by Boo Walker
Rather aggressively, she took a step toward him, entering his house. “You know what the saddest thing in the world is?”
Whitaker backed up.
“For someone to die without accomplishing their dream. This book meant so much to him, and I know he wanted to get it out there. It’s the only gift I can still give him.”
“It’s just not for me.” Whitaker’s tender heart showed through his eyes. She could see that he wanted to help her, but that he didn’t feel he could. That didn’t cut it, though. He needed to toughen up.
Whitaker shook his head again, crossing the t in finality.
Claire was so sad that when he opened his arms to her, she fell into them. He pulled her in and hugged her. Did she really have to find another writer? She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed him. “Please, I’m begging you. Please write the book.” She hated hearing herself beg but felt like she was fighting for her life.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, squeezing her tightly.
She held him for a while and didn’t know why. Part of her wanted to punch him, to wake him up from this fog he was living in. They both squeezed hard and held on longer than usual, and to Claire it felt like they had both needed this hug—any good hug—for a long time. She certainly had.
Claire let go first. She descended the two steps and backed up into the tall grass, wiping her eyes.
A cricket sprang from her feet to find a better hiding place.
Whitaker whispered an apology. “Can I walk you to your car?”
Claire shook her head and started back around the house.
Whitaker called after her, but she ignored him. Enough trying to get this guy to help. He was a lost cause. Why was she wasting her time?
And why the hell did she think that all of a sudden her life was so special? Just because she’d found the courage to go dancing everything would be okay? Suddenly Whitaker would say yes and he’d finish what would be considered the finest novel of all time? They’d erect statues of David in downtown St. Pete?
Oh, how absurd.
When she twisted the key in the convertible, the reggae came blasting out. She quickly reached for the knob and turned it all the way down, until it clicked off.
Before she pulled away, Whitaker called for her from the front door. Had he changed his mind? She’d seen this pivot before at the bank. He was so indecisive. Her heart soared. Maybe the world did follow some kind of order.
Then she saw him holding up the composition books, and she dropped her head.
“You forgot these,” Whitaker said, handing them to her.
Without a word, Claire set the composition books on the passenger seat and pulled away. Screw the no-smoking thing. As she left Gulfport and drove back to the beach, Claire snapped on her glove and wrapped the scarf around her hair. The smoke entering her lungs delivered a tiny sense of relief, but her mind quickly returned to Whitaker, who dampened her mood.
When she crossed onto Treasure Island—while working on her second American Spirit—blue lights flashed in her rearview.
“This can’t be happening,” she said, taking one last toke. She pulled into the parking lot of a Putt-Putt course and waited. A young family was giggling as they each attempted to putt their balls through a plastic pirate ship.
Claire looked at the cars passing by on Beach Boulevard. The only problem with having a convertible was everyone noticed you.
The officer stepped out of his car and marched her way. He had a very deep tan and filled out his uniform nicely. A small shaving cut marked his chin. “Ma’am, you’re driving way too fast. Twenty miles above the speed limit.”
Removing her glasses, Claire shook her head. “Sorry, I felt like I was creeping.”
“You were eighteen over. I should write you a reckless-driving ticket.” He pointed to her hand. “Why do you have a glove on your right hand?”
Claire couldn’t believe she’d forgotten to take it off. “Oh, that’s . . . it’s so I could have a cigarette and no one at work would know.”
He looked at her strangely. “I’d like you to step out of the car.”
“I have this whole routine. Glove, scarf, gum, hand sanitizer.”
“Are you drunk?”
Claire dropped her chin. “No.”
“Step out of the car right now.”
A boy yelled “Hole in one!” from somewhere behind the pirate ship.
“Are you joking?” Claire asked. “It’s ten in the morning. You think I’m drunk? What am I . . . a serial killer too?”
The officer opened her car door. “Let’s go.”
“If you only knew what I’m dealing with right now. You and your little speeding tickets are the last of my worries.”
With the subtle threat only a person with a badge can pull off, he said, “Get out of the car, ma’am.”
Claire relented. Several people on the Putt-Putt course were rubbernecking. So much for discretion.
The officer ushered her into the back of his patrol car and ignored her as he climbed behind the wheel and logged on to his computer. Claire was furious, but he ignored her further pleas.
