by Boo Walker
“You are sorry,” Claire admonished. “And I’m not talking apologetic. You’re a sorry person. Your ego is getting in the way of doing something amazing.” She shot a finger at him. “You think you’re an artist. An artist would see the beauty in this project. He’d see the beauty in doing something for someone else.”
Whitaker stood. “I wish you the best, and if you’d like my help finding someone else, let me know.” He handed her one of his Bank of South Florida cards.
Swallowing her own defeat, she looked at the card and tossed it back onto Whitaker’s desk. She collected the books and turned and left him. She wasn’t sad. She was angry. Not just angry at Whitaker.
Angry at the world. Why this pull to Whitaker? There were so many authors in the world, so many who could bring out the best in David’s novel. So why all these signs? Was it because Whitaker was meant to write this novel? Or was it something deeper? The frustration she felt toward him dizzied her.
Whitaker watched her go. For someone he barely knew, she had a very fine ability of making him feel like the biggest jerk on earth. He scratched his head, wondering why he was so against saying yes to her. Was he that much of a hardheaded eccentric that he couldn’t ghostwrite? What was wrong with ghostwriting, anyway, especially with money on the line? One hundred thousand dollars. He wasn’t making much more than that with this gig.
The guilt rode Whitaker hard, and he couldn’t take it anymore. Hoping he could catch her, he charged out of his office. A coworker stopped him to tell a story, but Whitaker replied he was in a rush. Leaving the building, he scanned the parking lot. A kid was attempting ollies with his skateboard on Central. A homeless man was dragging a bag of empty cans. Whitaker finally found her convertible on the far end of the lot.
“Hold on,” he said, running to her.
As he approached the car, he was caught off guard. Claire was wearing a head scarf and a latex glove and smoking a cigarette like her life depended on it.
“What in the world are you doing?” he asked.
Claire quickly stubbed out the cigarette as her face flushed. She reached under her glasses and wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s a habit I picked up recently. A bad one.”
“You’re way too beautiful to be smoking.” Though he meant what he said, he regretted crossing that line immediately. How dare he hit on a grieving widow. Shame on you, Typist.
Claire flushed red.
Whitaker reached for a lifeline. “I’ve picked up a few bad habits myself lately.” He waved his hand. “No judging here. Listen, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I’ll read the story. I clearly have nothing better going on.”
Black to white in a blink. He’d never seen such a transformation in a person. Her sad face lit up in a wonderful way, like a volcano erupting, a caterpillar metamorphosing into a butterfly, a distraught child finding the golden Easter egg.
Realizing what he’d done, Whitaker held up a finger. “But I’m not promising anything. This is what I was afraid of. If the story doesn’t jibe with me, I can’t write it. And I refuse to write it unless it speaks to me. I need you to understand that should I decline, you need to respect my decision.”
Claire was nodding like a Tampa Bay Rays bobblehead. Did she even hear him? She reached over to the passenger side. “Can I write you a check?”
“I’m not going to take your money. Yes, if for some reason, I decide to write the book, I will. But I’m not going to let you pay me to read it.”
She handed him the three composition books. “Please take care of them. They’re the only copies.”
That notion scared Whitaker as he took them with both hands. He wasn’t the most responsible man of late. “I will. I’ll take them straight home after work.”
“When do you think you’ll take a look?”
“The next few days.”
In a move that nearly took his breath away, Claire placed a hand on his. “Thank you. Seriously.”
As he smiled at her, he wondered what she was thinking behind those dark lenses and panda bear eyes. “You’re very welcome.”
He was the one who broke eye contact, and a dangerous thought passed through him. Was he agreeing to help her because he liked her? Did he think he was some knight swooping down to help a damsel in distress? Regardless of the reason, Whitaker needed to at least read the story. Then he could tell her no officially—a conversation he dreaded like no other.
Claire felt alive. So damned alive. The world was finally making sense. Though she’d promised him she wouldn’t get her hopes up, she knew he would agree to write it now. It was meant to be.
Riding back toward the beach on Central, with Buju Banton singing “Wanna Be Loved,” she lifted her arms high in the air and screamed at the top of her lungs. Some random person sitting at a table outside of a taco joint yelled back. Claire waved. She didn’t care who could see or hear her. Today was a victory in so many ways. Most importantly, she was doing right by David. He deserved this more than anyone.
After her fit of exaltation, she turned down the reggae and called Didi. “He’s going to read the book!”
“What?”
“Yeah. Whitaker Grant. I went by to see him at his work, and he’s agreed to read it. I didn’t even have to pay him.”
“That’s amazing,” Didi said. “I’m so happy for you.”
“The last two days have been . . . it’s like I’ve finally turned the final corner. That’s how it happens, isn’t it? The pain doesn’t really go away, but you move it around a little bit, almost like giving it less light and water. I still have a hole in my heart, but it’s not as all-consuming. I was sleeping through life and didn’t even realize it.”
“Good for you,” Didi said.
And there it was. It had taken three years, but Claire had broken through to the light.
Chapter 13
WHERE ARE THE ZOMBIES?
