The Cabin on Souder Hill Page 14

  “I can’t swim!” she said again, “and that bastard knows it!”

  Claire started convulsing. Pink whispered for Claire not to let go of him, then looked over at Kenny who was one big smile.

  “Now, Claire,” Kenny said. “I want you to think of this as a trial separation. If you die, then we are officially finished. But if you live, you can come back home, and all’s forgiven. Okay?”

  Wrapped in Pink’s arms, Claire stomped her bare feet and screamed muffled obscenities into Pink’s flabby chest.

  “Did she agree, Pink?” Kenny asked. “It sounded to me like she did.”

  Pink shook his head, disgusted, the cold burrowing into his skin. If he and Claire didn’t get crushed when they hit the water or freeze to death from hypothermia and didn’t break a leg or an arm making it impossible to swim—

  “One . . .” Kenny started the count, interrupting Pink’s inventory of possible scenarios.

  “Two . . .”

  There were so many ways to die, why did it have to be so . . .

  “Three.”

  Undignified?

  Chapter 20

  Cliff was still turning on the lights at the cabin when he heard Michelle pull in the driveway. He fought the urge to go out onto the deck to meet her. He hadn’t even been sure she would follow him to the cabin. On the drive back, he had constantly checked his rearview mirror for the Explorer. Several times her headlights had gotten lost in the snow blowing across the highway. He was still playing the scene at the motel over in his head when she came through the door.

  Michelle said nothing, just dropped her purse by the bed the way she always did and went into the bathroom. Cliff gave her a moment after she came out. She was changing clothes when he asked if they could talk.

  “What do you want to talk about, Cliff?” she said, pulling her blouse off over her head.

  “Why were you at the Ruby Motel?” he asked. “Why didn’t you just stay up here at the cabin?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She slid her jeans off and left them on the floor. “I guess because I knew you were here.”

  How could she have known he was here? She was at the motel and didn’t have a car. How did she even get to the motel? She wasn’t making sense. “I want to help you,” Cliff said.

  She spun toward him. “Do you, Cliff? Really? I don’t think so. No, you want me to step in line, accept your reality,” she said. “You haven’t heard one thing I’ve said to you over the past week. You just look at me like I’m a piece of meat going bad in the fridge. Like there’s something wrong with me.”

  “Accept my reality?” Cliff said. “How many realities are there, Chelle? Our daughter is dead. That’s my reality. My finger is gone! That’s my reality!” Cliff could feel his resolve melting, could feel his strength leaving him. “I killed our daughter—that’s my reality.”

  Michelle looked at him. Cliff saw the disgust in her eyes. He deserved that. He deserved worse than that. He could hardly live with himself. But he wanted, needed, to move beyond the blame, the guilt, the revulsion he saw on her face.

  “Just stop, Cliff,” Michelle said, walking toward the bathroom.

  “Please talk to me, Michelle. Don’t walk away.”

  “What, Cliff? I tell you what happened to me, and you hand me a fucking pill! I don’t need a pill—I need answers!”

  “Answers to what, Michelle? This is maddening! I want . . . I want . . .”

  “You want? I don’t care what you want, Cliff. It’s always about what you want.”

  “I want our life back,” Cliff said. “I want us back.” Cliff couldn’t take any more of the mental push and pull. He waited for her to come back in the room. He hadn’t noticed till just now that he was shaking. He tried a deep breath, but it came up short.

  “Michelle,” Cliff said. She ignored him. “Michelle, how did you get to the Ruby Motel? You didn’t have Darcy’s—”

  “What does that matter, Cliff?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to talk.”

  “Okay, let’s talk,” she said. “I came back to Ardenwood to talk to Pink Souder. He’s a real estate agent, but more than that, he’s the man who actually built this cabin and lived here for a while.”

  “That the guy with the big pink billboard on the highway?” Cliff asked.

  “Yes, that’s the one.”

  “Why? I’m very confused, Michelle. Do you want to sell the cabin? I get that, but can’t we talk about it—”

  “It’s not about selling the fucking cabin. It’s about Pink Souder . . . some stories Sheriff Fisk told me when I met him the first time . . .”

