Bullet Point

by Peter Abrahams

  Greer’s one-bedroom apartment was on the top floor of the building with the strange stone head over the door. Wyatt didn’t get to see much of the living room-just barely taking in some musical instruments-electric guitar, acoustic guitar, mandolin-before Greer took him by the belt buckle and drew him into the bedroom.

  “First time?” she said, now on the bed.

  “Well, I wouldn’t exactly say-”

  “No problem,” Greer said, working on that buckle. “Just relax.”

  “Don’t think I can.”

  She laughed.

  Some time later, Wyatt felt more relaxed than he ever had in his life, and not just relaxed but something far greater than that, like the world was all right after all, and so was his place in it.

  “So,” Greer said. They lay side by side, her head on his shoulder, in a slightly awkward position, in fact, even hurting a bit, but Wyatt felt no hurry to make any changes whatsoever. “Where were we when we were interrupted?”

  “Your stepfather,” Wyatt said.

  “Right,” said Greer. “The biggest asshole in the world.”

  “Not so sure about that.”

  “There’s competition?”

  “Yeah.” And Wyatt told her about Rusty, and a story or two about his home life back in East Canton, and how he’d come to Silver City.

  “Wow,” Greer said. “We got parallels here, sports fans. Where’s your real father?”

  “That’s the most amazing part,” Wyatt said.

  9

  The next day, Sunday, rain slanting by in sheets outside the window, Wyatt back at Greer’s, the two of them in her bed.

  “Normally I hate the rain,” Greer said. “But today I can’t think straight.”

  “How come?”

  “How come? If you don’t know, who does?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s your fault, you blockhead. You’re making me spacey.”

  Then came a period of relative quiet, interrupted by the ring of Wyatt’s cell phone. He reached down to the floor, groped the phone out of the pocket of his jeans, checked the number on the screen: his mom. “Have to take this,” he said.

  “Why?” said Greer.

  He held his finger over his lips, pressed the answer button. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, Wyatt. How are you doing?”

  “Great. Uh, fine. I’m all right.”

  “Well, good. You sound happy.”

  “Yeah, you know.”

  Greer got a mischievous look on her face and reached for him under the covers. Wyatt left the bed, stood by the window.

  “Where are you?” his mom said.

  “In Silver City, Mom-you know that.”

  “I meant now-are you at ho-at Dub’s aunt’s?”

  “On my way.”

  “In the car?”

  “No.” Wyatt didn’t like lying to his mom, or to anyone, really. “At a friend’s.”

  “So you’re making friends?”

  “Uh-huh.” Wyatt felt Greer’s eyes on his back. He turned. She was sitting up in bed, making no attempt to hold up the sheets. Her finger made a quick pattern in the air: QA? He almost laughed.

  “That’s great, Wyatt. And school?”

  “Fine, Mom, everything’s fine. How’s Cammy?”

  “She misses you.”

  “I miss her, too.” Greer’s face changed; he saw a new expression on it, new to him, at least-eyes narrowed, two vertical grooves on her forehead, just above the nose. She came close to looking ugly, surely impossible for such a beautiful girl. Had he mentioned Cammy to her? No. Wyatt held his hand down, palm to the floor, at about Cammy’s height level. Greer’s face returned to normal. “And how are you doing, Mom?”

  “No complaints, except for…” She went silent for a moment or two, maybe choked up. Then she cleared her throat and went on. “Except for you being away, and all. How are you doing for money, by the way?”

  “Fine.”

  “You sure? I could send you a money order.”

  “Don’t need it, Mom. I can always get a job.”

  “Schoolwork comes first.”

  “I know.”

  “But, uh, speaking of jobs-there may be some news about that.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Too early to say, so maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.”

  “Come on, Mom.”

  His mother took a deep breath; such a close-up sound-she might have been right there in the room. Wyatt moved nearer to the window. Outside, it was raining even harder, water spewing out of the drainpipes on the houses across the street. “Promise to keep it under your hat,” his mom said, “but Rusty may have a job lined up.”

