Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

Wyatt glanced up. The coach was watching him, eyes narrowed. “How come you never told me about this?” Wyatt said. “I never even knew he…he played ball.”

“You never asked,” the coach said. “And it was all a long time ago. Maybe a mistake, like I said. Give it back. I’ll put the damn thing in a box. End of story.” He reached out.

Wyatt drew the photo away. “I want to keep it.”

The coach raised his hands, palms up. “Okay. It’s all yours. And as far as I’m concerned, might as well tell you I had no problem with him. Never in trouble that I knew of, fine fielder, fast, like you, but nowhere near the hitter. Didn’t have your pop. Don’t know whether that’s information you want or not.”

“I–I don’t have much information at all,” Wyatt said. “About him.”

The coach nodded. “Prob’ly best. But I figured at least you knew he went here, East Canton High.”

“I guess I should have realized,” Wyatt said. “But I never really thought about it.”

“That’s prob’ly best, too.”

Wyatt took another look at the picture. That flashing white smile: this kid-wearing number eleven, Wyatt noticed, his own number, an observation that gave him a sudden strange feeling in his gut-seemed pretty happy. “How come he stopped playing?”

Coach Bouchard shrugged. “Stopped lovin’ the game, maybe? Lots do, no idea why. Don’t recall the details in this case, not like he was the star of the squad or nothin’. Mighta dropped out of school. Lots more did that back then. Now, drop outta high school and you haven’t got a chance.”

“How come?”

“How come? Lookit the world out there.”

Wyatt swung by Dub’s place on the way home. The Mannions lived in a big farmhouse just outside of town; they had chickens, a couple of horses, and a mule they’d named Wyatt. As Wyatt drove past the corral, Wyatt the mule curled back his lips, showing huge yellow teeth; he was a mean bastard. That was the joke: the Mannions were fond of Wyatt-Wyatt the kid-and almost treated him as one of their own.

Wyatt parked beside Mr. Mannion’s car-a shiny black Caddy, three or four years old. Mr. Mannion could probably afford a new one every year, but the Mannions weren’t like that. Wyatt knocked on the front door.

“It’s open,” Mrs. Mannion called from inside.

Wyatt went in, saw her in the kitchen, slicing a big red tomato. “Hi, Mrs. Mannion.”

“Hi, sweetie. I think he’s downstairs.”

Wyatt found Dub and Mr. Mannion in the TV room. The Mannions called it the TV room but really it was a cool home theater, with a huge flat-screen TV, surround sound, soft leather couches, and an old-fashioned popcorn machine. But the TV wasn’t on, and Dub and his father were talking, Dub on a stool, his father behind the bar. They stopped as Wyatt came in.

“Hey.”

“Hi, Mr. Mannion.”

“Lousy goddamn news,” Mr. Mannion said. He was a big bald guy, once a Big Ten linebacker, now twenty or thirty pounds overweight.

“Yeah, I know,” Wyatt said.

Dub glanced at his father. “Can I tell him?”

“Don’t see why not,” said Mr. Mannion.

“Tell me what?” said Wyatt.

“The thing is,” Dub said, “my dad’s kind of, you know, like, arranged, uh-”

Mr. Mannion interrupted. “Listen to him, Wyatt. Seventeen years old and he can’t string two words together. What he’s trying to say is that starting next week he’s going to be living with his aunt in Silver City.”

“Silver City?” Wyatt said.

“I’m transferring to a school down there,” said Dub.

“Bridger High?”

“How’d you know?”

Wyatt laughed. “I’m doing the same thing.”

Mr. Mannion gave him a quick, sharp glance.

“You are?” said Dub.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “When did the coach talk to you?”

“He, uh, didn’t,” Dub said.

“Coach didn’t talk to you? I don’t get it.”

“My dad-”

“The Bridger AD and I went to college together,” Mr. Mannion said.

Mr. Mannion was a smart businessman, as everyone said, knew how to get things done. “Cool,” Wyatt said. “We’ll be there together.” He laughed. “Maybe the whole team’ll move down.”

Dub laughed, too. Then he said, “Hey, Dad-any chance Wyatt can live with Aunt Hildy, too?”

“One thing at a time,” Mr. Mannion said. He checked his watch, then went upstairs.

Wyatt and Dub made popcorn, cracked open some sodas, watched SportsCenter. “Ever been to Silver City?” Dub said.

“No.”

“Pretty nice town,” Dub said. “Practically in the mountains. They got elk there.”

That sounded good.

“We could take up bow hunting,” Dub said,

“Nah,” Wyatt said.

“Ice climbing?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt said. “We’ll need crampons.”

“What’s that?”

“Kind of spikes for your boots.”

“How do you know that?”

Wyatt shrugged. They were showing highlights on TV. A skinny guy with full-sleeve tattoos on both arms drained a long three-pointer. “The coach gave me something.”

“What?”

Wyatt had the photo in the big inside pocket of his jacket. He handed it to Dub.

“Is that the coach?” Dub said. Dub was pretty smart, although hardly anyone seemed to know; he was an even worse student than Wyatt.

“Yeah,” Wyatt said.

“Looked just as mean back then,” Dub said. “Who’s the kid?”

Wyatt gazed at that big smile for a moment; a confident smile, even cocky. “My father,” he said.

Dub’s eyebrows-bushy and expressive-went up. “Whoa,” he said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“He played ball for Coach Bouchard?”

“News to me, too.”

“He looks kind of…you know, normal,” Dub said. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“I meant like which prison.”

“Got that,” Wyatt said. “And the answer’s still I don’t know.”

Dub took another look at the picture. “What position did he play?”

“Short.”

“’Cause he’s wearing the same number as you-would have been amazing if he was a center fielder, too.”

“I guess.”

They sat on the couch, feet stretched out on footrests, ate popcorn, drank soda, watched more highlights.

“Can you believe that pass?” Wyatt said. “Sick.”

“You never, uh, talk about him, huh?” said Dub.

“Who?”

“Your father.”

“Gone before I was born-you know that.”

“Yeah.”

“So there’s nothing to talk about.”

They lapsed into silence, not an uncomfortable one. Wyatt and Dub had spent lots of time together, just like this.

“Play some Madden?” Dub said after a while.

“Sure.”

“Gonna beat your ass,” Dub said. They played Madden. Wyatt was up by two touchdowns-Dub never won-when Mrs. Mannion called down, “Wyatt? Staying for dinner?”

“Thanks, I better get going,” Wyatt said.

He drove home, stopping for gas when he noticed the needle quivering down near empty. He put in three dollars’ worth, all he had on him. Standing at the pumps, cold wind whipping through under the overhang, sky dark, he tried to find the right words for telling his mother about Bridger High. Nothing came to mind. He decided to just wing it. Why not? She was his mom.

She was in the kitchen, still in her office clothes except for slippers, thawing a frozen red block of spaghetti sauce on the stove.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, honey. Dinner’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

“I-”

“And Coach Bouchard called.”

“Yeah?”

Wyatt went into his bedroom, closed the door, called the coach on his cell phone.

“Hi, Coach. Wyatt.”

Silence on the other end. Then came what might have been ice cubes clinking in a glass.