The Point

YOU CAME HERE AS CHILDREN, keynote speaker Senator Wesley Ditko said, but you leave here as men and women.

Mid-May was typically beautiful in the Philadelphia suburbs, but today the sun beat down mercilessly on the 411 graduating seniors seated before the stage. Their suffering families sagged along open bleachers.

Master Sergeant Charles Winter, U.S. Army, retired, gray-haired and bespectacled, sat ramrod straight on the top bleacher, watching the proceedings with a stony face that betrayed neither pride nor impatience.

Mrs. Winter, resplendent in a bright yellow dress, moved incessantly, fanning herself with the graduation program. She shifted in her seat and whispered to her son.

Sergeant Daniel Winter, U.S. Marine Corps, sat as straight as his father but failed to replicate the man’s stoicism. He beamed, proud and relieved. His kid sister actually was going to graduate after all.

A plane in its hangar is safe, Senator Ditko said, and smiled down at the fidgeting seniors, pausing to make eye contact with the valedictorian: his daughter. But planes aren’t meant to sit in hangars. Ladies and gentlemen, you are clear for takeoff. Spread your wings and fly!

Principal Santana returned to the microphone, her face shining with perspiration, and began calling students onstage. Douglas Abbey stumbled coming up the stairs but caught himself and gave the crowd a big grin before shaking the principal’s hand and accepting his diploma.

One by one, students crossed the stage. Whatever each had been—athlete or scholar, geek or dullard, stud or square—it was over now. He or she had run the gauntlet, surviving the thirteen years of institutionalized insanity that constitute the American public school experience.

Mrs. Winter fanned her face, which grew redder with each passing minute.

Principal Santana called, Demarcus Winslow.

Mrs. Winter tucked the makeshift fan into her purse and grabbed the hands of her husband and son. Here we go.

This was it.

After all these years, all these worries—troubles at school and problems with police and endless emergency room visits in which nurses cooed over her pretty daughter, the girl with a wild streak, a daredevil who seemed to have broken every bone in her body—her baby finally was graduating.

Wild but sweet, her Scarlett. Always sweet and loving, full of kindness.

Mrs. Winter loved her husband and son, but they were cold and self-reliant, as her own father had been. Not Scarlett. Scarlett was her heart, her only warmth in the Winter household.

The long suffering was finally over. At last, a new beginning.

Principal Santana called, Scarlett Winter.

Mrs. Winter laughed and leaned forward, her vision blurry with tears of joy.

There was a brief pause.

From the student seating, choppy bursts of laughter rattled like sporadic gunfire.

Scarlett Winter? Principal Santana repeated.

No one stood. No one climbed the stairs. No one crossed the stage.

More laughter rippled through the crowd, and for a frantic second Mrs. Winter feared she might join in with a peal of hysterical laughter.

Principal Santana cleared her throat. Jeffrey Wood.

A blond-haired boy whooped loudly, charged up the stairs, and Frisbeed his mortarboard into the applauding crowd.

Mrs. Winter dropped her face into her hands and sobbed.

Master Sergeant Winter, his mouth a grim slash across his sunburned face, stood and nodded to his son. Together they took Mrs. Winter’s arms and helped her to her feet. If not overtly sympathetic, the men were inarguably gentle and protective. Fiercely so, even.

As the family made its slow descent, people turned to watch with sympathy, amusement, or horror. Master Sergeant Winter stared straight ahead, betraying nothing.

The eyes of the broad-shouldered Marine, however, burned with rage. Marching stiffly toward the parking lot, he growled, Where the hell is Scarlett?

STRETCHED OUT HIGH ATOP THE stone quarry cliff, loving the bright sunshine baking her bare skin, Scarlett grinned, naked save for bright blue knee socks, aviator shades, and perhaps too many scars for a girl of eighteen.

Nick, the cute, inked-up vegan she’d been hanging with lately, lay beside her. His blond dreads spilled over his tanned shoulders as he sat up and took a deep pull off the pipe.

Scarlett liked the way that sunlight twinkled on his nose ring and glistened along the light sheen of perspiration covering his lean body. They’d broken a sweat climbing the cliff and had kept it rolling with a spirited celebration at the top. Life was good.

Her phone vibrated, rattling on the rocky ground between their towels.

Uh oh, Nick said, smiling slyly.

