An Unfinished Story(95)

After ordering, Whitaker and Claire homed in more on Oliver’s interests, and Whitaker watched sadly as Oliver began to pull back. The boy who was so giddy over Batman and Iron Man earlier was starting to quiet down, his long diatribes returning to the one-and two-word answers he’d been giving at the park and at Jacky’s house.

Claire must have noticed, too, as she started pushing the conversation toward Whitaker’s writing. Whitaker sensed it was time to embrace his role as the court jester. He briefly told them the idea behind I Hear Thunder.

“Imagine this. My character—very handsome and dapper—comes in to sip on a bottle of rum with another bootlegger. He’s wearing a three-piece suit with a Smith & Wesson hidden somewhere inside.”

Claire looked at Oliver, smiling. “Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

Oliver turned up a corner of his mouth.

“And a blockbuster movie. I’m confident Brad will do my character justice. Don’t even worry about it.”

Oliver was toying with a saltshaker, still checking out from the conversation.

Whitaker looked at Claire, and they shared a moment of understanding. How could they reel him back in?

Claire tapped Oliver’s arm. “Have you even seen Napalm Trees?”

“No,” Oliver admitted. “I mean I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t seen it.”

“What!” Whitaker said, struck by the sadness of a life without movies. “Don’t tell me you never get to see movies.”

“No, we do. I just don’t watch old movies.”

“Old movies!” Whitaker exclaimed to Claire and Oliver’s delight, the court jester coming alive. “Oh my God, I’m getting old. Just a minute ago, I was still feeling like I was part of the young guard of St. Pete. One of the young artists pushing the boundaries.” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Now my movie is lost to the young generations, another Ben-Hur or The Sound of Music.”

Oliver shook his head. “Never heard of them either.”

Whitaker dramatically dropped his forehead to the table. When he came back up, he said, “Thank you for putting me in my place, dear Oliver.”

“You’re welcome,” Oliver said, his smile coming back.

“You’ll have to forgive Whitaker,” Claire said to Oliver. “All he wants is to be relevant.”

“And yet I’m so far from it.”

“Oh, I think you’re digging your way back,” Claire said.

“With a very tiny trowel. What I’d give for a backhoe.”

What an odd threesome they were, Whitaker thought, looking around at the other tables. But here they were having fun, and Whitaker had the feeling that Claire was as happy to be there as he was. And hopefully Oliver too. What Whitaker wanted to say, but didn’t know how, was that Oliver was not the only one looking for a tribe.

As they shared an order of hush puppies, Oliver opened up again, telling them both funny and heartbreaking stories from his past. Working his way backward through the years, he finally came to the last time he’d seen his mother. “I first entered the system when I was ten. Then my mom got sober, and I went back to live with her. I remember being so happy. She’s messed up, but she’s still my mom, you know? Even when she’d hit me, I’d still hug her back. We did okay for a while, but then she started getting high again. A neighbor saw her hurting me and called the cops. They dropped me back into the system. I kept hoping we could try again, that she’d get sober, but it never happened.”

Whitaker heard a young man speaking but sensed the remnants of the little boy inside Oliver’s fourteen-year-old shell: the kind heart, the hidden innocence, the fragility of a child still trying to make sense of it all. He remembered what he was like when he was fourteen. Cocky and all knowing, happy to tell you what you should believe or how you were wrong. Those attributes had served him well as a writer but had certainly dredged up trouble along the way.

Oliver was completely different. Certainly not as confident as Whitaker had been. Definitely hesitant to trust anyone. But Whitaker also detected a note of wisdom, like Oliver had seen it all before. There were times when Whitaker would be talking to him and suddenly feel like he himself was the younger of the two.

Another notion became obvious. Oliver was not the kind of boy you could lie to. He’d been the victim of lies all his life, and he’d been hardened by them. He’d come to believe people were guilty until proven innocent. It reminded Whitaker of an idea he’d heard during his research for Saving Orlando.

You couldn’t tell kids who’ve been hurt you love them; you had to show them.

Then the food came . . .



Claire watched Oliver eating his hamburger with only ketchup and mayonnaise and fries. Fourteen years old was such a difficult age, even if you were raised in a normal environment. It wasn’t fair that Oliver had to deal with so much more than traversing the typical rites of passage.

His mom had abandoned him and apparently abused him physically. He had no father to speak of. Somehow, he’d turned out okay. A bit rough around the edges. She could tell he had his issues, as anyone in his case would. But he was a fighter, a kid trying to do his best.

Okay, he’d broken into a car, perhaps even run with a rough crowd—if David’s comparisons between Orlando and Oliver were accurate—but he could have gone down a much worse path. He could have been much angrier at the world. Instead, he seemed to be trying. And trying his best was all you could ask of a boy—no matter his circumstances.