Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

They sat in the far corner, began to talk in low voices. The visitors’ door opened and more visitors entered, lots of them, maybe a dozen. More inmates came through the inmate door, and more COs. In less than a minute, it got pretty crowded. Taneeka sat up straight, plucked the gum from her mouth, and stuck it under the seat. Two women took the spots where Wyatt and Sonny had been sitting. Wyatt and Sonny moved toward the inmate door, stood near a CO with sergeant stripes on his sleeve.

“Looks like we’re in for one of those busy days,” Sonny said. “I’ll say good-bye.”

“There’s one more thing,” Wyatt said, keeping his voice down. Sonny leaned in to hear. “Why did Doc name you as the shooter?”

The sergeant’s eyes shifted toward them.

“Have to ask him,” Sonny said.

“I didn’t get the chance.”

Sonny went still. “You’re telling me you saw him?”

“In Millerville. Didn’t you know he was out?”

“I did,” Sonny said. “But Millerville? Why would he go back there?”

“Isn’t that where he’s from?”

“No. He came from Wichita originally.”

“Maybe it’s because of this girlfriend,” Wyatt said.

“What girlfriend?”

“It’s kind of strange,” Wyatt said. “I got the idea she might be married to someone else.”

“That wouldn’t stop Doc,” said Sonny. “More of an incentive, if anything. What makes you think she’s married?”

“I kind of followed him to her place. He parked far away and then must’ve snuck in the back. And later when I was talking to her, he came back, and she wasn’t happy about being out in public with him. She’s actually kind of a tough lady-I think she owns a bar.”

There was a pause. “A bar?”

“Good Time Charlene’s,” Wyatt said. “Her name’s Charlene Waters-I read it off her mailbox.”

Sonny swayed backward slightly, as though having a little trouble with his balance. He leaned against the wall. Beside him, the inmate door opened and more men in khaki came in. Voices rose all around them.

“Gonna have to clear some of these folks out of here,” the sergeant said. “Sonny? You about done?”

Sonny nodded, pushed himself off the wall. He left through the inmate door.

Wyatt sat in the parking lot at Sweetwater State Penitentiary. The parking lot lay in the shadow of the front wall, the wall facing the river. A dark rectangle of a shadow with a dappled margin at the end: that pretty topping was the razor wire. In the distance, a school bus was driving across the bridge; the river water looked black and viscous, almost like something solid and reptilian. Soon Wyatt would be crossing that bridge himself, then following the river road to the state highway, heading home. All that remained was saying good-bye to Greer in a way that closed things off as near to nicely as possible. Was it shameful to admit there were things you weren’t ready for? Yeah, probably.

The main public door of the prison opened and visitors walked out-almost all of them women and children, none of them talking. Greer was at the end. Some visitors moved toward their cars, none of the cars the kind anyone would want to own. The others, including Greer, headed for a waiting bus. Wyatt got out of the Mustang and approached her.

“Greer?”

She turned. “What do you want?” He noticed that the eyebrow ring was back in place.

“Is your apartment rent free?” he said. Not close to nice, not the kind of thing he’d had in mind to say at all, instead a nasty and mean dig he wanted to take back right away. Jealousy was new to him; he was jealous of Van, no doubt about it. He knew deep down he still wanted Greer, and wanted her all to himself.

“None of your fucking business,” she said.

What if Van was some sort of bad person, screwing up her life? Not his problem. “I’m going home,” he said.

“What are you waiting for? Have a good trip.”

The last two or three visitors climbed on the bus, maybe twenty or thirty feet away.

She wasn’t his problem and he was going home, so, yes, what was he waiting for? “Is your dad okay?” he said.

“What do you care?”

The bus sat there, engine running, door open.

“I care.”

“Bullshit. You just called me a whore.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

The bus door closed with a long sniffing sound.

If Greer noticed, she showed no sign. “What else could it mean?”

Their eyes met. Wyatt was reminded of other times that this meeting of eyes had happened, especially in bed with her, when he’d thought he’d seen deep inside. How weird that you could be so close to a person at one time and that at another she was almost a complete stranger. “I’m jealous, that’s all,” Wyatt said.

“Jealous? Jealous of who?”

“Who do you think? Van, of course.”

“You’re jealous of Van? That’s all over.”

“It is?”

The bus made a wide turn and drove out of the lot.

“Since I met you,” Greer said. “It was shaky to begin with. Then you came along.”

But Van had called her baby on the phone. “It’s over between you and him?”

“All but the shouting,” Greer said.

“What does that mean?”

“And he’s my landlord, true,” she went on, “but I paid rent every single month, just about.”

Silence. They gazed at each other. The look in Greer’s eyes changed, and something changed inside Wyatt, too, and all at once they were laughing. Her arms came up, and then they were embracing-laughing and holding on to each other in the shadow of the prison wall.

She spoke in his ear. “No matter what happens, we fit.”

Yeah, they did. Wyatt was about to say that, to agree with her, when he felt like someone was watching him and glanced up. A guard was looking down from one of the towers. “Let’s go,” he said.

They got into the Mustang. He could smell her. She smelled good.

“Where to?” she said.

Play it by ear. “Ever been to East Canton?” he said.

“Never wanted to.”

“But now?”

“Now?” she said. “I still don’t want to. But I’m willing to discuss it.”

“Okay,” Wyatt said. “How about coming back to East Canton with me?”

“I’m willing to discuss it, but not here.”

“Then where? Your, um, apartment?”

She laughed. “Let’s not push our luck.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning you only get so much luck in life,” Greer said. She pointed ahead. “Drive. Turn right after the bridge.”

Wyatt drove out of the shadow of the prison wall, crossed the bridge, turned right; left led to the highway and home. A dog sniffed at something by the water’s edge; on the other side of the street stood small clapboard houses, some with FOR SALE signs out front. A little boy on a tricycle watched the Mustang go by.

“Some get more than others,” Greer said, “when the luck’s handed out. Ever dreamed about winning the lottery?”

“Sure.”

“They say lottery winners don’t end up happier than anyone else.”

“I don’t believe that,” Wyatt said.

“No?” said Greer. “What makes you happy?”

Wyatt thought about that.

“Nothing comes to mind?” Greer said. “We’re in trouble.”

“Wait-I didn’t-”

“Hang a left.”

Wyatt turned left, onto a street that climbed away from the river.

“Stop here.”

Wyatt parked in front of a brick house, the only brick house on the street; all the rest were clapboard.

“Fucking hell,” Greer said.

“What?”

“They cut down the tree.”

Wyatt noticed a low stump on the front lawn. Greer got out of the car.

“Why the hell would they go and do that?” she said.