by Boo Walker
As they struggled to ascend the steps with one of the desk’s pedestals, Claire was thinking about two things simultaneously: how nice it felt to be in his arms and that they should have taken the drawers out to make this easier. She almost said as much when a pair of lovebugs landed on her arm.
“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.
With determined steps, Whitaker followed them.
The man turned and waved one of his big arms in the air. “You might want to mind your own business if you know what’s good for you.”
Clenching his fists, Whitaker weighed his options. Considering the man’s size and the fact that Whitaker had not fought anyone since high school, the typist didn’t think he had a chance. But an idea came to him instead. This dude might have muscles, but Whitaker knew he could defeat him in a more passive game of wits. If he could snap a picture of him, then Whitaker would plaster the guy’s face on signs and put them all over the neighborhood, with a nice tagline like This man does not pick up after his dog.
Whitaker smiled at the potential. He fished the phone out of his pocket and quickly snapped a shot.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Whitaker raised two fingers to his own eyes and then pointed to the perpetrator. “I’ll be watching you.” For a moment, Whitaker felt victorious, like a gangster establishing his domination over the neighborhood.
The bodybuilder didn’t move like a bodybuilder; he moved like a butterfly, like Muhammad Ali.
Whitaker saw the bull logo of the University of South Florida engraved on the man’s class ring a millisecond before Whitaker’s head snapped back and . . .
With no grasp of time, Whitaker came to and realized he was lying in the grass. Lovebugs were dancing all around him. He reached for the pain raging around his jaw. He turned his head and saw the cracked screen on his phone.
The man and his German shepherd were a hundred yards down, walking away from him.
Chapter 27
THE “DELETE” BUTTON
Whitaker sat down in David’s chair and looked at his cracked phone. He clicked on the folder that held all his new projects, including Saving Orlando, and highlighted it. He rolled his mouse cursor over “Delete.”
This was all he had to do. Delete. Let things go.
He couldn’t take much more of this fucking roller coaster he was riding on through this wrecked world. Why the hell had he committed to this project?
Removing his hand, he slumped into his chair and frowned. Of course he couldn’t delete Saving Orlando. He couldn’t do it to Claire or to the children like Orlando who needed a voice. He might not be able to finish the project, but someone else could take what he’d done and continue.
The doorbell rang, and Whitaker sat up and
wiped his eyes. He felt Claire’s presence. In the spirit of finally deleting the writer and saying goodbye to these youthful dreams, he grabbed the three composition books and the picture of David from his desk and carried them to the front door.
“What the . . . ?” She pulled back the screen door and reached for his face. “You’ve got blood everywhere.”
He wiped his chin. “I finally found the culprit in the park. And he was bigger than me. A lot bigger than me.” Whitaker told her what had happened.
“Honestly, Whitaker, you deserved it. I’m having a hard time pitying you.”
“Perhaps.”
“What do you mean, perhaps? You know I’m right.”
Whitaker did, in fact, know she was right. But he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead, he said, “I need to talk to you about something else. Can we sit?”
She sat in the chair next to the sofa. He sat on the end of the sofa closest to her, the pain of letting her down already gnawing at him.
He collected his thoughts and then looked her in the eyes. “I can’t do this. I can’t finish David’s book. I have no idea where it’s supposed to go.”
“What? You’re getting there, Whitaker. You can’t give up now.”
“I’m finally realizing that it’s the writing that’s been holding me back. For some reason, I’ve been chasing the next story and the next word as if it’s finally going to give my life meaning. As if it might make me happy. But what I realized today, finally, after all these years, is that writing is the enemy. It’s not my calling. Yes, I’m good at it. That doesn’t mean I need to be doing it all the time. It is ripping me apart. All along I’ve been chasing the exact thing that is eating away at me.” Whitaker made a crushing sound with his fist. “Crushing me.”
“You can’t quit now,” she said. “You’re there. At the end. We are there.”
“Yes, we are there at the ending. And I’ve explored several possibilities—five or six, at least, and they don’t feel right. It’s like a higher force is preventing me from concluding his story.”
She moved onto the sofa next to him and put her hand on his. “Please don’t stop now.” A tear sneaked out of her eye.
“Claire, I can’t tell you how I feel inside, and I can’t tell you what it’s like, but I can tell you that if I don’t stop, like right now, it’s going to kill me.” He added, “You can have everything I’ve done. For free. And I’ll pay back what you’ve given me so far. Let’s find someone else to finish it. Together. I believe in the project. I want to see this through. I just don’t want to be the one writing the end. Simple as that.”
The headshake of disappointment. “You’re letting fear win. You have some serious inner-critic issues that beat you sometimes. Stop all this feeling sorry for yourself. I’m so tired of hearing it. Seriously.”
“Me too! I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I want to throw my laptop in the trash and get on with life. If I keep trying to write, I will die unhappy and alone.”
“You’re not alone.” She took his hand and repeated, “You’re not alone.”
Whitaker wasn’t sure about that. They might have built a nice friendship, but in the end she was sitting there for her husband. He took the stack of composition books and the picture and handed them to her with yet another apology. He hated to hear himself apologizing, whining. She was right. Enough already!
She accepted them with her head down.
“I need you to take these and go. Believe me, we will find someone way better than me to take Saving Orlando home.”
“I’m not taking these back.” She set them on the coffee table. “What are you going to do, Whitaker? Go find another job you don’t love? You can’t stop writing.”
