Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

Yeah, I guess it is. Wyatt came very close to saying that. But he didn’t. Why not? Was he too nice a guy? Or-thinking about her bedroom and more of that-not nice enough? He didn’t say it was over; also didn’t say it wasn’t.

“How bad was the talk?” Greer said. “With your-I don’t even know what to call him? DNA supplier? I’m sorry if it was real bad.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s not talk. Why don’t you come over-I’m off till two.”

The bell rang. “I’ve got math,” Wyatt said. “Right now.”

“It’s your best subject. One little cut won’t hurt.”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “It would.”

“Okay,” she said. “No problem.”

“Bye.”

Wyatt went to math class. The teacher-a real old guy with little scabs on his bald head-surprised them with a pop quiz, first of the term, just one single question. Two trains left two different stations at two different times, traveling at two different rates. Mark the point where they meet.

“Crash, you mean?” said a kid at the back.

Not that hard a problem: Wyatt had solved many similar ones, usually didn’t mind the work too much, sometimes came close to enjoyment. But this time his brain refused to grapple with it.

“Pens and pencils down,” said the teacher.

Wyatt handed in a blank sheet.

After school, Wyatt walked to the student parking lot with a few other kids, one of whom happened to be Anna from English class.

“Hey, Wyatt,” she said, dropping back beside him.

“Hey.”

“You’re new in town, right?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He caught Anna’s scent on the breeze, fresh and a bit like apples. “Well,” he said, turning to look at her, and as he turned he saw Greer across the lot, leaning against the Mustang. “It’s, uh…” Anna followed his gaze, took in the sight of Greer in that short leather jacket, tight jeans-a smooth crescent of her bare belly showing-and also wearing big sunglasses. Anna’s eyes opened a little wider. “Good, um,” Wyatt continued. “Good so far.”

“Uh-huh,” said Anna, taking one more look at Greer and drifting off.

Wyatt approached the car. Greer stuck her sunglasses up on her head. Her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying.

“How was math?” she said.

“Could have been better,” Wyatt said. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought maybe we could go for a ride,” Greer said. “Unless you’ve got other plans.”

“Don’t you have work at two?” The dismissal bell at Bridger High rang at 2:27.

“I switched shifts.”

“At the bowling alley?”

Greer shook her head. “My other job.”

“I didn’t know you had another job.” He opened the door, started to get in.

“I’m not coming?” Greer said.

He glanced around. “How did you get here?”

“I got a ride.”

They gazed at each other over the top of the car. The wind blew a wisp of her hair, curled it around her ear. “Okay,” Wyatt said. “Come on.”

Greer climbed into the car. Wyatt backed out of his space, turned, drove out of the lot.

“Anyplace special?” he said.

“Up to you.”

Wyatt drove aimlessly, ended up on a road by the river, with abandoned warehouses on one side and rusty train tracks on the other.

“You’re angry,” Greer said. “I can feel it, like it’s coming right off your skin.”

“What right have I got to be angry? I don’t even know you.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Wyatt said.

“You don’t even know me? After the weekend?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“What do you mean? What other kind of knowing is there?”

Wyatt pulled over, parked in a weedy patch by the train tracks. Broken glass lay all over the place. He turned to her. She was watching carefully, her eyes, eyes that he’d looked into so deeply yesterday, now almost unfamiliar. “There’s more to knowing someone than-” Wyatt stopped himself, started over. “I didn’t know you had another job, for example.”

“And that’s important?”

Wyatt shrugged.

“My other job is reading to blind people in this old folks’ home for three hours, twice a week. It pays fifteen dollars an hour on account of some long-ago grant. There. Enough information?”

Now she was angry, too, and yes, he could feel it coming off her skin. That put Wyatt off balance, and he blurted the next thing that came to mind. “What about the heroin?”

Her head snapped back as though he’d hit her. “Fuck you,” she said. “You know that? Fuck you. What are you, some kind of police informer?”

“Of course not, I-”

“That’s a complete bullshit lie.” Her voice rose fast, practically a shriek by the time she got to lie. She pounded her fists in her lap.

“All right, all right, take it easy. I wasn’t accusing you of anything, just asking the-”

“Who have you been talking to?”

“No one, really-”

“Kids at school? That blond bitch in the parking lot?”

“I hardly know her, and-”

“Just like you hardly know me, so you must be fucking her, too.”

“For God’s sake, you’re talking crazy. Calm down.” He reached toward her, meaning to touch her arm.

“Don’t touch me.” Greer turned, very quick, ripped open the door, and started running away, up a strip of cracked pavement that led to the warehouses.

“Christ,” Wyatt said. He watched her run. She was fast. In a few moments she’d disappeared beyond the warehouses. Wyatt could see a street on the other side, light traffic going by. He drove around the block, went slowly down that street. No sign of Greer. On the next block, a bus was just pulling away from a stop. He followed it for a while. Greer didn’t get off. Back in town, the bus ran a light that was just turning red, and Wyatt, seeing a cop on the corner, stopped and waited. By the time the light changed, he’d lost sight of the bus. He called Greer’s cell, got put straight to voice mail. Then he went home-that is, to Aunt Hildy’s-and dug out his homework. He finished all his assignments, checked his work twice, making sure there wasn’t a single mistake.

Wyatt had just read Act One of Hamlet for the third time-a real ghost? or a voice in Hamlet’s head, as Anna was saying? — when his mom called.

“Wyatt? How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Uh, good. That’s nice. I’m calling with some news-Rusty got that job. Remember I was telling you? Driving a truck for-”

“I remember.”

“Not the greatest job, but in this economy it’s nothing to shake a stick at. Means he’ll be away a lot-did I mention that? Only every second weekend here at home, at least to start. Company puts him up in motels on the on-weekends, and he’ll be sleeping in the cab most other times, till we get some savings going again. Next Monday’s his first day, meaning he’ll be gone for two weeks after that.” She paused, maybe waiting for him to say something.

“Sounds good,” Wyatt said, the only comment that came to mind.

“Yeah, well, it’ll be tough on him, of course, and on…but I was thinking this might be a good time for you to, uh, come on home.”

That made sense. Wyatt knew it right away.

“Up to you, Wyatt. But since there’s no baseball in either place, why not?”

“Yeah, Mom, I think you’re right.”

“Oh, wonderful. I was really hoping you’d say that. And Cammy will be so happy-she misses you something terrible.”

“Don’t tell her right away.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Just want to think about it for a day or so. I wouldn’t be coming back till Monday anyway.” Eliminating the slightest chance of seeing Rusty, even just coming and going at the front door.