The Cabin on Souder Hill Page 20

  “Please, Mrs. Souder,” Michelle pleaded. “I need your help . . . my daughter . . .”

  Mrs. Souder paused at the white message board only long enough to pick up the blue marker and scrawl something in the upper corner. Michelle couldn’t read it from across the room.

  *****

  Pink felt stupid sitting in front of the hospital, his motor running like a getaway car. He pictured Claire sleeping on the couch and wondered if he’d be able to coax her into the spare bedroom for the night, have her sleep with him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually slept next to a woman.

  Pink leaned forward and turned the radio on, his eyes trained on the entrance to the hospital. What was taking her so damn long? The radio announcer talked about another snowstorm headed toward Ardenwood, one that could rival the “infamous” storm of ’93. Pink wondered if a storm could be infamous. It sounded stupid to him.

  Mattie jerked the door open and threw herself into the seat, slamming the door behind her.

  “Another storm coming,” Pink said, easing the shifter into Drive. “Supposed to hit tomorrow night. Said it might be worse than the infamous storm of ’93.”

  “The what?”

  “The storm of ’93. You remember that one, don’t you?”

  “Let’s go, Pink. I’m really tired. I want to go to bed.”

  “Well, what do you think I’m doing here?” he said. “Can’t you see I’m driving?”

  “Don’t talk, Pink.”

  He hated being shut out, especially since he wanted to know what his mother had found out in Michelle’s room, if she’d actually talked with Michelle, what Michelle had said. He wished he’d gone up with her—he’d like to see Michelle again, even if she was crazy. He could overlook insanity if a woman had a nice ass. And Mrs. Stage’s ass was Olympic gold.

  “Is this it?” Mattie said, holding out something shiny in her palm.

  Pink glanced over, quickly taking his eyes back to the road. “I can’t see what you’re holding there, Mama. It’s too dark.”

  “Turn on a light.”

  Pink twisted in the seat, guiding the Suburban with one hand, flipping the overhead switch with the other. His mother looked haggard and worn under the yellow light. Pink took his eyes to the pavement, righted the vehicle between the shoulder and yellow line then looked back at the object in his mother’s hand. It appeared to be Isabelle’s pentagram, the one he’d seen in Michelle’s purse.

  “Did you steal that, Mama?” Pink asked.

  “Is it Isabelle’s?”

  “Well, Mama, you gave it to her. You should know.”

  “Why must you talk to me that way, Pink? Can’t you just answer my question?”

  “Well, you’re the one weaving all the mystery, Mama. Why won’t you tell me what you want with Michelle Stage? What’s this 007 stuff all about? You won’t tell me anything, and then . . .”

  Mattie glared at Pink, then clenched her fingers over the necklace and shoved it back in her purse.

  “Look, Mama, you don’t have to get angry with me,” Pink said. “I just want to know what’s going on. How do you think you can help Mrs. Stage? You think you can bring her husband back from the dead?”

  Pink was suddenly sorry he’d snapped at his mother, even sorrier when she slapped him across his face.

  “Don’t speak to me that way, Pink. Ever again!”

  She had never hit him before. It hurt worse than he ever imagined, as if she had rejected some part of him, had broken off a chunk of his soul and tossed it out the window. His mother was the only person in the world who had ever accepted him completely. Not even Isabelle, who was probably his closest friend, could look at him without some trace of pity or irritation. But it never mattered, because it was his mother who held firm to his image, who upheld the highest reflection of who Pink could be, who he was, who he would like to be. She would never betray him, no matter what. That knowledge, he realized in this moment, his cheek stinging, was what made him resilient, confident, strong

  She sighed, and Pink could tell she was sorry, but neither of them would say a word. By tomorrow, all would be forgotten. It was the same way with Isabelle when they argued, and Pink preferred it that way. There was no need for boiling it all down, sifting through the rubble of anger, offering foolish apologies wrapped in remorse. Even so, this felt different to Pink. He and his mother had argued plenty, but she had never hit him, and now she seemed to possess something crucial to his wellbeing, something he couldn’t describe, but knew he needed desperately. And whatever it was, it seemed impossible to get back through silence. It was as if she had exposed some inferior part of him that had been hidden, as if his shame and vulnerability would now be obvious to the world.