  “Yeah?” That had to be good. “What kind of job?”

  “A good-paying job. Not like at the foundry, and no benefits, but good-paying for times likes these. Rusty’ll be-if he gets it-driving a truck for Secondary Metals Services.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They’re out of Fort Collins, but the route’s all over the place.”

  Wyatt didn’t get it. Fort Collins was three or four hundred miles from East Canton. “You’re-we’re moving to Colorado?”

  “Oh, no, certainly not now. I’d have a hard time getting a better job than what I’ve got now, and this is the worst possible time to sell the house. For now-this is if it all comes through-Rusty will be back home every second weekend, maybe a bit more often after they see him settling in. So, uh…”

  Silence. The implication was pretty obvious: if Rusty got the job, he’d be pretty much moving out for the next while, meaning there’d be no reason for Wyatt not to move right back in. “Sounds good, Mom. When will you know?”

  “Any day. I’ll call soon as I know.”

  Another silence.

  “I’ll let you go.”

  “Okay, Mom. Bye.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Say hi to Cammy.”

  “You can say hi yourself. She’s right here.”

  There was a little rustling sound, followed by Cammy. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Wyatt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me. Who does it sound like?”

  “It’s raining.”

  “Here, too.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “Not sure. I-”

  His mom came on. “Okay, Wyatt, take care.”

  “Bye.”

  Wyatt clicked off, turned to Greer, still sitting up. She didn’t have a single tattoo on her body. That surprised him, surprised him in a good way, although he couldn’t have explained why. There was just the eyebrow ring; maybe the absence of tattoos made the eyebrow ring’s statement more special, or powerful, or something: he couldn’t take it any further, and as for what the statement was, he didn’t know that, either.

  “When will your mom know what?” Greer said. “If you don’t mind me being nosy.”

  “Rusty’s trying to line up a job.”

  She thought about that, nodded. “Have you got any pictures of Cammy or your mom?”

  He sat beside her on the bed, ran through some pictures on the phone.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dub.”

  “And that?”

  “Just this girl I used to know.”

  “She’s pretty. What’s her name?”

  “Didn’t really know her that well. She was in my English class.”

  “You like the apple-cheeked blond type? That’s not me.”

  “I like your type. Here’s Cammy.”

  “She’s adorable.”

  “And here’s my mom.”

  Wyatt’s mom hated having her picture taken. This one showed her all dressed for work, makeup on, having a last sip of coffee by the stove and trying to wave Wyatt off at the same time. Greer gave the photo a careful look. “She has beautiful eyes. They’re just like yours.”

  “Yeah?�
��

  “But the rest of your face comes from somewhere else.” Wyatt remembered Coach Bouchard’s old photo: there was no doubt about that. Greer handed back the phone. “Enough chitchat-come here.”

  Dub and Aunt Hildy were in the middle of dinner when Wyatt got back. Spaghetti with meatballs and garlic bread, probably Wyatt’s favorite meal, and a place was set for him. They looked up. Something was wrong: Wyatt knew Dub very well, had been reading that face practically all his life.

  “Hi, sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem,” Aunt Hildy said. “Just a call would be nice.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I can heat this up if you want.”

  “It’s fine like this.” And it was. Wyatt was starving. He realized he hadn’t eaten a thing all day, maybe a first. “How was practice?” he said, putting down his fork at last just out of decency.

  “Not bad,” Dub said. “It’s such a piss-off.”

  “Dub,” said Aunt Hildy.

  “But it is, Aunt Hildy. They-we’ve got nobody close to Wyatt in the outfield. He’d be starting in center and leading off, maybe even batting third.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Aunt Hildy said. “I meant your language.”

  “Language?”

  “Piss-off,” said Aunt Hildy. “We’re at supper.”

  “Oh.”

