Bullet Point

5

Mrs. Mannion, wearing a quilted pink robe, her round face glistening with some sort of clear cream, made hot chocolate. They sat around the Mannions’ kitchen table-Wyatt, Dub, Mrs. Mannion. It was warm in the Mannions’ house, much warmer than home, and Wyatt felt no drafts; his place was full of drafts.

“Hot chocolate okay?” said Mrs. Mannion.

Dub grunted.

Wyatt said, “Yeah, thanks.”

“Not too hot?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “Just right.”

“So,” said Mrs. Mannion, “first thing would be a call to your mom, right?”

Wyatt shook his head.

“She’ll be worried,” said Mrs. Mannion. “You know that.”

Wyatt knew, but he didn’t admit it out loud.

“Can’t he stay here for the night?” Dub said.

“Of course. Longer if he wants. But he still needs to call his mom.”

“She’ll be asleep,” Wyatt said.

“No she won’t,” said Mrs. Mannion. “Proves you’ve got a lot to learn about mothers.” Wyatt gazed into his hot chocolate, thinking: Rusty will answer for sure. “Tell you what,” Mrs. Mannion said. “I’ll call.”

“Aw, Mom,” said Dub.

“Don’t ‘Aw, Mom’ me.” Mrs. Mannion reached for the phone and dialed. Rusty had the kind of voice that carried through the phone speaker, and Wyatt clearly heard: “Yeah?” Mrs. Mannion stuck her jaw out a little. “Linda, please. It’s Judy Mannion.” A second or two went by and then Mrs. Mannion said, “Linda? Wyatt’s over here. He’s fine.” She listened for a few moments and said, “Good idea.” Then she hung up and turned to Wyatt. “Your mom’s coming over.”

“Why?”

“Why? What kind of a question is that?”

“I’m going to bed,” Dub said.

Mrs. Mannion washed the mugs and stood them upside down in the drying rack. “I’ll be pushing off, too,” she said. “Invite your mom inside when she gets here.”

But when Wyatt saw the headlights coming, he went out to the driveway to meet her. His mom drove an old Cherokee-old and wrecked, rusted out and burning oil, but not yet quite paid off. Wyatt got in the passenger side and sat down. Linda’s face was puffy from crying, and she was no crier.

“I’m staying at Dub’s,” Wyatt said.

His mom nodded. “Okay, I understand. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Yeah, I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not,” said his mom. “Look at me.”

He looked at her. He was all cleaned up now, blood washed off, hair combed, nose a bit swollen but straight.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. A tear formed in one eye, rolled down her cheek.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, I did.”

“What, Mom? I don’t get it.”

“I only wanted-” Her face started to crumple up. She got control of herself and continued. “I hate what just happened. It made me sick. And there’s no excuse, none at all. But for someone like Rusty-his whole life has been about hard work, and now getting canned like he did, sitting around all day, useless, stewing in his…” Linda went silent for a few moments. “He’s his worst self right now.”

This is how he always is. That was Wyatt’s response, but he held back, caring too much about his mother to say it.

Linda gazed at the Mannions’ house. Dub’s big flat screen glowed in his second-floor window. “I wanted this-want this to work so bad.”

“Wanted what to work?”

“A family. This family.”

Wyatt shook his head.

“Nobody’s perfect, Wyatt.”

“And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” A nasty thing to say, and he regretted it at once.

Too late, of course. His mom actually winced, as though he’d thrown a punch. “This jealousy of his-it’s just so stupid,” she said.

“He’s jealous of me?”

Wyatt’s mom gave him a long look that made him even more uncomfortable than he already was but that he couldn’t interpret. “That’s not what I meant,” she said. “I meant-” She paused, as though making some effort, then licked her lips. “I meant Sonny. Rusty’s always been a bit jealous of him.”

“He knew him?”

“Not really. Rusty was a bit older, went into the service as soon as he could, got posted out to the Coast. He was jealous sort of after the fact, jealous that Sonny and I were-had once been…an item.”

“An item?”

“A couple. We…we were so young.”

Wyatt didn’t want to hear about that. Wasn’t he the young one right now? Her job was to be the older one. “Where is he?”

“At home, asleep. I don’t think he even-”

“Not Rusty. I’m talking about my real father.”

“He’s in prison. A life sentence, you know that.” The TV light went off in Dub’s bedroom.

“Everyone keeps saying I know things,” Wyatt said, “but I don’t. What prison?”

“I’m honestly not sure. They sent him to Sweetwater originally, but he might have gotten transferred since then.”

“Sweetwater? That’s the name of a prison?”

“Sweetwater State Penitentiary. From the Sweetwater River, downstate.”

“Did you ever visit?”

His mom nodded. “Once, a few weeks before you were born.”

“Only once?”

“It…it was horrible. And he didn’t want me to come back.”

