Bullet Point (6 page)

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 that—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.”

Wyatt said nothing.

“Got to go. Nice talking to you.”

More Spanish, louder now.

Click.

Wyatt stood behind the tree, wind blowing, the moon now hidden. He was wearing jeans, sweatshirt, sneakers, should have felt cold but was sweating instead. He tried to sort things
out, tried to think, didn’t really know where to start. What he really wanted to do was call his mom, tell her what had happened. He overcame that impulse, a weak, unmanly one, kind of pitiful. His mom had her own problems. He tried Greer’s number again, again got put straight into voice mail. This time he left a message.

“Give me a call. No matter what time it is.” He thought about the impact that might have and toned it down some. “No emergency or anything. Just call.”

But she didn’t, not that night. Wyatt tossed and turned for hours, finally fell into a sleep full of unpleasant dreams, all forgotten in the morning.

Greer called at lunch period the next day. Wyatt and Dub had different lunch periods. Wyatt was sitting in the cafeteria with some kids from his last class, English, who were talking about
Hamlet
, which they’d just started and which he didn’t understand at all.

“Hamlet’s a wimp,” one kid said. “No guts.”

“What?” said another. “Just because some ghost appears and says this and that, he’s supposed to start killing people?”

“You’re missing the point,” said a girl named Anna who sat next to him in class, a blond, apple-cheeked girl whom up to very recently he would have considered beautiful. “It’s not even a real ghost.”

“Huh?” said the first kid.

“The ghost just represents thoughts in Hamlet’s head,” Anna said. “He’s actually very brave, because he’s the only one in the whole play who’s concerned with acting morally.”

“You’re not making sense,” said the second kid, and he tossed a Frito in the air and caught it in his mouth.

Anna shook her head. “It’s hopeless.” She turned to Wyatt. “What do you think?”

That was when his phone rang. He checked the number, excused himself, moved toward the window, clicked on.

“Yeah.”

“You’re pissed,” Greer said.

“Huh?”

“Pissed off at me, annoyed, angry, furious, fit to be tied. I could hear it in the message. Can hear it right now.”

“Why would I be pissed off?” He glanced around, saw Anna unwrapping a stick of gum, watching him at the same time. He moved farther away.

“We’re going to play that game?” Greer said. “All right—you’re pissed off, annoyed, angry, furious, fit to be tied, because on my weekly visit to the old man I mentioned you.”

“You did a little more than that.”

A long pause. Behind him, Wyatt heard Anna say something about ghosts and Hamlet’s father. Then Greer spoke. “Guilty,” she said. “Guilty as charged. But my father knows me—he could tell I was excited about something from the look on my face.”

“Excited about what?”

“You, you block—you. The rest just came out, an amazing coincidence, no? I couldn’t help myself. My mistake, I see that now—those goddamn inmates gossip all the time, worse than a sewing circle.” Another pause. “You’re so mad.”

He didn’t answer.

“This is over?” she said. “Over before it’s even started?”

Yeah, I guess it is.
Wyatt came very close to saying that. But he didn’t. Why not? Was he too nice a guy? Or—thinking about her bedroom and more of that—not nice enough? He didn’t say it was over; also didn’t say it wasn’t.

“How bad was the talk?” Greer said. “With your—I don’t even know what to call him? DNA supplier? I’m sorry if it was real bad.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s not talk. Why don’t you come over—I’m off till two.”

The bell rang. “I’ve got math,” Wyatt said. “Right now.”

“It’s your best subject. One little cut won’t hurt.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “It would.”

“Okay,” she said. “No problem.”

“Bye.”

Wyatt went to math class. The teacher—a real old guy with little scabs on his bald head—surprised them with a pop quiz, first of the term, just one single question. Two trains left two different stations at two different times, traveling at two different rates. Mark the point where they meet.

“Crash, you mean?” said a kid at the back.

Not that hard a problem: Wyatt had solved many similar ones, usually didn’t mind the work too much, sometimes came close to enjoyment. But this time his brain refused to grapple with it.

“Pens and pencils down,” said the teacher.

Wyatt handed in a blank sheet.

After school, Wyatt walked to the student parking lot with a few other kids, one of whom happened to be Anna from English class.

“Hey, Wyatt,” she said, dropping back beside him.

“Hey.”

“You’re new in town, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He caught Anna’s scent on the breeze, fresh and a bit like apples. “Well,” he said, turning to look at her, and as he turned he saw Greer across the lot, leaning against the Mustang. “It’s, uh…” Anna followed his gaze, took in the sight of Greer in that short leather jacket, tight jeans—a smooth crescent of her bare belly showing—and also wearing big sunglasses. Anna’s eyes opened a little wider. “Good, um,” Wyatt continued. “Good so far.”

“Uh-huh,” said Anna, taking one more look at Greer and drifting off.