Scarlett’s stomach lurched. Picturing her mother’s face, she felt a pang of guilt. She started to reach for the phone, but then she pictured her father’s face and…

Nick capped the bowl with the red Bic. You going to answer it?

She just stared, her hand hovering there. The phone stopped vibrating.

Guess not, Nick said, and handed her the pipe.

She sucked in a deep hit of Super Lemon Haze. It was good weed. A little tart, a little sweet, like smoking Lemonhead candy. It’s my life, not theirs, she said, holding the citrusy smoke. I’m the one who has to live with my choices.

Mom wanted her to go to college, which right now held about as much appeal as chugging a gallon of spoiled milk. She was tired of rules and homework and sitting around, listening to people talk.

Her father wanted her to go into the Army.

Screw that…

Scarlett had plans. She and Ginny were going to backpack in Europe. Sleep in youth hostels, drink good beer, see the sights—Paris, Madrid, Rome—and meet up with Ginny’s dad in Amsterdam. They’d sail to the Caribbean and check out the yacht culture, rich people partying 24/7 and swapping business cards.

She just had to break it to her parents.

She handed Nick the pipe. Then she picked up a rock and pitched it over the cliff and watched it tumble down, down, down and smack into the quarry pond a hundred feet below. Impact rings pulsed across the surface.

Nick took another hit and held the pipe out to her again.

She waved him off and leaned back. I’m good. High above, an airplane glinted in the sky. She imagined the people sitting up there, doing crosswords and playing solitaire at several hundred miles an hour.

She stood and pulled on her shorts and bikini top. She had to shake this mood. Here she was, free at last, but she felt like she was being smothered.

Don’t let it get you down, Nick said. We’re celebrating, right? He unzipped the backpack and pulled out a pair of Yuenglings beaded with condensation. Smiling over his shoulder—the one tattooed carpe diem—he said, Wanna do it again?

No, she said, stuffing her phone and sandals into her backpack.

I have to do something, she said. I have to shake things up.

But we were—

Scarlett didn’t stick around to hear the rest of it. She took three running steps and leaped into the void.

CLOSER, CLOSER, CLOSER…

Jagger opened his eyes. He lay in the gloom beneath a highway overpass. He heard the whoosh of cars driving overhead and smelled smoke and the savory aroma of campfire cooking.

He didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten here. He’d blacked out again.

He sat up, squinted.

Beyond the gloom, daylight illuminated a weedy slope clumped with sumac and strewn with highway litter. Nearer, half in light, half in shade, loomed a hulking bum holding a two-by-four, one end of which bristled with rusty nails, like one of the masus that the Hutus had favored during the Rwandan genocide.

Not that Jagger had been in Rwanda. That had been before his time. His time was now—and of course, his time was yet to come.

Closer, closer…

Fragmented memories returned to him, blurry and out of sequence: walking the highway, whistling, alone; the bright green quad of a college campus, two dozen crisp young hipsters gathered around, eyes gleaming; the hulking vagrant down on his knees, crying, begging forgiveness. Trying to make sense of these piecemeal flashes was like trying to reassemble a stained-glass window smashed into muddy ground.

Jagger rolled with it. He understood everything that he needed to understand for now, such as the fact that the gigantic hobo had stood watch over him all night.

Downslope, near the dirt road at the bottom of the gully, dozens of bums and madmen gathered around campfires, waiting. He saw others arriving, looking this way, craning their necks, and receiving pamphlets. He remembered preaching beneath a full moon and understood that his congregation had doubled, possibly tripled, during his slumber.

The dreams had been strong. Sadie’s voice echoed in his ears. The sense of her driving this way on the open road lingered like a taste.

Yes.

Despite his recent blackouts and Penny’s meltdown and the colossal mess in Atlanta, everything finally was coming together.

The big bum turned, six and a half feet of flat-out crazy, dressed—despite the sweltering heat—in a badly soiled Army cold-weather field jacket. The man’s grizzled beard was streaked in grease and dark matter, blood or tobacco juice. With his bushy hair pulled back in a warrior’s ponytail and bound by a filthy red-white-and-blue Budweiser headband, he looked like a backwoods hobo-demon long on the road but now returning, the worst nightmare of the Wall Street 1 percent coming at last for his share of the American dream.

But he isn’t their worst nightmare, Jagger thought. I am.