Finally, he said, “You want to take a Breathalyzer for me?”
“Fine.”
The officer let her out of the back and handed her the Breathalyzer. He gave her instructions. “As hard as you can. There you go.”
When the digital readout stayed at zero, she offered a smile. “Told you.”
He nodded. “Seems like you’re having a bad day, so I’ll let you off with a warning.”
Her shoulders fell in relief. “Thank you. I’m sorry for being a . . . you-know-what.”
“I’ve dealt with worse. Hope your day turns around.”
The officer wrote her a warning and patted the top of the car as she drove away. It didn’t take her two minutes to put the glove back on and light another. This one was justified, and she puffed with fury as she processed the last hour of hell.
Once she neared the café, she followed her regimen to erase the evidence of her habit. Confident she’d succeeded, she pulled into her space and walked into work. Every chair was occupied. Beyoncé was coming out of the speakers.
Claire marched behind the bar and turned down the music. She looked around, waiting to find the guilty DJ. Jevaun, who was busy making a line of Bloody Marys, shook his head and said in a Jamaican rhythm, “You know it wasn’t me.”
Claire decided not to ask him to betray the guilty party. Instead, she eyed the line of drinks as he dropped long sticks of celery into them. She could smell the fire from his homemade Scotch bonnet hot sauce. “Will you make me one of those?”
“You got it, Claire. With a kick?”
“Yeah, with a kick.”
While she waited for her drink, she watched her operation. Her eyes always went to the guests. Was there anyone unhappy? No one was waiting impatiently for a check. Most wore smiles or were stuffing their faces.
Jevaun set the drink down in front of her. Celery and a house-pickled okra poked out of the glass. “One of those days?”
“Do you ever feel like the bad won’t stop?”
Always the Rasta philosopher, Jevaun waved his finger. “The bad never stop, but Jah always prevails. You gotta turn the bad to the good, girl.”
She nodded and took the drink. “I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me. Oh, and please change the music.”
“I gotcha.”
Claire sneaked the Bloody Mary past her diners, closed her office door, and sat behind her desk. What an awful day. While working through her emails, she gulped down her Bloody Mary and chomped down on the vegetables.
She couldn’t wrap her head around why Whitaker would say no after reading David’s incredible story. The money alone was enough. Reeling with anger, she googled his name. The first thing she saw was the cover of his book. Then his face. A charming young man with a bright future. The same man she’d met only a few feet away in the dining room so long ago.
“What a l
ie,” she said.
Finding Whitaker’s website, she angrily clicked around, as if each mouse click were a kick to his shins. The last blog entry was from six years before. She clicked on the Books section, only the one book available. She clicked onto his Facebook page. A picture of Whitaker and two of the actors from the Napalm Trees movie served as his profile shot. She looked at the date of his last post. It was late last night. The post read: The past is an alligator, but he’s not as fast as me. She was shocked to see that hundreds of people had liked or commented on his vague post. Was he even relevant anymore?
She scanned more posts. He was tremendously active. He didn’t have time to help her, but he certainly had time to write entire diatribes on Facebook.
As she polished off her Bloody Mary and her rage hit an all-time high, she decided to post on his wall. She wrote: Whitaker Grant is a selfish blowhard who pushes old ladies into the street. Claire laughed and stifled a burp as the hot sauce crept up her throat. She deleted her words and tried again.
Whitaker Grant is a has-been and a never-was. His artistry is as fake as his humanity. I’m sorry I wasted my time reading his first book, and it’s a blessing that he’ll never punish us with another.
Claire posted the message and then read it again several times. She almost deleted it but decided he deserved even worse. In seconds, a notification posted. He was private messaging her.
Really? I can’t help so you decide to trash me on my Facebook page? What’s that about?
Claire sat up straight and typed: You can help me. You’ve decided not to.
Whitaker: I can’t help you because I can’t write anymore.
Claire: You could at least try. Clearly, you have nothing better to do.
Whitaker: I’m deleting your post. Please don’t harass me. Honestly, if you could climb into my skin for a moment, you’d understand.
Claire: I don’t do pity.
