Authors: Peter Abrahams
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.
Wyatt got out, too, stood beside her, gazing at the stump. A sign standing nearby read:
BANK FORECLOSURE SALE—NO REASONABLE OFFER REFUSED
. Greer walked over to the stump and knelt beside it, running her hand over the wood, smooth from the saw’s cut.
“Like the tree didn’t pay its bills or something?” she said. “So they had to punish it?”
Wyatt watched the back of her head, didn’t speak.
“A beautiful willow,” Greer said. “I played in it all the time.”
“You lived here?” Wyatt said.
“And nowhere else till last year,” Greer said, “when everything went to shit.” She rose. “Want to see inside?”
“Can we?” Wyatt said. “They didn’t change the locks?”
“Sure they did—this is boom time for locksmiths.” Greer walked around to the back of the house; Wyatt followed. “But I know this place like those assholes never can,” she said. She went past the back door to a double-hung
window. “All you need to do is—” She stuck her finger into the space where the top and bottom frames met and pushed. “Even when it looks latched from inside, it never is.” The top half dropped down, and Greer climbed through in one easy motion. “What are you waiting for?” she said from inside. Wyatt climbed through, not as smoothly.
He was in a small bare room, empty except for a poster on the wall and a bare mattress on the floor.
“Welcome to Greer’s childhood bedroom,” Greer said.
“Who’s that?” Wyatt pointed to the poster.
“Jean Harlow.”
“Who’s she?”
Greer closed the window. “An old-time movie star.” She turned, put her arms around him. “Want to see the rest of the house?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t,” she said.
“What do you want to do?”
She kissed him, ran her hand down his back, two powerful stimuli coming at him from different directions. “Whatever you dream about,” she said. “That’s what I want to do.”
Soon they sank down on the mattress. A while after that, the light began to fade. Up on the wall, Jean Harlow seemed to hold on to it a little longer than the rest of the room.
They lay in darkness, the empty house quiet.
“So,” Wyatt said, “about coming to East Canton.”
“You really want to talk about that?”
“Yeah.”
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. He felt the tiny warm breeze on his chest. “And where would I live? Is there room for me with Mom, Stepdad, and Little Sis?”
Wyatt hadn’t gotten that far, in fact hadn’t really thought this out. “Maybe we could get a—” His phone rang. He fumbled for it on the floor. The tiny screen glowed.
UNKNOWN CALLER.
“Don’t answer it,” said Greer.
But he did. “Hello?”
“I never answer unknown caller,” Greer said.
Wyatt sat up, turning away from her.
“Wyatt?” Sonny said.
“Yeah.”
“Thought I heard someone else.”
Wyatt stayed silent.
“Is this a bad time?” Sonny said.
“No. It’s okay.”
There was a pause. “You’re a fine young man,” Sonny said. “I’m proud of the connection, no matter how distant it is in the actual life sense, if you see what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“I know you’re going back home, might be there already.”
“No.”
“Where are you? None of my business, of course.”
“Still here—in Silver City.”
“At Greer’s apartment?”
“Her old house, actually.”
“Patching things up, I hope?”
Wyatt didn’t answer.
“Don’t have to answer,” Sonny said. “Withdraw the question, in fact—again, none of my damn business. I want the best for you, is all.” He was silent for a moment. “Funny, to be thinking of the welfare of another person. In here we get used to thinking of only numero uno, and I’m no exception, believe me. Which, ah…” He paused, breathed out, one of those long, self-calming exhales. “Which brings me to something I want to say before you go. This is probably the last time we’ll talk, Wyatt, so—”
“Why?”
“Because you’ve got a life to live,” Sonny said. “I don’t. I’m alive, sure, but there’s no life to live in here. That’s pretty much what
lifer
means. No one needs a millstone and I’m not going to be yours. That’s why I want to settle your mind.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s no good to be worrying and wondering about the past. You agree with that?”
Wyatt wasn’t sure he did, at that moment found himself leaning the other way.
“Even if you don’t,” Sonny said, “I want you to know the truth. Unless you don’t want to know—that’s different.”
“I want to know.”
“The funny thing is I believe you already do.”
Wyatt didn’t speak. He thought he could hear his own pulse beating inside him.
“You can say anything you want,” Sonny said. “This isn’t a recorded line.”
“It’s not?”
Sonny spoke softly. “I’m on a cell phone—just for emergencies.”
Were the inmates allowed cell phones? No way. But another thought immediately pushed that one aside. “This is an emergency?”
“Maybe not,” Sonny said. “Or maybe just psychologically. I spent my first three or four years in here reading psychology and nothing but. Did I mention that yet?”
