Page 37 of An Unfinished Story
“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.”
Chapter 16
THEKNIGHT INTARNISHEDARMOR
Whitaker swung by the grocery chain Publix for a sub, and while he was in line for his bachelor staple, a younger guy with a flat-billed hat said, “You’re Whitaker Grant, aren’t you?”
Whitaker nodded. “Barely.”
“I loved your book, man. It’s incredible to run into you. I used to write a lot in school and been thinking about trying my hand at a novel. I can kind of feel the words running toward me.”
“Of course you do. Like a flood in the lowlands. That’s how it starts.”
“I guess so. Do you have any advice for an aspiring writer?”
Whitaker turned away from watching the woman in the hairnet putting together a chicken-tender sub with extra shredded lettuce and yellow mustard for the customer in front of him. He looked at the young man who’d addressed him and saw an innocence that might not be able to handle the war of the written word.
“Writing will wrap its bony fingers around your heart and squeeze until there’s nothing left. Everything you are goes onto that blank page, and the sad thing is ... you may not like what you read. And the readers may not either. Then what are you to the world?” Whitaker raised his hand and flashed his fingers toward the sky. “Poof.”
The innocent young man’s mouth dropped.
Whitaker finished with, “My advice: run the other way.”
“Damn, dude. Writing really beat you up, didn’t it?”
“It’s not for the faint of heart.” Whitaker turned back toward the sandwich bar.
“I appreciate your honesty.” The words drifted over the typist’s shoulder.
“That’s about all I have left now,” he said through the side of his mouth. It was finally Whitaker’s turn in line, so he stepped up and ordered a turkey and bacon sandwich with all the toppings, heavy on the vinegar. The sandwich Jedi in the hairnet put together a masterpiece of a sub that could barely be contained by wheat or wrapper.
When he got home, Whitaker settled onto the sofa and tore into his sub. Vegetables and condiments spilled out onto the coffee table.
“Integrity and a good sandwich,” he said with a mouthful. “I guess some people have less than that.”
He took another bite, shaking his head at the marvel the sandwich lady had put together. Once he’d plowed through the first half and washed it down with Doritos and a Coke, Whitaker picked up the first composition book, accidentally putting a fingerprint of oil on the first page next to David’s note to Claire. He dried it off with a napkin and flipped to the first sentence.
“This is where it all begins, right?” Whitaker said. Addressing the author, he said, “David, why did you choose to write that first sentence? What compelled you to tackle a novel?” Another lesson Whitaker had learned in writing was that there was only one true reason that you wrote a book: because you had no other choice.
Was that true of David? Was this a story he had to tell no matter what, as if his life depended on it? And what pains had he suffered along the way?
Whitaker put his feet up on the sofa and reread the first chapter.
The protagonist, Kevin, found a young boy named Orlando breaking into his car in the driveway. He wore white sneakers. His brown hair fell over his hardened eyes. And he’d just smashed the passenger-side window with a crowbar when Kevin saw him from the den. Racing out the door, Kevin attempted to grab him, but Orlando swung the crowbar. Kevin barely dodged the attempt. With adrenaline kicking in, he slammed Orlando to the ground and pinned him down with a knee.
With his eyes now wet with fear, Orlando pleaded, “Don’t call the police. They won’t give me another chance.”
“You should have worried about that before you broke my window, punk!” Kevin yelled, while pressing Orlando’s face into the concrete.