As the hues of dusk colored Clymer Park, Whitaker settled down on the front patio with the three composition books in his hand. Watching the park for a while, he noticed a proud osprey perched on a high branch on the dead limb of an oak.
Back down on the ground, a lone woman speed-walking a goldendoodle piqued his interest. She was working her arms back and forth like a cross-country skier. Never one to shy away from distraction, he spent a few moments thinking of more sign ideas. Coming up with clever poop memes could be so enjoyable.
We have video. We know where you live. If you don’t pick up after your dog, we’ll send our grandson to poop on your lawn.
So angry. He didn’t need to be the fascist of the neighborhood. What about a kinder approach?
If you forget a poop bag, raise your hand and wait for assistance.
Oh, he’s adorable! And yet . . . his poop in my yard is not.
How about hashtags?
#PoopHappens . . . ToNeedToBePickedUp
Weary of all the feculence, Whitaker glanced at the first composition book: Saving Orlando #1.
What in the world did the title mean? It occurred to him on the drive home that he’d neglected to ask Claire the premise of the story. Was the city of Orlando in trouble? Was this some kind of sci-fi attack? Was Mickey Mouse in trouble? Was an asteroid coming?
Whitaker crossed his legs and opened to the first page. He read David’s warning to Claire, asking her not to read it. His heart sank. Though he had felt badly for her, something about reading David’s note to her made it so much more real. With the flip of a page, Whitaker had now stepped into Claire and David’s intimacy.
On the next page, he read the first line.
“That’s not bad,” Whitaker said. “But where are the zombies?” He read the sentence again. “A first-person point of view is a brave choice, David. Let’s see if you can pull it off.”
Whitaker kept reading. After several pages, he nodded to himself, acknowledging that this guy, David, wasn’t that bad a writer. Not to mention the finest handwriting he’d ever seen.
Whitaker had almost reached the
end of the first chapter when his phone buzzed in his pocket. Reaching for it, he saw a text from a friend. Just saw Lisa on a date with some schmuck at the Birchwood.
The idea of his ex-wife going on a date wasn’t a complete shock, but it didn’t sit well with Whitaker. Did he still love her? Nah, it wasn’t that. He was lonely, but he didn’t crave her anymore. But if he had his preference, she’d remain single the rest of her life. He set the composition book on the ground and surrendered to the memory of her.
Lisa was an obstetrician fresh out of her residency. She was by all accounts smarter and funnier than Whitaker, but he loved trying to keep up with her. Not only Whitaker’s parents but the entire Grant horde had loved her and welcomed her into the family, and, in a lot of ways, the two were married long before he’d even proposed.
Where he was flighty and always thinking about characters and stories, she was put together and businesslike. The only way they’d done couple things was if she’d organized them. Whitaker flew by the seat of his pants; Lisa kept a calendar. Whitaker figured out one meal at a time; Lisa planned the following week’s meals on Sunday. Whitaker didn’t look at receipts; Lisa analyzed every line item.
In a way, she’d become the structure he needed. He liked being told what to do and where to go, the flighty writer towed by the put-together redhead. If someone had asked him what they were doing on a coming night, he’d just say, “Talk to Lisa. She’s in charge.”
But the pressure of a second book had weighed on their marriage. It was such a simple request: one hundred thousand words. The publisher had sent him an advance without even hearing what his idea was. His agent had chomped at the bit to read an excerpt or a synopsis. Whitaker had felt like he was in the World Series, and he was at bat in the bottom of the ninth. There’d been pressure. But the pitcher had already told him what pitch he was going to throw. A fastball, down and to the right. All you had to do was swing. You couldn’t miss it.
All you had to do was swing.
But the typist still couldn’t hit the ball.
Unsurprisingly, he’d become difficult to live with. At first, Lisa had ignored his breakdowns and doubts and become his cheerleader. “You can do it, Whit. Stop thinking so much and let your fingers move.” Had she been excited about another book or the fact that they were going to start trying for a baby once he was finished?
“Es imposible, mi amor.” Their conversations easily bounced back and forth between languages.
After two years, the publisher had stopped accepting excuses and demanded a draft. Anything at that point. They’d needed to see that their giant advance hadn’t been a waste of time. Whitaker had felt like a bug being flushed down the toilet. Round and round, down and down, no way to escape. That fact that the giant advance had preceded him down the toilet hadn’t helped things one bit. He cringed at the memory.
Whitaker had soon become an imbécil. Lisa’s word, though he wouldn’t disagree. Still, she’d persevered as his cheerleader. She’d turn the other cheek when he fell into the darkness. He’d lash out at her, and she’d take him into her arms and tell him to take deep breaths.
“I don’t love you because of your book, Whit,” she’d promised him. “And I wouldn’t stop loving you if you changed careers. I just want you to be happy.” What more could you ask of a partner?
He thought of the last time he’d seen her, a year ago. They’d met at a coffee shop, and he’d finally gotten a chance to thank her for her support and to properly apologize for being such a poor husband. He wasn’t sure if their meeting had made her feel any better, but he’d been able to find the closure he needed.
