An Unfinished Story: A Novel

by Boo Walker

  After David’s accident, a policeman had given her everything that had been inside David’s totaled car. Something had told her to keep the hat, and it wasn’t just the mystery of it. Though she had wondered why it had been in the car, she’d chalked it up to being a gift for a client, a gesture he was no stranger to. Still, she’d elected to hold on to it, tossing it into a box with a few other items of David’s that she hadn’t been able to part with: his letter jacket from high school, his suit from the day they married in Chicago.

  Taking the pinstripe hat out of the box, she sat with it in her hands, her back up against the wall. Willy jumped down to join her, and she welcomed his company.

  Claire was finally feeling better. She’d spent three days thinking about David, wondering how he might have reacted had the tables been turned, wondering if she was getting this all wrong—if she had any right at all to be mad at him. No matter where the blame lay, it was time to move on, time to forgive him.

  How could she condemn him for fighting through his own struggles without drowning her in them too?

  Running a hand through Willy’s fur, she said, “Enough wasting life, Willy. I don’t know how you’ve lived with me so long.”

  Along with much of St. Pete and even Whitaker’s new novel, the story of the Chattaway began in the 1920s. Painted hot pink and parakeet green, the cash-only restaurant was quintessential Florida, a dive joint with mostly outdoor seating that always promised live music and a good time. Whitaker remembered feeding the koi here when he was a boy. And though he had not yet taken the plunge, the owners had been hosting a proper afternoon tea with their vast collection of china for longer than he’d been alive.

  It was a mostly clear night, warm, and humid. Several green parrots were perched on a telephone wire looking down at the commotion. A man with a guitar sang Jimmy Buffett songs on the stage. Claire and Oliver were sitting across from Whitaker at the picnic table. They each held menus.

  “All right, then, Oliver,” Whitaker said, “who would win in a cage match? Batman or Spider-Man?”

  “No, no, no. You can’t compare Batman and Spider-Man. They’re totally different. If someone is going to fight Batman, it would have to be Iron Man. That’s a fairer fight. Think about it. Batman and Iron Man are both rich. They both have all this technology—”

  “Yeah,” Whitaker interrupted, “but it depends on what they have with them in the cage. Spider-Man still has his webs and ability even when he’s Peter Parker, right? How about Batman? He needs all his gadgets. Same with Iron Man. Actually, I might argue that Peter Parker could take both. He’d wrap a web around them, then spin a hammock in the corner and watch them starve to death. Batman’s got nothing.”

  Oliver held up a finger. “Well, for one thing, Batman is much smarter. Same with Iron Man. Like, two of the most brilliant guys on the planet. Neither one of them would get stuck in a cage without their gadgets. And even if they were forced to, they’re both in incredible shape. Batman is a martial arts master. He wouldn’t let Spider-Man get a web around him.”

  “My God, you’re good,” Whitaker said, looking at Oliver and then Claire, who was smiling as she perused the menu. “He should be a lawyer.”

  Whitaker had hit oil when he’d brought up comic books, a passion they clearly shared. It was through comic books that Whitaker had fallen in love with reading as a child and what had led to his love of gaming as an adult.

  After ordering, Whitaker and Claire homed in more on Oliver’s interests, and Whitaker watched sadly as Oliver began to pull back. The boy who was so giddy over Batman and Iron Man earlier was starting to quiet down, his long diatribes returning to the one- and two-word answers he’d been giving at the park and at Jacky’s house.

  Claire must have noticed, too, as she started pushing the conversation toward Whitaker’s writing. Whitaker sensed it was time to embrace his role as the court jester. He briefly told them the idea behind I Hear Thunder.

  “Imagine this. My character—very handsome and dapper—comes in to sip on a bottle of rum with another bootlegger. He’s wearing a three-piece suit with a Smith & Wesson hidden somewhere inside.”

  Claire looked at Oliver, smiling. “Sounds like a bestseller to me.”

  Oliver turned up a corner of his mouth.

