Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

Rusty wore a ratty old robe, held together over his beer gut with one of those meaty, freckled hands. His hair stuck up from his head in clumps, and one of his eyes was partly crusted over. He gazed down at Wyatt, but not as far down as in years past, with how Wyatt was growing; gazed down without saying anything, also without moving aside, blocking the entrance with his big, barrel-shaped body. Wyatt knew him, knew he was waiting for “Sorry,” or “Excuse me,” or at the least Wyatt looking down, unable to meet his gaze. Wyatt didn’t look down. No telling how long this could have lasted, but after only a few seconds Wyatt caught a break, the wind rising suddenly, driving a cold blast through the doorway, making Rusty flinch. He shook his head like it wasn’t even worth it to waste a word on Wyatt, and backed away.

Wyatt went inside, found his keys, looked around for his backpack with no success, finally realizing he’d left it in his locker at school. Had there been any homework assignments? For sure in geometry, his favorite subject-he was carrying a B in it so far, had even gotten an A in math once or twice-it was the only subject he liked at all, but he always tackled geometry homework in some other class, English, history, environmental studies, health, none of which interested him. As for those others: he had to do enough to stay eligible. First practice was only a month away. As he went out, he heard Rusty pissing in the bathroom.

Wyatt’s car sat in the driveway: Mustang, twenty-two years old, bought for $450 from Mannion’s Salvage, fixed up by Wyatt and Dub Mannion, varsity catcher and Wyatt’s oldest friend, even though Dub was one year ahead in school. Maroon, with tinted windows and brand-new alloy rims: a thing of beauty. Wyatt scraped ice off the windshield with the tips of his fingernails, got in, turned the key. Rumble rumble, va-voom. He loved the sound of that engine, 225-horse V-8. Wyatt backed out of the driveway, looking both ways, felt the iciness of the street under the tires. He had a feel for this car, for driving in general-even the driver’s ed teacher had said so. Wyatt sped up, still going backward, turning the wheel just so. He whirled through two perfect backward doughnuts, never touching the brake, then eased out of the spin and drove the two miles to East Canton High, staying under the speed limit the whole way and coming to a full stop at all the stop signs.

Dub was already in the student parking lot, standing beside his ride, an F-150 with MANNION’S SALVAGE on the side in gold letters. Dub had a big round face that almost always looked happy, but not now.

“Heard the news?” he said as Wyatt got out of the Mustang and locked it.

“Guess not.”

“No baseball.”

“What are you talking about?”

“School committee met last night. They cut it out of the budget.”

“They cut baseball?”

“Cut everything-baseball, football, basketball, even marching band.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Town’s out of money.”

“How can the whole town be out of money?”

Dub shrugged his big shoulders. The school bell rang.

Coach Bouchard met all the baseball players after school that day in the gym. The coach was a little white-haired guy with big hands and cold blue eyes that never seemed to blink. He’d coached baseball at East Canton High for forty years, won many district championships and six state championships. But before that he’d had a long career in the minor leagues, finally making it to the majors for the last week of his last season, and going one for seven at the plate, that one being a triple, as Wyatt and the whole team knew from looking him up online.

The players sat in the stands, Coach Bouchard on his feet before them. “Any of you guys not heard the news by now?” he said. No one spoke. “Pretty straightforward-we got the ax. Not just us, all sports, all what they call extracurriculars.” The coach had a way of dragging out certain big words, like extracurriculars, resulting in a tone Wyatt thought was sarcastic. “Excepting for the marching band-that got saved at the last minute. What’re they gonna march for, that’s my goddamn question.” Coach Bouchard glared at the team, like they’d done something wrong. “How about you guys? Any questions of your own?”

The boys were silent.

“This ever happen to you before?” the coach asked. “Don’t think so. Then there gotta be some questions.”

A kid said, “Why? Why is this happening?”

“Town’s broke,” said the coach.

“How can the whole town be broke?” said another.

“State’s broke, too,” the coach said. “School budget comes part from the state, part from property tax here in East Canton. But when folks is in foreclosure-you all know what that means? Foreclosure?” Nods here and there. “When the bank’s taking your house away-that’s foreclosure.” Wyatt knew already: he’d seen it happening on his own street. “And when folks are in foreclosure, do they keep on paying their property tax?”

“Why should we?”

Wyatt glanced back up in the stands, saw that question had come from Willie Garcia, a senior, the backup middle infielder. He didn’t remember ever hearing Willie speak before, never seen much expression on his face, either. Plenty of expression now: he looked angry.

“I hear you,” said Coach Bouchard. “And it’s not just folks’ houses. When a business goes under, say a business like Baker Brothers, then they stop paying taxes, too. Not many businesses that size in East Canton. Town can go broke in a hurry.” He gazed at the boys. “Any other questions? If there ain’t, those of you what got equipment belonging to the team, go on and keep it, far as I’m concerned. Other’n that-”

“I’ve got a question,” Wyatt said.

“Shoot,” said the coach.

“Where are we going to play baseball?”

Coach Bouchard closed his eyes and shook his head slowly from side to side.

The coach left the gym, walked down the hall to his office, and went in, leaving the door open. The boys hung around for a few minutes, saying how fucked-up this all was, and how much the school sucked and the town sucked, “and the whole stupid planet,” Willie said. And because that was funny, or maybe because Willie was suddenly talking, everyone started laughing, and they left the gym, pushing and shoving a bit, but in a better mood. As they went down the hall, Wyatt, toward the back of the crowd, glanced in and saw that Coach Bouchard was packing stuff in boxes. He looked up at Wyatt.

“See you for a sec?”

Wyatt nodded, entered the coach’s office.

“Close the door.”

He closed the door.

“I’d say take a seat,” the coach said, “but Herman already took the chairs.” Herman was one of the janitors.

“Where are you going?” Wyatt said.

“Home.”

“I mean how come you’re packing up?” No more baseball, but coach doubled as a health teacher.

“Handed in my resignation, effective”-he checked his watch-“eleven minutes ago.”

Wyatt gazed at him, didn’t know what to say.

“Thinkin’ I’m a rat?” the coach asked. “Deserting a sinkin’ ship?”

A rat? Wyatt could never think of Coach Bouchard that way. The coach wasn’t exactly what you’d call a warm person, but he was straight up, gave each kid a fair shot-no one ever complained about favoritism-and besides, he’d taught Wyatt so much: how to be patient at the plate, wait for his pitch, even set the pitcher up a bit, plus all the intangibles like being relaxed and alert at the same time, and putting the team first, and playing hard until the last out. “Oh, no, Coach, I wasn’t thinking that. I was thinking, you know, what about health class?”