An Unfinished Story(27)
“My friend Didi says she talks to her husband, so here goes. David, give me the strength I need. I know you don’t want me to be sad. It’s taken me three years to figure that out. But how do I find happiness? I enjoyed a glimpse of it on the dance floor two days ago, but how do I add to it?” She took in a giant breath and tried to feel his presence. She listened, as if there might be a whisper coming from above.
“I know you can’t talk to me,” she finally said. “Even if you’re listening, I know you can’t respond. Just know that I want to make you proud. Please do what you can to give me a boost every once in a while. I’m going to need it.” She shrugged. “So here I go. I’m off to the closing. I guess the one thing that makes me happy is that saying goodbye to this house isn’t saying goodbye to you.” She choked up and touched her heart. “You’re inside me forever. You’re not allowed to leave, okay?”
Locking up, she descended the steps and climbed into her car. Almost out of habit, she reached into the glove box for her latex glove. But as she began to snap it on, she shook her head. David would forgive a lot of things, but not smoking.
With a guilty little smile, Claire took a detour from her usual reggae and found a salsa playlist. As the rich Latin beats filled her convertible, the welcome taste of hope hit the tip of her tongue.
Chapter 10
I HEAR THUNDER
After a brutal Wednesday dealing with needy clients, Whitaker came home with every intention of writing. Something about his father offering him a job made him desperate to find his words again. It was no secret that it was his father who’d given him a story in the first place. It didn’t take much effort shaking the napalm tree for the Vietnam vet to fall out. In other words, post the release of Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters, everyone knew the Grants a little better. Of course, Whitaker’s characters only mildly resembled those in real life.
“I stole a few things from friends and family,” Whitaker would say in interviews, “but it’s just my imagination hard at work.”
“How about the father in the story?” they’d asked. “I know your father was a vet too.”
“The father in the story is a completely unfair, diminished view of my dad. It’s who he could have become after the war, but thankfully he returned intact.” For the most part, Whitaker would always add internally.
That father was a PTSD-riddled tiger of a man who was relentless in life and work. He was still fighting the Vietnam War every single day. Jack Grant, however, had dealt with his demons in a much more impressive way. Whitaker would always end his interviews with, “Jack Grant is my hero. The man in the book is an antihero. It’s just that . . . knowing a vet so intimately as you would when you’re raised by one, it’s easy to let your imagination run with how much worse it could be. That’s where the palm trees are poisoned with napalm and the turquoise waters are dyed red with blood.”
Jack Grant was Whitaker’s hero in a lot of ways, but when it came down to it, no man in the history of business could remove a suit and tie like Whitaker Grant. The moment he closed his front door, his tie was flying in the air and his suit jacket was falling to the floor. He kicked his polished loafers toward the wall and shucked his ironed black pants into the corner. Letting the suit wrinkle and leaving the businessman in the foyer, Whitaker dressed in basketball shorts and a T-shirt and headed toward his office.
Entering his writing space always felt like he was jumping out of a helicopter into a Vietnamese jungle. Never did going to war get easier, and that was exactly what sitting down to fill a blank page was: war.
I Hear Thunder (the working title of his newest work, the one that began with “I want out, Matteo”) had led to many more words and sentences. Like Napalm Trees, he’d begun to feel the character, starting to see through the eyes of this man.
The problem was Whitaker kept getting in the way of himself. Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters had been a thrill to write. He could remember countless times when he was pounding the keys with his foot tapping and heart racing, and he could barely wait until he could share the story with the world. Where was the joy in this one?
The warrior typist sat in his chair, rebooted his computer, and stared at the movie poster until the final beep sounded. He couldn’t help but take a quick peek at Lisa and him at the premiere again. She was still his cheerleader, even after leaving him. That was, in fact, the last thing she said to him. “I’m pulling for you, Whitaker. I can’t love you anymore, but I’m your biggest fan.” No one could imagine how hard hitting her last words were.
Stalling, he checked his social media accounts. A fan had posted on his Facebook wall, telling Whitaker that he’d rewatched the movie again and absolutely loved it. The fan suggested writing a sequel.
Not for the first time, Whitaker bounced that notion around in his head. The producers had made the same request. Being the prideful artist that he was, Whitaker had answered the publisher the way his heart wanted him to. “It’s not a story that has a second piece to it. It’s done.” His agent disagreed, but Whitaker had assured him, “I’ve got more stories. Let’s not chase sequels. It’s a path that doesn’t always go so well.”
“Mario Puzo didn’t do that bad of a job.”
“I’m no Puzo. These characters have had their arc; they’ve already faced their worst nightmares. To revisit their stories would be a travesty, even if it filled our pockets with gold.”