Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Christ,” said Wyatt, putting the pieces together and suddenly feeling sick. “He’s your brother.”

Toni shook her head, very fast, as though wanting to make that suggestion go away. “Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that.”

“You’re not related to Art Pingree?” Greer said.

Toni winced, almost like she’d been slapped. “No,” she said.

“We’ve got the wrong Pingrees?” Greer said.

“No,” Toni said again.

“I don’t understand,” Greer said.

“You’ve got the right Pingrees.” Slowly, as though her legs were losing strength, Toni sat on the top step. Greer sat beside her, just as slowly, a couple of feet away. Wyatt stayed where he was, standing at the bottom of the stairs, fighting instincts that were urging him to get back in the car and leave.

“I’m a little lost,” Greer said.

Toni nodded, whether agreeing that Greer was lost or because she herself was lost, Wyatt didn’t know. “Art Pingree was my mom’s nephew,” Toni said.

“Was?” said Greer.

“He’s dead. He got killed in Western State Prison; didn’t last a week, my mom said.”

“Who killed him?” Greer said.

“Some inmates, I guess,” said Toni. “I’m not sure if they ever found out who.” She glanced down at Wyatt. He saw a tiny white scar over her nonlively eye, shaped like an upside-down V. “You didn’t know he was dead?”

“No,” Wyatt said.

“How much research have you done?” Toni said.

“We’re just getting started,” said Greer. “Maybe it would help if you just gave us a quick run-through on the whole thing. It was all about robbing some drug dealers, right?”

“I guess so,” said Toni. She took a deep breath. “But I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“No?” said Greer. “I’m not sure I-how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Meaning you weren’t even alive when the robbery happened. So the trauma couldn’t-”

Toni, her voice rising sharply, cut off whatever Greer was going to say about trauma. “That’s not true. I was alive. Very much alive.” A tear appeared at the outside corner of the lively eye.

“My apologies,” Greer said. “But you must have been just a baby.”

“Just a baby, yes.”

“So you couldn’t remember your cousin,” Greer said, “or anything about the whole incident, really.”

“My cousin?”

“If Art Pingree was your mother’s nephew, then don’t you have to be his cousin?”

“What a horrible idea,” Toni said.

The tear grew too big for her eye to contain, and spilled over her lower eyelid, running down her cheek. Wyatt had an idea-not a real idea, with a foundation of reason and logic, more like simply the final product.

“Were you there when it happened?” he said.

“You were there?” Greer said. “How could that be? Oh, my God-Art Pingree was babysitting you, took you along on a robbery?”

Toni shook her head. “Toni’s a nickname,” she said. “My real name’s Antonia.”

“And therefore…?” Greer said.

“I never talk about this,” Toni said. “I have no memory of it at all, of course, but at the same time it’s impossible to forget. And even if somehow I could forget, almost every day someone-usually someone I don’t know-looks at me funny.”

“Still not getting you,” Greer said.

Wyatt wished Greer wouldn’t say anything, wished she’d simply let Toni tell her story. He shot Greer a quick glance. She shot him back one of her own: first surprised, then annoyed.

Toni turned to Wyatt. “How did you know I was there? Was it in your research?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “It was just a wild guess.”

“Are you religious?” Toni said.

“Not really,” said Wyatt. “Why?”

“Me either,” said Toni. “But I used to wish I was-you know, hoping to make sense of things. On the other hand, you could say life’s worked out way better for me than it would have.” She was gazing at Wyatt’s face-one of her eyes inquiring and probing, the other not-gazing as though searching for something. “No one could ask for a better mom, for example. And I’ve had every opportunity-I got accepted early at Northwestern.”

“But?” said Greer.

“I’m sorry?” Toni said.

“I thought I heard a but.”

Toni bit her lip. Wyatt gave Greer another look. Greer smiled a mouth-only smile and rose. “Got a few calls to make,” she said. “I’ll leave you guys to it.”

What’s with her? Wyatt thought. He watched Greer walk to the road and get in the car, aware that Toni was watching her, too.

“It’s a kind of group project, where you team up?” Toni said.

“Yeah.”

“That sounds interesting. Do you like Foothills?”

“It’s all right.” Which was probably true about Foothills, and at least not as direct a lie as saying, Yeah, I like it. Kind of stupid, since this whole…interview, if that was what you’d call it, was based on falsehood.

“The thing is,” Toni said, “I’m not sure I’d want this whole story in your project. Not that it’s a secret, but it’s not really public, either. You know how the internet gets, so out of control.”

“We, uh, could change your name,” Wyatt said. “Change all the names, and the town, too.”

“You could?”

“Don’t see why not.”

Down in the car, Greer seemed to be watching, although the reflection of the bare treetops on the windshield made it hard to tell.

“In that case,” Toni said-she paused, then looked directly at him. “Notice anything about me?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “I mean, yeah, you’re, you know, nice-looking, but besides that, uh…”

She smiled, a very little smile, and shook her head slightly. “About my eyes,” she said. “Do you notice anything unusual about my eyes?”

Wyatt nodded.

“I knew you did. I always know.”

“Sorry, I-”

“No need to be sorry. I always know-but it doesn’t affect me. I don’t remember being any other way.” She pointed to the nonlively eye, the one with the tiny upside-down V scar above it. “This eye isn’t real. It’s a very good fake-we went to Denver for it.”

Wyatt didn’t know what to say. Toni had already ruled out saying sorry, and nothing else came to mind.

“The truth is I’m adopted,” Toni said. “My last name’s Pingree now, but it used to be Morales. My mother was killed when I was eight months old.”

“She was Esteban Dominguez’s girlfriend?” Wyatt wanted to be silent, let her tell her story, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“That’s right,” Toni said. “He was my biological father. My real father was Dad-William Pingree, but everyone called him Bud. Kind of a strange situation, the real father not being the biological one.”

“It’s good that you ended up with a real one,” Wyatt said.

“Yes!” said Toni. “Exactly. I’ve never had the slightest desire to look up Esteban Dominguez or anything like that. William Pingree was my dad, pure and simple. He suffered so much at the end.” Another tear formed in her good eye. “Have you ever seen someone die of cancer?”

“No.”

“He was so brave.” Toni wiped away the tear. “But that has nothing to do with your project. The point is my dad rented out a few houses on the North Side to some of his construction workers. One of them was Esteban’s brother, Luis. Of course, Dad didn’t know they were dealing drugs on the side. Art Pingree was the one who collected the rents, and he found out about the drug thing. He wasn’t a bad guy himself, but he was the follower type and he had these two buddies who were bad guys. One was called Doc, the other name I don’t remember. They decided it would be cool to rip off the drug dealers. Long story short, there was shooting. My mother got killed and I got shot.” Toni spread her hands.