  Now Cliff was really baffled. “You only met him once . . . when you got lost that night, but . . . you never really talked with him. You were really out of it that—”

  “Cliff! You have to let me finish. Jesus.”

  Cliff sat back, hurt by her admonishment, exhausted from this unrelenting onslaught of lunacy.

  “I met up with Pink today and told him I had a property to list, which was a lie, but I needed to talk to him. It was a crazy day. Some friend of his mother’s died and we took care of that, then when we came up here to the cabin . . . but, you were here and I didn’t want to stop . . .”

  “So that’s how you knew I was here . . .” Cliff said.

  “Yeah, so we drove on and later, when we got into town, there were all those police cars in front of Pink’s office, where you had the accident, but of course I didn’t know it at the time. I figured you called the police on me and—”

  “But I didn’t. I told you what happened.”

  “Yes, I know that now.” Michelle took a deep breath. “Anyway, I needed time to figure things out, so I had Pink drive me to a motel. The Ruby. Where you found me. I wasn’t doing so well, I hadn’t eaten all day, so Pink offered to take me to dinner. And at this place called the Hilltop or something, one of Pink’s friends asked me to dance and for a few minutes I felt like a human being again. I ate dinner and even tried moonshine whiskey. And then . . .”

  Cliff was perplexed, trying to make sense of what she was saying. “Are you having an affair with this Pink character?” he said. “Is that what this is all about? Is that where you were the night you went missing? With him? Jesus, Michelle. What the fuck?”

  “Hold your horses, pal! You’re not turning this around on me. Just fucking listen to what I’m saying. You said you wanted to have a talk . . . Well, we’re having it.”

  “What do you want with this guy? I don’t get it, Michelle. This is fucking bizarre. Is this some kind of fucked-up payback for Glenda? Jesus, how long do I have to pay for that?”

  “You son of a bitch!” Michelle screamed, then broke down crying.

  Cliff sighed and touched her arm. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take, the manic swings, the outbursts, the delusions. She needed help, he knew that, but she refused to get it. And on some level, he knew it was all his fault. He was losing her. “What’s wrong?” he said, trying to soften his tone. “What’s this really all about?”

  “Cassie, Cliff! It’s about Cassie! Why won’t you believe I spoke with her just last week? Why can’t you make room for that possibility, Cliff? Why can’t you believe she’s alive? Are you glad she’s dead or something? Is that why you never wanted more children? Don’t you have room in your heart even for Cassie anymore?”

  The anger surged like a volcano, volatile and explosive. “Christ, Michelle! Just shut up about all this nonsense! This is just fucking crazy! I wish you could hear yourself? You sound insane!”

  His statement ricocheted back in his head. He felt horrible he’d told her to shut up. That he told her she sounded insane. Michelle sat upright, then stood and was walking away when she turned back.

  “You, Cliff . . . you killed everything in our life that mattered—our love, my trust . . . and
I guess our daughter, the way you tell it. What’s left, Cliff? What’s left to kill?”

  Cliff had to leave the room. He walked outside, tried to focus on the snow, the trees, attempting to wash away his grief. It was all falling apart. It would never fit back together again. It would never be how it was. All because of him. Why did he ever get involved with Glenda? Remembering Cassie pushed so hard into his chest he couldn’t breathe. He sat on the deck boards, slumped over and started crying.

  After a while, Cliff felt chilled and went back in to find Michelle asleep on the couch, half-sitting, slumped to the side. The bottle of Xanax sat on the coffee table. For a quick moment he thought she might have taken the whole bottle. But that wasn’t Michelle. She’d never do that. He inspected the container just in case.

  He carried her to bed, undressed her, and then pulled the comforter over her shoulders. She slept better with her shoulders covered. She hadn’t moved since. Cliff felt it was too late for phone calls, even though Darcy had told him to contact her as soon as he had news about Michelle.

  Out of habit, Cliff tried to use his cell phone first, but there was no signal, so he dialed on the landline phone. Darcy picked up. She sounded groggy.