  “And a blockbuster movie. I’m confident Brad will do my character justice. Don’t even worry about it.”

  Oliver was toying with a saltshaker, still checking out from the conversation.

  Whitaker looked at Claire, and they shared a moment of understanding. How could they reel him back in?

  Claire tapped Oliver’s arm. “Have you even seen Napalm Trees?”

  “No,” Oliver admitted. “I mean I’ve heard of it, but I haven’t seen it.”

  “What!” Whitaker said, struck by the sadness of a life without movies. “Don’t tell me you never get to see movies.”

  “No, we do. I just don’t watch old movies.”

  “Old movies!” Whitaker exclaimed to Claire and Oliver’s delight, the court jester coming alive. “Oh my God, I’m getting old. Just a minute ago, I was still feeling like I was part of the young guard of St. Pete. One of the young artists pushing the boundaries.” He shook his head. “Not anymore. Now my movie is lost to the young generations, another Ben-Hur or The Sound of Music.”

  Oliver shook his head. “Never heard of them either.”

  Whitaker dramatically dropped his forehead to the table. When he came back up, he said, “Thank you for putting me in my place, dear Oliver.”

  “You’re welcome,” Oliver said, his smile coming back.

  “You’ll have to forgive Whitaker,” Claire said to Oliver. “All he wants is to be relevant.”

  “And yet I’m so far from it.”

  “Oh, I think you’re digging your way back,” Claire said.

  “With a very tiny trowel. What I’d give for a backhoe.”

  What an odd threesome they were, Whitaker thought, looking around at the other tables. But here they were having fun, and Whitaker had the feeling that Claire was as happy to be there as he was. And hopefully Oliver too. What Whitaker wanted to say, but didn’t know how, was that Oliver was not the only one looking for a tribe.

  As they shared an order of hush puppies, Oliver opened up again, telling them both funny and heartbreaking stories from his past. Working his way backward through the years, he finally came to the last time he’d seen his mother. “I first entered the system when I was ten. Then my mom got sober, and I went back to live with her. I remember being so happy. She’s messed up, but she’s still my mom, you know? Even when she’d hit me, I’d still hug her back. We did okay for a while, but then she started getting high again. A neighbor saw her hurting me and called the cops. They dropped me back into the system. I kept hoping we could try again, that she’d get sober, but it never happened.”

  Whitaker heard a young man speaking but sensed the remnants of the little boy inside Oliver’s fourteen-year-old shell: the kind heart, the hidden innocence, the fragility of a child still trying to make sense of it all. He remembered what he was like when he was fourteen. Cocky and all knowing, happy to tell you what you should believe or how you were wrong. Those attributes had served him well as a writer but had certainly dredged up trouble along the way.

  Oliver was completely different. Certainly not as confident as Whitaker had been. Definitely hesitant to trust anyone. But Whitaker also detected a note of wisdom, like Oliver had seen it all before. There were times when Whitaker would be talking to him and suddenly feel like he himself was the younger of the two.

  Another notion became obvious. Oliver was not the kind of boy you could lie to. He’d been the victim of lies all his life, and he’d been hardened by them. He’d come to believe people were guilty until proven innocent. It reminded Whitaker of an idea he’d heard during his research for Saving Orlando.

  You couldn’t tell kids who’ve been hurt you love them; you had to show them.

  Then the food cam
e . . .

  Claire watched Oliver eating his hamburger with only ketchup and mayonnaise and fries. Fourteen years old was such a difficult age, even if you were raised in a normal environment. It wasn’t fair that Oliver had to deal with so much more than traversing the typical rites of passage.

  His mom had abandoned him and apparently abused him physically. He had no father to speak of. Somehow, he’d turned out okay. A bit rough around the edges. She could tell he had his issues, as anyone in his case would. But he was a fighter, a kid trying to do his best.

