Bullet Point Read online

  “What are you?”

  “What am I?”

  “Like, in school, or what?”

  “Yeah, in school.”

  “Where?”

  “Here.”

  “Bridger?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Go, Bears. Rah rah.”

  “You went there?”

  “My whole life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Just feels that way,” Greer said. She gave him a long look. “Or are you the kind who fits in?” Wyatt didn’t answer; but yes, he was. Wasn’t he? “Yeah,” she said. “I believe you are. When’s the first practice?”

  Wyatt took a deep breath.

  “For baseball, I mean. You’re on the team, right? Got to be-I saw you hit. Hardest thing in sports, according to Ted Williams-hitting a baseball.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “Know what?”

  “Ted Williams, all of it.”

  “My dad was a huge fan. He could spout off stats ad nauseam.”

  “Sorry,” said Wyatt.

  “For what? He’s not dead, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Yeah, great.”

  “So he just stopped being a fan?”

  “Got involved in other things,” Greer said. “Other games, let’s say.”

  “Football?”

  She gave him another look. “Know what I like about you?” she said. “Besides your batting stroke?”

  Wyatt felt himself reddening, hoped it didn’t show; in fact, she’d somehow sent a charge through his whole body.

  “Your sense of humor,” Greer said. “That’s what I like-no one’s got a sense of humor in this town.”

  “I’m actually not on the team,” Wyatt said.

  “That one I don’t get.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  Greer put a finger to her chin: a nice-looking chin with a tiny cleft. “Not on the team but you can hit, so let me guess. I got it-booted off for getting caught with a six-pack.”

  “No.”

  “A crack pipe.”

  “C’mon.”

  “You’re right. No doper, obviously. You don’t have that look in your eye.”

  “What look?”

  “Absent,” Greer said. “So that brings us down to something weird, like you were caught with the coach’s wife.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” Wyatt said. “I just moved here and they’ve got rules about transfer students.”

  “Of course they do. They’ve got rules for everything, rules that only they can break.”

  Wyatt shrugged.

  “Must be frustrating,” Greer said.

  “It’s all right.”

  “Where were you living before?”

  “East Canton.”

  “A dump worse than this one.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “Your dad got transferred or something?”

  “Huh?”

  “Or your mom? To a new job-your reason for moving in the middle of the year.”

  “No,” Wyatt said. “I came myself.”

  “On the lam?”

  “You got it.”

  Greer laughed. “Your way of saying no more questions, I bet.” She glanced at the clock. “How about a cup of coffee, a Coke, something?”

  “Um, okay.”

  There were Cokes in the drink machine behind her, but Greer didn’t open it. Instead she grabbed her leather jacket from under the counter and said, “Let’s go in your car.”

  “Yeah?” He glanced around, saw no one else to take care of the bowling alley. By that time, Greer was practically at the door. He followed her. She held the door for him, then locked it. “It’s okay to close early?”

  “Why not?” said Greer.

  “What if someone wants to bowl?”

  “They can scratch that itch elsewhere.”

  Wyatt and Greer walked to the Mustang. A gust of wind rose and blew her against him.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “For what?”

  They got in, Wyatt hurriedly gathering books and papers off her seat and tossing them in back.

  “First time in a Mustang, believe it or not,” Greer said.

  Wyatt turned the key. “This one’s real old,” he said. He started backing out of the space, glanced at her. “Seat belt.”

  Greer grinned. “That’s what my grandmother always says.”

  “She’s right,” Wyatt said, at the very moment they came to a big icy patch in the middle of the empty lot. Without thinking-but even with thought he might have done it anyway-Wyatt spun the wheel hard and goosed the pedal. The Mustang spun around once in a tight doughnut, Greer suddenly screaming and gripping his right forearm so hard it hurt, at the same time making it not so easy to bring the car out of the spin. But he did, straightening perfectly and driving out of the lot at five miles per hour, using the turn signal and looking both ways. Greer’s grip loosened on his arm, but she didn’t let go completely, not for ten or fifteen seconds, although it felt much longer than that.

  High Sierra Coffee was a shadowy little coffee shop off the main drag in Silver City with worn wood floors, shelves full of books, a few people hunched over laptops. Wyatt and Greer sat at a small round table in the back corner, Coke for him, espresso for her. He’d never actually seen an espresso before, must have been staring at it a bit too long, because she said, “Want a taste?”

  “One taste and it’d be gone.”

  Greer smiled, sat back in her chair; teeth very white, skin very smooth, eye makeup a little smeared. “I’d like to own a place like this someday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s my dream, anyway. One of my dreams.”

  “How much would it cost?” Wyatt said. “The rent, equipment, all that?”

  “Who knows?” Greer said. “Too much.”

  “There’d probably be insurance, too.”

  Her face darkened. “I’ve had enough of goddamn insurance.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Greer was silent for a few moments. Clouds must have shifted, because a sudden golden shaft shone through a skylight, illuminating their table and everything on it-Coke slowly fizzing, steam rising from the little espresso cup, Greer’s right hand, a strong, finely shaped hand, the nails all chewed down to the quick. “It’s a long story,” she said.