Wyatt approached the car. Greer stuck her sunglasses up on her head. Her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying.

“How was math?” she said.

“Could have been better,” Wyatt said. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought maybe we could go for a ride,” Greer said. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

“Don’t you have work at two?” The dismissal bell at Bridger High rang at 2:27.

“I switched shifts.”

“At the bowling alley?”

Greer shook her head. “My other job.”

“I didn’t know you had another job.” He opened the door, started to get in.

“I’m not coming?” Greer said.

He glanced around. “How did you get here?”

“I got a ride.”

They gazed at each other over the top of the car. The wind blew a wisp of her hair, curled it around her ear. “Okay,” Wyatt said. “Come on.”

Greer climbed into the car. Wyatt backed out of his space, turned, drove out of the lot.

“Anyplace special?” he said.

“Up to you.”

Wyatt drove aimlessly, ended up on a road by the river, with abandoned warehouses on one side and rusty train tracks on the other.

“You’re angry,” Greer said. “I can feel it, like it’s coming right off your skin.”

“What right have I got to be angry? I don’t even know you.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Wyatt said.

“You don’t even know me? After the weekend?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean? What other kind of knowing is there?”

Wyatt pulled over, parked in a weedy patch by the train tracks. Broken glass lay all over the place. He turned to her.
She was watching carefully, her eyes, eyes that he’d looked into so deeply yesterday, now almost unfamiliar. “There’s more to knowing someone than—” Wyatt stopped himself, started over. “I didn’t know you had another job, for example.”

“And that’s important?”

Wyatt shrugged.

“My other job is reading to blind people in this old folks’ home for three hours, twice a week. It pays fifteen dollars an hour on account of some long-ago grant. There. Enough information?”

Now she was angry, too, and yes, he could feel it coming off her skin. That put Wyatt off balance, and he blurted the next thing that came to mind. “What about the heroin?”

Her head snapped back as though he’d hit her. “Fuck you,” she said. “You know that? Fuck you. What are you, some kind of police informer?”

“Of course not, I—”

“That’s a complete bullshit lie.” Her voice rose fast, practically a shriek by the time she got to
lie.
She pounded her fists in her lap.

“All right, all right, take it easy. I wasn’t accusing you of anything, just asking the—”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“No one, really—”

“Kids at school? That blond bitch in the parking lot?”

“I hardly know her, and—”

“Just like you hardly know me, so you must be fucking her, too.”

“For God’s sake, you’re talking crazy. Calm down.” He reached toward her, meaning to touch her arm.

“Don’t touch me.” Greer turned, very quick, ripped open the door, and started running away, up a strip of cracked pavement that led to the warehouses.

“Christ,” Wyatt said. He watched her run. She was fast. In a few moments she’d disappeared beyond the warehouses. Wyatt could see a street on the other side, light traffic going by. He drove around the block, went slowly down that street. No sign of Greer. On the next block, a bus was just pulling away from a stop. He followed it for a while. Greer didn’t get off. Back in town, the bus ran a light that was just turning red, and Wyatt, seeing a cop on the corner, stopped and waited. By the time the light changed, he’d lost sight of the bus. He called Greer’s cell, got put straight to voice mail. Then he went home—that is, to Aunt Hildy’s—and dug out his homework. He finished all his assignments, checked his work twice, making sure there wasn’t a single mistake.

WYATT HAD JUST READ
Act One of
Hamlet
for the third time—a real ghost? or a voice in Hamlet’s head, as Anna was saying?—when his mom called.

“Wyatt? How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Uh, good. That’s nice. I’m calling with some news—Rusty got that job. Remember I was telling you? Driving a truck for—”

“I remember.”

“Not the greatest job, but in this economy it’s nothing to shake a stick at. Means he’ll be away a lot—did I mention that? Only every second weekend here at home, at least to start. Company puts him up in motels on the on-weekends, and he’ll be sleeping in the cab most other times, till we get some savings going again. Next Monday’s his first day, meaning he’ll be gone for two weeks after that.” She paused, maybe waiting for him to say something.

“Sounds good,” Wyatt said, the only comment that came to mind.

“Yeah, well, it’ll be tough on him, of course, and on…but I was thinking this might be a good time for you to, uh, come on home.”

That made sense. Wyatt knew it right away.

“Up to you, Wyatt. But since there’s no baseball in either place, why not?”

“Yeah, Mom, I think you’re right.”

“Oh, wonderful. I was really hoping you’d say that. And Cammy will be so happy—she misses you something terrible.”

“Don’t tell her right away.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Just want to think about it for a day or so. I wouldn’t be coming back till Monday anyway.” Eliminating the slightest chance of seeing Rusty, even just coming and going at the front door.