  Okay, he’d broken into a car, perhaps even run with a rough crowd—if David’s comparisons between Orlando and Oliver were accurate—but he could have gone down a much worse path. He could have been much angrier at the world. Instead, he seemed to be trying. And trying his best was all you could ask of a boy—no matter his circumstances.

  Though they’d hit a few stumbling blocks in their conversation earlier, Claire felt like Oliver had opened up with them enough to dive deeper. “What were you doing breaking into a car?”

  Oliver didn’t seem to mind the question at all. “Hanging around the wrong kids in school. Trying to impress them.”

  “You don’t hang out with them anymore?”

  “Nah, that was my old school. And a long time ago. Now I just hang out with the other baseball players mostly. Our coach doesn’t put up with that kind of thing. Our first baseman was caught toe tagging toward the end of the season. Coach kicked him right off the team, didn’t even let him explain himself.”

  “I’ve read about this toe tagging thing,” Claire said, “where the kids all meet up at night in a parking lot and start racing around town.”

  “Yeah, exactly. Driving like boneheads.”

  Oliver let her steal one of his fries. Then she said to him, “I have to give it to you. Someone who’s been through what you’ve dealt with. You have every reason to still be running with that rough crowd, breaking into cars, toe tagging, God knows what else. But here you are, playing baseball and getting good grades, wanting to go to Duke. I just think you’re an awesome human and an inspiration, and I hope you know that.”

  Oliver blushed and looked down at his burger. “I have David to thank for a lot of it. If he hadn’t convinced me to try out for the team, I might still be in a pretty bad place. Baseball is just about all I think about now.”

  Claire wiped her eyes and patted his back. “Did he come see you play?”

  “Yeah, quite a bit. That’s why we got in the fight, because he came to a game, and I didn’t show. He knew I wasn’t sick.”

  Claire imagined David sitting in the bleachers watching Oliver play. Was this when he was supposed to be going on a long bike ride after work? “So what’s this Yankees obsession?”

  Oliver finished a french fry. “It’s the one thing I know about my dad. Sounds stupid, but my mom told me he loved the Yankees. I think that’s about the one thing she knew. As much as I want to hate him, I try to picture him as a nice guy. David took me to my first game. I mean, a preseason game, but still, it was amazing.”

  Claire smiled, knowing she wasn’t the only one still missing David. “He hated the Yankees. I’m sure you know that.”

  Oliver smiled back, nodding. “Yes, he did.”

  “He must have really liked you then.”

  Oliver nodded, taking a bite of his hamburger. Once he was done chewing, Whitaker watched him start to wipe his mouth with his sleeve, but at the last moment Oliver reached for his napkin.

  The singer onstage started another Buffett song, “Tin Cup Chalice.” Claire reached into her purse and extracted the Yankees hat. It still had a tag on it. “He never gave up on you, Oliver. I hope you know that.”

  “I know that now.”

  Claire offered Oliver the hat. “Now I know why I’ve been holding on to this for so long.”

  “That’s the hat that was in his car?”

  Claire nodded, holding back her emotions.

  “You’re giving it to me?” Surprise shot out of his eyes.

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you so much,” Oliver said, looking at the hat for a moment before placing it on his head. “It fits!” He adjusted it and then looked at her. “This is pretty awesome.” He opened his arms to her, and she hugged him with everything she had.

  So this is what it’s like to have a child in your life, Claire thought. She had never quite been able to let go of the anger she’d harbored toward her mother for leaving them, so she’d never gotten to know her younger half siblings. A few trips to Chicago here and there, but for the most part Claire had avoided her mother’s new family. Of course, Claire had employed some younger adults at Leo’s, but they were closer to eighteen.

  Oliver was still so young and innocent and impressionable, and though she’d only known him for a little while, she felt a vested interest in his life—the man he would become.

  Looking past him, Claire saw a patch of dark clouds moving in and heard a faint groan of thunder. The wind pushed through, whipping the palm fronds above.

  Oliver caught a napkin setting before it sailed into the air.

  “I hear thunder,” Claire announced, winking at Oliver.