  “There’s time,” said Wyatt. “Unless you have to get back to work.”

  She took a sip of espresso. Her lips weren’t very full but were, like her hands, finely shaped. “That’s the point,” she said. “I don’t. We’re in receivership, so who gives a shit?”

  Receivership: a word Wyatt was all too familiar with, from the unfolding of the Baker Brothers bankruptcy.

  “You own the bowling alley?” he said.

  “The bank owns it now,” Greer said. “Some bank in San Francisco. But before that my father owned it. Plus a whole big amusement center across town.”

  “That’s in receivership, too?”

  Greer shook her head. “Turned to ashes instead.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She finished what was left of the espresso, put the cup down, rattling the saucer. “Last year, when things started to go bad-the economy, all that-the amusement center burned to the ground. My dad was found guilty of arson in a court of law-so it must be true, right?” Her eyes welled up, very briefly, but she didn’t cry. “My father, who built the amusement center from scratch, I’m talking about he even did the framing, the Sheetrock, the painting-guilty of burning it all down for the insurance money.” Her voice had risen; one or two people glanced over.

  Wyatt, his voice very low, said, “You don’t think he did it?”

  “Who cares what I think? The fact is he’s stuck in Sweetwater for five years, minimum.”

  “Sweetwater?”

  “The prison across the river,” Greer said. “Number one employer in the county. Haven’t you seen it?”

&nbs
p; 8

  Wyatt wasn’t prepared for things happening fast, but somehow when Saturday rolled around he had a date with Greer. The plan was to pick her up at her place, go to lunch, and then drive around while she showed him the sights of Silver City. Aunt Hildy always did her shopping on Saturday morning, and Dub had practice. Wyatt slept in, woke to a quiet house. He found himself looking forward to the day ahead for the first time in a long time; and he wasn’t thinking about baseball at all.

  Greer lived in an old apartment building a few blocks north of the main street, meaning away from the river. He sat in the car, waiting outside. It was a four-story building, kind of grimy outside but with fancy little details under the grime, like two Greek temple-type columns framing the front door, and the stone head of some aggressive-looking creature sticking out of the wall above it, fangs bared.

  The door opened and Greer came out. She wore the short leather jacket and jeans, wasn’t carrying a purse, not even a little one. In his experience, girls always carried a purse when they went out. But no time to think about that. She opened the passenger door and slid inside.

  “Hey, cowboy,” she said.

  “Hi,” said Wyatt. Her smell reached him, a really nice smell, flowers and something else. He glanced over, caught the gleam of her eyebrow ring and a quick smile.

  “Cut yourself shaving?” she said, touching the tip of her chin.

  Wyatt touched his chin, checked his fingertip. Yes, a little red smear; he wiped it off on his jeans.

  “If I was a vampire you’d be in trouble,” Greer said.

  “I’m not worried,” Wyatt said. “I had garlic for breakfast.”

  Greer laughed. “Vroom vroom,” she said. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”

  For some reason, Wyatt had a mature thought at that moment: She’s already seen what this baby can do, on that icy patch in the Torrance Bowl parking lot. He stepped lightly on the gas and drove sedately down the street. Greer’s eyes were on him: he could feel them.

  “Is that your own place?” Wyatt said, nodding back toward the apartment building.

  “Yeah. I’ve got a one-bedroom.”

  “Cool,” Wyatt said. Having your own place: what would that be like? “So you don’t, uh, live with your mother, or anything?”

  “Correctamundo,” Greer said. “Hang a right at the top of the hill.”

  Wyatt hung a right, followed a tree-lined street overlooking the river. The houses, big, old, nice-looking, but a little run-down, were spaced far apart.

  “Pretty much the oldest surviving part of town,” Greer said. “Dates from back when there was still silver in the mine. The mining directors lived here, plus doctors, lawyers, that kind of thing.” She pointed. “My mother grew up in that one.”

  Wyatt pulled over. The house was tall, with balconies, a screened-in porch, and a conical tower at one end.

  “I think it was white back then,” Greer said.

  Now it was yellow with brown trim, the paint peeling here and there; and a blue tarp covered one section of the roof. “Who lives in it now?” Wyatt said.

  “No idea.”

  Curtains parted on an upper floor and someone looked out. Wyatt eased off the brake, let the car roll forward. “So, uh, where’s your mom living now?”

  “An even sweller place,” Greer said. “Sweller than this was in its heyday.”

  “Yeah? Are we going to see it?”

  “Depends on whether you’re planning a trip to Seattle.”

  “Your mom lives in Seattle?”

  “Check.”

  “Your parents are divorced?”

  “You do a dynamite Q and A, you know that?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for.” She patted his knee, sending a small electric charge up his leg. “What would happen to human conversation if we didn’t have Q and A? Long silences, baby, end of story.”

  Way over his head. Wyatt realized that he was out of his league. Greer was smarter and older, and had more of something else he couldn’t even label. But the next moment, right after all that was hitting home, some part of him, possibly the competitive part, rose up, refusing to simply fold. Driving down this fading street where local silver barons had once lived, he forced his mind to wrestle with what Greer had just said, to really understand.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know what?” said Greer. “Hang another right.”

