An Unfinished Story(12)

Just when Whitaker thought he’d succeeded, the man extracted a bag from his back pocket, snapped it open with a shake, and reached down obediently to collect his dog’s droppings.

Whitaker cursed in disappointment.

A few minutes later, his phone rang. Without looking at the display, he knew exactly who it was and the purpose of the call. And he always picked up for his mom. She was one of his favorite people on earth.

“Hi, sweetie,” Sadie Grant said to her son. “I hope I’m not waking you.”

“Oh, c’mon. I’ve been writing all morning.”

In her typically jolly voice, she said, “Good for you. Well, I don’t want to disturb you—just making sure you’re coming over later.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said, knowing there was no way out of this one.

“Honey, I know your sarcasm better than anyone. Don’t toy with me.”

Adjusting his position, he asked, “Why do you insist on everyone getting together when we don’t get along?”

“Oh, honey, who cares about a few hiccups along the way? We’re family. The Grants must stick together.”

Whitaker could see her pumping her fist in the air. The Grants must stick together! He imagined his entire family, every Grant in Florida, marching down Beach Boulevard chanting, “The Grants must stick together! The Grants must stick together!” As if they owned St. Pete before the Native Americans did.

“I think you’re confusing hiccups and hurricanes,” he said. “Besides, I really need to write, Mom.”

Whitaker scanned the park for more dogs.

“Don’t do that, Whitaker. It’s never the same without you.”

Whitaker sighed. “What time does it start again?”

Still happy as can be, his mother almost sang, “The bouncy castle should be operational by three. But come over anytime. Did you get a present for your nephew?”

“Of course I did,” Whitaker lied, wondering what he might find in the house worth wrapping. And where to find wrapping paper, tape, and ribbon.

“By the way, I just told your brother. We’re hiding the liquor. There’s plenty of beer and wine, but I don’t like having everyone hammered on liquor. It shows our bad side.”

“Bad side? We have a bad side?”

Her “Whitaker Grant” sounded like a reprimand. “I’ll see you at the party.”

“When is it again? Next week?”

“Whitaker, stop your shenanigans. See you in a few hours.”

After ending the call, she flooded his phone with happy animal emojis, and Whitaker decided that the day baby boomers discovered emojis had to be the beginning of the end. How could someone be so happy all the time? Though she was brilliant and sharp, Whitaker had to wonder if part of her was insane. Why all these determined attempts to keep getting the family together? The Grant family took all the “fun” out of dysfunctional.

After another thirty minutes of the stakeout, Whitaker felt bored and decided to hang it up for now. Sundown might be a better time to expose this creep. That was when these people were more likely to break the pick-up-your-poop rule—in the dark when they could get away with it.

“Not anymore,” promised Whitaker, climbing out of the Land Rover and returning to the house. “Not anymore.”

Whitaker hung his binoculars on the coatrack next to the umbrella. In the kitchen, he poured himself another cup of coffee and destroyed it with creamer. While stirring the concoction, his mind wandered into book land. Although the words weren’t flowing like they used to, he’d been typing some. That was the difference between now and the good old days. Where the man who had won copious literary awards, sold his book to Hollywood, and even for a moment made his father proud, was a respected writer, the man erratically running around in his bathrobe on this Sunday morning was a typist.

As the typist made his way to what could barely be called a third bedroom, Whitaker interviewed himself out loud. More and more lately, he was talking to himself, the banter of the lonely.

“Mr. Grant,” he started, with Walter Cronkite–esque authority, “what do you do for a living now? Are you writing again?”

In his best washed-up Whitaker Grant accent—one he’d mastered considering he was one and the same—he answered, “No, I’m just typing. I don’t have any more stories to tell. Nothing of consequence, at least.”

“How are you paying the bills with this typing?”

“Oh, I’m not really. Still living off a few royalty checks, but I’m also dabbling in investments, advising folks on where to put their money.”

“What do you know about banking?”

“One of the benefits of being Jack Grant’s son. I was studying stock charts before I could read. Because I have somewhat of a name in the area, my clients tend to find me.”

“Don’t you miss writing? I can’t imagine typing has the same creative return.”

“Oh, no. Typing is much more fun.” Whitaker threw his hands in the air. “Of course I miss writing, you bumbling fool! I’m lost in a world of words, and I can’t get my fingers around any of them. They’re everywhere. All I see . . . letters and words. But I can’t wrap my hands or head around a damned one.”

“I see,” Walter responded with a twinge of pity. “You’re screwed, aren’t you?”