was saying? — when his mom called.
“Wyatt? How are you doing?”
“Fine.”
“Yeah? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Uh, good. That’s nice. I’m calling with some news-Rusty got that job. Remember I was telling you? Driving a truck for-”
“I remember.”
“Not the greatest job, but in this economy it’s nothing to shake a stick at. Means he’ll be away a lot-did I mention that? Only every second weekend here at home, at least to start. Company puts him up in motels on the on-weekends, and he’ll be sleeping in the cab most other times, till we get some savings going again. Next Monday’s his first day, meaning he’ll be gone for two weeks after that.” She paused, maybe waiting for him to say something.
“Sounds good,” Wyatt said, the only comment that came to mind.
“Yeah, well, it’ll be tough on him, of course, and on…but I was thinking this might be a good time for you to, uh, come on home.”
That made sense. Wyatt knew it right away.
“Up to you, Wyatt. But since there’s no baseball in either place, why not?”
“Yeah, Mom, I think you’re right.”
“Oh, wonderful. I was really hoping you’d say that. And Cammy will be so happy-she misses you something terrible.”
“Don’t tell her right away.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“Just want to think about it for a day or so. I wouldn’t be coming back till Monday anyway.” Eliminating the slightest chance of seeing Rusty, even just coming and going at the front door.
“All right,” his mom said. “Think it over, for sure. But doesn’t it make sense?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Be seeing you, then. Drive safe.”
Aunt Hildy got delayed at work. Dub came home with pizza. Wyatt was at the kitchen table, Hamlet open in front of him. If the ghost was just in Hamlet’s mind, how come these other guys, like Horatio and Marcellus, saw it? On the other hand, the ghost didn’t talk to them, talked only to Hamlet, so maybe Anna was right. The ghost went on and on, kind of understandable phrase by phrase-except for impossible words here and there, some sort of explained in the margins-but not at all understandable in its entirety. Whatever was on the ghost’s mind got Hamlet upset, although for some reason he didn’t tell Horatio and Marcellus anything about it. Weren’t they Hamlet’s friends, Horatio especially? There was no Shakespeare in sophomore English at East Canton High-a good reason to go back, right there. That was kind of a joke: he wanted to tell it to Greer.
Dub slid the pizza box across the table. “How was practice?” Wyatt said.
“We suck.”
“Can’t be that bad.”
“We scrimmaged Southern High-sixteen-zip before they stopped it. Can’t hit, can’t pitch, can’t field, can’t do shit. Nobody’s heard of the cutoff man.”
“Bad days happen.”
“Bad as this? Guess who had to pitch the ninth.”
“You?”
Dub nodded.
“That’s bad. Did you get anybody out?”
“Hell no.” Dub tore a slice of pizza from the box, downed it in two bites, a string of melted cheese hanging off his chin. “This all sucks.”
“What does?”
“Everything-coming here, you not playing, Coach Bouchard getting shafted.”
Wyatt shrugged.
“Come on-you don’t miss baseball?” Dub said.
“Yeah, I miss it.”
They ate more pizza, got down to the last slice, flipped a coin for it.
“Tails,” Wyatt said.
Heads. Dub finished the pizza. He was still chewing when he suddenly looked up at Wyatt and said, “So tell me about this babe.”
“Babe?”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“People,” Dub said. “Is it supposed to be a secret or something? How come you didn’t tell me?”
“It just happened. And what was I supposed to say?”
“What were you supposed to say?” Dub said. “Whether you were getting any, of course. What else?”
A good reason for secrecy, right there. Dub was his best friend, didn’t mean any harm, but Wyatt got angry anyway, so angry he was a bit taken aback himself. He pushed away from the table, knocking the pizza box to the floor. “It’s nobody’s goddamn business.”
“Hey. Calm down.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calmed down.”
Dub laughed.
“I’m not joking,” Wyatt said.
Dub held up his big hand-his left, catching, hand, two fingers taped. “Ease off, Wyatt. Just trying to look out for you, is all.”
“I don’t need looking out for. And wipe your goddamn chin.”
“Huh?” Dub wiped his chin, glanced at the cheese on the back of his hand, smeared it on his pants, then glared at Wyatt. Now he was angry, too. Was the cheese responsible in some way? “Not so sure about that,” Dub said, “the not-needing-looking-after part.”
“Oh? How come?” Wyatt’s chin was up. He felt the kind of thing that was coming, even if he couldn’t have said exactly what.
“’Cause maybe you’ve gotten in over your head. This girl has a reputation, according to Aunt Hildy. No way you could have known, so new here.”
“What reputation?”
“Don’t make me spell it out.”
“Spell it out.”
Wyatt’s chin came up a little more. Dub was red in the face. They’d somehow closed in on each other, even though the table was still between them. Getting into a fistfight with Dub? Something that had never happened, had never come close to happening, in all the years they’d been friends. Was it about to happen now? Dub would kick the shit out of him, no doubt about that. Wyatt got ready.
Dub took a deep breath, backed away. “Naw,” he said. “Gossip sucks. You do what you gotta do.” He turned, picked up his books, went upstairs.
Wyatt put the pizza box in the trash, sponged off the table, and then went down the first-floor hall to his bedroom at the end. His cell phone rang. He checked the number: Greer. Wyatt didn’t answer. He was going home.
A few hours later, as he was falling asleep, he had a crazy thought: What would have happened if, after the talk with his father’s ghost, Hamlet had just said fuck it and left town, starting life somewhere else and ending the play in the middle of Act One. He wondered what Anna would think of an idea like that.
Wyatt was fast asleep when a distant tap-tap reached down into his consciousness. Tap. Tap. He rolled over, opened his eyes. Tap. Tap. The sound was coming from his window, a sound a lot like the tapping of a sharp
