Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Hey, Mister Deep Thoughts,” Greer said. She stood at the bedroom door, all dressed, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand.

He turned to her. She looked great, skin clear and glowing, eyes bright.

“Come here,” he said.

“You want coffee?”

“Soon.”

“Not too soon, I hope.”

Not too soon after that, they were at the kitchen table. Granola with banana slices on top, coffee. Whatever Greer put on the table was always so good.

“Now comes Mister Hungry,” she said.

Wyatt laughed, finished off his granola, plus half of hers.

“Know what we should do this weekend?” she said. He waited to hear. “Take a drive over to Millerville.”

Wyatt wiped his mouth on the paper napkin. “How about today?”

She shook her head. “School day.”

He rose. “Today.”

“Mister Bossman?” she said. “He’s new.”

Millerville was about four hundred miles away, the apex of a stubby triangle with the East Canton-to-Silver City line forming the base. They stopped for gas in a tiny flatland town at the halfway point, the wind blowing scraps of paper across the road.

“See if this works,” Greer said, pulling out a credit card.

Wyatt glanced at it: a corporate Visa card for Torrance Amusements.

“Maybe they haven’t blocked it yet,” Greer said.

Wyatt gave it back, went inside, and handed over a twenty. He returned to the car and was pumping gas, hunched against the wind, when his phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket, checked the number: his mom. He almost didn’t answer.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Wyatt,” she said, her voice unsteady with emotion, “this can’t go on.”

He straightened. “I love you, Mom. You and Cammy. But I’m ready to be out on my own.”

“What are you talking about? You’re sixteen.”

“I’ll be seventeen soon. And I’m ready.”

“You’re not ready. And even if you were, it doesn’t matter. You can’t leave home without my permission until you’re eighteen in this state-I checked with a lawyer.”

“Then give me your permission, Mom.”

“Absolutely not. I want you home today.”

“I just can’t,” Wyatt said. Inside the car, Greer had her earphones on, was nodding her head slightly to some beat, eyes front.

“Is this about Rusty?” Linda said. “Are you punishing me or something? I’ve been going to this website on blended families, and they say that often happens in cases like-”

“Aw, Mom, I’d never think about you like that. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then what? Is it that girl? I wish you’d waited…you know, before, um, an intimate relationship, and I know it must be exciting, but there’ll be other girls.”

Not like this. That was Wyatt’s thought. He kept it to himself.

“Wyatt? Are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“You know how hard it would be for me to come down there. I can’t miss work, not in this economy.”

“Why would you want to come down here?”

“To get you. Didn’t I just explain? You don’t have my permission.”

“Sorry, Mom. Please don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

“And I’m sorry, too, Wyatt, but it’s not your call. In the eyes of the law, you’re a runaway. I have the right to notify the police.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Don’t test me. I want you home tonight.”

“Come on, Mom. I’m no runaway. I-”

She hung up. The pump hit the twenty-dollar mark and shut off. Wyatt tucked his phone into his pocket and replaced the nozzle. Greer turned and blew him a kiss through the window.

Wyatt got back in the car.

“I’ve been thinking,” Greer said. “What if-”

Her cell phone rang. Greer had a cool ringtone, three resonating Dobro notes. She checked the screen. Wyatt happened to see it, too. HONG KONG, it read, followed by lots of numbers. Greer shrugged her shoulders, flicked the phone shut.

“Hong Kong?” Wyatt said. “That’s weird.”

“Yeah,” said Greer. “So here’s my question-suppose he really was innocent, like totally. What are we going to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Wyatt said, pulling back onto the highway, which they had pretty much to themselves. The land flattened out and the wind came unimpeded from the west, sometimes buffeting the car. “What could we do?” Wyatt said. “Also, maybe it’s not even our problem. It’s for sure not yours.”

“Oh? What do you mean by that?”

He caught a sharpness in her tone, didn’t know what to make of it. A quick glance at her and he still didn’t know: she had her eyes on the road.

“Just that you have your own problems,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like what? Like this whole thing with the bankruptcy, handling that all by yourself.”

“Nothing left to handle. They changed the locks-you know that.”

They drove in silence for a while. A horse ran by itself in an empty field. Bankruptcy meant the end of something, and big changes-Wyatt knew that from what had happened at Baker Brothers Iron and Metal Foundry. “So what are you going to do next?” he said.

“Huh?”

“Your plans and stuff,” Wyatt said.

“What plans should I be having?”

“I don’t know.” But she was nineteen, smart, good-looking. Was reading to old blind people all she wanted? “Your music, for example. Isn’t that something you want to do?”

“Didn’t I mention that I sing flat?”

“I liked your singing.”

“And my playing is faked,” Greer went on, showing no sign she’d heard him. “I mentioned that, too.”

“It didn’t sound faked to me,” Wyatt said.

“What are you really saying?” Greer said. “That I’m not good enough for you as I am?”

“Huh?” All of a sudden they seemed to be fighting; about what, he didn’t know.

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not. I don’t understand what-”

“And since you brought up the subject of plans, are you going to divulge yours any time soon?”

Wyatt glanced at her again: still gazing at the road ahead, no expression on her face to indicate she was in a fight. “No secret,” he said. “Graduate from high school, go to community college if I can, see what happens after that.”

“Graduate from what high school?”

“This one. Bridger.”

“Good luck and Godspeed,” she said.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”

“If I have to tell you, that just proves it.” She leaned forward, switched on the radio, turned some country song up to earsplitting volume.

Wyatt hit the off button. For a second or two, he thought she would turn it back on, foresaw a quick mutual deterioration back to completely childish behavior. But instead Greer shifted away from him and cracked her window open an inch. Cold air came flowing in.

Some cows went by, then some sheep, and a llama. Only the llama turned to look. There was something about the gaze of the llama, or maybe the angle of its head, that crazily enough seemed scary for a moment. Wyatt took a deep breath.

“What’s going on?” he said. “Why are you mad at me?”

There was a long silence. All Wyatt knew was that he wouldn’t let himself ask again. A little settlement appeared in the distance, low shapes with lots of right angles in an enormous natural landscape with none. Wyatt parked in front of an old general store with a hitching rail out front.

“I’m getting a sandwich,” he said. “Want anything?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Wyatt switched off the car. And then a second crazy thing: he almost took the keys with him.

He went inside, got a turkey sandwich on homemade bread, a bag of chips, and a yogurt for Greer; she liked yogurt, could eat it later if she wanted. What was wrong with her all of a sudden? He had no idea. Back outside, he saw that she was on her phone. She closed it and put it away as he entered the car.