High Noon
now.”
Tears slid down her cheeks, bumping into the dried blood from the cut his fist had ripped there earlier. “He’s holding a gun to my head. My children are sitting together on the sofa. They’re frightened. Please, do what he wants.”
“You should’ve done what I wanted, Essie.” He closed his hand over her breast, squeezed. “You should’ve kept doing what I wanted, then none of this would be happening. I told you you’d be sorry, didn’t I?”
“Yes, Reuben, you told me.”
“You hear that, Dave? It’s her fault. Whatever happens in here, it’s her fault. I was to put a bullet in her useless brain right now, it’s her own damn fault.”
“Mr. Reuben?” Phoebe heard her own voice, calm as a spring morning. It felt like it came from someone else, someone whose heart wasn’t punching like fists into her throat. But Reuben’s hard eyes tracked over and latched onto her.
“I ask you to talk, little bitch?”
“No, sir. I just thought maybe you were getting hungry. Maybe you want me to make you a sandwich. We’ve got some nice ham.”
Phoebe didn’t—couldn’t—allow herself to look at her mother. She felt her mama’s fear rising like a flood, and if she looked at it head-on she might drown in it.
“You figure if you fix me a sandwich, I won’t shoot your whore of a mother in the head?”
“I don’t know. But we got some nice ham, and some potato salad.” She wasn’t going to cry, Phoebe realized. It surprised her there weren’t any tears pushing against that hammering heart. But there was fury in there, bubbling with the nerves in her belly. “I made the potato salad myself. It’s good.”
“Go on then, take that lamp with you. Don’t think I can’t see you in there. You try anything stupid, I’m going to shoot your baby brother in the balls.”
“Yes, sir.” She rose, lifted the little oil lamp. “Mr. Reuben? Can I use the bathroom first, please? I really have to go.”
“Jesus Christ. Cross your legs and hold it.”
“I’ve been holding it, Mr. Reuben. If I could just use the bathroom, real quick, I’d make you a nice plate of food.” She cast her eyes down. “I could leave the door open. Please?”
“You better piss fast. I don’t like how long you take, I’ll start breaking your mama’s fingers.”
“I’ll be fast.” She hurried toward the bathroom right off the living room.
She put the lamp on the back of the toilet, then, yanking down her pants, prayed that nerves and simple embarrassment wouldn’t clamp her bladder shut. She shot a quick glance at the window over the tub. Too small, she knew, for her to wiggle out of. Carter could probably make it. If she could convince Reuben to let Carter use the bathroom, she’d tell Carter to try to get out.
She hopped up, flushing with one hand, reaching up to ease open the medicine cabinet with the other. “Yes, sir!” she called back when Reuben shouted at her to hurry the hell up.
She grabbed the little bottle of her mother’s Valium from the top shelf, stuffed it into her pocket.
When Phoebe came out, Reuben shoved her mother so that Essie went sprawling toward the sofa. “You there, Dave? I’m going to have me a little bite to eat. If the electric isn’t on by the time I finish, I’m going to play eenie meenie miny mo and kill one of these kids. You go make that sandwich, Phoebe. And don’t be stingy with the potato salad.”
It was a shotgun house, and small with it. Phoebe made sure she stayed in his line of sight as she took the ham and the salad out of the refrigerator.
She could hear him talking to Dave, and struggled to keep her hands steady while she got out a plate and a saucer. A million dollars? Now he wanted a million dollars and a Cadillac, along with a free pass over the state line. Stupid as he was mean, Phoebe decided. Using the big blue bowl of potato salad as cover, she dumped pills on the saucer. Using her mother’s pestle, she crushed them as best she could. She dumped a generous scoop of potato salad on the pills, mixed them together.
She slathered mustard on two pieces of bread, slapped some ham and slices of American cheese between them. Maybe if she could get a knife out of the drawer, maybe—
“What’s taking so fucking long?”
Phoebe’s head jerked up. He’d put down the phone—she hadn’t been paying close enough attention—and with the gun jammed under Carter’s chin, was halfway to the kitchen doorway.
“I’m sorry. I just have to
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