  The road to her house was slick. Pink put the Suburban in four-wheel drive and the tread found footing. Across the seat, his mother fingered her purse, as if her thoughts processed through her fingertips. Pink had never seen his mother so pensive, so distressed.

  His mother’s house was dark as he pulled up to her porch, the headlights reflecting like glowing eyes in her front windows.

  “Mama . . .” Pink tried to apologize, but Mattie pushed the door open and jumped out before he could.

  “Pink, do you know where Mrs. Stage might have gotten Isabelle’s pendant?” His mother held the door open, a cold draft sweeping across the seat.

  Pink shrugged. “What difference does it make? It’s just a little damn piece of jewelry. It may not even be Isabelle’s.” But he was almost certain it was. “What do you care so much about it for? And why are you so—” Before Pink could finish, his mother slammed the door and hurried to the porch. She fumbled a moment with the doorknob then disappeared inside the house, not bothering to wave or acknowledge him in any way.

  He drove home dumbfounded, the radio playing an elevator rendition of a Waylon Jennings song. Pink’s house was dark when he arrived home. He really hadn’t expected Claire to be up and was relieved she wasn’t. He stepped softly through the living room, past the couch where Claire slept, and was almost to his bedroom when he heard Claire whisper, “Pink, come back here. I’m still awake if you ain’t too tired from all that voodoo.”

  Pink hesitated a moment at his bedroom, then went in and closed the door behind him, pretending he hadn’t heard her.

  Chapter 29

  Sunlight cut across Michelle’s hospital bed and glistened off the white breakfast plate sitting on her food tray. Dr. Price, the resident psychiatrist, had been in earlier that morning, talked with her, and she was surprised to have fallen back to sleep after he left. Dr. Price had told her she would be released today, so long as it was agreeable with the sheriff.

  She stretched her arms, her muscles aching from nonuse, as if she’d been laid up for weeks. Or maybe it was stress. Dr. Price had not given her Xanax when he’d visited earlier, wanting to see how she would do without it. Was Dr. Price aware of her personal history? That was such an odd concept now, personal history, her daughter’s death, Cliff’s cheating. It had always seemed to Michelle that she could have only one account of her past, and that everyone would agree on the facts of it. But that was not the case. Darcy remembered events differently than she did, even events they had experienced together. And Cliff was constantly negating her memory of things, as if her mind was a faulty contraption, incapable of accuracy. And now Dr. Price. What was his version?

  “Bye, Michelle,” someone said.

  Michelle looked up to see her roommate, dressed and clutching a plastic Ardenwood Hospital bag with her clothes. Michelle figured the things in the bag were probably donations, and wondered where she was going, if she was being moved to another ward.

  “They found me, Michelle. I’m Charlene House. They contacted my daughter in Chicago. She’s flying here to get me. I was hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

  Even though the woman spoke with app
arent relief and joy, there was a reserve of sadness beneath her words, the information coming from her lips like rehearsed sound bites on the evening news.

  “Did you hear me get up last night?” Charlene asked Michelle, as if skeptical over details of her apparent good fortune.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Charlene pointed to the white message board. “The nurse figured I must have sleep-walked to the board and written my name. Isn’t that amazing?” But there was no amazement in Charlene’s eyes or voice, only a residue of doubt and confusion. She looked more lost than the previous night when she had no idea who she was. Now that she’d been told she was someone named Charlene House, memories should have flooded back, but Michelle could tell they hadn’t.

  “You’ll be okay,” Michelle said, not sure where the encouragement had come from. It felt phony.

