An Unfinished Story(43)
“I don’t know the ending at all. You saw his note to me. He wouldn’t let me read it, and he didn’t tell me anything about it. And I can’t find anything else. Maybe he threw the other drafts away.”
“Why would he do that? I still have all my drafts.”
“I don’t know. I’ve gone through everything. The house is empty and sold. All I have left is a few of his business files, his books, his desk and chair. There are no other drafts.”
“Did he write at home or maybe he left something at his old firm? You said he was an architect, right?”
“I cleaned out his desk at work after he died.”
“Can we meet? My brain is exploding right now.”
“You’ll finish the story?” she asked.
“Yes. But there have to be other drafts, more to it. If this is the third draft, then he had to have written the ending. We have answers to uncover first. Are you busy?” He could hear the rapidity of his voice but couldn’t slow down. “Can you come over? Like now?”
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
When Whitaker hung up, he ran to his bedroom to get dressed. Seeing the bed that hadn’t been made in weeks, he realized what he’d just done. Invited a woman into his house. He looked around and felt downright embarrassed. An impressive collection of old water and coffee cups had collected on the bedside table. A layer of dust had settled on the floor. She couldn’t see this pigsty.
He grabbed his phone again and called her. She didn’t pick up. He cursed and dialed again. No answer. “This can’t be happening.”
The disheveled typist ran to the mirror. His hair was ragged, and his mustache needed trimming. There were red vinegar stains on his shirt from the sandwich. “Shiitake on Sunday morning!” he screamed. “Fuck all and hell!” He shucked his clothes and raced into the shower. After the fastest cleansing in human history, he toweled off and looked back at the phone.
She still hadn’t called back.
He tried her again. No answer.
After another string of curses, he threw on some clothes, closed the door to his bedroom, and ran into the living room. He took the pile of clean laundry still waiting in a basket next to the sofa and pushed it into the closet. Then he picked up the articles of clothing draped all over the living room floor. He picked up the shrapnel of sandwich vegetables from the table and rug and put them in the sandwich wrapper. He took two more bites and then ran the leftovers to the kitchen. He looked at the clock. She would be there in less than ten minutes.
Whitaker didn’t know what to do next. He unplugged the Xbox and hid it in the closet. What forty-year-old plays video games? As an added touch, he pulled two dusty Hemingway books from the shelf and displayed them on the coffee table, just in case she noticed. Much better than the copy of Make Your Bed by Admiral William H. McRaven, a gift from Staff Sergeant Jack Grant, which Whitaker shamefully shoved into a drawer. He straightened the pillows on the sofa and chairs and ran to the kitchen.
The accumulation of dishes was embarrassing. He looked at the daunting pile and then back at the living room and foyer. Not ready to tackle the kitchen, he raced back to the living room and ran the vacuum over the rug. He was repulsed at the crackling sound of the vacuum as it sucked up dirt and grit. With a mad dash to the bathroom, he grabbed the Poo-Pourri from the toilet. Back in the foyer and living room, he pumped out a few spritzes.
The smell overtook the room, so he turned on the fans and opened the windows. Though he was starting to think he wouldn’t let her inside, he knew he needed to start on the kitchen. During the course of the cleaning, Whitaker kept telling himself that he was a disgusting man, and that this nonsense had to stop. How embarrassing for someone to see inside his world.
For God’s sake, what if Lisa had somehow come to her senses and returned to him? Opening his front door, he’d say, “Oh, hi, Lisa, it’s been so long!”
She’d open her arms. “Whitaker, I miss you. Please take me back. Make love to me. No, not here. Take me to the kitchen floor.”
“No, Lisa. You don’t want to see my kitchen. Or the living room, or the bathroom. Not even the bedroom. Can we make love in the backyard? Hold on, the tall grass and the crickets. How about the Land Rover? No. Let’s do it on the front steps!”
By the time Claire knocked, he’d decided there was absolutely no way she was coming inside. He opened the door, and her beauty shot a pulse of nerves through him. He’d been so concerned about her seeing his house that he hadn’t mentally prepared himself for the fact that he was about to take a woman out—not on a date, but still.
“Hey.” He smiled and worked hard to appear confident. “Give me just a minute. I’ll grab my computer.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought we’d sit outside somewhere.” He looked past her to the sky. “It’s so . . . nice out. I tried to call you, by the way.”
Claire raised an empty hand. “Sorry, I was in such a rush that I left my phone.”
“That explains it. Anyway, give me a moment.”
“Can I use your restroom, please?”
Whitaker froze. Oh boy, there was the question he hadn’t seen coming. Not much of a knight in shining armor if he couldn’t lead her to the bathroom. He opened his mouth to say no, but stammered. Then he thought he’d suggest she use the backyard. Though it’s not ideal for making love, the grass is tall, so you’ll have plenty of privacy. Not the most chivalrous suggestion, he decided.