Seeing Jagger smile, the giant bum smiled, too. His wolfish teeth were yellow and spotted with rot. His eyes gleamed.

Jagger could feel adoration and loyalty coming off the man in waves.

He is risen! the man called downhill, his voice husky with emotion.

Jagger rose and dusted himself off. He slipped into his well-worn combat boots and lifted his rucksack from the ground.

More memories arrived, increasing in clarity.

Before coming here to this hobo jungle, he’d spent the evening twenty miles away at Rutherford University, spreading the good word to moneyed young scholars there.

A very different good word than he’d spread here, of course.

And a much different good word than he’d be spreading tomorrow evening.

Everything drawing together. The dawn of a new world. Not so much a birthing as a manifestation.

Bums hobbled timidly up the trail, murmuring quietly, gentle as sheep.

He wondered what their eager eyes saw. Each would see someone different, of course, but how different? How significantly did their fears and desperation shape his vision?

He approached the hulking man and asked, What is your name, my son?

Ezzard, the man whispered.

Excellent, Jagger said. He placed a hand on the giant’s shoulder and turned him gently to face the crowd. This is my high priest, Ezzard. You will listen to him until my return.

He set the rucksack on the ground and undid the clasps and opened it and pulled out the remaining stacks of bundled hundred-dollar bills. These he offered to Ezzard, who laid his weapon on the ground and accepted the teetering pile of cash with his massive filthy hands.

Feed these people, Jagger said. Heal these people.

Ezzard nodded his shaggy head. One glistening tear rolled down his creased and weather-beaten face and disappeared into the forest of his graying beard. I will.

Jagger stared into the man’s eyes. I know you will, Ezzard, he said. You understand what to do with the rest, yes?

Ezzard nodded enthusiastically.

Jagger patted his shoulder gently. I will speak to you in dreams, my son, and you will prophesy to my people, the People of the Road, the People of the Underpass, the Shadow People, whom society has exiled…until we return on the Day of Reckoning.

He raised his voice, addressing the zealots. You are my people.

Yes! a bald man with a scabbed forehead shouted, and the others nodded enthusiastically. A crooked old woman in a ragged dress offered a surreal curtsy.

You are no longer alone, no longer forsaken. Every day, our numbers grow. You will go forth on roads and rails and spread my word to those you recognize as our people.

Yes!

Yes, we will!

Jagger nodded back at them. Dark days are coming, my children.

Signs and wonders!

Yes, Jagger said. You will know me by these signs and wonders, but until our time arrives, you will endure great tribulation. Do not lose faith. These sufferings will cleanse you, preparing you for my return, and this is my promise to you. Every persecution you suffer in my name will multiply your reward upon my return. He raised a fist overhead and extended his four fingers, leaving only the thumb tucked.

The transients mimicked him.

The Crown of Glory bathes you in its blessed light, he told them.

Yes, Lord!

Downhill, the green sedan appeared, bumping toward them over the rutted access road.

Perfect.

Gesturing to the bundled money, he said, "I am the god who sacrifices to his people. My blessings unto you, children. May these gifts and my promise sustain you until we are rejoined."

As he descended the weedy hillside, vials and syringes crunched beneath his boots. The faithful cleared a path, bowing and kneeling. Some shied away, terrified in their awe.

As they should, he thought.

The sedan stopped. Beautiful Sadie, twenty-five years old and already gray, beamed at him and slid into the passenger seat.

Jagger gave Sadie just the hint of a smile.

She beamed up at him. You’re filthy, she said, but her tone was all joy and lust.

I’ve been on the road for a long time.

Too long, she said, and the pink tip of her tongue peeked from between her white teeth.

He turned back to the gathering of transients staring down at him.

Signs and wonders, he said to them, and raised his hand overhead, once again making the sign of the Crown of Glory.

The motley congregation aped him.

Then he extended his thumb and did something they could never, ever replicate.

They cried out in terror and adulation as the rucksack he’d left behind rose into the air, drifted over their heads, and lowered slowly into his hand.

He shouldered the bag, walked around the car, and slid into the driver’s seat.

Sadie grinned like the cat who’d tortured the canary to death before eating it. You’re getting stronger.

He nodded. His power swelled every day. Yet he’d lost time again, hadn’t he? There were times when it felt—

But no. He couldn’t consider those things now. Not with everything coming together.

