Charlotte fears something will happen while she’s away from the front vent, so she races over on her tiptoes, doing her best not to make the boards creak. Her mother is silent, so Charlotte knows she’s likely standing near the door, waiting to see what happens next.
“And do you see any weapons?” the sheriff asks. He’s a little out of breath and she hears the distinct slam of a car door through the speaker.
Shuffling the last few feet in a deep crouch, Charlotte returns to the vent and looks out the bottom slat again. Everything looks the same. No changes at all. Why are they just sitting there?
“I don’t know. I can only see through the windshields. I can’t even see their faces anymore because of the angle. I only saw they were men when they pulled in and leaned forward. Now, they’re just hands and bodies.”
When the sheriff speaks next, she can tell he’s in motion. There’s the background roar of a vehicle in motion, the murmur of other voices. “Hang on, Charlotte. Just hang on. I’m ten minutes away and I’ve got others coming too.”
Her breath catches in her throat and tears leak from her eyes. Ten minutes? It takes a few seconds for a woman to die, just one or two seconds. One breath.
Suddenly, her heart leaps so violently in her chest her hand rises involuntarily to grip at her shirt. A man’s jean-clad leg and booted foot emerge from the van.
“Hurry!”
*****
When the sheriff’s car fishtails into the graveled circle in front of the house, everyone stops what they’re doing. All the men sitting in a half circle on the ground near the porch turn their heads. Charlotte has been giving him a play by play, but she’s not even sure she’s seeing what she’s seeing.
She heard the man say they had to come to ask her to speak. They wanted to hear a woman’s voice. Their spokesman asked politely and seemed almost ashamed of the request. The tension bled out of the situation a little when the men all showed their hands and sat on the ground. Charlotte couldn’t hear everything, but she heard enough. The men listed who they had lost and asked her to speak. Anything would do, they said. A story. A list. The chapter of a book.
From the attic, Charlotte could only gape at the scene, relaying everything as it happened to the sheriff. She couldn’t see her mother on the porch with the overhang in the way, but about half the men were still at least partially visible as they gathered. Now that the sheriff is here, she jams her shoes on her feet and runs for the ladder.
Knowing better than to show her face, Charlotte moves as silently as possible through the house while the sheriff and two deputies close in on the scene in front. She’s even careful to approach the door without casting a shadow for the men to see. Peeking through the peephole, she sees her mother standing on the porch, her body tense and ramrod straight, the shotgun in hand, but not pointed at anyone.
The sheriff’s gun isn’t drawn, but his hand hovers near his belt.
“What’s going on here, gentlemen?” the sheriff asks, his tone even and cautious, but not hostile.
One of the men wipes his face as he turns toward the sheriff, then takes in the two deputies approaching from other angles. He’s been crying. Even from across the porch and through a peephole, Charlotte can see that. His face crumples at the sight of the lawmen.
“Sheriff, I know you said to stay away, but we just wanted to hear a voice. See her talk. That’s not a bad thing. No one touched her. We sat right down.”
Her mother’s posture is still tight, her back like a shield in front of the house. Charlotte can’t see her face, and she wishes she could. She wishes she could see the confidence there, to be sure it’s there. This is frightening. How did it become frightening to have men sitting on the ground like children ready for story time?
Despite the obvious tension in the air, her mother’s voice comes out calm and even. “They did just that, Sheriff Dewalt. I asked them not to stand up and they didn’t. They don’t have weapons either, just to make me feel safe.”
Most of the men on the ground had shifted back to Tabitha the moment she spoke, their gaze’s intent and rapt. Her mother nods when she’s done.
The crying man looks at the sheriff again. “See, Sheriff. No harm.”
Another man, one who never takes his eyes from her mother’s face, says, “Please don’t make us go yet. Not yet.”
Charlotte can see the indecision in the sheriff’s eyes as he looks at her mother. What she can’t see is the answer in her mother’s eyes. What will happen? What will the men do if she tells them it’s time to go?
All she can see is her mother’s slight nod, then she says, “I’ll finish.”
There’s silence for a moment. She has all the attention and Charlotte knows how much that must bother her mother. She’s never liked to be the focus of anything like that. She’s strong and confident, but that’s a different thing than this. Inside, her mother is also a bit shy.
Her mother’s low singing voice comes then. A lullaby. It’s one everyone knows, but she’s never heard her mother sing it before. Charlotte wasn’t the kind of baby that needed lullabies. Her bedtime poison of choice was a story. It surprises her to hear her mother sing, and it’s even stranger given the context.
Two more of the men begin to cry.
As the last notes die away, the sheriff gives them a moment. There’s only the sound of the spring breeze and weeping. One older man sniffs wetly and lowers his face into his hands. Another man reaches over and hugs him. It’s affectionate and supportive, at odds with his appearance.
“It’s time to go now, gentlemen.” The