  “I’m sorry I woke you. It’s Cliff.”

  “Did you find her?”

  “Yes.” The realization flooded him with mixed emotions—the relief that she was safe against the grief of knowing she was sinking deeper into delusion. The combativeness, the rage. It was exhausting.

  “Is she okay?” Darcy asked.

  He sniffled. “Yes.”

  “Where was she?”

  “At the Ruby Motel, like you told me,” Cliff said. “She wasn’t in her room when I got there, so I waited. Some guy in a pickup truck brought her back. It was after midnight, Darcy. She had been at some bar, dancing, drinking moonshine whiskey. It’s crazy shit, Darcy. She smelled like an ashtray. Michelle never drinks. And she doesn’t go off with guys in fucking pickup trucks . . .”

  “Cliff. Don’t worry. She’s back with you now. She’s safe. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

  “She broke the bathroom window in the motel room trying to get away, Darcy,” Cliff said. “I don’t know what to do with her. She wanted to drive your Explorer—”

  “You didn’t let her, did you?”

  “I didn’t have a choice, Darce. She threw a fit. Practically ran us off the road.

  “When are you coming back to Atlanta?”

  Cliff rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I guess . . . tomorrow. It’s snowing here . . . I think we’ll be able to get out. I don’t know.” He wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight another battle with Michelle. If she wouldn’t go back, what would he do? His business was starting to falter from him being gone so much and his loss of focus. He wasn’t sure what mattered anymore.

  “Cliff, are you still . . . ?”

  “I can’t take much more, Darcy,” Cliff said. “I don’t think I . . .”

  Cliff hadn’t wanted to cry on the phone, but something swirled inside him in such a way he couldn’t stop it. The world had always been a solid, predictable thing with Michelle in his life, his daughter, the business, their home. It followed a logical trajectory that had always made sense. But when Cassie was killed, the gyro slipped off center, wobbling uncontrollably ever since.

  “Cliff,” Darcy said. “Do you want me to come up there? I could drive Michelle back? The store’s closed tomorrow. Anna won’t mind driving me up.”

  Cliff wiped his eyes. “The roads might be bad by tomorrow. It’s snowing like crazy. We’ll be all right.”

  “I’m so sorry, Cliff. You’ve both been through so much this past year. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “I better hang up now. I want to get an early start in the morning.”

  “Call me when you get home. I’ll come over and help with Michelle.”

  Cliff placed the phone in the cradle then sat a moment rubbing the knot in his neck. He rolled his shoulders and pressed his fingertips into the base of his skull.

  He switched off the living room light on his way out and stood on the deck, the snowflakes cold pinpoints on his face. In the distance the mountains drew jagged black shapes across the milky night sky. Clouds drifting past created the illusion that the mountains were moving, lumbering through the valley like a herd of enormous buffalo. Cliff found solace in the illusion, the silent sanctity of it.

  In a few moments he found himself standing at the railing, unaware of the cold, his palms resting in a quarter inch of snow. Looking down through the lattice of branches and leaves, his eyes searched for the possibility of a light, a light he was certain didn’t exist even though Michelle insisted it did. Nothing but darkness, solid and impenetrable. He brushed the snow from his palms then placed his hands to his neck, wondering what to do with Michelle. The muffled sound of the phone ringing inside the house wrenched him from his deliberation. He hurried toward the door, wanting to get to it before it woke Michelle.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Darcy. Sorry to call, but I had to tell you something I should have told you before.”

  Cliff waited, glancing toward the bed at the dark shape of Michelle’s body mounded beneath the blankets.

  “Michelle has my gun, Cliff.”

  “Gun?”

  “She took it from the store. I should have gotten rid of that damn thing years ago. I’m sorry. I don’t know why she took it. Maybe she was scared to go up there by herself. Maybe she . . . I don’t know, Cliff. Try to find it, okay?”

  “I will, Darcy. Thanks.”

  Cliff wondered what Michelle had planned to do with a gun. If she had it, it would be in her shoulder bag; she put everything in there. Cliff went to the foot of the bed, lifting it by the strap. He carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the table. As soon as he opened it, he spotted the gun sticking out from beneath her wallet. Cliff slipped it from the bag and studied the shape of it, the power of it, turning it over in his hands, then placing it on the kitchen table.

