Bullet Point

27

Wyatt sat in the parking lot at Sweetwater State Penitentiary. The parking lot lay in the shadow of the front wall, the wall facing the river. A dark rectangle of a shadow with a dappled margin at the end: that pretty topping was the razor wire. In the distance, a school bus was driving across the bridge; the river water looked black and viscous, almost like something solid and reptilian. Soon Wyatt would be crossing that bridge himself, then following the river road to the state highway, heading home. All that remained was saying good-bye to Greer in a way that closed things off as near to nicely as possible. Was it shameful to admit there were things you weren’t ready for? Yeah, probably.

The main public door of the prison opened and visitors walked out-almost all of them women and children, none of them talking. Greer was at the end. Some visitors moved toward their cars, none of the cars the kind anyone would want to own. The others, including Greer, headed for a waiting bus. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and approached her.

“Greer?”

She turned. “What do you want?” He noticed that the eyebrow ring was back in place.

“Is your apartment rent free?” he said. Not close to nice, not the kind of thing he’d had in mind to say at all, instead a nasty and mean dig he wanted to take back right away. Jealousy was new to him; he was jealous of Van, no doubt about it. He knew deep down he still wanted Greer, and wanted her all to himself.

“None of your fucking business,” she said.

What if Van was some sort of bad person, screwing up her life? Not his problem. “I’m going home,” he said.

“What are you waiting for? Have a good trip.”

The last two or three visitors climbed on the bus, maybe twenty or thirty feet away.

She wasn’t his problem and he was going home, so, yes, what was he waiting for? “Is your dad okay?” he said.

“What do you care?”

The bus sat there, engine running, door open.

“I care.”

“Bullshit. You just called me a whore.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

The bus door closed with a long sniffing sound.

If Greer noticed, she showed no sign. “What else could it mean?”

Their eyes met. Wyatt was reminded of other times that this meeting of eyes had happened, especially in bed with her, when he’d thought he’d seen deep inside. How weird that you could be so close to a person at one time and that at another she was almost a complete stranger. “I’m jealous, that’s all,” Wyatt said.

“Jealous? Jealous of who?”

“Who do you think? Van, of course.”

“You’re jealous of Van? That’s all over.”

“It is?”

The bus made a wide turn and drove out of the lot.

“Since I met you,” Greer said. “It was shaky to begin with. Then you came along.”

But Van had called her baby on the phone. “It’s over between you and him?”

“All but the shouting,” Greer said.

“What does that mean?”

“And he’s my landlord, true,” she went on, “but I paid rent every single month, just about.”

Silence. They gazed at each other. The look in Greer’s eyes changed, and something changed inside Wyatt, too, and all at once they were laughing. Her arms came up, and then they were embracing-laughing and holding on to each other in the shadow of the prison wall.

She spoke in his ear. “No matter what happens, we fit.”

Yeah, they did. Wyatt was about to say that, to agree with her, when he felt like someone was watching him and glanced up. A guard was looking down from one of the towers. “Let’s go,” he said.

They got into the Mustang. He could smell her. She smelled good.

“Where to?” she said.

Play it by ear. “Ever been to East Canton?” he said.

“Never wanted to.”

“But now?”

“Now?” she said. “I still don’t want to. But I’m willing to discuss it.”

“Okay,” Wyatt said. “How about coming back to East Canton with me?”

“I’m willing to discuss it, but not here.”

“Then where? Your, um, apartment?”

She laughed. “Let’s not push our luck.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you only get so much luck in life,” Greer said. She pointed ahead. “Drive. Turn right after the bridge.”

Wyatt drove out of the shadow of the prison wall, crossed the bridge, turned right; left led to the highway and home. A dog sniffed at something by the water’s edge; on the other side of the street stood small clapboard houses, some with FOR SALE signs out front. A little boy on a tricycle watched the Mustang go by.

“Some get more than others,” Greer said, “when the luck’s handed out. Ever dreamed about winning the lottery?”

“Sure.”

“They say lottery winners don’t end up happier than anyone else.”

“I don’t believe that,” Wyatt said.

“No?” said Greer. “What makes you happy?”

Wyatt thought about that.

“Nothing comes to mind?” Greer said. “We’re in trouble.”

“Wait-I didn’t-”

“Hang a left.”

Wyatt turned left, onto a street that climbed away from the river.

“Stop here.”

Wyatt parked in front of a brick house, the only brick house on the street; all the rest were clapboard.

“Fucking hell,” Greer said.

“What?”

“They cut down the tree.”

Wyatt noticed a low stump on the front lawn. Greer got out of the car.

“Why the hell would they go and do that?” she said.

Wyatt got out, too, stood beside her, gazing at the stump. A sign standing nearby read: BANK FORECLOSURE SALE-NO REASONABLE OFFER REFUSED. Greer walked over to the stump and knelt beside it, running her hand over the wood, smooth from the saw’s cut.

“Like the tree didn’t pay its bills or something?” she said. “So they had to punish it?”

Wyatt watched the back of her head, didn’t speak.

“A beautiful willow,” Greer said. “I played in it all the time.”

“You lived here?” Wyatt said.

“And nowhere else till last year,” Greer said, “when everything went to shit.” She rose. “Want to see inside?”

“Can we?” Wyatt said. “They didn’t change the locks?”

