Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

Girlfriend? The word-maybe because he wasn’t thinking of Greer like that yet, maybe because of who was uttering it, or uttering it first-disturbed Wyatt.

“Talking about Bert Torrance’s daughter. Poor old Bert, but that’s another story. As for Greer, she’s a charming young lady. And she seems crazy about you.”

This was disturbing, too; why, he couldn’t say. He remained silent.

“But maybe not my place to be making all these personal comments. Just a nice happenstance, that’s all, meeting her. I’ll let you go.”

“Okay.”

“If there’s anything you need, being close by now, and all, don’t hesitate.”

“Uh, sure. Bye.”

“Take care.”

Wyatt clicked off. If there was anything he needed? What was that about? How could Sonny Racine help even if Wyatt did need something? He was behind bars.

Wyatt glanced up and down the street. It was cold out, not a cloud in the sky, a sky bright enough to make his eyes water. He could see the tops of two smokestacks in the distance, but nothing was coming out of them. Things were different by day. That expression-as different as day from night-hit home. It wasn’t simply a matter of astronomy, the Earth spinning on its axis, but an internal difference, the way you thought and felt. The same person could arrive at different answers, depending on where he stood in relation to the shadow line moving across the face of the Earth. What if all the important things happened at night? Maybe they did.

Wyatt’s gaze went to the buzzer, the one with no label. He was a free agent. Nothing was stopping him from jumping in his car and driving up to East Canton. If he got started right away and the weather held, could he make it by Cammy’s bedtime? Wyatt pressed the buzzer.

No answer. He didn’t press it again. He took one look-perhaps one last look-at the snarling stone creature over the door, and turned to go. Then a voice-Greer’s voice-came from the speaker by the buzzer panel.

“Who’s there?”

“Me.”

“That’s funny-I was just dreaming of you.”

Bzzz.

Wyatt went inside and up the stairs to the top floor. Greer was waiting with the door open. She wore a white terrycloth robe with RITZ-CARLTON SHANGHAI stitched on the front in blue.

“Just got up?” she said.

“No.” He closed the door behind him. “I went to school.”

“You did? But you look great, like you had a full night’s sleep. And I’ve been sleeping all day and I look like shit-what’s up with that?”

“You look fine,” he said. But in fact she didn’t-there were dark circles under her eyes, her skin looked ashy, and a tiny scab had formed under her eyebrow ring.

“You’re a liar,” Greer said, “but we already established that.” She took his hand; hers felt hot. “The funny thing is I may look like shit but I feel absolutely fantastic. And hungry. I’m ravenous. How about something to eat?”

“Sure. Okay. You want to go to the coffee shop, or-”

“Nah. I’ll fix something right here.”

“You can cook?”

“How do you like your eggs?”

“Well, um.”

“Scrambled, poached, soft-boiled, hard-boiled, over easy?”

“Scrambled, I guess. About last night, I-”

“Coming right up. Wait in the living room-I don’t like being watched.”

“No?”

“Not when I’m cooking.”

Wyatt sat in the living room, separated from the kitchen by a wide arch; Greer moved back and forth across the opening, different things in hand-eggs, spatula, pan, salt and pepper, an onion. He turned to the musical instruments-electric guitar, acoustic guitar, mandolin-but didn’t pick any of them up. Wyatt had no musical ability whatsoever. “Can you play these?”

“Some,” Greer called from the kitchen. “What do you like-besides rap, I mean.”

Besides rap? Wyatt didn’t know much about any other kinds of music. “My mom likes Bruce Springsteen.”

“Cool.” Greer came into the living room. She fumbled behind one of the cushions on the couch, found a metal tube-a slide? — that she slipped on the third finger of her left hand, and then picked up the guitar. “How about this kind of music?” she said, sitting beside him and starting to play. Hey! She was good. The guitar made sounds a lot like moaning and crying. Then she sang: “When things go wrong, so wrong with you, It hurts me too.” Her voice was hard but somehow beautiful at the same time. She broke off in the middle. “Bacon’s gonna burn,” she said, and hurried into the kitchen.

Wyatt followed. “Hey. You’re so good.”

“I’m a saint,” she said, flipping bacon in the pan. It smelled great.

“I meant your song.”

“It’s not my song,” Greer said. “Copied it note for note from Elmore James.”

“Who’s he?”

“Was,” said Greer, putting eggs and bacon on two plates and bringing them to the table. “Siddown. Eat.”

They sat at the table, a tiny rickety table, so small their feet had no choice but to touch under it. Wonderful smells rose in the air. “This is great,” Wyatt said. “And you can really play.”

“I fake it, that’s all.”

Wyatt shook his head. “And sing, too.”

“Shows you’ve got a tin ear,” Greer said. “I’m flat pretty much the whole time. My dad can sing, hits every note dead center. And he’s the one who can really play. He had a band, way back when. They came pretty close to getting a record contract.”

“He taught you to play?”

“Bingo.” Greer slid her bare foot up under his pant leg. “The bacon’s too crisp.”

“No. It’s perfect.” And the scrambled eggs: so light and tasty, with onion and pepper flavors, and something else he couldn’t name. “So, uh, how did your dad get from the band to, um-”

“Prison?”

“I wasn’t going to say that, but yeah.” He laid down his knife and fork. “I want to talk about the prison.” He could hear the tone of his own voice changing, growing harder. “What’s going on?”

“Meaning?” Greer said, cutting a bacon strip, not looking up. “How my father got there? Did he really do the arson?”

“That, too,” Wyatt said. Greer withdrew her foot. “But first, what’s the story with you and-” Kind of weird to be calling him by his full name, but no alternative was acceptable. “-and Sonny Racine?”

Greer raised her head. Yes, she looked terrible; beautiful, but terrible for her. “He was in the visitors’ room. My dad waved him over. End of story.”

“They’re free to move around like that?”

“Depends on what pod they’re in. The visiting area for the real bad-guy pod is one of those talking-on-a-phone-through-a-glass-wall deals. But they’re not bad guys, our dads.”

“He’s not my dad,” Wyatt said; his voice rose. “You know I don’t think of him that way, so why are you saying it?”

“Sorry,” Greer said. She cut her bacon into little pieces but didn’t eat any. Wyatt picked up his knife and fork. “He’s very popular,” she said.

“Who.”

“Mr. Sonny Racine. Everyone likes him.”

Wyatt put the knife and fork back down. “You’re talking about the other criminals?”

“They’re human beings, too,” Greer said. “You’re not giving him a chance.”

“A chance to do what?”

“To get to know you a bit.”

“Why would he want to do that?”

“I just know he does, that’s all. He said he’d like to meet you.”

“Like I’d visit the jail?”

“Yeah.”

“Forget it. I told you what happened. He committed a horrible crime.”

Greer stuck her fork into a bacon piece, popped it into her mouth, started chewing. “The thing is, my dad thinks he’s innocent. It’s the consensus in there, in fact.”