An Unfinished Story(40)
Whitaker coughed into another cry and covered his face. How unmanly and feeble of him to spill tears. His father would tell him to “buck up.” Jack Grant would never allow his son to cry. But dammit if Whitaker could help it. As the sandwich cooled on the floor next to him, Whitaker not only listened but felt the music as his life unraveled before him. He had failed his dreams; he’d failed his family. He’d even failed a poor widow by lying to her.
What a sad man he was.
And everybody hurts . . .
Claire was separating two tables after the lunch service when Whitaker appeared at the door. His eyes drooped like those of a short-nosed dog. Guests were still lingering, finishing the last of their meals. She had no intention of hurrying them.
He crossed the restaurant and stopped five feet from her, on the other side of the square table.
She pushed a chair back under the table harshly, the legs scraping the wooden floor. “What are you doing here?”
Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, “I need to tell you something.”
Claire crossed her arms. “What?”
“I didn’t read the book.” He bit his lips after the confession.
Claire felt sick. “You lied to me?”
“Yes, I lied.” He reached for his mustache but gave up and dropped his hands. “I read a chapter, or most of the first chapter. It’s good. I just . . . I’ve got my own stuff going on. I figured that if I lied, I could get you off my back.”
Claire scolded him with her eyes. “You’re an asshole.”
“That’s about right. But I wanted you to know. It’s not the book. His writing’s great. I would love to help you. It’s just my life sucks. On top of it all, I just heard about my ex-wife dating again. I don’t even know why I care, but I do. It’s a beautiful reminder of how worthless I am.”
Claire returned to pushing the chairs back. “Doesn’t make lying to me right.”
Whitaker joined in the task, pushing one of the chairs back on his side of the table.
“Please don’t touch my chairs. You’ve done enough, seriously.”
Whitaker backed off and smiled cynically. “I hoped by coming here you might give me the books again. Let me give it a real read. Even if I can’t pull it off, maybe I can convince someone better than me to help. Either way, I’d like to read the story. It’s good so far. Way better than I had imagined.”
Claire sighed. “I’m not sure you deserve to read his story now. I can’t believe you lied to me. You have no idea what an awful morning I’ve had.”
Whitaker nodded. “I can imagine.”
She blew out a blast of air and looked away. What good would come of being hardheaded now? He was offering to read it. Should she let him?
Claire leaned over the table and centered the basket of hot sauces and salt and pepper. “I appreciate you coming here. And, yes, I’ll let you read it. But you’re still an asshole.”
“No argument there. For the record, I did try to warn you.”
She didn’t respond.
Once she’d finished setting up the tables, Whitaker followed her out to the car. As she gave him the books this time, she felt hope again. Reticent hope, but hope nonetheless.
Whitaker held up the books chest high. “I won’t lie to you again. Ever. I’m sorry.”
“Just read it this time, okay?”
“Yeah, I will.”
Chapter 16
THE KNIGHT IN TARNISHED ARMOR
Whitaker swung by the grocery chain Publix for a sub, and while he was in line for his bachelor staple, a younger guy with a flat-billed hat said, “You’re Whitaker Grant, aren’t you?”
Whitaker nodded. “Barely.”
“I loved your book, man. It’s incredible to run into you. I used to write a lot in school and been thinking about trying my hand at a novel. I can kind of feel the words running toward me.”
“Of course you do. Like a flood in the lowlands. That’s how it starts.”
“I guess so. Do you have any advice for an aspiring writer?”
Whitaker turned away from watching the woman in the hairnet putting together a chicken-tender sub with extra shredded lettuce and yellow mustard for the customer in front of him. He looked at the young man who’d addressed him and saw an innocence that might not be able to handle the war of the written word.
“Writing will wrap its bony fingers around your heart and squeeze until there’s nothing left. Everything you are goes onto that blank page, and the sad thing is . . . you may not like what you read. And the readers may not either. Then what are you to the world?” Whitaker raised his hand and flashed his fingers toward the sky. “Poof.”
The innocent young man’s mouth dropped.
Whitaker finished with, “My advice: run the other way.”
“Damn, dude. Writing really beat you up, didn’t it?”
“It’s not for the faint of heart.” Whitaker turned back toward the sandwich bar.
“I appreciate your honesty.” The words drifted over the typist’s shoulder.
“That’s about all I have left now,” he said through the side of his mouth. It was finally Whitaker’s turn in line, so he stepped up and ordered a turkey and bacon sandwich with all the toppings, heavy on the vinegar. The sandwich Jedi in the hairnet put together a masterpiece of a sub that could barely be contained by wheat or wrapper.