Whitaker was suddenly aware of his thoughts and couldn’t stand how he got stuck in the past. It wasn’t that he still loved her or craved her. No, seriously. It was just that first love and the crushing power she had over you—especially when you’d been married to her. Whitaker didn’t want her back. That ship had sailed. But he kind of wanted her to call him and say that she’d messed up, that she missed him. That none of her lovers since had been as good. Purely unfounded narcissistic cerebration of a man fearful that no one may ever love him again.
Letting Lisa go, Whitaker stood, barely aware that he’d left the composition books on the patio. What did it matter?
Imbécil out.
Chapter 14
WHAT GOES UP? NO, SERIOUSLY. WHAT GOES UP?
Throughout the morning, Claire repeatedly checked to see if somehow her ringer was off. Why hadn’t he called? For a moment while watching the water this morning, she’d let herself believe there was no way he would say no. Some things were indeed meant to be. At nine, she broke down and called him. He didn’t pick up, and his voice mail was full. What a shocker that was.
At nine thirty, she couldn’t take it anymore and drove back to the Bank of South Florida. It was clear that the Whitaker of today needed prodding. She was nearly shaking as she asked the mother of the soldier if Whitaker was in. When he didn’t pick up her call, the woman said she’d walk back to his office and check.
Claire watched her until she disappeared down the hall. If he would just say yes, everything would be okay.
But . . .
If he said no again, she might have to stop. She’d have to find someone else. What a mean trick the universe would have played on her.
When the woman returned, Claire watched her footsteps, which pounded to the beat of Claire’s heart. Claire almost wanted to turn and run. She wasn’t ready for a final answer from Whitaker.
“He’s actually sick today. Do you want his cell or email?”
Claire swallowed. “No, thank you. I have it.”
She drove to Gulfport, nodding to the one-drop rhythm of a Burning Spear song. “Please let him say yes,” she said, repeating herself four times.
His Land Rover was in the driveway. Maybe he was so enthralled with the story that he’d called in sick so that he could finish reading and even start writing. That would be the life break she needed.
Claire knocked on the door to no avail. She knew he was in there, though. Mrs. Claire Voyant could feel it. She knocked again and rang the doorbell. When she peered through the window, she could see a coffee cup on the table and a blanket wadded up on the sofa.
“Whitaker, I know you’re in there. I went by the bank.” She checked the doorknob; it was locked.
No way she was leaving without talking to him. No way could she endure another sleepless night. Besides, he honestly resembled a child to her, so she didn’t mind treating him like one.
Raising her voice again, she said to the door, “I’m walking around to the back. Please, Whitaker.”
Claire rounded the side of the house and looked through windows. As she reached a window in the kitchen, she caught sight of him. Feeling like she’d hooked a fish, she rapped harshly on the window.
“Please open up. I see you!” She was totally being a stalker but didn’t care.
She continued around the house. His backyard was overcome with tall grass and weeds. She climbed the steps to the back door, tested the knob, and then knocked again. “Whitaker Grant!”
He finally appeared, wearing a bathrobe. His hair was all over the place. Pulling back the door, he looked at her as if she’d done something unthinkable.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re sick, but I just had to hear your thoughts. Did you read it?”
“How do you know I’m sick?” He had coffee breath.
“I really don’t mean to come off like a stalker, but I went by your work again.” She put up a hand. “Before you say anything, please know that I need to get his book finished. It’s . . .” She shook her head. “A higher purpose is pushing me. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything without thinking about it.”
“Claire, you can’t hunt me down at work and go looking through my windows. I’m sick and tired and obviously not accepting company.”
She ignored him and cast an eye toward the backyard. “Do you need a number for a landscaper?”
“You’re a mess, you know that? You can’t get mad at me for stalking you. Someone needs to be checking on you.”
His voice rose an octave. “You’re coming in hot today. Is this the real Claire?”
Something about this man. His whole “thing” was comical, like a cartoon character who’d come to life. She put her hands on her hips. “I’m seriously considering Baker Acting you.”
“Aren’t you a firecracker? I kind of like this side of you.”
“I have my days.” Enough small talk, she decided. She lifted her glasses and rested them on the top of her head. “Did you read the book? Start it, at least?”
Whitaker’s grin vanished, and his eyes ran away as he let go of the doorframe and backed up a step. After the longest minute of her life, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “I did. Most of it.”
By the tone in his voice, she knew a no was coming, and she waited as if his mouth were a firing squad of anxious trigger fingers. “And?” She winced, bracing for the worst.
“It’s good. He’s a good writer. But it’s not for me.”
There it was. Finality. Claire almost lost her balance, and her breath leaped from her lungs. “What? Why is it not for you?”
“I can’t finish his book. I gave it a chance. It didn’t speak to me, and I can’t help you. This is my final answer. I’m so sorry. And I’d like to help you find someone who’s much better than me.”
They were facing each other as if about to duel. “There is no one else.”
“Sure there is.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Why do you feel this need to get his book finished, anyway? It won’t be his words.”
