Bullet Point

25

“Hey, Wyatt-it’s a nice day.”

“Shh-he’s sleeping.”

“But I want him to take me to the bus.”

“You’ve been going to the bus on your own.”

“But now Wyatt’s home. I want him to take me to the bus.”

Wyatt opened his eyes. For a moment he felt great; lighthearted, energized, rested. Then memory awoke. His mother was wrong about the past: it returned every morning.

“It’s okay,” he called. “I’ll take her.”

His door burst open. Cammy ran in and jumped on the bed, then kept jumping, higher and higher.

“No jumping on the bed,” Linda said, watching from the doorway. She was dressed for work but hadn’t finished with her makeup, one eye still undone. Something about that sight touched him. He was lucky to have a mom like her.

Cammy landed on her knees beside him. “Mommy says are you going to school today.”

Wyatt looked past Cammy to his mom. “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

“Tomorrow sounds good,” said Linda.

Linda left for work soon after. She was going in a little early these days-the boss had laid off one of the girls, as they were called, saving one salary and making the others nervous at the same time. A two-fer, she told Wyatt on her way out.

Wyatt and Cammy had cereal for breakfast.

“Do you ever just eat sugar right out of the bowl?” she said.

“No.”

“I do.”

He walked her to the bus stop.

“Where’s your jacket?” he asked her.

“Don’t need it. The sun’s out.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s warm.”

“I’m warm.”

The bus rolled up. The door opened, and Mr. Wagstaff looked out. “Hey, Wyatt-ain’t seen you in a while. Been sick or something?”

“No.”

“Lost some weight, buddy.”

Cammy climbed onto the bus. Before the door closed, Wyatt heard her starting to tell Mr. Wagstaff about the three helpings of tuna casserole.

Wyatt walked back home. A bank foreclosure sign hung in front of the house across the street, and someone had spray-painted JOHN 3:16 on the front door. The wind rose, and Wyatt thought it carried the distant sound of a baseball smacking into a glove, and was listening for it again when his phone rang. UNKNOWN CALLER.

“Hello?” Wyatt said.

“Hi, Wyatt. It’s Sonny.”

“Hi.”

“Just thought I’d give you a call. How’s everything?”

“Not bad.”

“Been up to anything interesting?”

“Not really.”

“Me neither,” Sonny said. He laughed. “Rude to laugh at my own joke, I know, but humor gets you through sometimes. There are some funny guys in here, believe it or not. One even did the Laugh Factory before his bail got revoked.” There was a silence. “Ever been to a comedy club?”

“No.”

“I took your mother to one in Fort Collins. We laughed so hard our stomach muscles hurt.”

“She never mentioned that.”

“No?”

There was a silence. Wyatt heard a man speaking Spanish in the background. His hand tightened on the cell phone. “Where was she the night of the-that night in Millerville.”

Pause. “That’s a strange question. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.” He waited for an answer.

“Just a strange question out of nowhere,” Sonny said. Another pause. Boys from East Canton, especially boys like Wyatt, learned the value of keeping their mouths shut at an early age. “Where are you right now?” Sonny said.

“Out walking,” Wyatt said, avoiding a precise geographical answer.

“A nice day for it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s raining here,” Sonny said. “In Silver City, I mean. Fair weather in Millerville and East Canton-at least according to the weather report.”

Wyatt felt himself turning red, kind of crazy all by himself, the other person hundreds of miles away.

“But what’s more boring than talking about the weather?” Sonny said. “The answer to your question is that Linda was at the apartment we had at the time-Bates Street in East Canton. They woke her up in the middle of the night with a search warrant. I always felt bad about that.” Another pause. “Any other questions?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? Take a rain check if you like-I’m not going anywhere.” Another joke? If so, Sonny wasn’t laughing this time. “I enjoyed your visit-hope it wasn’t too unpleasant for you.”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“You’re welcome to come back whenever you like-goes without saying.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Nice talking to you-enjoy your walk.”

“Okay.”

“Take care. Oh-almost forgot-had a quick word with Bert today. He’s got some concerns about his daughter.”

“What concerns?”

“Not the kind I’d like to discuss on the phone.”

“But is she all right?”

Wyatt heard voices in the background. “Sorry, Wyatt. My time’s up.”

Click.

He called Greer, once more got sent straight to voice mail. “Greer? It’s me. Are you all right? Where are you? Call.”

Wyatt went back inside the house, his mind racing. He was halfway finished making his bed before he realized what he was doing. Making his bed? He straightened, gazing at nothing. He never made his bed. His eyes focused on his baseball trophies glowing dully on a shelf. Maybe because of a trick of the light, the trophies looked old, like antique trophies from some long-ago era of baseball.