“I most certainly can stop writing. I’ll go to work for my father. Even saying it out loud makes me feel lighter, like there’s less on the line.”
Claire shook her head. “I’m so sick and tired of feeling like I’m begging you, but this isn’t about me or David’s story. This is about you pulling your head out of your you-know-what. Stop with all this whining and woe-is-me. It’s not who you are. You know what? Don’t finish the damn book if you don’t want to, but to say you’re hanging up your pen is nothing short of cowardice. Quit acting like the world owes you something and grow up. They are just words, lined up one after another. Stop taking yourself so seriously.”
As if she could ever understand. Whitaker stood and took the books and picture back off the table. He held them out. “Take them. Please. They’re not safe in my hands.” He said that last bit as a way to force her to take the books. He wanted them out of there. He wanted this responsibility off his back.
Claire took the books and went toward the front door. Watching her walk away might have been the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Cue the Roy Orbison and a tuna melt.
“I’ll email you what I have so far. And I’m sorry, Claire.”
Once she was gone, Whitaker returned to David’s chair and clicked his way back to his OPEN PROJECTS folder. He could finally let go of his ego, and he could finally settle into being a normal human. He dragged Saving Orlando to an email and typed Claire’s address into the form.
Whitaker moved his mouse to the “Send” button but hesitated. This was it, his goodbye to writing. Yes, a retreat and surrender. Perhaps a cowardly one. But also the start of a new life.
Whitaker pressed his finger down but pulled back at the last moment. He lifted up the mouse and slammed it as hard as he could onto the desk. It shattered, plastic shrapnel shooting out across the desk.
It wasn’t enough to satisfy his rage. So many people had commented over the years that they could never imagine Whitaker losing his temper. How wrong they were. Swiping his right hand along the desk, he knocked everything off: the laptop, the writing books, the broken mouse, the cup of cold coffee, the lamp. The bulb of the lamp sparked in a final blue flame as the cold coffee spread like a pool of blood.
Just in time, he saved his laptop from the coffee and set it back on the desk. Pulling the computer open, he prayed that it was still operational, that he hadn’t lost the latest iteration of Saving Orlando. As the display lit up, he reached for the mouse by rote until he remembered that he’d smashed it. A longtime hater of the trackpad, he fortunately had a spare in the desk.
Whitaker put his hand on one of the iron pulls of the drawer and tugged. It slid a couple of inches into an abrupt stop, like it was caught on something. With his anger still lingering, he jerked on the drawer until it broke free and came flying off the casters. As it crashed onto the floor with a boom, something white slid out, a piece of paper, maybe.
A photograph?
It must have gotten stuck behind the drawer. Out of breath from his tirade, he reached down. It was an image of two people standing in front of a baseball stadium. Whitaker recognized the man in the picture instantly. It was David.
A young boy stood smiling next to Claire’s deceased husband.
“What is this?” Whitaker asked. Chill bumps fired on his arms, and he had a sudden sense of lightness, like he was flying. He stared hard into the boy’s eyes.
“Who are you?”
Chapter 28
POP CULTURE
With David’s unfinished story in her hands, Claire traipsed down the steps of Whitaker’s house and went to her convertible. Though a very small part of her hoped that Whitaker might change his mind, she could see the defeat in his eyes—his white flag waving shamefully. And she didn’t know if she was strong enough to help him dig out of it.
This felt like the end.
Setting the composition books on the seat, she took a moment to look at David’s picture. “I’m so sorry, David. I’m trying my best.” It was as if he’d come back from the grave to ask her to write this story, and she was not fulfilling her part of the bargain.
Then the sound of a door opening and closing. Turning, she saw Whitaker leaping down the steps, waving something like a piece of paper up in the air, yelling for her
to wait.
“What in the world, Whitaker? What are you doing?”
He wasn’t the man she’d left moments before. He was glowing as he handed her a photograph.
“What is this?” She took the picture from his hands and looked. Her body went rigid.
Whitaker asked, “Who is he?”
Claire was staring at the photograph in shock. David and a boy were standing in front of a baseball stadium. The sign above their heads read: HOME OF THE BALTIMORE ORIOLES. David was wearing a green polo shirt and seersucker shorts. And he was holding his arm around a boy she’d never seen before—a white kid with a broad nose and straight brown hair partially covering one eye.
Whitaker was asking again, “Who is he?”
Claire shook her head and looked again. “I don’t know.”
But she did. She did know.
“I think that’s—” Whitaker paused.
Claire and Whitaker said at the same time, “Orlando.”
Claire looked up at Whitaker, who was now leaning with both hands on her car door. She looked back down at the photo. “What are they doing in Baltimore?”
Whitaker pointed to the stadium in the background. “No, that’s Ed Smith Stadium in Sarasota. It’s where the Orioles have their spring training.”
Claire nodded. “I’ve never seen him before. I don’t understand what’s going on.” She could barely wrap her head around what this picture had to say, all the possibilities.
Whitaker circled to the other side of her convertible, picked up the books, and climbed into the passenger-side seat. “We need to find Orlando.”
She was still staring at the picture. “Where did you find this?”
“Behind the drawers.”
“How did we not see it before?”
“I don’t know. Must have been stuck between the runners.” Moving along with his thoughts, Whitaker said, “Something crazy is going on right now, Claire. I feel like you were meant to give me that desk, and I was supposed to find this picture. And now we’re supposed to find the boy.”
