“Ella,” Stacy said, calmly but firmly, leaving no room for anything but compliance on her daughter’s part. She spoke as loudly as she could without projecting aggression so as to ensure she was heard by Joe and the others. “Get up nice and slow girl so these fine people can see you ain’t nothin’ but a kid who minds her mama and don’t mean them no harm.”
“Mr. Brown is kinda old and don’t get around as easily as he used to,” she told Joe in the same loud but even tone with which she’d addressed her daughter; each syllable enunciated with deliberate clarity, each inflection considered for its possible effects before being spoken aloud. “I’m going to ask him to stand too, but please don’t take any jerkiness by him as anything but age and nerves while he’s gettin’ up. We’re all kinda shook up over here. Same as you, I ‘spect.”
“Yes ma’am,” Joe answered. Judging by what he could see of Stacy he guessed he was her senior by at least a few years, but the authority, not demanded but simply present, in her voice and the way she naturally took charge of her situation made the title ma’am feel wholly appropriate. He paused for a long moment, like a kid before a headfirst dive, then took the plunge.
“Listen,” he said to Stacy, his own voice sounding less commanding and more like a plea than he’d intended. “I’m armed too. I’m carrying the shotgun you can probably see on a sling and a pistol clipped to my belt. I’m gonna slowly take them off and lay them on the ground. Please don’t mistake what I’m doin’ for anything more.”
Joe inhaled, holding the breath deep in his chest, and waited for a response. When none came he let it out slowly, took in another and continued, “Then I’m gonna talk to my kids for a second before I walk over to you so we can talk face to face. Would that be okay?”
“It is,” was all he got in reply. Better than a bullet, he decided. He lifted the sling holding the double barrel shotgun above his head then laid it slowly on the ground. He did the same with the thirty-eight special on his hip before turning to Jen and Jake.
“You two listen and don’t say nothin’ back,” he said, almost whispering. “I’m gonna go over and talk to these people.” He could see alarm animate both of their faces, but to his surprise they both obeyed, remaining quiet.
“Jake,” he said focusing his attention on the boy, “I want you to stay put, but look at my guns. Make sure you know right where they are. Be ready to grab them if need be. Do you understand me?” Jake nodded, but his expression showed anything but understanding.
“Try not to worry, Son. It’ll make more sense if the time comes and you need to do it,” Joe said, all but certain his reassurance to be a lie, before turning to Jen.
“Jen, You’re in charge while I’m over there,” he said, his eyes conveying the gravity of the burden he was placing on her shoulders. “I expect this to turn out well, but if it don’t I want you to listen close and do what I tell you.”
“If things go south, if you hear shots, yellin’, or, well I don’t know,” his voice was chopped and uneven. He tried to organize his thoughts, rearranging them, attempting to complete them, as he searched for a coherent set of instructions to offer his daughter for the plans he couldn’t quite work out in his own head.
“I know, Daddy,” Jen said in a manner that managed to convey a comprehension of Joe’s thoughts that he didn’t yet have himself. “I’ll be ready,” she said. And Joe somehow knew she would be.
“Yeah, Sweetheart. Y’all be ready,” he told Jen, then gathered himself as he turned toward Stacy, her bleeding husband, the man she called by a name he could not recall and a little girl crying for her injured father and her dog. He was propelled by a courage he had to find anew with each step forward as he closed the distance, his children further away from him with each stride taken.
ns 15.158.61.21da2