“Why not?”

His mom shrugged. “Life sentence. It was pointless.” She sighed. “Plus, what he did-I could never think of him the same way again. That made it almost easy, letting go. Maybe a harsh thing to say, but true.”

“What was the crime?”

“You know all-” She stopped herself. “It was a robbery gone bad. Sonny swore he didn’t fire the shots, but even if that was true, it’s the same as if he did, under the law.”

“Who fired the shots?”

“They ended up pinning it on Sonny, all on the testimony of some lowlife.”

“What was his name?”

“I don’t remember,” his mom said. “So long ago, and besides, none of this-”

“Come on, Mom.” Wyatt raised his voice. He was tired of this fogginess, a fogginess he hadn’t even realized was there till this last few minutes, but now he wanted clarity, a simple understandable story from A to Z, all the blanks filled in.

“What do you mean, ‘Come on’?” his mom said.

“I want the story.”

“But-”

“Just give it to me in bullet points.”

“Bullet points?”

“The important parts.”

His mom nodded. “The most important part was how stupid it all was. Sonny had a good job, working construction for this company in Millerville, but he got involved with the wrong people and-”

“What wrong people?”

“Art Pingree was one of them-the nephew of Sonny’s boss.”

“Was he the lowlife?”

She shook her head. “The real bad one was a friend of Art’s they called Doc. It was all his idea-I’m certain of that. Sonny never said a word to me about any of it. The whole thing hit me like a bomb. For ages I kept thinking there was a mistake, like Sonny had a twin he didn’t know about, and they’d gotten the wrong guy.”

“What was the idea?” Wyatt said. “What happened?”

“The idea-if you can call it that-was to rob these drug dealers in Millerville.”

“Drug dealers? I thought it was a bank.”

“Sorry. I may have said that way back when. In order to…make it better, somehow.”

“That makes it better?”

Wyatt’s mom didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead. Chimes hanging by the Mannions’ garage door gleamed in the night.

“They were planning to steal the drugs?” Wyatt said.

“The money,” his mom replied. “They thought drug dealers would have lots of money and would never go to the police-a kind of perfect crime. But it all went bad.”

“How?”

“They went breaking into a house on Cain Street in Millerville, the very worst part. Shots got fired. A…woman died.”

“A woman?”

“The girlfriend of one of the drug dealers. And her baby got shot in the eye. She was in a coma for a long time, but I think she lived.”

“God almighty.”

“What nobody knew was that the state police were on to the drug dealers and patrolled the street every night. They burst in and arrested everyone. I never saw Sonny again, not as a free man.”

“What if he didn’t fire the shots?”

“Same as if he had.”

“But it’s not.”

“In the eyes of the law.”

“But in real life.”

“Real life?”

“Yeah-it’s not really the same. You know, like morally.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” his mom said.

She had the engine running in the old Cherokee and the heat blowing full blast; still, Wyatt felt cold.

“Does he ever write or anything?”

“No. Life goes on, Wyatt. We-” She cut herself off, resumed more softly. “We’ve got our own problems.” They sat in silence for a while. Then she turned and touched his shoulder. “We can make this work. We’ve got to.” Her gaze moved to his nose, and she quickly looked away.

“I’m staying with Dub.”

“For tonight, fine. But I know Rusty will feel bad about this in the morning. He’ll want to square things up.”

“You’re dreaming.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“I’ll say what I want. He’s a pig and now he’s living off you.”

“That’s what’s killing him-don’t you understand? And he’s not a pig-he’s basically a good person.”

“Bullshit.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

Wyatt opened the door, got out.

“Wait,” said his mom, fumbling with her purse. “I’ve brought you some money.”

He slammed the door, went back into Dub’s house. The basically good person, even better than that, was his mom, of course, and he wished he hadn’t slammed the door. As he entered the Mannions’ house and felt the warmth inside, he realized she had had no real expectation that he’d be coming home anytime soon, maybe didn’t even want it, possibly fearing what might happen. Why else would she have brought him money?

Wyatt climbed the stairs and entered Dub’s room, a pigsty like his, except much bigger, fancier, airier, with a spare bed for overnight guests. No lights were on but Dub was awake.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“My mom called her sister, Aunt Hildy. You know, down in Silver City. And she’s cool with you living there, at her place.”

“Huh?” Wyatt said.

“No baseball, I know, but there’s no baseball here, either. And you could kind of get away, if you want. From Rusty, I’m talking about. Plus next year you’ll be a normal resident, so you can play. You’ll only be a junior.”

Wyatt lay down, closed his eyes. They wouldn’t stay closed.

“How much does she want?”

“How much does who want?”

“How much rent. Your aunt.”

“Rent? Zip, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll think about it,” Wyatt said. His eyes closed. His nose hurt for a while and then he was asleep.