Wyatt finished making his bed, closed the door to his room, and went into the kitchen. He found pen and paper and wrote a note.

Dear Mom,

It was great to see you. And Cammy. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to worry about. I want to come back here and live at home all the way through high school, but there’s one or two things to take care of. First I have to-

He paused, scratched that out.

I’ll be back soon. Want to go to the water park, Cammy? I’ll take you when I get home. Love, Wyatt

He left the house, making sure the door was locked behind him, got in the car, and drove down out of Lowertown. The gas gauge needle was quivering halfway between one quarter and empty. He checked his wallet-found he had $37 left-stopped where he always did for gas, Low Low Gas. It was boarded up. He hit the Exxon station two blocks down and filled up. Mr. Mannion drove by in his Caddy. He didn’t look Wyatt’s way, but in those few moments, Wyatt took his eye off the pump. By the time he checked, it read $41.10. He let go of the handle, too late.

Wyatt went inside to pay. A quick plan sketched itself in his mind, something unimaginative about returning later with the $4.10 but the attendant looked unfriendly, even a bit aggressive, possibly one of those old guys who hated kids. Opening his wallet, Wyatt saw Sonny’s $200 stuck in one of the slots for credit cards, still waiting to be returned. He took a twenty from that slot and added it to his own money. The attendant licked his fingertip before making change.

Wyatt drove to Silver City, losing the sunshine at about the halfway point, heading into rain not long after. By the time he got to Greer’s apartment building, the wipers could hardly keep up. Wyatt pulled his jacket up over his head and ran to the door.

He pressed the buzzer for her apartment, waited for a response, dry under the overhang. Water poured off the strange stone creature over the door, seemed to be coming from its open mouth. A taxi rolled up the street, stopped behind the Mustang.

A man with a suitcase and an overnight bag got out, fumbled with an umbrella, and came hurrying up the path to the door. Wyatt stepped aside. The man groped in his pocket, produced a set of keys, stuck one in the lock, and paused. He turned to Wyatt. “Help you with something?” he said.

A man of about Wyatt’s height, maybe ten or twelve years older-Wyatt had trouble guessing the ages of older people who weren’t yet old-wearing small oval eyeglasses with expensive-looking frames.

“No,” Wyatt said.

“Visiting one of the tenants?” the man said.

Wyatt shrugged. It was none of this guy’s business. The guy shifted the garment bag on his shoulder impatiently. A soft leather garment bag, also expensive-looking, and on the side a sticker:

CHECK ROOM, HOTEL DYNASTY, HONG KONG.

“The reason I ask,” the man said, “is that I happen to own this building and I’ve spent a lot of time and money making it safe for my tenants.”

“Your name’s Van?” Maybe not the smartest move-maybe no move at all would have been smarter-but the question just came out on its own.

The man put down his suitcase. “That’s what some people call me. Who are you?”

Wyatt felt his chin tilting up. “A friend of Greer Torrance’s,” he said.

Van’s face flushed slightly. “What kind of friend?”

“That’s for her to say.”

“Is it?” Van said. He looked down his nose at Wyatt and said, “Fine.” Then he ran his finger down the row of buzzers and jabbed it at Greer’s. No answer. Van turned to him. “Your friend Greer, whatever kind of friend she happens to be, doesn’t seem to be in at the moment, so I can’t see you’ve got any reason to be hanging around my door.” He turned the key and let himself in, shoving the suitcase along with his foot, then banging the door closed with his elbow. Wyatt jabbed his own finger at Greer’s buzzer and kept it there. He thought he heard it sounding up above.

Wyatt backed away from the door, right under the water pouring from the mouth of the stone creature, soaking his head. He ran to the Mustang, water dripping down the back of his neck, and jumped inside. Looking up, he saw Van watching him from Greer’s front window. He overcame any stupid impulses, like giving him the finger, but he didn’t drive off until Van backed away from the window. Owned the goddamn building: a few gaps in his understanding of Greer began filling themselves in.

Wyatt headed for the bowling alley. Any chance she’d be there? Probably not, but where else could he look? He was almost there when his phone rang.

UNKNOWN CALLER. Wyatt answered on the first ring.

“Wyatt? Sonny here. Hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“No.”

“Good,” Sonny said. “I’d hate to be intrusive. The thing is I’m available at visiting time today.” Wyatt was trying to think how to respond when Sonny continued, “And I understand you’re back in town.”

The back of Wyatt’s neck, already wet, now felt cold as well. “How do you know that?”

“I just do.”

“But I’m asking you how.” Was he being followed somehow? Wyatt looked around, saw normal-looking traffic moving in normal-looking ways.

“It’s nothing nefarious,” Sonny said. “Why don’t I explain in person?”