Tell Me Who You Are by Louisa Luna

Author:Louisa Luna
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Gordon Strong

I guess I’m thankful. My back’s almost normal. Chuck Strange didn’t cure me or anything—he’s not some magical witch doctor—but after the massage on the couch, I was able to stand without too much pain and get to a chiropractor, who told me exactly what goddamn Chuck had said, that I’d had some kind of spasm, and all the muscles had locked up. The doc pressed and cracked my lower back, told me to come back in a couple of weeks and maybe once a month after. That’s how doctors get you, though, they keep you coming back for “maintenance,” gobble up all those co-payments. I told him I’d come back if I needed to.

I’m working the hedge outside again. I owe it to Evelyn. I know I’ve been hitting the bottle a little hard—to be honest, I don’t have a lot of memory of most nights. Last night, for example, I know I went down to the basement and called my old man again and ended up yelling at him. I don’t even remember what we were arguing about—I just remember Evelyn trying to take the receiver from me, her face all puffy and weepy, saying, “Please, Gordon, please stop.”

Then I can’t remember if I pushed her off me, but I’m pretty sure I laid into her and called her some names. I remember Savannah standing at the top of the stairs, pretty sure she heard the whole thing. They were all gone before I woke up, so I didn’t have a chance to say sorry.

My old man always said since he paid the bills he didn’t have to apologize for anything. He reminded me of it last night in fact. Only pansies apologize to women, so if you’re saying sorry, you must be a pansy, too. And I guess since you ain’t paying the bills, that makes a hell of a lot of sense.

I think I got the top line on the hedge that separates our property from the road pretty even. I try to remember if we have a level somewhere, or even a yardstick. Figure I’ll go look in the garage, and if I come up empty, maybe there’s a ruler in one of the kids’ rooms. I stand up, blink away the sweat. Then I hear a noise, like a cat mewling after a fight, but quiet.

I look in the direction of the Stranges’ place, and I see Caroline on the porch in the corner of the stairs, face in her hands, crying.

My first feeling is not to get involved, go about my day, back away slowly and find the ruler and make sure the top of the hedge is straight. And there’s something about that kid that sticks with me the wrong way.

I look around, over both shoulders, see if by any chance her mother’s car is turning the corner, or even silently hoping Savannah’s home from camp early so she can talk to her friend, but no dice. There’s no one but me.

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