Page 60 of An Unfinished Story
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 likeThis 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.