I am pleased with you, he said, putting the car into gear and bumping away over the rough road. Give me the sitrep.

Operation Softball Glove is good to go, Sadie said. "They’ll deliver your message tonight—with a bang."

THE HOUSE WAS DIM AND silent and cold. Gooseflesh rose along Scarlett’s exposed skin. Ever since Afghanistan, her father had kept their home at morgue temperature.

Mom?

Silence save for the faint ticking of a clock.

She felt a twinge of hope. Maybe they’d bumped into friends at the ceremony. If so, she could leave a note and bolt. Spend the night at a friend’s. Let the whole thing blow over.

Jumping off the quarry cliff had jarred her out of the funk, but now she felt the blues flooding back in.

Mom?

Coming down the hall, she smelled food, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since…when, precisely? Last night? She stepped into the kitchen but stopped dead in the doorway.

What is this?

She saw chips and pretzels, crackers and cheese, fruit and vegetables, lunch meat and sandwich rolls; glass dispensers filled with tea and lemonade and Mom’s cucumber water; stacks of red plastic cups alongside tubs of melting ice packed with wine and beer and soda; two dozen liquor bottles sitting beside mixers and wedges of freshly cut lime.

A cake covered half the kitchen table. Across white icing, blue lettering shouted, CONGRATULATIONS, SCARLETT! WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT! LOVE MOM, DAD, AND DAN.

They’d planned a huge surprise party for her, but…

I ruined it.

No one had even bothered to cover the food. In the reckoning silence, she could hear flies buzzing back and forth from feast to feast.

A shotgun blast of emotion filled her with conflicting impulses. She felt like shooing the flies and covering the food…or speeding away on her Yamaha to go somewhere and get blackout drunk.

Instead, she picked up a handful of salami and stood there eating, caught in an unfocused stare. Hearing a sound, she blinked. Her father stood in the doorway, staring at her with disgust.

Use a plate, he said, and offered a bitter smile. There are plenty left.

Scarlett grabbed a plate from the counter, but her hunger was gone. She set the meat on the plate and placed the plate on the counter and grabbed a napkin and wiped the grease from her fingers. Crumpling the napkin, she noticed the custom printing: CONGRATULATIONS, SCARLETT!

Her father stared, saying nothing. Flies buzzed.

Where’s Mom? she finally asked.

She’s resting.

Resting. That meant she was up there crying, waiting for the Xanax to kick in.

Her father uncapped a bottle of Jack and poured himself a double.

She couldn’t believe it. He’d been on the wagon for years. You’re drinking?

He lifted the tumbler, gulped down half the whiskey, and turned to her with dead eyes. Want to make this about me? After what you did?

Hey, I—

Your mother did all of this for you, he said, gesturing toward the ruined feast, and you just blew off graduation. Didn’t even call her.

I texted her.

Bull. He sipped his whiskey. You know she never checks her phone.

I—

You bailed and didn’t have the guts to tell us. Now you’re blaming your mother? He shook his head and swallowed the rest of the whiskey. You’re a real peach, kid.

Scarlett said nothing. Out in the world, nothing scared her—not cliff diving, popping wheelies on the freeway, or running from the cops—but her father always made her feel weak.

He poured another double. I spoke with Sergeant Mitchell this afternoon.

It took her a second. The recruiter?

Her father sipped his whiskey. You meet with him Monday morning, 6:30 a.m.

She shook her head. I’m not joining the Army. I have plans.

He rolled his eyes. You missed the application deadline. Besides, you wouldn’t last a semester. Forget flunking. You’d self-destruct.

No I wouldn’t, she said, but her words came out in a whisper.

The Army will teach you the things your mother wouldn’t let me teach you. Responsibility, discipline, character.

Is that what you were doing when you hit Dan? Building character? The man had never hit Scarlett, only Dan. He’d just ignored her and scowled at her with contempt.

He spread his hands. "Look at your brother now…and look at you. For all of your mother’s mollycoddling, are you happier than Dan? No. He’s proud, part of something real, working hard toward a goal that’s bigger than himself."

She looked at her feet.

Her father said, You’re a beautiful, athletic, intelligent girl, but you’re soft. You dominated every sport you tried…and quit every one. You coasted through school. You don’t even keep a steady boyfriend. There’s more to life than just scooping ice cream and chasing boys. It’s time to grow up, quit sampling flavors, and commit to something real.