“All right,” his mom said. “Think it over, for sure. But doesn’t it make sense?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Be seeing you, then. Drive safe.”

Aunt Hildy got delayed at work. Dub came home with pizza. Wyatt was at the kitchen table,
Hamlet
open in front of him. If the ghost was just in Hamlet’s mind, how come these other guys, like Horatio and Marcellus, saw it? On the other hand, the ghost didn’t talk to them, talked only to Hamlet, so maybe Anna was right. The ghost went on and on, kind
of understandable phrase by phrase—except for impossible words here and there, some sort of explained in the margins—but not at all understandable in its entirety. Whatever was on the ghost’s mind got Hamlet upset, although for some reason he didn’t tell Horatio and Marcellus anything about it. Weren’t they Hamlet’s friends, Horatio especially? There was no Shakespeare in sophomore English at East Canton High—a good reason to go back, right there. That was kind of a joke: he wanted to tell it to Greer.

Dub slid the pizza box across the table. “How was practice?” Wyatt said.

“We suck.”

“Can’t be that bad.”

“We scrimmaged Southern High—sixteen–zip before they stopped it. Can’t hit, can’t pitch, can’t field, can’t do shit. Nobody’s heard of the cutoff man.”

“Bad days happen.”

“Bad as this? Guess who had to pitch the ninth.”

“You?”

Dub nodded.

“That’s bad. Did you get anybody out?”

“Hell no.” Dub tore a slice of pizza from the box, downed it in two bites, a string of melted cheese hanging off his chin. “This all sucks.”

“What does?”

“Everything—coming here, you not playing, Coach Bouchard getting shafted.”

Wyatt shrugged.

“Come on—you don’t miss baseball?” Dub said.

“Yeah, I miss it.”

They ate more pizza, got down to the last slice, flipped a coin for it.

“Tails,” Wyatt said.

Heads. Dub finished the pizza. He was still chewing when he suddenly looked up at Wyatt and said, “So tell me about this babe.”

“Babe?”

“That’s what everyone says.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“People,” Dub said. “Is it supposed to be a secret or something? How come you didn’t tell me?”

“It just happened. And what was I supposed to say?”

“What were you supposed to say?” Dub said. “Whether you were getting any, of course. What else?”

A good reason for secrecy, right there. Dub was his best friend, didn’t mean any harm, but Wyatt got angry anyway, so angry he was a bit taken aback himself. He pushed away from the table, knocking the pizza box to the floor. “It’s nobody’s goddamn business.”

“Hey. Calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calmed down.”

Dub laughed.

“I’m not joking,” Wyatt said.

Dub held up his big hand—his left, catching, hand, two fingers taped. “Ease off, Wyatt. Just trying to look out for you, is all.”

“I don’t need looking out for. And wipe your goddamn chin.”

“Huh?” Dub wiped his chin, glanced at the cheese on the back of his hand, smeared it on his pants, then glared at Wyatt. Now he was angry, too. Was the cheese responsible in some way? “Not so sure about that,” Dub said, “the not-needing-looking-after part.”

“Oh? How come?” Wyatt’s chin was up. He felt the kind of thing that was coming, even if he couldn’t have said exactly what.

“’Cause maybe you’ve gotten in over your head. This girl has a reputation, according to Aunt Hildy. No way you could have known, so new here.”

“What reputation?”

“Don’t make me spell it out.”

“Spell it out.”

Wyatt’s chin came up a little more. Dub was red in the face. They’d somehow closed in on each other, even though the table was still between them. Getting into a fistfight with Dub? Something that had never happened, had never come close to happening, in all the years they’d been friends. Was it about to happen now? Dub would kick the shit out of him, no doubt about that. Wyatt got ready.

Dub took a deep breath, backed away. “Naw,” he said. “Gossip sucks. You do what you gotta do.” He turned, picked up his books, went upstairs.

Wyatt put the pizza box in the trash, sponged off the table, and then went down the first-floor hall to his bedroom at the end. His cell phone rang. He checked the number: Greer. Wyatt didn’t answer. He was going home.

A few hours later, as he was falling asleep, he had a crazy
thought: What would have happened if, after the talk with his father’s ghost, Hamlet had just said fuck it and left town, starting life somewhere else and ending the play in the middle of Act One. He wondered what Anna would think of an idea like that.

Wyatt was fast asleep when a distant tap-tap reached down into his consciousness. Tap. Tap. He rolled over, opened his eyes. Tap. Tap. The sound was coming from his window, a sound a lot like the tapping of a sharp fingernail. He got up, went to the window, drew the curtains apart a few inches.

Wyatt saw a face outside the window—a pale oval that seemed to hover in the night, unconnected to a body. The sight scared him for a moment; then his eyes adjusted and features took shape on the oval face—Greer’s features. She wore dark clothes, merging with the night. He opened the window. They spoke in quick, urgent whispers.