“No.”
“Since then I’ve branched out. You can educate yourself in here, no question about that.”
“Did you read
Hamlet
?” Wyatt said.
“Tried,” Sonny said. “I got nowhere with that one. Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Have you read it?”
“I’m in the middle,” Wyatt said. “What did you mean—you believe I already know?”
“You want me to say it right out?” Sonny said.
“Yes.”
“Then here goes. Your theory about me arriving late, trying to stop the whole stupid thing? That’s the truth, one hundred percent.”
Wyatt felt Greer’s hand on his back. “That means you’re innocent?” he said. Innocent: and spending life in prison.
“No human being is innocent,” Sonny said. “But what went down at thirty-two Cain Street? I’m innocent of that.”
“Then we’ve got to do something.”
Sonny laughed; he sounded genuinely amused. “First, it’s
not your problem. Second—do what?”
“Get a lawyer, a good lawyer this time.”
“And what would he do?”
“Start over. Reopen the case.”
“Based on my say-so? Every loser in here would be reopening his case if it worked that way. Standing room only in every courthouse in the land.”
All the facts, everything Wyatt had learned about the case, shifted slightly in his mind, and suddenly he had an answer to Sonny’s last question. “What if a new witness came forward?”
“And who would that be?”
“Whoever you’re covering for,” Wyatt said. “The fourth person.”
Silence, and in that silence, Wyatt thought he could feel Sonny’s presence, as though he were in the room. “You’re very smart,” he said, “but we’re not going there. Told you before—I’m content. More content than ever, now that we’ve had this talk. Good-bye, Wyatt. Just know one thing—you’ve done me a great service, simply by the way you are.”
“Wait, don’t hang up,” Wyatt said. He wanted the name of that fourth person.
Click. And no way to call back—that was one of the features of “unknown caller.”
“ARE YOU COLD?”
Greer said. They lay in the darkness on the bare mattress in her childhood room.
“No,” Wyatt said.
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m not.”
She wrapped herself around him. “Do you believe him?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” Greer said. “And I do—I believe him.”
“Why?” Wyatt said.
“I trust my dad.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Trusting your parents? Isn’t that central?”
Maybe, Wyatt thought: but not so easy, since they came in twos.
“What are you thinking?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe you,” Greer said. “You always hold something back, don’t you?”
Did he?
“See—there you go again,” Greer said. “But nobody’s perfect, including me. The point I was making is I trust my dad and he thinks Sonny is innocent.”
“You told me that already,” Wyatt said. “Based on what?”
“Can you imagine how hard this has been for my dad, being locked up? But Sonny looks out for him and they got to know each other. My dad’s a real smart judge of character—he says Sonny’s the only good man in the whole goddamn place.”
That didn’t strike Wyatt as a lot to go on.
Maybe Greer was reading his mind, because she went on, “But the main thing is, I know you.”
“So?”
“So you’re just like him and you could never do what they say he did or anything close.”
“I’m not like him at all.”
She laughed, a quiet laugh, quickly shut off.
“And if I am, then doesn’t that mean he holds things back, too?”
“You can be a complete jerk sometimes, you know that?” she said.
They moved apart.
“And why now,” Wyatt said, “does he all of a sudden confess the truth?”
“What could be more obvious? You’re his son.”
During the night—under a blanket now, which Greer must have found somewhere while he slept—they came together
again, and in the morning woke up side by side. A little later, the room full of light—had to be midmorning, at least—she said, “Know what I’ve never had?”
The words
peace of mind
occurred to him at once; a strange, disturbing thought Wyatt kept to himself. “No,” he said.
“Breakfast in bed.”
“That’s what you want?”
“Real, real bad.”
He mussed her hair. “Okay.” A siren sounded, faint and far away.
“There’s a doughnut place half a mile down the street. Chocolate glazed, please, and coffee.”
A few minutes after that, he was dressed and in the Mustang. A fat raindrop splatted on the windshield, then a few more. Wyatt crossed a busy street—busy for Silver City—then passed a gas station with a sign on the pumps reading
NO GAS
, and came to Dippin’ Donuts. By that time it was raining hard. He ran inside, bought doughnuts and coffee, headed back to Greer’s old house, the windshield wipers going their fastest. Was there some way they could live together in East Canton? He’d have to juggle school and a part-time job, and she’d have to find work, too. But doing what? Wyatt was trying to imagine some future life for them as he recrossed the busy street. A police cruiser was going by. The cop at the wheel glanced over at him, then squealed around in a hard U-turn, siren on, lights flashing.
