Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Coach? You called me?”

The coach cleared his throat. “Yeah, hi. I did.” The coach sounded a little strange-like he’d been drinking. Wyatt rejected that idea immediately.

“What’s up?”

“Kind of a-what would you call it? — bump in the road. That’s it-bump in the road. We’ve hit a little bump in the road.”

“Who?” said Wyatt. “What bump?”

“About Bobby Avril. Seems like the school committee-talkin’ about Silver City, not East Canton-has these rules I didn’t know about, rules-what’s the word? — governing, rules governing transfers. Transfers and sports, is what I’m referrin’ to. Anybody else can transfer, of course. But for playin’ sports, don’t matter varsity or JV, there’s only one transfer who can play on a team each year, meanin’ the year of transferrin’. After that, why, you’d be resident, so no problem for the next year. Get what I’m sayin’?”

Coach Bouchard was taking fast, and again Wyatt got the feeling he’d been drinking, but he thought he grasped the general idea, and it led to a bad thought: Dub wasn’t going to be able to play for Bridger.

“So, um,” Wyatt said.

“Bottom line-you can transfer to Bridger, no problem, but you can’t play ball for Bobby Avril, not this season.”

Wyatt’s heart began to beat way too fast. “Coach? I don’t think I heard you right.”

Coach Bouchard’s voice sharpened a bit. “There’s nothin’ I can do. Rules is rules.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Don’ understand? Chrissakes, by the time I called Bobby Avril, first thing I got in the door, that one transfer space was already taken.”

“Someone else transferred first?”

“Exackly. Turns out his dad goes back a ways with the AD, just like I go back with Bobby. Only thing is he beat me to the post.”

The post? What post? Wyatt didn’t get that, maybe didn’t get any of it. “Whose dad?” he said.

“Dub Mannion’s,” said the coach.

“Dub got the position?” Wyatt thought back to that sharp glance Mr. Mannion had shot him down in the home theater. What had Wyatt said just before that? I’m doing the same thing.

“What I’m tellin’ you,” Coach Bouchard said. “First come, first served basis.”

Silence. And then the ice cubes again.

“Coach? Can I stop by your office tomorrow? Talk about this?”

“Tomorrow? Not gonna be there tomorrow or any other goddamn tomorrows. I resigned. Done, all through. Weren’t you listenin’ today?”

“Supper’s on,” his mom called from the kitchen.

Wyatt heard her but stayed where he was, standing in his room. He’d laid the photo on his desk and was now examining it under the light of the lamp. He noticed little things he’d missed before, like how big his father’s hands were-bigger than Wyatt’s, just about the same size as the coach’s-and a light-colored metal chain, maybe gold, that his father wore around his neck. He bent closer, gazing into the photo image of his father’s eyes. They began to look not like eyes at all, but simply ovals of light and shade, mostly shade.

“Wyatt? I’ve been calling and calling.”

He turned. His mom was in the room, a red-tipped wooden spoon in her hand; he hadn’t heard her enter.

“Sorry, I-”

Her glance went right to the photo. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing, Mom.”

“I hope it’s not something you shouldn’t be-” By now she’d moved in closer; his mom was kind of unstoppable when she got curious about something. “Who are-Oh, my God.” She grabbed the photo, stared at it, then whipped around toward Wyatt. “Where did you get this?”

“I, uh, the coach gave it to me.”

“The coach? Why would he do a thing like that?”

“On account of the economy, Mom. He was packing up. All the extracurriculars are gone.”

His mother’s eyes opened wide, and her face seemed to soften. “Baseball, too?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah.” Was there any point in going into the whole Bridger idea? None that Wyatt could see: The Bridger idea was gone, too. “So the coach had this and he gave it to me.” He pointed to the photo, still in her hand. They were standing close together now, their eyes on the photo. “Did you know him back then, Mom, in high school?”

“Hey,” Rusty called from the kitchen, “what’s the holdup with dinner?”

Wyatt’s mom didn’t seem to hear. “Not really,” she said, her face still soft, and now her voice as well. “He was two years ahead of me. I knew who he was, of course. All the girls-” She stopped herself.

“All the girls what?” said Wyatt.

Cammy came in. “Dad says what’s the holdup with dinner.”

“Can’t he serve himself?” Wyatt said.

“Wyatt, hush,” said his mom. “Tell him we’ll be right there.”

“Roger,” said Cammy, and left the room.

“All the girls what?” Wyatt repeated.

Linda’s lips turned up the slightest bit, as though she were about to smile, but she did not. “He was popular with the girls, let’s put it like that.”

“So when did you get married?” Wyatt said. “After you graduated from high school?”

His mom turned to him. “We actually never did get married,” she said. “We were going to, what with you coming along, but then-”

“You never got married? I’m finding this out now?”

“There wasn’t time-he did that terrible thing and got arrested and then-”

“Hey!” Rusty was in the room. “What’s going on?” His face had pink patches here and there, a sign that he’d had a few drinks.

“Sorry,” Linda said. “We’re coming.”

“What’s so interesting?” Rusty pointed with his chin at the photo.

Linda lowered the photo to her side, the back of it facing out.

“Let me see,” Rusty said.

“It’s nothing, not important.”

“I like not-important things,” Rusty said, and then he moved with surprising quickness-Rusty was one of those people capable of surprising you from time to time, never in a good way-striding across the room and snatching the photo out of Linda’s hand.

“Don’t,” Linda said.

Rusty turned his back on Wyatt and Linda, hunching over the photo. A moment or two passed and then his back stiffened. “What the fuck?” He whirled around, said to Linda, “Where have you been hiding this?”

“I haven’t-” Linda began.

“It’s mine,” Wyatt said.

“Yours? Where’d you get it?”

“Coach Bouchard. It’s mine.” Wyatt reached out. “Give.”

Rusty held the photo out of Wyatt’s reach. “Have to think about that,” he said. “Might not be good parenting, letting it into your possession.”

“Huh?” Wyatt said.

“Not exactly what you’d call a role model, this pretty boy,” said Rusty, tapping the photo. “Gotta look out for your moral development.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Wyatt said.

“Rusty, please,” Linda said.

“‘Rusty, please’?” said Rusty. “Now you’re gonna defend him? Defend the convicted murderer?”

“Of course not,” said Wyatt’s mom. “There’s no need for any of this. Let’s all calm down.”

“That picture’s mine,” Wyatt said. “The coach gave it to me.”

“‘That pikchew’s mine,’” Rusty mimicked. “Listen to him-Cammy’s more mature, for fuck sake.”

Wyatt lunged forward, tried to grab the photo. Rusty whipped it out of reach.

“Please,” said Wyatt’s mom. “Let’s all-”

“Calm down?” Rusty said. He smiled, the kind of smile where the eyes don’t join in. “Okay,” he said, “since he wants it so bad, he can have it.” Rusty tore the photo to shreds, real quick, zip zip zip, and flung them at Wyatt.