by Boo Walker
Chapter 16
THE KNIGHT IN TARNISHED ARMOR
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.
“Please, I’m begging you.” He spat pavement dust, the toughness bleeding out of him.
“You want me to let you go so you can do this to someone else? This isn’t my first rodeo.”
The chapter ended with Kevin indecisively staring at his phone with his pointer on the final “1” button, as if it were his finger alone that controlled the boy’s future.
Surprisingly, Whitaker found himself invested in the main characters. As he moved through the pages of absolutely stunning handwriting, several realizations came to him. He paused after the first chapter to mull them over.
Whitaker knew nothing about Claire’s husband. (Wait, was it husband or ex-husband? Maybe deceased husband?) He hadn’t even seen a picture of David, but he knew that by reading these words and by getting to know Kevin, he was also getting to know David.
In the story, Kevin was in his midthirties and wading through a midlife crisis of sorts. Wasn’t everyone in their mid to late thirties? Was David suffering from a similar fight? Was he a happy guy? Was he searching for something? How was his marriage with Claire?
The beginning pages revealed that Kevin had been dumped recently and was feeling like he might never marry. Did this predicament say anything about Claire and her marriage to David? It certainly made Whitaker empathize with him. There was nothing worse than a woman telling you it was over.
Whitaker got the feeling that David was a solid guy, the kind of man Whitaker might have been friends with. The writing was pretty good, but more importantly, he had a lovely view of the world and a unique sense of humor. When it came to writing from the heart, David had the ability. You could teach a writer to follow the rules, but you couldn’t show someone how to pour his heart onto a page.
When Kevin gave Orlando the choice of going back to juvie or working in the yard to pay off the broken car window, the reader, including Whitaker, was given a deep glimpse into Kevin’s soul.
Whitaker fell back into the story as he reveled in David’s novel. By the time he reached the end of the first composition book, he was absolutely immersed. Things would need to be touched up if he accepted the project, which was a possibility taking root. There were, of course, grammar issues amid David’s artful calligraphy, and spots with too much telling. There were sections of dialogue that lacked description or motion and often descriptions that required finessing.
But that wasn’t the point at all. It was good! The characters came alive in Whitaker’s head. David had done a great job of giving Sarasota life.
Whitaker flipped back a page and reread a particular sentence that had caught him. “The beach was an overturned saltshaker pouring out into the Gulf, and above, a stratus cloud eased its way toward Mexico like a pelican fat on bait fish migrating south.”
Several weeks into story time, Kevin opened up to Orlando, telling him how his fiancée had left him the day before their wedding. In return, Orlando shared the details of his broken past. A victim of her own difficult childhood, his mom had been a drug addict and often prostituted herself for her next fix. Orlando was a product of a one-night stand. She’d gotten clean long enough to get him back but then overdosed a week later. Orlando had been found sleeping next to his mother’s dead body. After seven failed placements, he had given up on the chance of family and had decided to age out of the system in his group home.
The first book of the novel ended with Kevin flashing two tickets to Islands of Adventure to visit The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Orlando was a huge fan. The words jumped off the page. “Consider this a bonus. You think you can miss a day of school?”
“You’re joking, right? Are you really taking me to Orlando? Like the two of us going to Harry Potter World? I’ve never been to a theme park.” Orlando paused.
Whitaker reached for the second book and kept going, shredding through pages. He could see Kevin as if he were sitting there next to him, a man waking from a dream, connecting with a paternal instinct long lost, realizing that by giving to this boy, he was feeding himself too. Though Whitaker was a long way from recognizing any paternal instincts, reading about Kevin was almost like looking in the mirror.
Kevin was a disaster of his own unique ma
king, though, playing online poker at work, stealing coworkers’ food from the community fridge, gulping down cable news and screaming at the talking heads. Whitaker roared with joy when Kevin hit bottom, bingeing on Desperate Housewives while pounding wine spritzers.
The typist paused. Should he accept the project, Whitaker knew he’d have to get to know David’s life more. What were his quirks? Had he pulled these ideas out of thin air or had they morphed from his own decay? Whitaker would have to get to know Claire more as well. How had she affected his life?
