An Unfinished Story(29)

This time, Whitaker stomped back to the fire alarm, screaming obscenities. How could anyone accomplish anything with the interminable curses of being human? He ripped the battery out and returned to the closet, where he found a tester. Sure enough, it was dead. Why would he put a dead battery back into the box? What an idiot. Testing several more, he finally found one 9V battery with a bit of fight left.

Whitaker plugged the battery into the fire alarm and—voilà!—a green light, a satisfactory chirp.

Weary from his battle and feeling creatively listless, Whitaker retreated to the kitchen to plan dinner. As he opened the fridge, he heard movement in the living room.

“Anyone there?” he asked, looking for a weapon to protect himself.

With a quickening pulse, Whitaker extracted a knife from the butcher block. It was a paring knife, the smallest in the block. He quietly set it down and drew one much larger. Butcher knife in hand, he crept across the kitchen and entered the living room, prepared to fight the intruder.

It was indeed an intruder, but the knife wouldn’t be necessary.

“Good afternoon,” his mother said, while folding his business slacks.

“Mom!” he said, trying not to yell. “You can’t just come in here.”

Sadie Grant, dressed as if for a ladies’ luncheon, looked at him like he’d said something absurd. “Whitaker, you should be ashamed of yourself.” She looked around the living room. “I didn’t raise you to live like this.”

“I’m serious, Mom. You can’t just walk into my house. I’m forty years old.” He raised the knife. “I was about to stab you.”

She looked at the knife and then back at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous? It’s the twenty-first century. There is crime in this neighborhood.” Whitaker set the knife down on the coffee table. “I’m tempted to call the police.”

Sadie ignored him and continued to fold. “Please pour me a glass of chardonnay. I’m parched.”





Chapter 11

ALWAYS LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER

Returning from the kitchen with her wine, Whitaker joined his mother in the living room. Ashamed of the digital slaughter paused on the flat screen, he found the remote and turned off the television.

The Do?a Quixote of Florida was humming to herself and folding clothes from the pile of laundry on the chair. Her bulbous gray hair was styled the exact same way as he’d last seen her. And the time before that. “The door was open. I knocked.”

“I was writing. What if I were in here with a woman?”

“Oh, are you dating again?” She turned to him with such enthusiasm that it was almost as if he’d told her of an impending grandchild.

“No. I mean, I’m open to whatever comes my way. But I haven’t met anyone lately worth pursuing.” He questioned those words as they exited his mouth.

Sadie shook out a wrinkled polo shirt. “You should get out more.”

Whitaker drew in a breath. He reminded himself that she meant no harm and there was no point fighting back. He had to let her be a mother and grandmother.

Sadie was humming as she continued folding the clothes. “How’s the writing coming along?” Only his mother had the guts to ask, and only she could get away with it.

Taking a pair of boxer shorts, Whitaker joined his mother in helping fold the clothes. “Every time I think I’m getting close, the words stop flowing. It’s a game of persistence, and I’m struggling right now.” Whitaker shook his head. “The strife of an artist.”

Then good ol’ Sadie cut to the chase, the reason she’d graced Whitaker with a surprise visit. “Did you give your father’s offer another thought?”

Whitaker laid down the shirt he’d folded. “I had a feeling you had an agenda today.”

“A mother can’t come by and see her son?”

He took another pair of boxers. Something about his mother folding his underwear didn’t feel right, so he tried to stay ahead of her. “I know when you’re up to something.”

She folded in silence, waiting for his reply.

“Though I’m going through a difficult phase, I’m not sure I’m ready to hang up the writing gig. And you know as well as I do that taking that job will consume me. The money would be nice—”

“Not to mention the security,” Sadie interrupted while straightening the collar of one of his short-sleeved button-downs. “You’d have a guaranteed job for the rest of your life. Can you say that about working for the bank?”

“If I took the job, I might as well rip out my soul and bury it in the backyard while I’m at it. Look at Dad. He works too much and is miserable half the time. With the bank, I can at least leave my work at the office.”

“Your father is not miserable. He might still be dealing with stuff from the war, but his job gives him a reason to get out into the world.” She united a pair of socks. “St. Pete wouldn’t be what it is without your father and Grant Construction. You did a great thing for this city with your book. You’ve both given to your community. Imagine if you joined him and continued to write. The Grant Powerhouse.”

Whitaker shook his head. Why was it that the Grants felt this need to take over the world?

Sadie whistled a short melody. “It doesn’t take ten years to write a book. I know you’re trying, but . . . trying to make a living with your art can sometimes cause problems.”