  He went to the fridge and got a can of beer from the shelf. After switching off the kitchen light, he picked up the gun and carried it out onto the deck. He dragged one of the folding chairs over next to the railing and eased back into it. He tilted the beer back, the carbonation rough on the back of his throat. He set the can down and raised the gun in both hands, revolving it like a Rubik’s Cube a foot from his face, inspecting it. After Cassie’s death, Cliff couldn’t count the times he’d taken his .38 from the drawer of his desk and pushed the snubbed barrel into his temple, hoping it would go off. He could never pull the trigger. Michelle’s face would always snap into his head as he eased his fingertip over the curved steel, her eyes and nose were so much like Cassie’s that he’d start to cry. Shaking, he would lower the gun back into the drawer, wishing just once her image wouldn’t stop him.

  Cliff pulled the beer to his lips and finished it. He dropped the can into the snow at the side of the chair, then placed the gun barrel to the soft underside of his chin and closed his eyes, waiting for Michelle to come, tell him no, smile and touch his hand, reassure him, tell him she forgave him. He had placed his faith in the normal process of time. But time had become a dark edge—an unreliable partner. Cliff knew now that no matter what changed or how much time passed, he would always feel the Cherokee buckling around him as it rolled over and over, would always hear Cassie screaming, would always remember the numbing silence that froze the vehicle when it finally came to rest on its side, Cassie hanging limp from her shoulder harness, hair drenched in blood.

  Cliff opened his eyes to make the image disappear, then he squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 21

  Pink had expected the fall to last a lot longer, the impact to be more jarring, the water to be like ice. Oddly, the lake felt warm. At some point during the drop, Claire had let go of him, p
ushing him away, screaming.

  When Pink came to the surface, frigid air cut across his shoulders and face. He searched the inky blackness for Claire, calling her name, splashing his arms back and forth to stay afloat. It had been years since he’d been swimming. He kicked his feet to keep his chin above the surface, buoyancy losing out to gravity.

  A moment later Claire popped up, coughing and choking. Pink saw the terrified whites of her eyes, scanning the dark like searchlights. When her gaze finally locked onto him, she started thrashing toward him, windmilling her arms in a futile attempt to swim. He told her to go the other way, toward the bank. She spun to look in the direction he pointed, then turned back and lunged for his head.

  “Jesus Christ, Cla—!” With her hands wrapped over his ears, Claire’s weight pushed him under. Water rushed up his nose. Pink kicked, trying to free himself from her grip. When he sank too deep for her to hold on any longer without going under herself, he felt her feet on his shoulders. She danced frantically, plunging him deeper. He swatted at her ankles, twisting away, swimming for the surface.

  He came up choking, hardly catching a breath before she was on him again. He pushed her away, then kicked at her, catching her in the stomach. She went under.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Pink paddled over to where she went down. He was about to call Claire’s name again when he felt her grab his legs underwater, then his BVDs; she was climbing him like a ladder, dragging him down. When her head popped up, he tried to spin her, catch her from behind under the arms so he could subdue her, talk some sense into her. She flailed, kicking and chopping her arms on the water, clocking him under the chin with her head.

  “Goddamn it, Claire, stop fighting!”

  She was choking again, coughing and spitting, then screaming and struggling. The cold was beginning to penetrate, the water no longer warm to his flesh. He slapped her across the face then wrenched her shoulders around until she faced away. Claire continued flailing. He hauled her backward, frog-kicking his legs beneath the water, using his free arm to haul them forward. In a matter of seconds his calves were like lead, drawing them both down, the cold stiffening his thigh muscles. Claire beat the water with her open palms, gurgling and babbling. Pink thought about releasing her, shoving her away, suddenly unsure if he could make it to shore alone, much less towing her. Maybe if he left her, he could rest a second, gather his strength, go back and save her. The bank looked to be only forty feet away. Even so, he knew she would drown before he had a chance to swim back for her.