Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

Wyatt and Rusty had had some nasty arguments, but things had never gotten physical, at least on Wyatt’s part: Rusty had whacked him upside the head the odd time back when Wyatt was younger. Wyatt didn’t think about any of that, didn’t think about how Rusty was still a lot bigger than him, didn’t think at all. He just charged at his stepfather, knocking him into the wall. A cheap wall-the whole house was cheap-and Rusty made a big hole, breaking through the drywall and splintering one or two of the slats underneath.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” Rusty said, looking astonished, dust raining down on his wiry red hair.

“Oh, God, stop, stop,” said Linda, coming up behind Wyatt and gripping his upper arms. At that moment, when Wyatt couldn’t quite defend himself properly-not his mom’s intention at all, he was aware of that in real time-Rusty wound up and threw a roundhouse punch, his meaty, freckled fist landing square on Wyatt’s nose. Then came a cracking sound, like a wishbone on Thanksgiving, followed by pouring blood and a sharp pain radiating from Wyatt’s nose across both sides of his face; sound coming first, pain last.

Wyatt sagged backward, knocking his mom, not a big woman, to the floor, although he didn’t fall himself. He glanced around to see if she was all right, and Rusty got him again, this time on the jaw, but not dead on. Not dead on, but Wyatt went down anyway, hot and raging inside, and the next thing he knew his vision had a reddish tinge and he welcomed it, might even have growled like an animal. He rolled over and dove at Rusty’s legs.

Rusty toppled backward, cracked his head against the edge of the doorframe, and spun into Cammy, who’d suddenly reappeared in the doorway, holding the handle of the pot of spaghetti sauce in both hands. Cammy flew across the hall. Rusty fell and lay still, spaghetti sauce splattering everything: walls, floor, each member of the family. Then Cammy and Wyatt’s mom were both in tears, wailing, really, and Rusty was rising to his knees. “Gonna fuckin’ kill him,” he said. Wyatt thought of the small automatic Rusty kept under the bed in the master bedroom and took off. In seconds he was outside and in the Mustang, peeling away from home, rubber shrieking in the night.

Wyatt drove, fast at first, and with no plan, no idea where he was going, and then slower, out of town and down a narrow lane to a beach by the riverside, where kids went swimming in summer. No swimming tonight: in his headlights he saw that the river was frozen over, except for a narrow black channel in the center. For a moment, a pathetic moment-as he realized while it was happening but let happen anyway-he wondered how it would be to slip down into that icy dark water. Wyatt shook his head, clearing it of shit like that, at the same time setting off a sharp pain in the middle of his face.

He switched on the interior light, checked his face in the rearview mirror. Two or three smears of blood on his cheeks, but his nose had stopped bleeding. The problem with his nose was its new shape and location. Wyatt’s nose, to which he’d never paid much attention, had always been straight, not too big, not too small. Now it was big and swollen, and worse, crooked, bent one way in the middle, then angling off in the other direction at the tip.

Wyatt leaned forward so he could see better. There were tears in his eyes. That made him angry at himself. Suck it up, as Coach Bouchard always said. Wyatt spoke the words aloud: “Suck it up.” Then he got a good grip on his nose, thumb on one side, fingers on the other, took a deep breath, and yanked it back into place. Another cracking sound, more blood, more pain, and he might have let out some cry-but when he checked the mirror, his nose was straight again. The thought hit him that maybe Coach Bouchard wasn’t really an authority on the subject of sucking it up.

Wyatt sat in his car, parked in this place-familiar, except he’d never been here in winter; kind of like a stranger in his own hometown. At first he ran the engine to stay warm, but the needle was dipping down toward empty-a great car and he loved it, but not good on gas-and he switched it off. Then it was quiet, the sky full of stars, the only movement that black rippling out in the middle of the river. It got colder and colder in the car. Wyatt was wearing only jeans, sneakers, a short-sleeved T-shirt. He could see his breath. It fogged the windshield. He didn’t like that, wanted to see out, so he kept a little porthole-sized circle of glass clear. After a while he started shivering and couldn’t stop. He felt alone. That was new.

“What’s the goddamn point?” he said.

Wyatt started the car, backed away from the river, U-turned, and headed into town. By the time he got to his house, he was nice and warm again. A light shone in the kitchen, and in Linda and Rusty’s bedroom, but otherwise the house was dark. Wyatt slowed down, almost turned into the driveway, but instead kept going, not from fear of Rusty’s little automatic, or fear of anything, really: he just didn’t want to go there. He drove down Main Street, all closed up for the night, gradually began to feel more like himself. His cell phone rang. He saw his mom’s number on the screen and didn’t answer.

Wyatt ended up parked outside the Mannions’ farmhouse. An upstairs window opened and Mrs. Mannion looked out. A minute or so later, Dub came outside, wearing a ski jacket and pajama bottoms. He opened the passenger-side door and slid in.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“I’m real sorry about that Bridger thing. I didn’t have a clue about them only having one spot.”

“Didn’t think you did.”

“My old man’s so fucking organized.”

“That’s good.”

“I don’t even want to go anymore.”

“That just proves you’re dumb.”

“You go. You take the position. You’re better anyway. I can’t hit the curveball for shit, and that means I’ll wash out sooner than later.”

“Shut up.”

Dub glanced over. “Hey,” he said. “What’s with your face?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t look like nothing.”

Wyatt took a deep breath and shivered all of a sudden, even though he was no longer cold.

“C’mon inside,” Dub said. “It’s cold.”

“Nah.”

“I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Then go.”

“Nope,” said Dub, sitting back, like he was actually getting comfortable.

Dub was very stubborn, always had been. They ended up going into the Mannions’ house together.

Mrs. Mannion, wearing a quilted pink robe, her round face glistening with some sort of clear cream, made hot chocolate. They sat around the Mannions’ kitchen table-Wyatt, Dub, Mrs. Mannion. It was warm in the Mannions’ house, much warmer than home, and Wyatt felt no drafts; his place was full of drafts.

“Hot chocolate okay?” said Mrs. Mannion.

Dub grunted.

Wyatt said, “Yeah, thanks.”

“Not too hot?”

“No,” Wyatt said. “Just right.”

“So,” said Mrs. Mannion, “first thing would be a call to your mom, right?”

Wyatt shook his head.

“She’ll be worried,” said Mrs. Mannion. “You know that.”

Wyatt knew, but he didn’t admit it out loud.

“Can’t he stay here for the night?” Dub said.

“Of course. Longer if he wants. But he still needs to call his mom.”

“She’ll be asleep,” Wyatt said.

“No she won’t,” said Mrs. Mannion. “Proves you’ve got a lot to learn about mothers.” Wyatt gazed into his hot chocolate, thinking: Rusty will answer for sure. “Tell you what,” Mrs. Mannion said. “I’ll call.”

“Aw, Mom,” said Dub.

“Don’t ‘Aw, Mom’ me.” Mrs. Mannion reached for the phone and dialed. Rusty had the kind of voice that carried through the phone speaker, and Wyatt clearly heard: “Yeah?” Mrs. Mannion stuck her jaw out a little. “Linda, please. It’s Judy Mannion.” A second or two went by and then Mrs. Mannion said, “Linda? Wyatt’s over here. He’s fine.” She listened for a few moments and said, “Good idea.” Then she hung up and turned to Wyatt. “Your mom’s coming over.”