Peter Abrahams: Bullet Point

“Bullshit.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

Wyatt opened the door, got out.

“Wait,” said his mom, fumbling with her purse. “I’ve brought you some money.”

He slammed the door, went back into Dub’s house. The basically good person, even better than that, was his mom, of course, and he wished he hadn’t slammed the door. As he entered the Mannions’ house and felt the warmth inside, he realized she had had no real expectation that he’d be coming home anytime soon, maybe didn’t even want it, possibly fearing what might happen. Why else would she have brought him money?

Wyatt climbed the stairs and entered Dub’s room, a pigsty like his, except much bigger, fancier, airier, with a spare bed for overnight guests. No lights were on but Dub was awake.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“My mom called her sister, Aunt Hildy. You know, down in Silver City. And she’s cool with you living there, at her place.”

“Huh?” Wyatt said.

“No baseball, I know, but there’s no baseball here, either. And you could kind of get away, if you want. From Rusty, I’m talking about. Plus next year you’ll be a normal resident, so you can play. You’ll only be a junior.”

Wyatt lay down, closed his eyes. They wouldn’t stay closed.

“How much does she want?”

“How much does who want?”

“How much rent. Your aunt.”

“Rent? Zip, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’ll think about it,” Wyatt said. His eyes closed. His nose hurt for a while and then he was asleep.

Dub’s aunt Hildy had two kids, both grown and living on their own. Aunt Hildy, who worked as a paralegal at Weiner and Moor, the biggest law firm in Silver City, looked a lot like her sister, Mrs. Mannion, except older, thinner, and not as happy. She’d been married and divorced a couple times, now lived by herself in a white clapboard two-story, three-bedroom house just outside of town, up on a hill with a view of the Sweetwater River and mountains in the distance. Wyatt and Dub slept in the rooms vacated by Dub’s cousins, Dub in the big one over the garage, Wyatt in the small one on the ground floor.

Aunt Hildy-that was what she told Wyatt to call her-gave him his own key. It was a much nicer house than home, but Wyatt didn’t care too much about that. What he really liked was a kind of absence, namely the absence of tension, when he unlocked the door. Was Rusty inside? What kind of mood was he in? How was he treating his mom? None of that mattered anymore. Except the treating mom part: that was still on Wyatt’s mind, but he told himself that his departure must have raised Rusty’s baseline mood.

The departure: Wyatt, his mom, and Cammy, all standing around the Mustang in the driveway. Rusty stayed inside; Dub was in his truck on the street, engine running, the plan being to ride down in tandem. A cold wind blew. His mom’s face was very pale, Cammy’s, too. Cammy had a sleep seed at the corner of one eye. Wyatt fought off an urge to wipe it away.

“Take this,” his mom said, holding out an envelope.

“What is it?”

“Just a little money.”

“I’m set for money.” Wyatt had cleaned out his bank account, had $356 in his pocket.

“I want you to have it.”

Send it when Rusty gets a goddamn job. That was Wyatt’s thought; he kept it to himself, instead just saying, “Don’t need it, Mom.”

The envelope remained in the space between them, wavering in her hand, and then she slowly withdrew it into the folds of her coat. His mom stood there, the wind ruffling her hair, revealing more gray than he’d ever noticed, plus it seemed thinner, too. She looked a bit confused.

Wyatt stepped forward and hugged her. “Bye, Mom.”

She squeezed him close, then took his face in her hands-hurting his nose by mistake, a pain he ignored-and kissed him three times, almost angrily, if that made sense.

“Bye, Mom,” he said again, letting go of her and backing away; her arms were reluctant to disengage, almost clinging to him. And down below, Cammy was clinging, clutching his legs with her little hands.

“Don’t go,” she said.

He patted her head. “See you soon.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Soon.”

She didn’t let go. Linda pried her away. Cammy was crying when Wyatt drove off, behind Dub in the truck. Wyatt checked in the rearview mirror and saw his mom was waving, her other arm around Cammy.

It took about twenty minutes to get to Bridger High from Aunt Hildy’s. Wyatt and Dub took turns driving, a pretty drive that paralleled the river for a while and then cut through downtown Silver City-a much nicer downtown than East Canton’s, with some restaurants, a coffee shop, and a few stores with gold-lettered signs-and up a hill to the school, bigger and newer than East Canton High and surrounded by well-groomed playing fields that went on and on. The very first day, Wyatt noticed something at the bend in the road, just before it left the river: a sprawling, earth-colored complex on the other side.

“What’s that?”

“The pen.”

“Pen?”

“State pen. The prison.”

“Sweetwater State Penitentiary?”

“Think that’s the name.”

Wyatt would see Sweetwater State Penitentiary twice every school day. Had Sonny Racine been transferred somewhere else? Wyatt preferred to think so.

As for Bridger High, Wyatt soon realized it was better than East Canton High, meaning the classes were harder.

“You believe all this homework?” Dub said one evening, about three weeks after their move, the two of them at opposite sides of the kitchen table. “What’s obsequious mean?”

“Like a sequoia tree, maybe?” said Wyatt.

“Big, you mean?”

“Gigantic.”

Dub stuck the end of his pen in his mouth, gazed at the page. “Yeah, that fits.” They worked in silence for a while and then Dub said, “First practice is tomorrow.”

“I know,” Wyatt said.

The next day, first baseball practice, Wyatt and Dub drove to school in their separate rides, since Dub would be staying late. But Wyatt didn’t go right home. He came close, walking out to the upper parking lot, reserved for students, with his books under his arm. But as he neared the Mustang, his footsteps slowed, as though some magnetic effect was holding him back, and after a moment or two he came to a stop and just stood there. The upper parking lot was at the highest point of the campus, looking down over most of Silver City, the river, and in the distance, Sweetwater State Penitentiary. Wyatt gazed at nothing for a minute or so, then turned, walked around the school, and headed for the baseball diamond.

A beautiful diamond: the base paths reddish just like in the big-time, and perfectly groomed; the outfield grass amazingly green for the time of year, the fence a smooth blue curve about six feet high, topped by a bright yellow stripe. Two coaches, one old, one young, stood at home plate, watching the players jog around the field. They all wore gray baseball pants, blue stirrups, blue warm-up jerseys, and white caps with a blue B. The caps, especially, were very cool, and Wyatt couldn’t help wanting one.

A few parents sat down low in the stands, huddled together against the wind. Wyatt climbed to the top row and moved toward the very end, past third base, as far from the action as possible. He spotted Dub, dead last in the line of joggers-somehow he’d been getting slower every year-wearing number 19. At East Canton, he’d always worn 9. That meant someone else had 9. Wyatt ran his gaze over the players, found 9 in the middle of the pack-a short, blocky kid with thick legs, a catcher for sure. Last year’s starter? Or last year’s backup to a senior, expecting to be the starter this season?