  Whitaker made a big show with his hand. “Okay, that’s enough picking on me for the day.”

  “No, listen.”

  Another rumble, this time with more fury.

  “Oh, you were serious,” Whitaker said.

  More thunder, and then a lightning bolt with several terrifying tentacles shot from the sky, striking the ground close by.

  Claire clapped her hands together. “I think it’s time to go.”

  Whitaker raised his hand. “Check, please!”

  And the raindrops began to fall.

  Chapter 38

  CAN YOU SWIM?

  It had been a long time since Claire enjoyed a meal in the main dining room of her restaurant. Today was a special occasion, though. She and Oliver were spending the morning together.

  Whitaker had made the excuse that he was writing, encouraging them to go on without him. Claire wasn’t sure if he was truly working, but she was quite sure the real reason he’d asked for a rain check was that he wanted her to enjoy some time alone with Oliver. He knew she still had so many questions, even though they’d seen him twice more since the dinner a week ago.

  It wasn’t even nine yet, but it was bright, warm, and humid outside. Almost every table was taken. Claire and Oliver occupied a two-top out back near the herb garden.

  Claire watched him tear apart his blueberry buttermilk waffles like a shark on flesh. “I’d ask if Jacky was feeding you, but I know she is. She’s a great cook.” Claire and Whitaker had eaten with the family two nights before, enjoying a delicious tuna casserole.

  “I’m a growing boy,” Oliver said between bouts of shoveling. He wore his Yankees hat, and Claire wondered if he’d even been sleeping in it.

  “Yes you are.” She sipped her green smoothie, tasting the wheatgrass she’d asked them to add.

  “Best breakfast ever.” He licked his lips and chased his bite down with a big gulp of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

  His happiness made her smile. “After breakfast, I’ll introduce you to Chef. He’s who holds this place together. It’s fun to see the kitchen at work.”

  “Hold on, the guy who cooks? His name’s Chef?”

  “No, his name’s Jackson, but in restaurants you call the chef Chef. Just like you’d call the captain of a ship Captain.”

  “Weird.” Back to his waffles.

  Claire watched him go, still trying to understand him. Would he have been the same boy if she and David had adopted him? Would he still play baseball? Would he be happier? Would he have more opportunities? Not that he’d been deprived where he was now. Perhaps he’d have different opportunities.

  After another sip of her smoothie, she set down her glass. “Have you ever been to summer camp?”

  He set down his fork. “Yeah, to Boyd Hill. But last year was my la
st year. I’m too old now.”

  “I didn’t know they did a summer camp. Tell me about it.” Boyd Hill Nature Preserve backed up to Lake Maggiore in the Southside of St. Pete and was home to an abundance of wildlife—and supposedly even the most experienced birder’s dream.

  “It’s really cool, actually. Last year we learned about survival.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Oliver picked a blueberry skin from his teeth. “You know, like which plants you can eat . . . or use for medicine. How to build shelters. First aid.”

  “How cool. I never learned that stuff. Have you seen any alligators out there?”

  “Tons. Huge ones. And we get to hold owls and snakes—”

  Claire dropped back in her chair. “Oh, count me out.”

  As he told her more about his summers, she realized Jacky and the other adults involved with his life worked hard to give him the same experience any child should be entitled to, and that made Claire happy. They talked about his favorite subjects in school and his closest friends. She could tell he was learning to trust her and discovered he only held back or returned to his shorter answers when they spoke of the past.

  She stirred her smoothie and tried to put herself in his skin. When she’d been his age, she was chasing boys. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?” After a nod of approval, she asked, “Do you have a girlfriend?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Nah, not right now. One dumped me a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Oliver. I’m so sorry.”

  Oliver pumped his shoulders. “Yeah.”

  “Well, I’m always here if you want to talk about it.”

  He thanked her and looked down at his empty plate.

  Had she crossed a line? Or was he just sad about the breakup? “I have a feeling you’re one of the cool kids. Girls always like baseball players. I sure did when I was fourteen.”