Bullet Point

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 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.