. The old barn belonged to them; it kept all their secrets from mothers’ judgmental ears.

  Finn let his legs give out and flopped down onto the grass, spread-eagle and staring up at the sky, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

  Will stretched out beside him, fighting his own lungs. He loved the rush of running for all he was worth, the way it tasted when he breathed through his mouth and sucked in huge gulps of air, legs and chest burning. Adrenaline, his father called it. It was sweet as candy.

  Overhead, the clouds tumbled in lazy formations, fat and white. Will thought one looked like a dragon, its jaws open, forelegs extended.

  Slowly, their breathing returned to normal. The grass tickled at Will’s skin and began to itch; he smelled earth and green things, and the faint musty inside of the barn behind them. Inside, his father had set up a tire swing, and it awaited their pleasure, whenever they felt like picking themselves up.

  Beside him, Finn took a deep breath and let it back out in a rush. “Mama’s gonna have another baby,” he said, like it was the end of the world. He already had two sisters. “It’s gonna be another girl, I know it.”

  “Maybe not,” Will said, soothingly. But a part of him hoped it was. His own brother had died three weeks before he was due; he remembered, vaguely, the tiny coffin they’d buried at the funeral, the way it was no bigger than a shoe box. And so maybe it was selfish, but he was an only child, and he lived in constant fear that the oh-so-fertile Mrs. Murdoch would pop out a little brother for Finn and that Finn would turn his back on Will. He knew that would never happen – he knew; they were best friends – but it kept him up sometimes at night.

  “I just can’t take all the crying,” Finn complained. “Lisa just stopped crying, finally, and now there’ll be another one. I don’t want it!” he said, flinging his arms toward the sky in supplication.

  “Maybe this one won’t cry.”

  “They all cry. It’s what babies do.”

  Will didn’t know what babies did. The only ones he’d ever been around were Finn’s sisters, and that was only for brief spells, Mrs. Murdoch telling them to go play outside and not be loud. Most days, they played at Will’s house, where it was always quiet and there were never-ending adventures to be had in the woods and fields surrounding it.

  “Hey.” Finn rolled toward him, propped up on an elbow.

  Will mirrored him, so they lay face-to-face.

  Finn dug around in his pocket until he came out with something slender and silver, which he laid on the grass between them. It was a collapsible pocket knife, with wood detailing on the handle. With one small, deft hand, Finn opened it, the blade flashing smooth and silver in the sunlight.

  It was the best thing Will had ever seen.

  “Oh, wow,” Will breathed, hand hovering over the shiny wonder.

  “You can touch it, I don’t mind.”

  Will slid a careful fingertip down the flat of the blade, frowning at the smudge he left behind. “Where’d you get it?”

  “Dad,” Finn said, voice taking on that unsure quality it adopted whenever he talked about his father. “He said he carried it in the war.”

  Will touched the carved handle with total reverence. “Wow,” he said again.

  When he glanced up, Finn was smiling at him.

  September, 1942

  Finn’s father was a stern, joyless man, found often in his favorite chair by the fire, a glass with an inch of amber liquid in it always within reach. He didn’t read, didn’t listen to the radio; he sat, and he stared out the window, and every so often he’d bark orders at Finn’s mother.

  His name was Elias Murdoch, and his first wife had died of pneumonia while he was serving in the Great War. He’d come home missing his right leg from the just below the knee, and he’d had no wife to hold and comfort him, to assure him that she still loved him. His son – Finn’s half-brother James – was sent off to boarding school until Elias had things sorted. He’d finally married Julia, Finn’s mother, and begun the business of procreation with no visible happiness or desire.

  James was fighting on the Eastern Front, and Elias sat in his chair, and Finn was the only vibrant male presence in the Murdoch household.

  “I want to go and fight,” Finn confessed one afternoon as they did their algebra homework at the Murdoch kitchen table. He bounced the newest baby, Lillian, on his knee and tapped his pencil against his open book with his free hand. His brown eyes had that faraway look in them, the one that meant he was off on the battlefield in his head, romantic and swaggering with his helmet and rifle. “It’s not fair that James gets to go, and I have to be here.” He shot a resentful look toward the baby.

  Under the table, his other
two sisters were playing an elaborate game that involved marbles and a toy china tea set, whispering to each other. One of them bumped into Will’s shin.

  “Well,” he said, carefully. “I’m not sure I want to fight.” Just listening to the news broadcasts on the radio sent fear crawling down his back.

  “As well you shouldn’t,” Julia said as she swept into the room. She moved on silent feet, the swish of her skirt the only sound she made; she’d learned how to navigate the house silently, in deference to Elias’s foul moods. “I’m all for the war,” she said as she went to the stove to check on dinner. “But I don’t want my baby boy out there in the trenches.”

  “Mom.” Finn rolled his eyes. “They don’t dig trenches anymore.”

  She stirred the stew and rapped the spoon hard on the edge of the pot. “You mark my words, there’s some trenches over there somewhere! How’re you supposed to fight a war without trenches?”

  “Ugh,” Finn grumbled.

  “You don’t want to go to war, do you, Will?” Julia asked, casting a look over her shoulder. His own mother would have asked with a polite disinterest: just making conversation. But his own mother was gentle as thistledown, while Julia had grown sharp-edged and brittle living in the shadow of Elias’s grief. She asked like she thought Will might be stupid if he disagreed with her.

  Will caught Finn’s barely-suppressed smile. He didn’t want to go to war, no, but he didn’t want to be disloyal to his best friend.

  He took a deep breath. “I think it’s noble to go to war for your country.”

  Finn hid a giggle in his hand, eyes dancing.

  “Heaven’s sakes!” Julia said. “You men are all alike: war, and blood, and drinks. I don’t know why I bother.”

  “But girls are sugar and spice, right Mom?” Finn asked.

  Under the table, Will felt one of Finn’s sisters wedge a marble down into his shoe.