An Unfinished Story(64)



“They’re out in full force today, aren’t they?” Claire said, blowing them off her arm.

“Like locusts.”

“Oh, c’mon, they’re adorable.”

Claire spent the next thirty minutes helping Whitaker clean up his office, getting rid of trash and vacuuming and pulling distractions off the wall. He didn’t need that damned movie poster looking down on him. Or the picture of him and his ex-wife walking into the movie premiere. As she pulled the photo down, he told her about his ex-wife remarrying, and everything began to make sense.

“Now you’re telling me.” Claire set the photo down in a cardboard box, trying to pretend that the news didn’t bother her. “No wonder you’re hurting. I bet nothing brings on writer’s block like heartache.”

“It’s really not heartache,” Whitaker said. “I’m just reminded how awful of a husband I was. Makes me feel bad that I wasted so much of her life.”

Claire wasn’t sure whether she believed him about the heartache, but his statement made sense. “Don’t be silly. I’m sure she doesn’t feel like you wasted her life. You might be a handful, but you’re still amazing half the time. I bet she misses you. You think that surgeon can make her laugh like you used to? I doubt it.”

“I appreciate that.”

Claire hoped he wasn’t giving up. She hoped the despair in his eyes wasn’t the white flag of surrender.





Chapter 26

A KNOCKOUT

As the next morning’s sun cut through the window and sprayed his face, Whitaker woke with mild (or perhaps tepid) determination. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he marched into the kitchen in his boxers, brewed his coffee, and worked himself into the right mind-set.

Walking into his office, he took in the new digs. David’s desk and chair. The sparkling window looking out to the backyard. The stacks of books organized on the shelves. He looked down at the floor and was pleased to see the shine of the terrazzo tile.

He sat in the chair, which pushed into his mid back and forced him to sit up straight, reminding him of the old days. The writer always sat up with perfect posture. The typist wrote in a slouched position that would have made a chiropractor weep with hopelessness. Whitaker glanced at the picture of David, hoping the man would give him inspiration. But Whitaker felt only guilt. Guilt for not having the stamina and faith to finish his story and equal amounts of guilt for having feelings for his wife, even kissing her. Whitaker turned over the picture on the desk.

“That’s enough, Whitaker.” It was go time. He stabbed out words that felt cheap and elementary, but he pushed his way through, writing the scene where Kevin finally found Orlando.

After reading back over twenty minutes’ worth of work, Whitaker cursed himself. “No, no, no!” He felt so angry inside. All of it was shit. Where was David going with this story? More than anything, Whitaker felt just like Kevin, like he’d lost his connection with Orlando. Where was the boy and why was he so angry? Had David intended for him to die?

While pouring another cup of coffee, Whitaker realized he’d left his phone in the Land Rover. He threw on a bathrobe and left the house. Snatching it from the cup holder, he checked his messages while standing in the yard.

Reading a short text from his brother, a pair of lovebugs landed on his phone. Blinded by his frustrated writing session, he smacked the screen, knocking the bugs to the ground. He looked down to the sidewalk and saw that he’d killed one, and the other, still attached, was flapping its wings, certainly sensing the death of its mate. Whitaker couldn’t bear the thought of one having to live the rest of his or her life alone, so he did the only thing he knew to do. Shoving the phone in his pocket, he stomped down on both bugs with his bare foot, extinguishing their pain forever.

He glanced at the smashed bugs and hated himself for what he’d done. He raised both hands in the air and brought down two fists. It couldn’t get any worse.

Casting an eye toward the park, wondering if anyone was watching his absurd meltdown, he noticed a German shepherd taking a squat. The man on the other end of the leash, wearing a muscle shirt and a hat turned backward, was patting his pockets. When the dog finished his business, the owner twisted around, surveying the land. He didn’t notice Whitaker, who’d crept into the shadow behind the Land Rover.

With apparently no shame or care for his neighborhood, the man continued along the grass, his dog walking dutifully by his side.

“Hey, man!” Whitaker yelled, running shoeless across the street to the park. “You didn’t pick up your dog’s poop.”

The man turned around, and Whitaker eyed his build. He was a good three inches taller than Whitaker and shaped like a boxer, top-heavy with traps that looked like they needed their own zip code. Steroids much? A skateboarder could do rail slides on them. Of course Whitaker’s archnemesis had to be a bodybuilder. That was the way the typist’s life worked.

The Incredible Hulk said in a deep voice, “Yeah, I left the bags at the house. I’ll get them on the next turn.”

Whitaker was not going to be deterred and stood his ground. “I’ve heard that before.” He pointed back toward the poop. “You can use your hands or a leaf.”

The bodybuilder laughed at first, but then his face straightened. “Get lost.” He tugged at his dog, and they moved on.

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