  The woman nodded, then smiled, as if she were unable to connect the two gestures, as if they couldn’t be linked. When the nurse brought in a wheelchair, Mrs. House guided herself backward into the seat and placed her feet on the metal rests, the plastic bag nestled in her lap. Michelle couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to Charlene when she was safely back in Chicago, if she would remember why she’d left her home to hike the Appalachian Trail, if she’d been fleeing a stale life, a lonely existence, or seeking an adventure. When Michelle heard her assumptions about the woman playback through her head, she realized it was her own life she was examining not Charlene’s.

  A moment after the nurse wheeled Mrs. House from the room, Darcy came through the doorway, as if cued by the departure of Michelle’s roommate.

  “Hey, Darcy,” Michelle said, ecstatic to see her sister, thankful there was no question about their relationship, about who they were to each other, and that no matter what happened, she knew Darcy would always be there for her. She hugged Darcy close and didn’t want to let go.

  “Are you okay?” Darcy said, holding Michelle’s embrace.

  Michelle wiped her eyes, releasing her sister. Darcy handed her the box of tissues. “You ready to go home?” Darcy asked.

  “I am,” she said.

  She was. Then she wasn’t. What would she go home to? Michelle found herself playing out the remainder of her life, something she’d always done with maddening regularity, picturing herself sitting alone in her big home in Atlanta, the blue pool growing green and spoiled with algae, the concrete cracking and crumbling, the roof leaking, the lawn choked with weeds, the electric lights failing and leaving her in darkness.

  Michelle tried to shake the images, tried to see herself selling the house, living with Darcy for a while, working at the health food store, getting stronger, starting over. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted all along—to start over? But not without Cassie. She had never reinvented her life without Cassie in it. Cassie was the thread that would hold the fabric of her new life together, the seed that would expand infinitely—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. Life would move forward in that way, circumvent the intolerable stasis of a solitary life—Mattie Souder. The name jumped into her head so quickly it startled her. She had forgotten about the strange visit from Pink’s mother. The old woman asking her very pointed questions. Then stopping at the door, writing something on the whiteboard . . .

  “You’re shaking, Michelle,” Darcy said, reaching out to touch her arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know.” Michelle gathered her things and tried to stand but sat back down to steady herself. Darcy picked up the box of Cliff’s belongings, the one the sheriff had left with her.

  “Here, hold onto me,” Darcy said. As they walked from the room, Michelle glanced at the whiteboard, at the name scrawled there: Charlene House.

  Chapter 30

  Pink felt rested when he arrived at the office, excited about his new scheme to get business percolating again. Clarence’s Jeep sat out front, and Pink was surprised to see him at work so early, especially when there was the perfect excuse of a snowstorm to keep him home.

  On the drive in, Pink couldn’t stop thinking about Claire’s crazy husband, Kenny, and Kenny’s equally bizarre friend, Curly. But Pink had to hand it to him—Curly was a marketing genius. Pink couldn’t believe he’d never thought of the scam himself. He was usually pretty good at those things. But Curly was the master.

  “Clarence,” Pink shouted as he opened the front door to the office. “I got an idea that’s gonna set sales on fire!” Until this morning, when Pink had tiptoed past Claire sleeping on the sofa, he hadn’t realized how well things had worked out from Kenny’s little deed on the bridge. Because of that, Claire was afraid to go home, and with nowhere to go, Pink now had a full-time, live-in nursemaid to Isabelle, a cook, and a cleaning lady, and more than that, a little Barbie doll for himself. It was almost too perfect, and Pink thought about sending Kenny a thank-you note to show his appreciation.

  “Clarence!” Pink shouted again. “Did you hear me? I’ve got a great idea.”

  Pink strolled into Clarence’s office. Clarence was seated at his desk, a newspaper spread out before him, his feet propped up above some kind of small, humming machine.

  “What the hell is that?” Pink asked.

  “A dehumidifier. Doc said my feet are too moist too much of the time. He saw the beginnings of mushrooms growing between my toes. I thought this little gizmo might dry out the fungus. Val-U-Mart had ’em for nineteen dollars. Can you believe that?”