“What are you doing here?”

“Seeing you.”

“Why now? What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re not taking my calls. That’s what’s wrong with me.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly—I’m coming in.”

“That’s not a good—”

But Greer already had a leg through the opening, and a second or two later she was in the room. It was a night like the last, clouds racing across the moon, allowing just enough flickering light in the room to pick out the bright things: the
eyebrow ring, Greer’s teeth, her eyes.

“What the hell’s going on?” Wyatt said, still whispering.

She looked him up and down. “Always sleep in your boxers?”

“Shh.”

She lowered her voice, although not much. “You must be freezing your ass off. I am.” She turned and closed the window very quietly.

“You can’t stay here.”

She faced him. “That’s the last thing I need, present company excluded. A few hours will be fine.”

“I don’t want you here.”

“No?” she said. She put her arm around his neck, pulled him close, kissed his mouth. Her free hand slid down the front of his shorts. “You’re a liar,” she said, her lips now right at his ear.

Wyatt awoke with Greer in his arms. The wind had died down, and steady moonlight came through the gap in the curtains, illuminating her sleeping face. She looked younger asleep, peaceful and beautiful. He was all mixed up inside. His mind kept doing a lot of on-one-hand, on-the-other-hand stuff. A toilet flushed upstairs and then footsteps moved on the floor of the hall above, light footsteps, Aunt Hildy’s. A bedspring creaked. Silence. Wyatt pulled Greer a little closer.

She mumbled something that sounded like “Five more minutes.”

“You’re awake?”

“No.”

They were so close they hardly had to make any sound at all to communicate, almost like telepathy.

“Then how come you’re talking?” he said.

“Because I love you.” Her eyes fluttered open. “Oops. Way too soon for that kind of revelation.” She met his gaze. “Promise you didn’t hear.”

“I heard.”

“And?”

And what? Was he supposed to say he loved her, too? How did you know if you did? Who did he love? His mom, and Cammy, too, but that was different. This, whatever was going on with Greer, provoked strong physical feelings, not just the obvious kinds, but others in his head and in his gut, like he was in a constant state of excitement, could live on nothing but water and air. Was that a type of love? He had no idea.

“And?”

“And it’s fine,” he said.

“Fine?”

“You know, like okay.”

“Okay?”

“Not a deal breaker.”

Greer laughed, a little too loud. He put his finger over her lips. She bit him, not hard but not softly, either. Things started heating up. Wyatt almost missed the sound of footsteps in the hall, not the upstairs hall but the hall outside his door. He squeezed Greer’s arm, trying to get her to be still. She went still, a lucky break: he wasn’t sure how she’d react to anything.

Knock-knock at the door. Greer slipped under the covers. This was almost like a comedy he’d seen at the East Canton fourplex, like lots of comedies he’d seen there, except it wasn’t funny.

“Wyatt?” Aunt Hildy called through the door. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“Were you on your phone just now?”

“No.”

“I thought I heard you talking.”

“No. Maybe, uh, maybe I made some sound in my sleep. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. Can’t sleep myself tonight for some reason.” Then came silence, but she didn’t go away.

“Try not thinking about anything,” Wyatt said.

Aunt Hildy laughed, actually more of a snort. “If only,” she said, and padded away.

Greer came up from under the covers and lay quiet, head on Wyatt’s chest. “Everything you do, everything y—”

“Shh.”

She started again, very soft. “Everything you do, everything you say…I like.”

“Shh.”

Time passed. Was it starting to get light outside? Wyatt wasn’t sure. “Greer?” he said. She was asleep. He slipped out from under her, went to the window. Still fully night. He took his cell phone off the desk, checked the time: four forty. How to handle this? She could stay till everyone left and then—

Greer sat up. “I better get going,” she whispered.

He sat beside her. “How did you get here?”

“Drove.”

“You have a car?”

“My dad’s. It’s not insured and the plates are gone, so I don’t like to drive it much, you know?”

Nothing funny about that, but Wyatt had a hard time not laughing.

She got out of bed, pulled on her clothes. Wyatt stood naked beside her. When she was all dressed, she put her arms around him. “I’d like a picture of us, just like this,” she said.

“Not a good idea,” Wyatt said. “Doesn’t everyone know that by now?”

“You’re no fun.” She kissed him, opened the window, stuck one foot out. “I meant to tell you something,” she said, “but it’s so hard with all this whispering.”

“What?” he said.

“I met him,” she said. “He’s really nice.”

“Who?”

“Your—Sonny, Sonny Racine. I went to see my dad today—yesterday—and he was there, in the visiting room. He gets a lot of respect.”

“What the hell?” Wyatt raised his hands, the kind of gesture that goes along with not knowing where to begin. Greer climbed out the window and disappeared in the darkness.