the napalm tree for the Vietnam vet to fall out. In other words, post the release of Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters, everyone knew the Grants a little better. Of course, Whitaker’s characters only mildly resembled those in real life.
“I stole a few things from friends and family,” Whitaker would say in interviews, “but it’s just my imagination hard at work.”
“How about the father in the story?” they’d asked. “I know your father was a vet too.”
“The father in the story is a completely unfair, diminished view of my dad. It’s who he could have become after the war, but thankfully he returned intact.” For the most part, Whitaker would always add internally.
That father was a PTSD-riddled tiger of a man who was relentless in life and work. He was still fighting the Vietnam War every single day. Jack Grant, however, had dealt with his demons in a much more impressive way. Whitaker would always end his interviews with, “Jack Grant is my hero. The man in the book is an antihero. It’s just that . . . knowing a vet so intimately as you would when you’re raised by one, it’s easy to let your imagination run with how much worse it could be. That’s where the palm trees are poisoned with napalm and the turquoise waters are dyed red with blood.”
Jack Grant was Whitaker’s hero in a lot of ways, but when it came down to it, no man in the history of business could remove a suit and tie like Whitaker Grant. The moment he closed his front door, his tie was flying in the air and his suit jacket was falling to the floor. He kicked his polished loafers toward the wall and shucked his ironed black pants into the corner. Letting the suit wrinkle and leaving the businessman in the foyer, Whitaker dressed in basketball shorts and a T-shirt and headed toward his office.
Entering his writing space always felt like he was jumping out of a helicopter into a Vietnamese jungle. Never did going to war get easier, and that was exactly what sitting down to fill a blank page was: war.
I Hear Thunder (the working title of his newest work, the one that began with “I want out, Matteo”) had led to many more words and sentences. Like Napalm Trees, he’d begun to feel the character, starting to see through the eyes of this man.
The problem was Whitaker kept getting in the way of himself. Napalm Trees and Turquoise Waters had been a thrill to write. He could remember countless times when he was pounding the keys with his foot tapping and heart racing, and he could barely wait until he could share the story with the world. Where was the joy in this one?
The warrior typist sat in his chair, rebooted his computer, and stared at the movie poster until the final beep sounded. He couldn’t help but take a quick peek at Lisa and him at the premiere again. She was still his cheerleader, even after leaving him. That was, in fact, the last thing she said to him. “I’m pulling for you, Whitaker. I can’t love you anymore, but I’m your biggest fan.” No one could imagine how hard hitting her last words were.
Stalling, he checked his social media accounts. A fan had posted on his Facebook wall, telling Whitaker that he’d rewatched the movie again and absolutely loved it. The fan suggested writing a sequel.
Not for the first time, Whitaker bounced that notion around in his head. The producers had made the same request. Being the prideful artist that he was, Whitaker had answered the publisher the way his heart wanted him to. “It’s not a story that has a second piece to it. It’s done.” His agent disagreed, but Whitaker had assured him, “I’ve got more stories. Let’s not chase sequels. It’s a path that doesn’t always go so well.”
“Mario Puzo didn’t do that bad of a job.”
“I’m no Puzo. These characters have had their arc; they’ve already faced their worst nightmares. To revisit their stories would be a travesty, even if it filled our pockets with gold.”
His agent had said, “Let’s worry about more money now and travesties later.”
Whitaker responded to the man on Facebook’s post with: Imagine if Pat Conroy had written The Prince of Tides, Part II: Tom Wingo Goes to Disney World. No, not going to happen. Before he officially posted his reply, Whitaker realized he had no business comparing himself to Pat Conroy. Instead,