  All of a sudden, Wyatt started laughing, couldn’t stop. He covered his face with his napkin.

  “What so funny?” Dub said.

  “Drink some water,” said Aunt Hildy.

  Wyatt drank some water, pulled himself together. “Thanks for dinner, Aunt Hildy. It was great.”

  “You’re more than welcome. Seconds?”

  “Yeah. Please.”

  “You boys have homework tonight?”

  “Not much.”

  “Hardly any.”

  “Meaning plenty,” said Aunt Hildy. “One of you go up and get started, the other helps me wash up first.”

  Wyatt and Dub flipped a coin. Dub won and went upstairs. Wyatt got a dish towel and stood by the sink. Aunt Hildy believed the dishwasher used too much water, tried not to use it. She had a two-part sink, filled one half with warm, sudsy water, the other with plain, washed and rinsed the dishes, then handed them to Wyatt, in charge of drying and stacking in the cupboard. Aunt Hildy’s hands were small, square, efficient; Wyatt spotted a few faint liver spots on them.

  “How’s everything going?” Aunt Hildy said, eyes on her work.

  “Good.”

  “School all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holding up without baseball?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dub told the coach all about you.”

  “I know.”

  “Next spring’ll be around before you know it.”

  For a moment, opening the silverware drawer-Aunt Hildy’s knives and forks so much heavier than those at home-Wyatt felt a sharp sudden pang, like a real pain in his chest, from missing baseball. Then his mind moved on to Greer, and the pain was gone.

  “Meeting new people?” Aunt Hildy said.

  “Yeah.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about that.” She turned to Wyatt, handed him the last dish. “Not my business, goes without saying, but you’re new in town, couldn’t possibly have learned the lay of the-how things are yet. Know what I’m talking about?”

  “Not really.” Aunt Hildy hadn’t let go of the dish, meaning they each had a hand on it.

  “I understand you’re seeing Greer Torrance.”

  Wyatt felt himself turning red. He hadn’t told Dub, hadn’t told anyone. It was all so new. “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.” Aunt Hildy let go of the plate. Wyatt lost his grip on it, snatched it out of the air with his other hand just before it would have hit the floor. He turned, put the dish in the cupboard.

  “Do you know her?” he said, his back to Aunt Hildy.

  “Not face-to-face,” she said. “This is a small town, Wyatt-maybe not as small as East Canton, but small enough so nothing stays secret for long. I just feel your mom wouldn’t be too comfortable with you and someone like Greer Torrance.”

  Wyatt turned. Sometimes he got stubborn, and when he did his chin tilted up, pretty much on its own. It was doing it now. “I don’t see anything wrong with her.”

  “No, of course not. She’s very attractive-maybe a bit too old for you, what with girls being more mature to begin with, no offense-but there’s no way you’d be aware of her reputation.”

  Wyatt’s chin tilted up a bit more. “Which is?”

  “For one thing, I’m sure you don’t know that her father’s an arsonist. A firefighter of my acquaintance got burned that night.”

  “Greer told me.”

  “Told you about the firefighter?”

  “Not that part, but about her father, yes.”

  “And what about her role in it?”

  Wyatt felt himself turning redder. “What role?”

  “It was pretty clear that she was involved, too-they couldn’t prove it, is all.”

  Wyatt didn’t believe that. He just stood there, shaking his head, not trusting himself to stay calm if he replied. He was starting not to like Aunt Hildy.

  “And before that, she was into drugs-very lucky she didn’t get thrown in jail herself.”

  Into drugs-that could mean a lot of things. What did it mean to someone like Aunt Hildy, a middle-aged, small-town woman?

  “I’m talking about serious drugs, like heroin,” Aunt Hildy said. “The police knew.”

  Serious drugs? He’d seen no sign of that-her apartment was tidy, her skin unmarred, no mention of drugs, not even once, in any context. A thought came to him. “Do you have friends in the police?”

  Aunt Hildy nodded. “A coworker is married to one of the sergeants.”

