Page 39 of An Unfinished Story
Then it was over. Whitaker flipped through the blank pages that filled out the rest of the composition book. “You have to be kidding me.”
He dialed Claire’s number, noticing the clock on the cable box read 8:18. In shock, he glanced outside. The teasing colors of dusk confirmed he’d completely lost track of reality.
When she answered, he said, “Where’s the rest of it? Don’t tell me it really stops here, in the middle of the third book.”
“Yes, that’s why I’ve come to you.”
“Have you looked everywhere? He couldn’t have left it like this.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve looked. So you read it?”
Whitaker’s heart was racing. “Yeah, I read it.” He paused, collecting himself.
“And?”
“It’s magnificent, Claire. It really is. I’m so sorry I put you off this long. I’m thoroughly invested.”
He could hear her choking up. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she said through the crying. “I’m just ... just happy.”
“You should be. He left you a great story. Are you sure you’ve looked everywhere? I mean, are there other drafts? He wouldn’t have thrown away the first two.” Whitaker stood. “I have so many questions. Did you know he was writing it? Had you read any of it? Do you know the ending?”
“I don’t know the ending at all. You saw his note to me. He wouldn’t let me read it, and he didn’t tell me anything about it. And I can’t find anything else. Maybe he threw the other drafts away.”
“Why would he do that? I still have all my drafts.”
“I don’t know. I’ve gone through everything. The house is empty and sold. All I have left is a few of his business files, his books, his desk and chair. There are no other drafts.”
“Did he write at home or maybe he left something at his old firm? You said he was an architect, right?”
“I cleaned out his desk at work after he died.”
“Can we meet? My brain is exploding right now.”
“You’ll finish the story?” she asked.
“Yes. But there have to be other drafts, more to it. If this is the third draft, then he had to have written the ending. We have answers to uncover first. Are you busy?” He could hear the rapidity of his voice but couldn’t slow down. “Can you come over? Like now?”
“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”
When Whitaker hung up, he ran to his bedroom to get dressed. Seeing the bed that hadn’t been made in weeks, he realized what he’d just done. Invited a woman into his house. He looked around and felt downright embarrassed. An impressive collection of old water and coffee cups had collected on the bedside table. A layer of dust had settled on the floor. She couldn’t see this pigsty.
He grabbed his phone again and called her. She didn’t pick up. He cursed and dialed again. No answer. “This can’t be happening.”
The disheveled typist ran to the mirror. His hair was ragged, and his mustache needed trimming. There were red vinegar stains on his shirt from the sandwich. “Shiitake on Sunday morning!” he screamed. “Fuck all and hell!” He shucked his clothes and raced into the shower. After the fastest cleansing in human history, he toweled off and looked back at the phone.
Shestillhadn’t called back.
He tried her again. No answer.
After another string of curses, he threw on some clothes, closed the door to his bedroom, and ran into the living room. He took the pile of clean laundry still waiting in a basket next to the sofa and pushed it into the closet. Then he picked up the articles of clothing draped all over the living room floor. He picked up the shrapnel of sandwich vegetables from the table and rug and put them in the sandwich wrapper. He took two more bites and then ran the leftovers to the kitchen. He looked at the clock. She would be there in less than ten minutes.
Whitaker didn’t know what to do next. He unplugged the Xbox and hid it in the closet. What forty-year-old plays video games? As an added touch, he pulled two dusty Hemingway books from the shelf and displayed them on the coffee table, just in case she noticed. Much better than the copy ofMake Your Bedby Admiral William H. McRaven, a gift from Staff Sergeant Jack Grant, which Whitaker shamefully shoved into a drawer. He straightened the pillows on the sofa and chairs and ran to the kitchen.
The accumulation of dishes was embarrassing. He looked at the daunting pile and then back at the living room and foyer. Not ready to tackle the kitchen, he raced back to the living room and ran the vacuum over the rug. He was repulsed at the crackling sound of the vacuum as it sucked up dirt and grit. With a mad dash to the bathroom, he grabbed the Poo-Pourri from the toilet. Back in the foyer and living room, he pumped out a few spritzes.
The smell overtook the room, so he turned on the fans and opened the windows. Though he was starting to think he wouldn’t let her inside, he knew he needed to start on the kitchen. During the course of the cleaning, Whitaker kept telling himself that he was a disgusting man, and that this nonsense had to stop. How embarrassing for someone to see inside his world.
