An Unfinished Story(35)

And there it was. It had taken three years, but Claire had broken through to the light.





Chapter 13

WHERE ARE THE ZOMBIES?

As the hues of dusk colored Clymer Park, Whitaker settled down on the front patio with the three composition books in his hand. Watching the park for a while, he noticed a proud osprey perched on a high branch on the dead limb of an oak.

Back down on the ground, a lone woman speed-walking a goldendoodle piqued his interest. She was working her arms back and forth like a cross-country skier. Never one to shy away from distraction, he spent a few moments thinking of more sign ideas. Coming up with clever poop memes could be so enjoyable.

We have video. We know where you live. If you don’t pick up after your dog, we’ll send our grandson to poop on your lawn.

So angry. He didn’t need to be the fascist of the neighborhood. What about a kinder approach?

If you forget a poop bag, raise your hand and wait for assistance.

Oh, he’s adorable! And yet . . . his poop in my yard is not.

How about hashtags?

#PoopHappens . . . ToNeedToBePickedUp

Weary of all the feculence, Whitaker glanced at the first composition book: Saving Orlando #1.

What in the world did the title mean? It occurred to him on the drive home that he’d neglected to ask Claire the premise of the story. Was the city of Orlando in trouble? Was this some kind of sci-fi attack? Was Mickey Mouse in trouble? Was an asteroid coming?

Whitaker crossed his legs and opened to the first page. He read David’s warning to Claire, asking her not to read it. His heart sank. Though he had felt badly for her, something about reading David’s note to her made it so much more real. With the flip of a page, Whitaker had now stepped into Claire and David’s intimacy.

On the next page, he read the first line.

“That’s not bad,” Whitaker said. “But where are the zombies?” He read the sentence again. “A first-person point of view is a brave choice, David. Let’s see if you can pull it off.”

Whitaker kept reading. After several pages, he nodded to himself, acknowledging that this guy, David, wasn’t that bad a writer. Not to mention the finest handwriting he’d ever seen.

Whitaker had almost reached the end of the first chapter when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw a text from a friend. Just saw Lisa on a date with some schmuck at the Birchwood.

The idea of his ex-wife going on a date wasn’t a complete shock, but it didn’t sit well with Whitaker. Did he still love her? Nah, it wasn’t that. He was lonely, but he didn’t crave her anymore. But if he had his preference, she’d remain single the rest of her life. He set the composition book on the ground and surrendered to the memory of her.

Lisa was an obstetrician fresh out of her residency. She was by all accounts smarter and funnier than Whitaker, but he loved trying to keep up with her. Not only Whitaker’s parents but the entire Grant horde had loved her and welcomed her into the family, and, in a lot of ways, the two were married long before he’d even proposed.

Where he was flighty and always thinking about characters and stories, she was put together and businesslike. The only way they’d done couple things was if she’d organized them. Whitaker flew by the seat of his pants; Lisa kept a calendar. Whitaker figured out one meal at a time; Lisa planned the following week’s meals on Sunday. Whitaker didn’t look at receipts; Lisa analyzed every line item.

In a way, she’d become the structure he needed. He liked being told what to do and where to go, the flighty writer towed by the put-together redhead. If someone had asked him what they were doing on a coming night, he’d just say, “Talk to Lisa. She’s in charge.”

But the pressure of a second book had weighed on their marriage. It was such a simple request: one hundred thousand words. The publisher had sent him an advance without even hearing what his idea was. His agent had chomped at the bit to read an excerpt or a synopsis. Whitaker had felt like he was in the World Series, and he was at bat in the bottom of the ninth. There’d been pressure. But the pitcher had already told him what pitch he was going to throw. A fastball, down and to the right. All you had to do was swing. You couldn’t miss it.

All you had to do was swing.

But the typist still couldn’t hit the ball.

Unsurprisingly, he’d become difficult to live with. At first, Lisa had ignored his breakdowns and doubts and become his cheerleader. “You can do it, Whit. Stop thinking so much and let your fingers move.” Had she been excited about another book or the fact that they were going to start trying for a baby once he was finished?

“Es imposible, mi amor.” Their conversations easily bounced back and forth between languages.

After two years, the publisher had stopped accepting excuses and demanded a draft. Anything at that point. They’d needed to see that their giant advance hadn’t been a waste of time. Whitaker had felt like a bug being flushed down the toilet. Round and round, down and down, no way to escape. That fact that the giant advance had preceded him down the toilet hadn’t helped things one bit. He cringed at the memory.

Whitaker had soon become an imbécil. Lisa’s word, though he wouldn’t disagree. Still, she’d persevered as his cheerleader. She’d turn the other cheek when he fell into the darkness. He’d lash out at her, and she’d take him into her arms and tell him to take deep breaths.