Bullet Point

4

“Supper’s on,” his mom called from the kitchen.

Wyatt heard her but stayed where he was, standing in his room. He’d laid the photo on his desk and was now examining it under the light of the lamp. He noticed little things he’d missed before, like how big his father’s hands were-bigger than Wyatt’s, just about the same size as the coach’s-and a light-colored metal chain, maybe gold, that his father wore around his neck. He bent closer, gazing into the photo image of his father’s eyes. They began to look not like eyes at all, but simply ovals of light and shade, mostly shade.

“Wyatt? I’ve been calling and calling.”

He turned. His mom was in the room, a red-tipped wooden spoon in her hand; he hadn’t heard her enter.

“Sorry, I-”

Her glance went right to the photo. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“I hope it’s not something you shouldn’t be-” By now she’d moved in closer; his mom was kind of unstoppable when she got curious about something. “Who are-Oh, my God.” She grabbed the photo, stared at it, then whipped around toward Wyatt. “Where did you get this?”

“I, uh, the coach gave it to me.”

“The coach? Why would he do a thing like that?”

“On account of the economy, Mom. He was packing up. All the extracurriculars are gone.”

His mother’s eyes opened wide, and her face seemed to soften. “Baseball, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah.” Was there any point in going into the whole Bridger idea? None that Wyatt could see: The Bridger idea was gone, too. “So the coach had this and he gave it to me.” He pointed to the photo, still in her hand. They were standing close together now, their eyes on the photo. “Did you know him back then, Mom, in high school?”

“Hey,” Rusty called from the kitchen, “what’s the holdup with dinner?”

Wyatt’s mom didn’t seem to hear. “Not really,” she said, her face still soft, and now her voice as well. “He was two years ahead of me. I knew who he was, of course. All the girls-” She stopped herself.

“All the girls what?” said Wyatt.

Cammy came in. “Dad says what’s the holdup with dinner.”

“Can’t he serve himself?” Wyatt said.

“Wyatt, hush,” said his mom. “Tell him we’ll be right there.”

“Roger,” said Cammy, and left the room.

“All the girls what?” Wyatt repeated.

Linda’s lips turned up the slightest bit, as though she were about to smile, but she did not. “He was popular with the girls, let’s put it like that.”

“So when did you get married?” Wyatt said. “After you graduated from high school?”

His mom turned to him. “We actually never did get married,” she said. “We were going to, what with you coming along, but then-”

“You never got married? I’m finding this out now?”

“There wasn’t time-he did that terrible thing and got arrested and then-”

“Hey!” Rusty was in the room. “What’s going on?” His face had pink patches here and there, a sign that he’d had a few drinks.

“Sorry,” Linda said. “We’re coming.”

“What’s so interesting?” Rusty pointed with his chin at the photo.

Linda lowered the photo to her side, the back of it facing out.

“Let me see,” Rusty said.

“It’s nothing, not important.”

“I like not-important things,” Rusty said, and then he moved with surprising quickness-Rusty was one of those people capable of surprising you from time to time, never in a good way-striding across the room and snatching the photo out of Linda’s hand.

“Don’t,” Linda said.

Rusty turned his back on Wyatt and Linda, hunching over the photo. A moment or two passed and then his back stiffened. “What the fuck?” He whirled around, said to Linda, “Where have you been hiding this?”

“I haven’t-” Linda began.

“It’s mine,” Wyatt said.

“Yours? Where’d you get it?”

“Coach Bouchard. It’s mine.” Wyatt reached out. “Give.”

Rusty held the photo out of Wyatt’s reach. “Have to think about that,” he said. “Might not be good parenting, letting it into your possession.”

“Huh?” Wyatt said.

“Not exactly what you’d call a role model, this pretty boy,” said Rusty, tapping the photo. “Gotta look out for your moral development.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Wyatt said.

“Rusty, please,” Linda said.

“‘Rusty, please’?” said Rusty. “Now you’re gonna defend him? Defend the convicted murderer?”

“Of course not,” said Wyatt’s mom. “There’s no need for any of this. Let’s all calm down.”

“That picture’s mine,” Wyatt said. “The coach gave it to me.”

“‘That pikchew’s mine,’” Rusty mimicked. “Listen to him-Cammy’s more mature, for fuck sake.”

Wyatt lunged forward, tried to grab the photo. Rusty whipped it out of reach.

“Please,” said Wyatt’s mom. “Let’s all-”

“Calm down?” Rusty said. He smiled, the kind of smile where the eyes don’t join in. “Okay,” he said, “since he wants it so bad, he can have it.” Rusty tore the photo to shreds, real quick, zip zip zip, and flung them at Wyatt.

Wyatt and Rusty had had some nasty arguments, but things had never gotten physical, at least on Wyatt’s part: Rusty had whacked him upside the head the odd time back when Wyatt was younger. Wyatt didn’t think about any of that, didn’t think about how Rusty was still a lot bigger than him, didn’t think at all. He just charged at his stepfather, knocking him into the wall. A cheap wall-the whole house was cheap-and Rusty made a big hole, breaking through the drywall and splintering one or two of the slats underneath.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” Rusty said, looking astonished, dust raining down on his wiry red hair.

