There weren't any gunshots this time.
Bobby was met with silence as he stared at the open, empty doorway. Any number of scenarios were running through his head - none of them good.
The move to get the gun that was tucked into the waistband of his jeans was practically a subconscious one. He methodically ejected, checked, and reloaded the clip of bullets and clicked off the safety in what looked like one fluid, practiced motion.
He spared a quick glance at the recliner in the corner to make sure the kids were still there, huddled together, sleeping, unaware that Uncle Bobby was getting ready to bust some heads.
He hurried to the doorway, staying off to the side to keep from tipping off any possible assailants. There were voices just outside on the porch. He couldn't make out what they were saying and edged closer to the door.
"Bobby Mercer, is that you?" a woman's voice called out and he almost tripped down the step leading onto the enclosed porch.
"Fuck," he muttered as he allowed his momentum to carry him into the room. He'd been found out anyway, no sense in pretending he wasn't there.
The sun was going down and it was hard to see exactly who was out there in the fading light. Jack was leaning against the newly installed window frame, his weight supported on his good leg as he chatted with some lady who was standing opposite him. A plain white box was in her hands. It was tied with a string and Bobby had already surmised that the chances of her concealing an assault rifle in it were pretty slim.
"Bobby, you remember Miss Harriet, right? She lives down the street and --" Bobby knew the minute Jack spotted the gun he was holding. His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. He looked pissed, which Bobby supposed he deserved.
"Of course he remembers me." Her smile was warm and he felt really silly standing there, holding a gun, seconds away from telling her to get the fuck away from his little brother or he'd shoot her full of holes.
Yeah, Ma would've been proud.
XxXxXxXxXx
Harriet didn't stick around too much longer. Claimed she had a pot roast she had to get back to, but Bobby wasn't buying it. She didn't let on about the gun, and Bobby couldn't be sure if she'd noticed it or not. But he had a hunch he was going to be the topic of this week's knitting circle, or Tupperware party, or whatever the hell it was the old ladies in this neighborhood did for kicks.
"I'm not a kid," Jack said as he limped through the doorway, holding onto the door jam for support with one hand, the white box balanced in the other.
"I never said you were," Bobby said as he took the box from his brother.
"I can answer the door on my own."
"Never said you couldn't." Bobby shrugged.
"Bullshit, Bobby," Jack said. "You practically waved a gun in the face of an old lady who was bringing us a pie. It's a pie, Bobby. Not a machine gun. Not a bomb. Pie."
"Is it apple?" Bobby asked as he raised the lid and peeked inside.
Jack just stared at Bobby for a second, his mouth hanging open in disbelief. "Unbelievable, man," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he slumped onto the couch.
"I believe there's a rule out there that if you threaten to shoot the lady bringing the pie, then you forfeit the right to have a piece of the pie," Jerry said as he stepped into the room and grabbed the box from Bobby's hands. "Ain't that right, Angel?"
Angel was still seated at the dining room table and took a sip of his beer, a thoughtful look on his face - as though he was actually giving the matter some consideration. "It's actually in The Constitution," he said steadily.
"Looks like you're shit out of luck when it comes to this pie, Bobby," Jerry said, shaking his head sadly. "Shame, too. Miss Harriet bakes a mean apple pie."
XxXxXxXxXx
The room was pretty dark with just the one light on, but Jack liked it that way. He had his guitar out and was quietly strumming it - it was mostly nonsense but he was testing the waters a bit. Well, the waters pretty much sucked at the moment. He kept hitting the wrong notes, making a mess of things. He was about to give up when he sensed that someone was watching him from the doorway.
"What do you want?" he asked as he propped the guitar on the floor against the bed.
"Nothing, just listenin' to the music. That's all," Jerry said with a small smile, his tone quiet and comforting. Jerry had a way of making Jack feel calm, even when he had a shitload of stuff to think about and worry about.
Jack felt his face redden at the thought of anyone hearing him massacring a few simple chords. "Yeah, well …" he started, not sure of what to say.
"It'll come back to you, kiddo." Jerry motioned for Jack to move his feet and clear some space at the end of the bed for him to sit. Jerry leaned back against the wall, his long legs hanging off the edge of the bed. "You've just gotta give it some time."
"It ain't like riding a bike, Jerry." Jack sighed as he grabbed the rubber ball his therapist had given him to exercise with. He squeezed it, the repetitive motion was supposed to strengthen his hand and improve his dexterity. So far, it just seemed like a waste of time.
"Patience is a virtue," Jerry supplied and Jack laughed. "What?" Jerry asked, a look of mock hurt on his face.
"Patience is in short supply around here," Jack observed, tossing the ball against the wall and catching it as it rebounded.
"Not to mention virtue," Bobby said as he came into the room, probably annoyed that someone was having a conversation without him. He took a seat on the floor, up against the foot of the bed.