  “This sergeant,” Wyatt said, “a beefy guy with a pink kind of face?”

  She nodded again.

  “He ran my plate?”

  “It’s a small town, Wyatt, but with rough edges. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

  He gave her a long look, not friendly. She blinked a couple of times. “I’m going for a walk,” Wyatt said.

  The rain had stopped but the wind still blew, very cold. Scraps of cloud raced fast across the moon. Wyatt found shelter behind a tree, called Greer, got put straight into voice mail. He wondered about driving over to her place. Not cool. But he still hadn’t rejected the idea when his phone rang.

  “Hello?” he said.

  Not Greer, but a man. “Hi, there,” said the man. “This Wyatt?”

  “Yeah-who’s this?”

  “Sonny.”

  “Sonny?”

  “Sonny Racine,” the man said. “Your father, to one way of thinking.”

  10

  Wyatt had no idea what to say. He stood in the shelter of the tree, halfway down the block from Aunt Hildy’s house, the cell phone pressed to his ear.

  “But that’s not my way of thinking,” came the voice from the other end, a fairly deep, pleasant-sounding voice. “Father’s got to mean a lot more than getting a girl pregnant.” Silence. “Agree or disagree?”

  Wyatt stood there, phone pressed to his ear. The wind curled around the tree, rippled the hems of his pants.

  “Hear me all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t mean to ask questions I’ve got no right to. Got no rights at all, where you’re concerned. No illusions on that score.” A long pause. “The right to ask questions is all yours.”

  Wyatt didn’t speak.

  “Or not, up to you. I can just hang up, that’s your preference.”

  Wyatt cleared his throat, suddenly thick feeling. “Where are you?”

  “Right now? The pay phone in B pod, why?”

  “In prison?”

  “That’s right. Sweetwater-thought you knew.”

  “I wasn’t sure. How-” Wyatt stopped himself. How had his fa-this man, better stick to th
at-how had this man found him, gotten his number? Not hard to connect the dots. Dot one, Greer. Dot two, Bert Torrance, doing five years for arson behind the same walls. So obvious, and so infuriating, like he was being manipulated.

  “You were about to say something?”

  “No,” Wyatt said.

  “It, uh, it’s good to hear your voice.”

  Wyatt remained silent.

  “And it’s, uh, good to know you’re in the neighborhood. No mystery there-Bert Torrance is what you might call a casual acquaintance of mine in here, as you probably figured out already, sounding like a smart young man the way you do.”

  “Yeah,” Wyatt said. Did that give the idea he considered himself smart? “About the Bert Torrance part,” he added.

  His-the man laughed. He had a soft little laugh that sounded like it came more from the front of his mouth than from the throat, chest, or belly. “Smarter than the old man, that’s for sure.”

  Wyatt didn’t like that, not at all. “You’re not my old man,” he said.

  “Sorry I-”

  “And all that about getting a girl pregnant-were you talking about my mother?”

  “My apologies. So sorry. So sorry twice. Meant the smart thing as a compliment, nothing more. I see my mistake now. As for your mother, long time out of touch with her, but I had the greatest respect, way back when. And thanks for standing up for her. Lesson learned. I can tell she raised a fine young man, not easy for a single mom. Or even if she’s not single-been no communication since…since the events.”

  Wyatt was silent, sharing no details of his mom’s life. Then it hit him that this man might already know-he’d told Greer about Rusty, Cammy, lots of other details. Had Greer passed on all that, too, to her father? Prisons had high walls to keep bad people separate from good, but now Wyatt realized voices went back and forth, no problem, as though the walls were sieves.

  “But you don’t have to accept apologies in this life. May even be the wrong thing to do sometimes.”

  “Like when?” Wyatt said.

  Then came that soft little laugh again. “I-” The man stopped himself. Wyatt heard voices in the background, maybe speaking Spanish. “Good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that. Unless you don’t want me to call, of course. Up to you.”