“I don’t know.” But she was nineteen, smart, good-looking. Was reading to old blind people all she wanted? “Your music, for example. Isn’t that something you want to do?”
“Didn’t I mention that I sing flat?”
“I liked your singing.”
“And my playing is faked,” Greer went on, showing no sign she’d heard him. “I mentioned that, too.”
“It didn’t sound faked to me,” Wyatt said.
“What are you really saying?” Greer said. “That I’m not good enough for you as I am?”
“Huh?” All of a sudden they seemed to be fighting; about what, he didn’t know.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m not. I don’t understand what-”
“And since you brought up the subject of plans, are you going to divulge yours any time soon?”
Wyatt glanced at her again: still gazing at the road ahead, no expression on her face to indicate she was in a fight. “No secret,” he said. “Graduate from high school, go to community college if I can, see what happens after that.”
“Graduate from what high school?”
“This one. Bridger.”
“Good luck and Godspeed,” she said.
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?”
“If I have to tell you, that just proves it.” She leaned forward, switched on the radio, turned some country song up to earsplitting volume.
Wyatt hit the off button. For a second or two, he thought she would turn it back on, foresaw a quick mutual deterioration back to completely childish behavior. But instead Greer shifted away from him and cracked her window open an inch. Cold air came flowing in.
Some cows went by, then some sheep, and a llama. Only the llama turned to look. There was something about the gaze of the llama, or maybe the angle of its head, that crazily enough seemed scary for a moment. Wyatt took a deep breath.
“What’s going on?” he said. “Why are you mad at me?”
There was a long silence. All Wyatt knew was that he wouldn’t let himself ask again. A little settlement appeared in the distance, low shapes with lots of right angles in an enormous natural landscape with none. Wyatt parked in front of an old general store with a hitching rail out front.
“I’m getting a sandwich,” he said. “Want anything?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Wyatt switched off the car. And then a second crazy thing: he almost took the keys with him.
He went inside, got a turkey sandwich on homemade bread, a bag of chips, and a yogurt for Greer; she liked yogurt, could eat it later if she wanted. What was wrong with her all of a sudden? He had no idea. Back outside, he saw that she was on her phone. She closed it and put it away as he entered the car.
“Who was that?” he said, handing her the yogurt.
She put it on the floor. “Just some asshole.”
“Who?”
“Nobody you know.” She was silent as they pulled away. A state trooper zoomed by in the other direction. Greer sighed. “My landlord,” she said. “If it’s really that important.”
Wyatt felt some of the tension between them dissipate. He tore off one end of the sandwich wrapper with his teeth, took a bite, realizing at the first taste how hungry he was. “What’d he want?” he said, talking with his mouth full.
“What do landlords usually want?”
“Rent?”
She nodded.
“How much is it?” he said. “I should be contributing.”
“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Fine for money.” She reached for the yogurt. “Lemon, my favorite. Thanks.” She started eating, shifted back closer to him. The sun came out, or if it had been out the whole time, Wyatt finally noticed.
Both East Canton and Silver City were hilly towns on rivers. Millerville was flat and riverless; as they drove into it, Wyatt couldn’t imagine why anyone would have picked this spot for a town in the first place. They followed the main street past a doughnut shop, an auto supplies place, a going-out-of-business gift shop, a boarded-up building, the town hall. The town hall was solid-looking with a round tower on top; most of the windows in the tower were broken.
“What a pit,” Greer said. “We better stop and ask.”
“Ask what?”
“Directions for thirty-two Cain Street,” Greer said. “Shouldn’t we have a look at where all this went down? Or do you want to start at Pingree’s construction yard, assuming it still exists?”
Wyatt didn’t know, hadn’t thought much about the steps beyond just getting to Millerville. “How are we going to do this?”
“Look around,” said Greer. “Play it by ear. Isn’t that the way everyone ends up doing just about anything?”
Wyatt thought that over. People tried to organize the future-for example, Coach Bouchard had come up with the whole Bridger idea, trying to keep baseball in Wyatt’s future-but then things had gone wrong, at least partly because Mr. Mannion had been organizing Dub’s future at the same time-and since then, yes: Wyatt had pretty much been playing it by ear. Maybe Greer was right and it was the same even at the very highest levels-why else would the economy be like this, boarded up, going-out-of-business, bankrupt? Everyone, from the top right on down to him, here in this crappy flatland town, ended up playing it by ear.
“Okay,” he said, “how about thirty-two Cain Street to start?”
“Now you’re talking,” Greer said. “Pull over-here’s a likely citizen.”
He pulled over. The likely citizen was an old woman in a pink quilted jacket, tacking a notice to a telephone pole with a small hammer. Wyatt slid down his window.
The old woman glanced over, pausing in midstroke. “You seen Effie?” she said. “Effie’s my cat.”
“Sorry, no.”
“She’s missing. White with black feet.”
“Uh,” Wyatt said, “we’re looking for Cain Street.”
“Cain Street?” said the woman. “No way Effie’d make it that far, not with her arthritis.”
“Where is it?”
“Cain Street? To hell and gone.” She waved vaguely. “Know where the bus station used to be? Way past that.” She went back to tacking up the notice.
“Thanks,” Wyatt said, pulling away.
“I hate cats,” said Greer.
“What about dogs?”
“I’ve always wanted one.”
“Me, too.”
“Let’s get one.”
“Maybe sometime.”
Greer sat back, folded her arms across her chest. He had another crazy thought: she wanted this dog today. “We could name it Millerville,” he said. She laughed, and put her hand on his knee. He placed his hand over hers; it felt cold, and not quite steady. “Are you nervous about something?” he said.
“Always,” she said. “Didn’t you know?” She raised his hand and kissed it. “But not with you.”
They found the old bus station-now padlocked, with a bright orange notice on the door-and came to Cain Street a few blocks later.
“Right or left?” Wyatt said. Greer pointed to the right. Wyatt turned right. The houses on Cain Street were small and low, mostly aluminum sided, a few painted cinder block, plus one or two sagging trailers that looked like they’d never move again. The lawns were brown and weedy, littered with all kinds of things-bald tires, rusted