“Oh, God, stop, stop,” said Linda, coming up behind Wyatt and gripping his upper arms. At that moment, when Wyatt couldn’t quite defend himself properly-not his mom’s intention at all, he was aware of that in real time-Rusty wound up and threw a roundhouse punch, his meaty, freckled fist landing square on Wyatt’s nose. Then came a cracking sound, like a wishbone on Thanksgiving, followed by pouring blood and a sharp pain radiating from Wyatt’s nose across both sides of his face; sound coming first, pain last.

Wyatt sagged backward, knocking his mom, not a big woman, to the floor, although he didn’t fall himself. He glanced around to see if she was all right, and Rusty got him again, this time on the jaw, but not dead on. Not dead on, but Wyatt went down anyway, hot and raging inside, and the next thing he knew his vision had a reddish tinge and he welcomed it, might even have growled like an animal. He rolled over and dove at Rusty’s legs.

Rusty toppled backward, cracked his head against the edge of the doorframe, and spun into Cammy, who’d suddenly reappeared in the doorway, holding the handle of the pot of spaghetti sauce in both hands. Cammy flew across the hall. Rusty fell and lay still, spaghetti sauce splattering everything: walls, floor, each member of the family. Then Cammy and Wyatt’s mom were both in tears, wailing, really, and Rusty was rising to his knees. “Gonna fuckin’ kill him,” he said. Wyatt thought of the small automatic Rusty kept under the bed in the master bedroom and took off. In seconds he was outside and in the Mustang, peeling away from home, rubber shrieking in the night.

Wyatt drove, fast at first, and with no plan, no idea where he was going, and then slower, out of town and down a narrow lane to a beach by the riverside, where kids went swimming in summer. No swimming tonight: in his headlights he saw that the river was frozen over, except for a narrow black channel in the center. For a moment, a pathetic moment-as he realized while it was happening but let happen anyway-he wondered how it would be to slip down into that icy dark water. Wyatt shook his head, clearing it of shit like that, at the same time setting off a sharp pain in the middle of his face.

He switched on the interior light, checked his face in the rearview mirror. Two or three smears of blood on his cheeks, but his nose had stopped bleeding. The problem with his nose was its new shape and location. Wyatt’s nose, to which he’d never paid much attention, had always been straight, not too big, not too small. Now it was big and swollen, and worse, crooked, bent one way in the middle, then angling off in the other direction at the tip.

Wyatt leaned forward so he could see better. There were tears in his eyes. That made him angry at himself. Suck it up, as Coach Bouchard always said. Wyatt spoke the words aloud: “Suck it up.” Then he got a good grip on his nose, thumb on one side, fingers on the other, took a deep breath, and yanked it back into place. Another cracking sound, more blood, more pain, and he might have let out some cry-but when he checked the mirror, his nose was straight again. The thought hit him that maybe Coach Bouchard wasn’t really an authority on the subject of sucking it up.

Wyatt sat in his car, parked in this place-familiar, except he’d never been here in winter; kind of like a stranger in his own hometown. At first he ran the engine to stay warm, but the needle was dipping down toward empty-a great car and he loved it, but not good on gas-and he switched it off. Then it was quiet, the sky full of stars, the only movement that black rippling out in the middle of the river. It got colder and colder in the car. Wyatt was wearing only jeans, sneakers, a short-sleeved T-shirt. He could see his breath. It fogged the windshield. He didn’t like that, wanted to see out, so he kept a little porthole-sized circle of glass clear. After a while he started shivering and couldn’t stop. He felt alone. That was new.

“What’s the goddamn point?” he said.

Wyatt started the car, backed away from the river, U-turned, and headed into town. By the time he got to his house, he was nice and warm again. A light shone in the kitchen, and in Linda and Rusty’s bedroom, but otherwise the house was dark. Wyatt slowed down, almost turned into the driveway, but instead kept going, not from fear of Rusty’s little automatic, or fear of anything, really: he just didn’t want to go there. He drove down Main Street, all closed up for the night, gradually began to feel more like himself. His cell phone rang. He saw his mom’s number on the screen and didn’t answer.

Wyatt ended up parked outside the Mannions’ farmhouse. An upstairs window opened and Mrs. Mannion looked out. A minute or so later, Dub came outside, wearing a ski jacket and pajama bottoms. He opened the passenger-side door and slid in.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“I’m real sorry about that Bridger thing. I didn’t have a clue about them only having one spot.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

“My old man’s so fucking organized.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t even want to go anymore.”

“That just proves you’re dumb.”

“You go. You take the position. You’re better anyway. I can’t hit the curveball for shit, and that means I’ll wash out sooner than later.”

“Shut up.”

Dub glanced over. “Hey,” he said. “What’s with your face?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothing.”

Wyatt took a deep breath and shivered all of a sudden, even though he was no longer cold.

“C’mon inside,” Dub said. “It’s cold.”

“Nah.”

“I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Then go.”

“Nope,” said Dub, sitting back, like he was actually getting comfortable.

Dub was very stubborn, always had been. They ended up going into the Mannions’ house together.