Bullet Point

15

No one, except maybe Dub, was at their best in the next few minutes. Aunt Hildy used the word whore once or twice, Greer fired back a bad word of her own, Wyatt shouted at both of them to stop shouting, and finally Dub appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up in strange clumps and rubbing his eyes. “Something wrong?” he said.

Wyatt and Greer left together, not through the window but out the front door, which slammed behind them. Wyatt, already packed, took his things.

Wyatt spent the rest of the night at Greer’s. When he woke up, lying on his back, she was on her side, watching him. “You look so great when you’re sleeping,” she said. “I’ve never been this happy in my whole life.”

“You look pretty good yourself,” Wyatt said. And she did. The pallor, the circles under her eyes, the drawn expression: all gone. Her skin glowed, her eyes shone, the whites pure white, no hint of yellow, not a blood vessel showing. And again, no eyebrow ring, just the tiny hole, the surrounding skin healthy and unbruised. He considered asking why she wasn’t wearing the eyebrow ring, couldn’t come up with a cool approach. Did it even matter?

“No,” she said. “My face is all wrong. But thanks anyway.”

“Wrong? What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything,” she said. She pushed her face this way and that. “Here. Here. Here.” Had he ever seen anything more beautiful? And right next to him, so close.

Some time later, while he was in a fuzzy state between sleeping and waking, Greer’s lips brushed his ear, and she spoke. “Know what we should do today?”

Wyatt opened his eyes. She was smiling; and had been up to brush her teeth-he smelled mint. What they were going to have to do today was say good-bye. No going back to Aunt Hildy’s, and besides, his mom expected him. “Well,” he said, starting off in a way he knew was pretty lame, “the thing is I have nowhere to stay now, and-”

“Huh? You’re staying here. I assumed that. You’re a high school student, duly enrolled at Bridger High. Don’t you want to make something of yourself? Am I missing something?”

Maybe he was the one doing the missing. Hadn’t the situation changed? Yes, he’d decided to return to East Canton, but that was with Greer out of the picture. Now she was back.

“You’re being a gentleman, right?” she said. “One of those guys with manners, too polite to ask? Don’t have to be polite with me, pal. You can stay here, no thank-you notes necessary.”

He laughed.

“That’s settled,” Greer said. “Now here’s the plan. I think we should go see Morrie Wertz.”

“Who’s Morrie Wertz?”

“I looked him up. It’s a matter of public record.”

“What is?”

“Morrie Wertz was your-was Sonny Racine’s lawyer. It turns out he’s one of the oldsters. You know-at Hillside Breeze.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hillside Breeze-my other job, the old folks’ home, where I read for fifteen bucks an hour. It turns out that Morrie Wertz has been in there the whole time, kind of like fate.”

“Fate?”

“Waiting to happen. I haven’t run across him yet-just about all the ones I read to are women. That’s mostly what’s in there. Men die younger. The crazy thing is a lot of these old biddies still want a guy, and any of the guys who’s not drooling-and maybe even if he is-has his pick.”

“But,” said Wyatt, “how come you know all this?”

“I’ve got eyes.”

“I meant about him being the lawyer, and in the old folks’ home.”

“Take a guess.”

“Your dad told you.”

“Bzzz,” Greer said. “You win the prize. Claim it at any time. First, you’ve got to move your butt.” She ripped off the covers.

“Hey!”

“Can’t be late for school.”

“School?”

“It’s a school day. Accusations of screwing up your academic life-I’m taking them off the table.”

Wyatt drove to school, calling his mom on the way. “Mom? The thing is the school here’s a lot better, and all this changing back and-”

“Wyatt? Where are you?” In the background he heard Cammy asking for more sugar.

“In Silver City. I-”

“When are you leaving? The weather’s supposed to turn nasty this afternoon.”

“That’s what I’m calling about, Mom. I’ve decided to stay a bit longer.”