“Sure they did-this is boom time for locksmiths.” Greer walked around to the back of the house; Wyatt followed. “But I know this place like those assholes never can,” she said. She went past the back door to a double-hung window. “All you need to do is-” She stuck her finger into the space where the top and bottom frames met and pushed. “Even when it looks latched from inside, it never is.” The top half dropped down, and Greer climbed through in one easy motion. “What are you waiting for?” she said from inside. Wyatt climbed through, not as smoothly.

He was in a small bare room, empty except for a poster on the wall and a bare mattress on the floor.

“Welcome to Greer’s childhood bedroom,” Greer said.

“Who’s that?” Wyatt pointed to the poster.

“Jean Harlow.”

“Who’s she?”

Greer closed the window. “An old-time movie star.” She turned, put her arms around him. “Want to see the rest of the house?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t,” she said.

“What do you want to do?”

She kissed him, ran her hand down his back, two powerful stimuli coming at him from different directions. “Whatever you dream about,” she said. “That’s what I want to do.”

Soon they sank down on the mattress. A while after that, the light began to fade. Up on the wall, Jean Harlow seemed to hold on to it a little longer than the rest of the room.

They lay in darkness, the empty house quiet.

“So,” Wyatt said, “about coming to East Canton.”

“You really want to talk about that?”

“Yeah.”

She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He felt the tiny warm breeze on his chest. “And where would I live? Is there room for me with Mom, Stepdad, and Little Sis?”

Wyatt hadn’t gotten that far, in fact hadn’t really thought this out. “Maybe we could get a-” His phone rang. He fumbled for it on the floor. The tiny screen glowed. UNKNOWN CALLER.

“Don’t answer it,” said Greer.

But he did. “Hello?”

“I never answer unknown caller,” Greer said.

Wyatt sat up, turning away from her.

“Wyatt?” Sonny said.

“Yeah.”

“Thought I heard someone else.”

Wyatt stayed silent.

“Is this a bad time?” Sonny said.

“No. It’s okay.”

There was a pause. “You’re a fine young man,” Sonny said. “I’m proud of the connection, no matter how distant it is in the actual life sense, if you see what I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I know you’re going back home, might be there already.”

“No.”

“Where are you? None of my business, of course.”

“Still here-in Silver City.”

“At Greer’s apartment?”

“Her old house, actually.”

“Patching things up, I hope?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

“Don’t have to answer,” Sonny said. “Withdraw the question, in fact-again, none of my damn business. I want the best for you, is all.” He was silent for a moment. “Funny, to be thinking of the welfare of another person. In here we get used to thinking of only numero uno, and I’m no exception, believe me. Which, ah…” He paused, breathed out, one of those long, self-calming exhales. “Which brings me to something I want to say before you go. This is probably the last time we’ll talk, Wyatt, so-”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got a life to live,” Sonny said. “I don’t. I’m alive, sure, but there’s no life to live in here. That’s pretty much what lifer means. No one needs a millstone and I’m not going to be yours. That’s why I want to settle your mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s no good to be worrying and wondering about the past. You agree with that?”

Wyatt wasn’t sure he did, at that moment found himself leaning the other way.

“Even if you don’t,” Sonny said, “I want you to know the truth. Unless you don’t want to know-that’s different.”

“I want to know.”

“The funny thing is I believe you already do.”

Wyatt didn’t speak. He thought he could hear his own pulse beating inside him.

“You can say anything you want,” Sonny said. “This isn’t a recorded line.”

“It’s not?”

Sonny spoke softly. “I’m on a cell phone-just for emergencies.”

Were the inmates allowed cell phones? No way. But another thought immediately pushed that one aside. “This is an emergency?”

“Maybe not,” Sonny said. “Or maybe just psychologically. I spent my first three or four years in here reading psychology and nothing but. Did I mention that yet?”

“No.”

“Since then I’ve branched out. You can educate yourself in here, no question about that.”

“Did you read Hamlet?” Wyatt said.

“Tried,” Sonny said. “I got nowhere with that one. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“Have you read it?”

“I’m in the middle,” Wyatt said. “What did you mean-you believe I already know?”

“You want me to say it right out?” Sonny said.

“Yes.”

“Then here goes. Your theory about me arriving late, trying to stop the whole stupid thing? That’s the truth, one hundred percent.”

Wyatt felt Greer’s hand on his back. “That means you’re innocent?” he said. Innocent: and spending life in prison.

“No human being is innocent,” Sonny said. “But what went down at thirty-two Cain Street? I’m innocent of that.”

“Then we’ve got to do something.”

Sonny laughed; he sounded genuinely amused. “First, it’s not your problem. Second-do what?”

“Get a lawyer, a good lawyer this time.”

“And what would he do?”

“Start over. Reopen the case.”

“Based on my say-so? Every loser in here would be reopening his case if it worked that way. Standing room only in every courthouse in the land.”

All the facts, everything Wyatt had learned about the case, shifted slightly in his mind, and suddenly he had an answer to Sonny’s last question. “What if a new witness came forward?”

“And who would that be?”

“Whoever you’re covering for,” Wyatt said. “The fourth person.”

Silence, and in that silence, Wyatt thought he could feel Sonny’s presence, as though he were in the room. “You’re very smart,” he said, “but we’re not going there. Told you before-I’m content. More content than ever, now that we’ve had this talk. Good-bye, Wyatt. Just know one thing-you’ve done me a great service, simply by the way you are.”

“Wait, don’t hang up,” Wyatt said. He wanted the name of that fourth person.

Click. And no way to call back-that was one of the features of “unknown caller.”