An Unfinished Story(30)
Whitaker gave up folding and walked to the window. A green lizard missing half its tail was doing push-ups on the sill. The reptile dashed away when it noticed the typist approaching. “If there’s one thing I know, it’s the dangers of mixing business and pleasure. But I don’t want to be defeated. I have another book in me. I know I do.”
Sadie ignored him. “Let’s face it; you need a woman, and you need to consider starting a family. It’s not all about you anymore. Selfishness is the business of men in their thirties.” Clearly she and Jack were in agreement.
Indecisive on which bait to take, he finally chose her most consistent argument. “We all know you want more grandkids.”
While taking a break from folding to sip her wine, Sadie replied, “Of course I do. I also happen to think you would be an amazing father. Look at the way your nephew looks at you.”
She was slashing open the wounds of his failed marriage. Lisa had told Whitaker the same thing about being a great father. “Just let me get one more book done, and then we’ll focus on babies,” he’d promised her.
“My body is ready now,” she’d replied, and then dramatically stuck a finger in the air to emulate a second hand on a clock. “Tick, tick, tick.”
As much as Whitaker had loved Lisa, that little movement of hers might have been the most exasperating gesture on earth—not to mention an added impediment to his writer’s block. The selfishness of his thirties, indeed. No question that he and Lisa would still be together if he’d been on the same page about parenthood. Tick, tick.
Sadie was still going. “You have a way with kids, and you owe it to the world.”
Whitaker heard his brother scolding him about the birthday present. A buck knife?
“I really appreciate your life advice,” he said, “but, seriously, I’m going through a rough patch, and I need to deal with it on my own. I know you want me to have a serious job and a family, but I’m not there. Did you ever stop to think about the poor woman who would have to put up with me?”
“Who hasn’t had a total collapse?” Sadie asked. “You post-baby-boomer generations think you’re the only ones who have struggled internally. The only way to learn to live is by crashing hard a few times.”
He collapsed onto the sofa. “Then I’m learning well, believe me.”
Sadie sat in the comfy chair next to the sofa and set her wine down on a coaster. “I only have a few more minutes before I need to get to the club to meet Joe and Nancy. Let me just say this. Don’t turn down your father yet. Keep mulling it over. Think about living a more normal existence.”
“Not everyone wants a country club life.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s true, but you should be a bit more open to testing it out.”
Whitaker smiled sarcastically. He never did like country clubs. Every time he joined his family for a meal there, he felt like an outsider.
They spoke a few more minutes, and Sadie kissed him on the cheek on the way out. He told her he loved her and closed the door. The tension in his shoulders was palpable.
His mother was right. Making a living with your art was not always a good idea. Had he not enjoyed a taste of making good cash with his book, he might already happily be running Grant Construction. He might be a great husband and father. He might be mowing his green lawn at his house on the water, honing his golf game at the country club. Dropping his kids off at private school. Listening to his wife tell him about her Acroyoga session. He might be hosting Tuesday poker nights for the fellas.
But all that seemed so much less interesting than writing for a living. There was nothing like those moments when he’d sit down with his story and quickly lose himself in his own imagination. That feeling of tapping in, drawing creative fuel from some outside force, was better than any drug on the planet. The high was so lovely that he could still feel what it was like, even though he hadn’t enjoyed more than a taste of it in years. The high was so addictive that he could easily spend the rest of his life chasing it.
Whitaker glanced out the window by the front door to make sure she’d left. A man he’d seen before, wearing Converse All Stars, was walking a chestnut-colored pit bull across the park. Whitaker had a strong suspicion that this might be his guy—or at least one of them.
He slipped out the front door and sneaked to the edge of his driveway. Once he was sure he’d gone unseen, he dashed across the street into the park, finding refuge behind a giant oak tree. The park was lush green and well manicured all year round, courtesy of Florida’s tropical climate and the fine City of Gulfport landscapers willing to brave the conditions.
The dog walker was talking to the pit bull, perhaps coaxing him to poop. Where were the poop bags? Had he gotten lazy today? Whitaker hoped so. The man and his dog reached the opposite end of the park, falling out of Whitaker’s view. Blending in, the typist walked briskly as if he were getting some exercise. As if!
During the excitement, the muse finally came for a visit. He suddenly had a great idea for a poop sign. Seeing a bench, he recalled the scene in Forrest Gump when the girl on the bus said, “Can’t sit here.” Whitaker considered putting a picture of the girl on the sign with the caption Can’t shit here. He grinned and said self-mockingly, in his mother’s voice this time, “Witty Whitaker strikes again.” Couldn’t write a book, but maybe he could start a stupid-sign business.