“But we’ve been through this. Rusty left last night. I called the office at the high school and told them you’d be back tomorrow.”

“Sorry.”

“Wyatt? What’s going on?”

“I just think it’s best for now.”

“I don’t understand. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I’ll call later. Everything’s all right. Bye, Mom.”

Wyatt parked in the student lot at Bridger High, got one of the last spaces. He grabbed his books and hurried to the door, was almost there when his phone rang. He checked the number: home.

“Wyatt?” his mom said. “I just had a very disturbing conversation with Hildy.”

“Look, Mom, I can’t-”

“It’s not clear to me that she’d even let you come back to stay there, if half of what she says is true. What were you thinking?”

Through the big glass door, a teacher was tapping his watch and motioning Wyatt to come inside. “C’mon, Mom. I’ve got, you know, a girlfriend. So what?”

“So what? You were a guest in Hildy’s house. And from what I hear about this girlfriend-” His mom swallowed whatever was next. At the same time, the door opened and the teacher came out.

“Don’t want to have to write you up,” the teacher was saying, “but if you’re not inside this building in-”

Wyatt missed the time element, because his mom was speaking again. “I want you home today,” she said.

“No,” Wyatt said.

“No?” said the teacher. “You’re telling me no?”

“Mom? I’ll call you later.”

“But-”

Wyatt shut off his phone, went inside.

“Who,” said Ms. Grenville, “do you think is the smartest person in the play?”

“Shakespeare,” said the funny guy at the back.

“We can’t really say Shakespeare is in the play, now can we?”

“He made up all the others, so he has to be the smartest. I read his IQ was 203.”

“Where did you read that?”

“I didn’t read it, exactly. Omar texted me.”

“Who’s Omar?”

“This kid in India. Don’t know his last name.”

Ms. Grenville sat down, a bit heavily, as though her legs had gotten weak. She adjusted her neckerchief. Anna raised her hand. Ms. Grenville looked relieved. “Yes?”

“Hamlet,” Anna said. “He’s the smartest. Isn’t that the whole point? Sometimes he’s so smart he overthinks.”

“Can you give an example?”

Anna gave a bunch of examples.

“Anyone want to argue the case for another character being the smartest?” said Ms. Grenville.

No one did. For a moment, Wyatt thought of the grave-digger-he’d skimmed ahead, read that scene, not really understood it, maybe until now. And maybe not. He kept his mouth shut.

Anna’s hand was up again. “But his smartness serves him well, too. He figures out a test to establish Claudius’s guilt once and for all.”

“The play within the play,” said Ms. Grenville. “Act Three-that’s our reading for tomorrow.” The bell rang. “Please be prepared for a quiz on-” But the subject of the quiz was drowned out in the end-of-class din.

After school, Wyatt picked up Greer at the bowling alley. She was waiting outside, hands in the pockets of her short leather jacket. A sign on the front door read: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. CONTACT PRESIDIO BANK AND TRUST, SAN FRANCISCO. “They changed the goddamn locks,” Greer said, getting into the car. “No notice, no call, nothing.”

“Is there anything inside you need?”

Greer turned to him, looked angry for a moment, then smiled. “Guess not. I was going to try to sell the popcorn machine.”

“What’s it worth?”

“I don’t know.” Greer sat back, reached for his hand without looking, held on.

Wyatt drove to Hillside Breeze, the old folks’ home. It was an old brick building behind the hospital, also an old brick building but taller-in fact, the tallest building in Silver City-so Hillside Breeze stood in its shadow.

Inside, Hillside Breeze smelled like the bathroom at home after Wyatt’s mom had cleaned it. The phone was ringing at the desk in the small, poorly lit lobby, but no one was there. Greer went behind the desk, studied a chart-looking at it upside down, Wyatt saw rows of numbered squares with names inside-and motioned toward the stairs.