Me? Wyatt thought. He checked the speedometer. Wasn’t speeding, had done nothing wrong: he kept going. The cruiser zoomed right up behind him; in the rearview mirror
Wyatt saw the cop making angry pull-over gestures. Wyatt pulled over.
The cop got out of the cruiser, came to Wyatt’s door with his gun drawn. Gun drawn? What was going on? Were you supposed to have your lights on when it rained? Wyatt reached for the switch.
“Hands up high,” the cop yelled, rain dripping down off the brim of his hat, and the gun pointed through the glass right at Wyatt’s head.
Wyatt raised his hands.
The cop took a quick glance into the backseat, then threw open Wyatt’s door. “Get out real slow.”
Wyatt started getting out.
“Hands! Get ’em up or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”
Wyatt raised his hands as high as he could, stepped out of the car. The cop grabbed his shoulder, spun him around, and shoved him against the car.
“Any weapons on you?”
“No. What’s this—”
“Shut your goddamn mouth.”
Wyatt shut his mouth. Rain soaked his head, ran down his face.
“Spread your legs.”
Wyatt spread his legs. He felt the cop’s hands patting him down, starting from his armpits, working to his ankles.
“Don’t move a goddamn muscle.”
Wyatt didn’t move a muscle. He heard the ripping sound of a Velcro seal opening, and then the cop was talking on his radio. Moments after that, sirens started wailing and more
cruisers came barreling up the street from both directions. Cops jumped out, some of them dressed SWAT-style in body armor and armed with rifles or shotguns. One reached into the ignition, grabbed the keys, and moved to the trunk.
“Anybody in there—move and you’re dead,” he said.
Two of the SWAT guys took their stances, long guns aimed at the trunk. The cop with the keys opened the trunk and stepped back. From the corner of his eye, Wyatt could glimpse them peering in. But he knew there was nothing to see except the spare, his bat, his cleats, maybe some old towels.
Someone behind him said, “Turn around.”
Wyatt turned. A bunch of cops stood in front of him, guns still drawn but pointed down. In the middle, unarmed and wearing the only green uniform in all the blue, was Taneeka, the CO from the visitors’ room at Sweetwater State Penitentiary.
“This him?” said a cop with gold braid on his hat.
Taneeka nodded.
“Wyatt Lathem?” said the cop.
“Yes,” Wyatt said.
“You can lower your hands.”
Wyatt lowered his hands. The rain let up a bit and things got quieter. Wyatt heard water running in drains under the street.
“Where were you headed?” the cop said.
“To my friend’s place,” Wyatt said. He gestured toward the car. Guns came up right away. “I was bringing breakfast.”
The cop with the gold braid made a pointing motion with his chin. Another cop reached into the car, brought out the Dippin’ Donuts bag, handed it over. The cop with the gold braid looked inside.
“Where’s your friend’s place?” the cop said.
“Just down the street,” Wyatt said. “What’s this about? I don’t understand.”
“How about we go pay a call on him?” said the cop.
“Who?”
“This friend.”
“It’s a she,” Wyatt said. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”
“Take a guess.”
“I don’t have any idea.”
The cop gave him a long look. “You a good liar, son?”
“I’m not lying about anything,” Wyatt said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” the cop said. “Then how about we pay a call on your friend?”
“Cuff him, chief?” said one of the SWAT guys.
The cop with the gold braid shook his head. At that moment the Dippin’ Donuts bag, soggy with rain, came apart. The coffee cups splatted on the pavement, and coffee and doughnuts got washed away down the gutter.
Wyatt ended up riding in the back of the lead cruiser, one of the cops driving the Mustang. “Here,” he said, when they came to the brick house with the foreclosure sign.
They approached the front door, two SWAT guys first, then Wyatt and the chief, followed by the rest of the cops.
“This friend got a name?” the chief said.
“Greer,” Wyatt said. “Greer Torrance.”
“Come again?” said the chief.
Wyatt repeated the name. “She hasn’t done anything, either. You’re making a mistake.” Then he realized that breaking into the foreclosed house was probably a crime. But the kind of crime that brought out the SWAT team? He didn’t know.
One of the SWAT guys kicked at the door with his boot. “Open up.”
The door opened at once, and there was Greer, fully dressed. She took everything in fast, her eyes widening. “Wyatt? What’s wrong?”
“Remember me, Greer?” said the chief.
Greer nodded.
“No more playing with matches, I hope?” the chief said.
She looked him in the eye. “I never played with matches, so there’s nothing to give up.”
At that moment, Wyatt realized—or decided—that he loved her.
“Maybe we can discuss that further one day,” the chief said. “For now, we’re going to search this house.”