David had clearly done extensive research on the foster system, and Whitaker wondered where that knowledge had come from. If he did tell Claire yes, that he’d finish the book, he’d need to dive into his own research. He was completely unfamiliar with the life of a child ping-ponging through the system, but he was more than intrigued to learn more.
Getting back to reading, Whitaker wondered if the middle of the story would fall off. Often, writing the first part was easy, but it was keeping the middle alive that made or broke a book.
Whitaker took a few bites of the second half of the sandwich and washed it down with more Coke. He kicked his feet back up and dove into the second book. After another great scene, Whitaker sat up and said, “I’m going to get paper cuts, David. I can’t believe how good this is.”
And then . . .
I have to write this book. There it was. The decision. I want to help this book come to life. Whitaker looked at his arms and chill bumps had risen. A story had literally landed on his lap, and he couldn’t believe he’d almost ignored it. What if he hadn’t read it? What if he’d stuck with the lie to Claire? He thought this book might have the answers he was looking for. Might he be so bold as to say Claire was right? He was meant to finish this book.
Sure, helping Claire appealed to Whitaker. Between her persistence, vulnerability, and, let’s face it, beauty, she was a hard woman to say no to. Despite the complication of this book being written by her deceased husband, he couldn’t deny the attraction he felt toward her.
But it wasn’t just Claire that fueled his sudden desire to finish the book. Or David’s story and the potential satisfaction of helping this dead man come back to life, as Claire said, giving him this final gift. Ultimately, it was because Whitaker saw himself in Kevin. Two selfish fools navigating the world with broken compasses. The only difference was that Kevin had located the Dog Star and found his way back home.
Whitaker craved a way back home, and he wanted to be a part of this journey.
If he had to name one issue with accepting the project, it was that he felt slightly scared. What if he couldn’t do it justice?
Deciding that being scared was not always a bad thing, he continued reading. Wanting to know if Kevin could truly save the boy, Whitaker threw himself right into the third and final composition book. Knowing this story would end prematurely broke Whitaker’s heart. Claire was right. This story needed to go all the way to print.
Whitaker’s heart hurt when Orlando and Kevin got in their first argument. Unable to forgive Kevin, Orlando disappeared, running away from the group home. Kevin spent days looking for him and feared the worst. With only a few pages left, Kevin finally found a clue, hearing that Orlando had returned to his old ways, running with young criminals bound for prison or the grave.
Whitaker had a terrible feeling that either Kevin or Orlando was going to die. And he wasn’t sure he was emotionally prepared.
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.
She still hadn’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 of Make Your Bed by 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 vacuu
m 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.
For God’s sake, what if Lisa had somehow come to her senses and returned to him? Opening his front door, he’d say, “Oh, hi, Lisa, it’s been so long!”
She’d open her arms. “Whitaker, I miss you. Please take me back. Make love to me. No, not here. Take me to the kitchen floor.”
“No, Lisa. You don’t want to see my kitchen. Or the living room, or the bathroom. Not even the bedroom. Can we make love in the backyard? Hold on, the tall grass and the crickets. How about the Land Rover? No. Let’s do it on the front steps!”
By the time Claire knocked, he’d decided there was absolutely no way she was coming inside. He opened the door, and her beauty shot a pulse of nerves through him. He’d been so concerned about her seeing his house that he hadn’t mentally prepared himself for the fact that he was about to take a woman out—not on a date, but still.
“Hey.” He smiled and worked hard to appear confident. “Give me just a minute. I’ll grab my computer.”
“Where are we going?”
“I thought we’d sit outside somewhere.” He looked past her to the sky. “It’s so . . . nice out. I tried to call you, by the way.”
Claire raised an empty hand. “Sorry, I was in such a rush that I left my phone.”
“That explains it. Anyway, give me a moment.”
“Can I use your restroom, please?”
Whitaker froze. Oh boy, there was the question he hadn’t seen coming. Not much of a knight in shining armor if he couldn’t lead her to the bathroom. He opened his mouth to say no, but stammered. Then he thought he’d suggest she use the backyard. Though it’s not ideal for making love, the grass is tall, so you’ll have plenty of privacy. Not the most chivalrous suggestion, he decided.