They went up. The carpet was musty. The smells in general were now more like the bathroom at home just before the cleaning. At the top they turned right, passing some rooms and a lounge where old women were sitting in front of a television, a few with their eyes closed, to a door at the end. The name strip read WERTZ/COFFEE. Greer knocked. No answer. She opened the door.

There were two beds in the room. A bearded man slept on his back in the nearest one, toothless mouth open. The other bed was empty. A second man sat in a chair, back to the room, facing the window. An oxygen tank stood beside him.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said in a half whisper.

No answer.

She went closer and called the name again, louder this time.

“If you’re selling, I’m not buying,” the man said, not turning.

Wyatt and Greer approached him, stood on either side. He glanced at one, then the other, but with no interest. One of his eyes was droopy and teared at the corner. He had an oxygen tube under his nose, liver spots on his face, and breath Wyatt could smell from where he was standing.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said again.

“I told you-the money supply is cut off.”

“We don’t want money, Mr. Wertz,” Greer said.

“No? What makes you so special?”

“It’s not that,” Greer said. “We just want to talk to you. If you are Mr. Wertz, that is.”

Mr. Wertz turned to her again, this time looked longer. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to talk to me?”

“I’d like you to meet my friend, Wyatt.”

Mr. Wertz turned to Wyatt. “What kind of friend?” he said.

“Boyfriend.”

“Some people have all the luck,” said Mr. Wertz. “Nothing beats luck and don’t let anyone tell you different. If I’d had just the smallest bit of goddamn-” Then came a strange sound in his throat, like a gulp, and he just sat there. Wyatt could hear the hiss of the oxygen.

Greer squatted down beside Mr. Wertz, one hand on the arm of his chair. “Wyatt here’s father is Sonny Racine. Remember him?”

Oxygen hissed. Mr. Wertz closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, “I’m drowning.”

“You’re drowning?” Greer said.

“That’s what it feels like. Didn’t anybody ever put a pillow over your head, try to suffocate you?”

“No. Never.” Greer shrank back a little.

“I defended guys who did that, got them off, more than one,” Mr. Wertz said. “This was in my former life.”

“You were a lawyer,” Greer said.

“Top-notch,” said Mr. Wertz. “Till the booze got me. Now I’m off it, can’t stomach a drop, literal truth. Haven’t got more than an inch or two of stomach left, if you’re interested in stats.” His eyes darted from Greer to Wyatt and back. The good one looked angry; with the other it was impossible to tell.

“Do you remember defending Sonny Racine?” Greer said.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“What’s your name?”

“Greer. And this is Wyatt, Sonny Racine’s son.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Just who we are,” Greer said.

“There was no son. I don’t remember a son.”

“I–I wasn’t born till later,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grabbed Wyatt’s wrist, his skin icy cold and papery. “Come here,” he said, “here where I can see you.” Wyatt moved around the front of the chair, closer to Greer, wrenched his hand free. “Only one good eye,” Mr. Wertz said. “Why no one around here can get that straight is beyond me.” He gazed at Wyatt. “You’re just a kid.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Christ.” Mr. Wertz went silent. The man in the other bed started snoring. “Knock it off, you son of a bitch,” Mr. Wertz yelled, startling Wyatt. The man kept snoring. Mr. Wertz gestured out the window. “And where are all the birds?”

“They’ll be back,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grew calmer. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Wyatt.

Mr. Wertz gazed out the window. “By then, the period in question, I was on the sauce pretty good,” he said. “Somewhat reduced, if you know what I mean. Fired from North and Mulgrew, if you don’t. Working as a PD.”

“What’s that?” Wyatt said.

“Public defender,” said Mr. Wertz. He looked at Greer. “Doesn’t he know the lingo?” Greer didn’t answer. “I’ll tell you both something, since you’re two nice kids. Fresh faced. When they say the jails are full of innocent people, they’re blowing smoke. Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the guys inside deserve it, hell, deserve much worse. Then there’s that teeny-weeny exception, irrelevant, if you’re interested in stats. Sonny Racine was in that category.”