“Don’t you see the sign?” Greer said. “It’s empty. And what about a warrant?”
“Not necessary in a hot-pursuit situation,” the chief said.
“Hot pursuit?” Greer said. “I confess. The house belongs to the bank now but we spent one night in it anyway. Guilty as charged.”
“You trying to be funny?” the chief said.
“About what? Wyatt? What’s happening?”
“I don’t know.” His heart was pounding. He noticed for the first time a blue vein in the almost translucent skin at Greer’s temple: it was pounding, too.
The cops pushed past Greer and entered the house. Wyatt, Greer, the chief, and a uniformed cop waited in the doorway, out of the rain. Wyatt heard doors opening and closing, heavy footsteps on a staircase and down in the basement, nightsticks tapping on walls. One by one the cops came back, shaking their heads. They got in the cruisers and took off, lights flashing but sirens off. Only the chief and his driver stayed behind.
The chief turned to Wyatt. “You spent the night here?”
Wyatt nodded.
“Then went out for coffee?”
He nodded again.
“When was the last time you saw Sonny Racine?”
“Yesterday.”
“Where?”
“Where? In the visitors’ room at the prison, of course. Has something happened to him?”
“You wrote ‘family friend’ on the visitor form,” the chief said. “Elaborate.”
So that was it. “It’s not a lie,” Wyatt said. “I just didn’t know what to put.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it turns out he’s my biological father—I’d never met him in my life before I came here.”
The chief nodded. “Not as uncommon a situation as you
might think—lots of the inmates are that way, like animals,” he said. “Any reason why you decided to look him up at this point?”
Greer spoke first. “Why shouldn’t he? Wouldn’t you be curious?”
The chief looked at her. “Maybe,” he said. “At that age. Which is kind of what I’m getting at here. At your age it’s easy to make mistakes that change your whole life. Wouldn’t want to see that happen. You follow?”
“No,” Greer said. “I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“First, I was talking to young Wyatt here,” the chief said. “Second, I believe you. If I didn’t, the two of you’d be in a cell right now.”
“Why?” Wyatt said.
“Because,” the chief said, “Sonny Racine’s on the loose.”
“Oh my God,” Greer said.
“On the loose?” Wyatt said. “He escaped?”
“Not from the prison,” said the chief. “That’s never happened yet. But they were taking him to the hospital and he broke out of the van. Called for help and when they stopped and opened up he just sprang. Apparently wasn’t cuffed—totally against procedure—on account of his injuries and long peaceable record.”
“What injuries?” Wyatt said.
“He took a beating of some sort—don’t have the details as yet. But the point I’m making—if he tries to contact you, get in touch with us right away. You’ll be doing him a favor. Escapees never get away, but they often die trying, if you see
what I mean.” His eyes went to Greer, back to Wyatt. “I’ll take that for a yes,” he said. “Aiding and abetting are felonies, probably so obvious it’s a waste of breath to mention.” He turned and walked away, the driver following. They got in the cruiser and rode off, the chief glancing back just before they turned a corner.
The wind picked up, whipped a curtain of rain into the house. Greer closed the door. They stepped into each other’s arms. Wyatt had a bad, bad feeling inside, and her embrace didn’t take it away.
“This is horrible,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Why would he do it, after all these years?”
“Haven’t got a clue,” Greer said. “Let’s find out.”
“Find out? How?”
She took him by the hand, led him up the stairs. The cops had left their damp footprints on the bare treads. “There used to be a nice soft carpet,” Greer said. “I loved sitting on these stairs when I was a kid, seeing the tops of people’s heads. Lots of parties in those days.”
At the top they turned right, walked down a hall. The wall had light rectangular patches at picture-hanging level. They entered a room at the end of the hall.
“My dad’s bedroom,” Greer said. “Mom and Dad’s, in ancient times; then he moved to the couch, then she moved out and he moved back.” The closet door was open; she walked toward it. “I used to search the house from top to bottom before my birthday,” she said, “trying to find the presents.” She went into the closet, a completely empty cedar closet with
a bare rail for hanging clothes and three brass hooks on the back wall. “I never did find my dad’s hidey-hole—he ended up telling me where it was after they put him away, on account of some papers he needed.” Greer reached for the top right-hand hook. “Some papers he needed burned, actually.”
Greer twisted the hook. Wyatt heard a faint click. A portion of the wall swung open. This was a cleverly concealed door, its edges hidden in the grooves between the cedar planks, the hinges on the inside, and also padded so tapping wouldn’t produce a hollow sound. On the other side of the cleverly concealed door was a space big enough for a man to stand in. The man standing in it was Sonny Racine.