She looked up. Nice vanilla life, huh? Be happy, like you and Mom?

You’re selfish, he said. That’s the point. You have the potential to make the world a better place, but you just sit on the sidelines and twiddle your thumbs.

I don’t owe the world anything.

You owe the world everything, he said, and the world demands far more of women than it does of girls.

In two weeks, I’m going to Europe with Ginny, she said, wanting to be done with this. We’re going backpacking and—

He gave a condescending snort, tossed back the rest of the whiskey, and reached again for the bottle.

You can’t stop me, she said, hating the weakness of her own voice.

He laughed. My daughter, Peter-frigging-Pan in female form.

I have money saved.

You’d burn through it in a week, partying. Sure, Ginny would loan you more, because she’s a spoiled brat, but sooner or later you’d piss her off, and she’d leave you in the lurch. And who would have to bail you out? Me, that’s who. Because your mother would divorce me if I let her baby learn a real lesson.

Scarlett felt sapped. No, it won’t be—

What about a passport? he asked with a grin. Were you planning on picking one up at Wawa on your way to the airport?

Something crumbled inside her. The passport…

The party’s over, Scarlett. Time to quit scooping tutti-frutti and become an adult.

Everything was crashing down. She’d printed the passport application months ago, but…

Something in her father’s eyes softened. Hell, kid. I know you’ve got it in you. You’ve proved that. What you did that night last summer… He shook his head.

A tickling sensation crawled over her scars, and she could all but hear the woman and her child screaming as the car burned around them. You would’ve done it, too.

Her father shook his head and stared into the empty tumbler. No, I couldn’t have.

In the heat of the moment, anyone can be a hero.

He stared into her eyes. You did something miraculous that night.

She could only shrug. The tickling along her scars turned to an itch.

There’s a special strength inside you, he said, waiting for you to call upon it.

Scarlett remembered the woman smiling as her hair burned. I hope I never have to call on it again.

Sometimes we must suffer to find happiness. It’s the nature of mankind. At leisure, we stagnate. But under the worst conditions, we evolve.

They stood there, neither of them capable of anything like a deescalating embrace. In the silence, Scarlett again heard the flies—and music now, faintly, classic rock, playing in the backyard. She looked out the window and saw the old Jeep parked beside the garage, speakers and a beer sitting on its hood.

Dan’s home? she asked, shocked.

He came to see you graduate.

She felt a surge of excitement. She hadn’t seen Dan since Christmas.

Her father swirled his whiskey and smirked. Careful. He isn’t very happy with you.

Scarlett walked past him and pushed out the door, leaving the tomblike home and stepping into the heat and noise of the backyard.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you, her father’s voice said, and the door shut between them.

OUT IN THE WARMTH OF the sunny backyard, with classic rock blasting and the world sprawling away in all directions, Scarlett instantly felt lighter and more energetic.

Dan’s legs jutted from beneath the Jeep, a new tattoo shining on one muscular calf. Zeppelin replaced the Stones.

Scarlett grinned. Such a Dan scene.

A thick arm covered in tats shot out from beneath the Jeep and patted around the grass. The hand closed on a wrench and dragged it back into darkness.

Dan, Scarlett called. Hey, Dan!

Nothing.

Scarlett stopped the music. Hey, bro.

A grunt. The wrench shot from beneath the Jeep. Next came a thick arm streaked in motor oil.

Scarlett flinched. When they were kids, Dan had been terrifying, but he’d changed after joining the Corps and escaping the beatings. He’d never apologized, but he went out of his way to be nice to her now. She knew that he was sorry for how he’d treated her growing up and knew that she had been catching secondhand beatings from an older brother driven half out of his mind by steady abuse. Dan hadn’t hurt her in years, but hearing the grunt and seeing that thick arm—did oil always look that much like blood?—she stiffened with apprehension.

Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? she asked, trying to sound natural.

Dan’s face emerged, looking weathered and hard. Where were you?

At the quarry, she said, celebrating with a friend.

Dan stood, looking pissed. He’d put on even more muscle since she’d last seen him. You blew off graduation for some guy?

He’s smoking hot, she said, trying to keep it light. Hey, I’m sorry. If I had known you were coming, I would’ve been there. She spread her arms. Give me a hug.

Dan stuck out his palm like