Whitaker: I’m not looking for pity. I’m just looking for forgiveness. I’ve hurt enough people in my life and don’t want you to be the next. You’re actually the only person in the world that isn’t driving me crazy right now.
He added a few seconds later: And that’s saying a lot considering you’re stalking me.
She typed: You said the book doesn’t speak to you. Why?
Whitaker: I don’t know. It just doesn’t.
Claire: That’s not a fair assessment.
Whitaker: I’m not giving you an assessment. He’s a fine writer. Someone can make it a great book.
Claire: You are that someone.
Whitaker: Stop it.
Claire: Think of the press you’ll get. I’ll make you look like a hero. Whitaker Grant stepped in and finished my dead husband’s novel.
A long pause. Was he coming around?
Whitaker: I have to go. Take care, Claire. I’d appreciate you refraining from further cyberattacks. And maybe we could hang out sometime if you ever forgive me.
Claire: Wait.
Then he was gone.
Chapter 15
IMBÉCIL
Whitaker stood from his desk and put his hands on his head. He stared at his communication with Claire displayed on the screen. “Why can’t she get it?” he asked. “I would destroy that book. What’s the point in reading it? And why is she so upset with me?”
The typist paced back and forth, the guilt of lying doing its best to strangle him. Sitting back down several minutes later, he typed: What?
He watched the screen, waiting for a response. Nothing. He stood again. Needing to relieve himself, he left his office. The backyard was closer than the bathroom, so he walked out into the tall grass, looked around for neighbors, and then gave back to the earth.
Returning inside, he decided it was time for lunch. He was craving a tuna melt and began to collect the ingredients. He opened the can of tuna and drained the oil. As he emptied the fish into a bowl, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Why was she so insistent? He didn’t have a choice but to lie.
Trying to distract himself, he said, “Alexa, play something really sad.”
The small white device on the far end of the counter lit up. In a robotic voice, Alexa responded, “Shuffling ‘Feeling Down’ from Spotify.”
Whitaker immediately recognized the piano intro of a Coldplay song. “You think Coldplay is sad? Alexa, play something really, really, really sad.”
Alexa tried again. A pop song began with an artificial beat.
“Alexa, you don’t know a damn thing, do you?”
The robot replied, “Sorry, I’m not sure.”
“Alexa, do you have a soul?”
“People all have their own views on religion.”
“Alexa, have you ever had your heart ripped out?”
“Sorry, I’m not sure about that.”
“Yeah, you’d know. You’d know all right, Alexa.” He scooped some mayonnaise into the bowl. “There’s nothing worse in the world. In a way, you’re lucky. I could unplug you right now, and you wouldn’t know the difference. Me, I’m stuck here while my ex-wife explores the dating scene in my own town. My home-fucking-town. And for no explicable reason, I’ve just lied to the only other woman I’ve been interested in since.” He thought about the ring on Claire’s finger. “Not that she’s available. Do you know what that’s like, Alexa?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure.”
“You’re a lucky girl. But I’ll give you some advice, Alexa. Stay away from me.”
Alexa missed the point. “Stay away is usually defined as stay clear of. Avoid. Did that answer your question?”
Whitaker grinned. “I guess you understand me as much as anyone. Alexa, play Roy Orbison.”
Roy Orbison’s “Crying” filled the kitchen, and Whitaker wept while he chopped celery. “Now that’s a sad song.”
Whitaker sang with the Big O as he dropped two slices of bread into melting butter in a pan. “Crying” had to be the saddest song in the world, he decided. He unwrapped two slices of cheese and placed them on the bread. “Crying” was the saddest song, and a tuna melt was the saddest dish in the world.
When his sandwich was golden brown, he set it on a plate and sat on the floor. He’d eaten hundreds of these over the years.
“Alexa,” he said. “Play ‘Everybody Hurts’ by R.E.M.”
Michael Stipe was soon singing the second saddest song in the world. Whitaker took a bite out of the sandwich and quickly pulled it away with a curse. The hot butter burned his tongue. He set down the sandwich and fell back against the cabinet, closing his eyes. His tongue was burned, and his kitchen smelled like fish. This was what it was like to be godless, mission-less, worthless. A prisoner in solitary confinement. He’d finally reached rock bottom.
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 hi
s 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.”