  Pink was tired of Clarence’s fungus, and especially disliked that Clarence was always barefoot in the office. “Does it ever make you wonder,” Pink began, “that in the most prosperous time of real estate sales, our sales are actually worse than last year, maybe the worse they’ve ever been?”

  “I suppose,” Clarence said, turning the page of the newspaper, the crinkling noise slicing a corner off Pink’s pleasant mood.

  “Well, I’ve got an idea that’s gonna change all that. It came to me this morning.” Pink wasn’t about to give Curly credit for the idea. Why should he? Clarence wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

  Clarence glanced up from his newspaper, scratched his neck, and turned the page. “Sounds good, Pink.”

  “I haven’t told you yet.”

  “Well, you always have good ideas. I’m sure this one’s a blue ribbon.”

  Oh, it was. Pink recalled Curly’s sign out by Burtran Lake, the drawing of the sexy girl riding the Jet Ski, wishing there was some kind of award offered for the best ad campaign. Pink was sure he’d win.

  “Are you listening? ’Cause I’m only gonna tell you once.”

  Clarence nodded, then toed the dehumidifier to change the direction of the flow.

  “Okay, here it is. I hire a gorgeous tan model in one of those skimpy bikinis, something in white—no! In pink! Of course. Hot pink! Then we have her riding in a boat or something, on the lake, right? A close up so we see her from stomach to face . . . or maybe knees to face, so we see her crotch area.”

  “Hasn’t that been done before?”

  “That’s not it yet, dammit. Listen to this.” Pink took a deep breath, amazed at the machinations of his own mind. “I hire a couple of high school dropouts, maybe a couple of those kids that work over there at the Game Depot, to go up to my sign at night and paint nipples on the model in the photograph!”

  Clarence squinted at Pink, his brain apparently chewing on the details.

  “Don’t you get it?” Pink said. “We’ll have the only billboard around with a bare-breasted woman! The law can’t say anything because vandals done it. They can make me clean it up, but I can drag my feet for weeks, maybe months before I do anything, complaining to Fisk and the county officials how the whole damn country’s going in the shitter when kids can deface a man’s advertising, his very livelihood! It’s perfect!

  “I’ll have Fisk searching for those damn kids, while I’m calling him everyday whining about how ex
pensive those billboards are, how much the model and photographer set me back, how much it will cost to fix. The whole time, folks from Georgia, Florida, and Alabama will be getting an eyeful of Pink Souder Real Estate. It’s goddamn brilliant!”

  “What do bare breasts have to do with real estate?” Clarence asked. “And they won’t really be bare, right, just nipples painted over the swimsuit? Won’t people see that?”

  “Not from a distance. Christ, Clarence, you think they’re gonna drive up and inspect the goddamn artwork? And who gives a shit anyway? By the time they figure out the titties ain’t real, my name and phone number’ll be seared into their memory. I mean, if you was courting some woman all night with whiskey shots and finger sandwiches, do you think you’d care if you finally got her in the sack and found out her titties weren’t real? Hell no! Don’t you get it?”

  Clarence scratched between his toes, then the back of his neck.

  “You’re gonna have that fungus all over your damn body if you keep doing that,” Pink said, frustrated he’d ever told Clarence his idea. Clarence had no vision, no imagination. It was no wonder business was so bad—Pink had to carry the entire company. Pink had to invent new sales techniques, had to handle the scheduling, man the phones, organize the appointments, woo the clients, handle all the puckering, and kiss all the ass. What did Clarence do besides pick his toes and read fishing magazines? He was supposed to make sure properties were fit to be shown, but since they had few properties to show, and even fewer folks to show them to, Clarence sat around nursing his fungus and drawing a fat paycheck.

  Pink turned to go back to his office.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Clarence said.

  Pink was about to tell him he was damned, when Clarence started poking at the newspaper. “Looks like some crazy folks jumped off the bridge the other night over at Burtran,” Clarence said. “Maybe it’ll turn into some kind of Lover’s Leap.” Clarence leaned in closer to the photograph then glanced up at Pink. “If I ain’t mistaken, this feller in the picture looks a lot like you.”