  “Well,” said Wyatt, turning onto a long street that slanted down, away from the river, “there’s communication in silences, too.”

  “Hey,” she said. And then more quietly. “Point taken.”

  And not just good communication, either. Entering his silent home-home back up in East Canton-and sensing Rusty’s mood: that was communication, too. “Good and bad,” he said.

  “Communication?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re so right,” Greer said. “Take my stepfather.”

  “So your parents are divorced.” For some reason, he wanted to nail that down.

  “Hard to come by a stepfather otherwise, unless you know something I don’t.”

  That stung a bit. Greer’s words often seemed to do that, Wyatt thought, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he found himself laughing.

  “Gonna let me in on the joke?” she said.

  “No joke.”

  “Then what’s funny?”

  He glanced at her. She was gazing at him; no eye makeup today-she looked younger, closer to his own age. You was the answer, you’re funny, and lots more than that, but he kept the answer inside, instead saying, “What about your stepfather?”

  “He’s the biggest asshole in the world,” Greer said, “but the worst-”

  A gray squirrel darted into the road, just a few yards in front of them, moving right to left. Wyatt swerved to the right, away from oncoming traffic, if there’d been any, and hit the brakes, steering behind the squirrel. But at the last instant, the squirrel paused and then did the dumbest thing possible, darting back the way it had come. Next came a feeling like passing over the tiniest speed bump, a soft one.

  “Christ,” Wyatt said, looking back in the rearview mirror. The squirrel-what was left of it-wasn’t quite lying still. He stopped the car and got out. “Christ.” The squirrel’s head was motionless and so was its body and three legs. But the fourth leg was twitching-more than that, really, the tiny paw making little scrabbling movements on the pavement, as though trying to get the rest of the animal up and on its way. Wyatt walked over, looked down. The squirrel’s eyes were open, at least the one facing up, but was the squirrel seeing him, taking him in? Wyatt couldn’t tell. All he could tell for sure was that the squirrel’s guts were all over the place and that one leg-rear, left side-was trying to get the animal up and on its way.

  Which wasn’t going to happen. The squirrel was beyond hope, finished, the only question being when. Misery: the word for describing the squirrel’s condition at that moment, and what did you do for creatures in misery? You put them out of it. Wyatt’s first thought was to get back in the car, turn around, run over the squirrel again. But he couldn’t do that: overkill, right? He now completely understood the meaning of that word; and not just overkill, but detached and cold-blooded-their meanings were clear, too. That left what? Stomping on the squirrel? To stomp on a living thing, and not in anger: he couldn’t do that, either.

  Wyatt went back to the car, hearing the scritch-scratch of that one paw on the pavement the whole way. Greer sat in the passenger seat, her head turning to follow his movements. Wyatt opened the trunk, found an old, soiled towel used for wiping off his bat during drizzly games, and also took out the bat itself.

  He returned to the squirrel, lying in a small but growing red pool. That one paw was still trying to do things, more feebly now. And that soft brown eye: on him for sure. Wyatt bent down, laid the towel over the body, at the same time hearing the car door open. He rose, took a deep breath, raised his bat, and brought it down on the
lump under the towel, just as hard as he thought necessary, and no harder.

  He felt Greer beside him. She gripped his upper arm, squeezed so hard it hurt, even made him gasp out loud. Nothing moved under the towel. Greer let go, squatted down, carefully rolled up the towel so no part of the body showed, and took it to the ditch that ran beside the road. Greer placed the bundle in the ditch.

  She turned and approached Wyatt. He realized she wasn’t as tall as he’d thought, a good half foot shorter than him. Without a word or any preliminaries, she took his head in her hands, pulled it down to hers, and kissed him on the mouth, hard at first and then softer. Not the first girl he’d kissed, but this was on another level, so much more knowledgeable. Wyatt felt the power of the person behind the kiss.

  He heard a car coming and backed away. The car-a black-and-white cop car-pulled out of a side street and drove up the hill, slowing down and then stopping beside Wyatt and Greer. The window slid down and a cop peered out, a gray-haired cop with baggy eyes and a fleshy pink face.

  “Some problem?” he said.

  “Uh,” said Wyatt.

  “Ran over a squirrel,” Greer said. The cop’s gaze went to her. “Put it in the ditch.”

  The cop nodded. A moment or two of silence went by. “You Bert Torrance’s daughter?”

  “Yeah,” Greer said, more grunt than verbal reply.

  “Recognize you from the lanes.” Greer looked him in the eye, said nothing. The cop looked right back. “Drive safe,” he said. The window slid back up and he drove off.

  Wyatt and Greer stood together by the roadside. “Isn’t small-town living grand?” Greer said. “That’s enough adventure for one day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Take me home.”

  He looked at her. Her face was flushed, her eyes a little blurry. “You’re mad about the squirrel?”

  “What would I be mad about? It was an accident.”

  “But, you know, what I did after.”

  “What you did after?” Greer said. “That couldn’t have been better, you blockhead.” She laughed. “So damn good it got me hot.”

  Wyatt’s mouth went dry; his knees got weak. He found those weren’t mere figures of speech.