An Unfinished Story(39)

Really? I can’t help so you decide to trash me on my Facebook page? What’s that about?

Claire sat up straight and typed: You can help me. You’ve decided not to.

Whitaker: I can’t help you because I can’t write anymore.

Claire: You could at least try. Clearly, you have nothing better to do.

Whitaker: I’m deleting your post. Please don’t harass me. Honestly, if you could climb into my skin for a moment, you’d understand.

Claire: I don’t do pity.

Whitaker: I’m not looking for pity. I’m just looking for forgiveness. I’ve hurt enough people in my life and don’t want you to be the next. You’re actually the only person in the world that isn’t driving me crazy right now.

He added a few seconds later: And that’s saying a lot considering you’re stalking me.

She typed: You said the book doesn’t speak to you. Why?

Whitaker: I don’t know. It just doesn’t.

Claire: That’s not a fair assessment.

Whitaker: I’m not giving you an assessment. He’s a fine writer. Someone can make it a great book.

Claire: You are that someone.

Whitaker: Stop it.

Claire: Think of the press you’ll get. I’ll make you look like a hero. Whitaker Grant stepped in and finished my dead husband’s novel.

A long pause. Was he coming around?

Whitaker: I have to go. Take care, Claire. I’d appreciate you refraining from further cyberattacks. And maybe we could hang out sometime if you ever forgive me.

Claire: Wait.

Then he was gone.





Chapter 15

IMBéCIL

Whitaker stood from his desk and put his hands on his head. He stared at his communication with Claire displayed on the screen. “Why can’t she get it?” he asked. “I would destroy that book. What’s the point in reading it? And why is she so upset with me?”

The typist paced back and forth, the guilt of lying doing its best to strangle him. Sitting back down several minutes later, he typed: What?

He watched the screen, waiting for a response. Nothing. He stood again. Needing to relieve himself, he left his office. The backyard was closer than the bathroom, so he walked out into the tall grass, looked around for neighbors, and then gave back to the earth.

Returning inside, he decided it was time for lunch. He was craving a tuna melt and began to collect the ingredients. He opened the can of tuna and drained the oil. As he emptied the fish into a bowl, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Why was she so insistent? He didn’t have a choice but to lie.

Trying to distract himself, he said, “Alexa, play something really sad.”

The small white device on the far end of the counter lit up. In a robotic voice, Alexa responded, “Shuffling ‘Feeling Down’ from Spotify.”

Whitaker immediately recognized the piano intro of a Coldplay song. “You think Coldplay is sad? Alexa, play something really, really, really sad.”

Alexa tried again. A pop song began with an artificial beat.

“Alexa, you don’t know a damn thing, do you?”

The robot replied, “Sorry, I’m not sure.”

“Alexa, do you have a soul?”

“People all have their own views on religion.”

“Alexa, have you ever had your heart ripped out?”

“Sorry, I’m not sure about that.”

“Yeah, you’d know. You’d know all right, Alexa.” He scooped some mayonnaise into the bowl. “There’s nothing worse in the world. In a way, you’re lucky. I could unplug you right now, and you wouldn’t know the difference. Me, I’m stuck here while my ex-wife explores the dating scene in my own town. My home-fucking-town. And for no explicable reason, I’ve just lied to the only other woman I’ve been interested in since.” He thought about the ring on Claire’s finger. “Not that she’s available. Do you know what that’s like, Alexa?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure.”

“You’re a lucky girl. But I’ll give you some advice, Alexa. Stay away from me.”

Alexa missed the point. “Stay away is usually defined as stay clear of. Avoid. Did that answer your question?”

Whitaker grinned. “I guess you understand me as much as anyone. Alexa, play Roy Orbison.”

Roy Orbison’s “Crying” filled the kitchen, and Whitaker wept while he chopped celery. “Now that’s a sad song.”

Whitaker sang with the Big O as he dropped two slices of bread into melting butter in a pan. “Crying” had to be the saddest song in the world, he decided. He unwrapped two slices of cheese and placed them on the bread. “Crying” was the saddest song, and a tuna melt was the saddest dish in the world.

When his sandwich was golden brown, he set it on a plate and sat on the floor. He’d eaten hundreds of these over the years.

“Alexa,” he said. “Play ‘Everybody Hurts’ by R.E.M.”

Michael Stipe was soon singing the second saddest song in the world. Whitaker took a bite out of the sandwich and quickly pulled it away with a curse. The hot butter burned his tongue. He set down the sandwich and fell back against the cabinet, closing his eyes. His tongue was burned, and his kitchen smelled like fish. This was what it was like to be godless, mission-less, worthless. A prisoner in solitary confinement. He’d finally reached rock bottom.