Jack silently counted to five, not surprised in the least when Angel appeared in the doorway, a haggard look on his face. Sofi was still on the phone with her mother - had been for hours, her voice echoing through the whole top floor of the house. Sofi had even missed dinner; and despite Jerry's protests, Bobby had gleefully claimed her piece of the apple pie for dessert.
Just watching Angel be engaged for one day made Jack decide he would elope when he found the right girl. Angel had aged twenty years in the last five hours and Jack didn't see how anything could be worth that.
"Guys, I think I may be in over my head on this one," Angel said, his shoulders slumped slightly as he jammed his hands into the pockets of his pants and leaned against the wall. He looked a little sick and Jack had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
Bobby laughed loudly enough for the three of them, anyway. "'Told ya so' does not even begin to cover it," he practically cackled. "You're a fucking idiot, man."
Angel opened his mouth to argue, when a loud string of unintelligible Spanish sounded down the hallway, followed by a high-pitched giggle. He groaned and leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling, the voice down the hall the soundtrack to his misery. "I think I might have to agree with you on this one, Bobby."
"So, Jackie," Jerry started, changing the subject, "you planning on sharing what you found with me and Angel or do we gotta depend on Bobby for the details? 'Cause, let me tell you, the man has the storytelling skills of a two-year-old."
Jack stared at him blankly for a minute, confused as to what he was asking. "Huh?"
"The letter," Jerry said slowly, motioning with his hands like he was trying to jog his memory. "From your mother …"
"Oh, that," Jack mumbled, throwing the ball with a little more force than necessary. It bounced hard off the wall and was too fast for him to catch, landing on the other side of the room amidst some random junk he'd left there years ago.
"Yeah, that. Kind of important, don't you think?"
Jack shrugged, running his fingers through his hair. He started to reach toward the end table to open the drawer where he kept his tobacco and rolling papers. Then he remembered - he didn't have any tobacco and rolling papers, thanks to Bobby. He glared at the back of his oldest brother's head, before turning his attention to Jerry.
"Fine," he said as he reached behind him, pulling the letter out of his pocket. He tossed it to Jerry. "Knock yourself out."
Jack watched silently as Jerry read the letter. Bobby was looking over at him, trying to see what his reaction would be. Jack tried to keep his face blank and his hands still, but sometimes Bobby could make him feel like he was being interrogated by the entire Detroit police force.
"Changed your mind, didn't you, Cracker Jack?" Bobby asked, a sly, know-it-all grin on his face.
"Fuck you, man," Jack answered without looking at him.
Bobby laughed, a triumphant look on his face that made Jack roll his eyes. "I knew it."
"Changed your mind about what?" Angel looked confused.
"He didn't know if he wanted to meet his real mom or not."
"Birth mom," Jack corrected him. "Evelyn was my real mom."
"Fine. Jack didn't know if he wanted to meet his birth mom," Bobby repeated.
"Still don't know," Jack said, picking up his guitar. He started to fiddle with the tuning keys to distract himself.
"At least write her a letter," Jerry said as he passed the letter to Angel.
"That's what I said." Bobby pounded on the mattress like he was a judge with a gavel.
Jack took a deep breath and pushed his hair out of his eyes. The whole thing was starting to give him a headache. "Look, I just need time. Can't you guys just give me some time to sort things out?"
"Would you feel better if you found some stuff out about her - more than just the letter?" Jerry asked and Jack shrugged.
"How would we do that? Records are sealed. There isn't a return address." Jack's mind had already run through everything he could think of and came up with nothing.
"We can go to Ma's office," Bobby said suddenly.
Jerry nodded. "They did call a few weeks ago. They've got some of Ma's stuff for us to pick up. Thing she left on her desk. Stuff like that."
"See, Jerry - already thinking of a plan," Bobby said with a grin.
"I was just thinking you could ask some of the people she worked with about --" Jerry started but Bobby cut him off, an excited gleam in his eye.
"We can look around. She had files - gotta be one on Jackie-poo."
"I didn't mean for you guys to do anything illegal," Jerry said with a sigh, but he might as well have been talking to his dog, Marvin, for all the good it did him.
"So you're gonna be like detectives or something?" Angel asked, suddenly more interested in the conversation.
"Worked with Sweet," Bobby said.
"And look how good that turned out," Jack said, fighting the urge to point to his fucked up knee as exhibit A.
"Sweet ain't breathin' is he?"
"So, you want to be like the Hardy Boys or something?" Jack asked, shaking his head, trying to keep from smiling. Bobby would never let him live it down if he knew he was getting kind of excited at the idea of doing something different for a change - even if it did mean breaking into the offices of Child Protective Services. Sure beat physical therapy any day.
"Shit, Jack - at least try for Starsky and Hutch, something a little cooler," Bobby said.
Angel groaned. "More like Scooby and Shaggy, if you ask me."