The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  “I won’t pay for it,” Isabelle’s father said. “You’ll get nothing from us.”

  “Oh, you’ll pay for it, all right,” Isabelle said, rubbing her cheek, smiling. “You’ll pay for everything, the wedding cake, the flowers, the music, and then you’ll walk me down that fucking aisle, kiss me on the cheek, and smile like you’re giving away your most favorite daughter in the whole world. And then you’ll walk up to Pink afterward and congratulate him and say, ‘Welcome to the family, Son.’ ”

  Her father huffed and shook his head. “You’re sick, Isabelle,” he said, the flesh beneath his right eye jumping. “There is something very wrong with you.”

  As he walked away, she tossed the invitations onto the couch. “And the honeymoon!” she yelled after him. “You’ll pay for that too. Pink wants to go to Niagara-fucking-Falls! Can you believe it? Nobody goes there anymore, for shit’s sake!”

  Pink had shown up at the wedding looking like a funeral director. He’d gotten his tux from Clarence—whose uncle owned a mortuary in the next county. “What are you doing?” Isabelle had said, dragging Pink into the ladies’ restroom. “You look like somebody from the Addams Family!” Pink had explained how he’d gotten the tux for free, that Clarence’s uncle had even thrown in the alterations at no cost.

  “Where did his uncle get the tux?”

  “He’s got lots of them . . . well, most of them are suits. All different colors,” Pink had said. “I think they’re for emergencies.”

  “Emergencies?” Isabelle said, shaking her head. “What kind of emergencies do they have at a funeral home?”

  “I don’t know, maybe—”

  “Shut up, Pink. Sometimes you are so stupid. Clarence’s uncle is stealing those suits off the dead bodies before he buries them! Christ, Pink, why didn’t you go down to Connor’s Department Store like I told you and rent something with nice lapels and a cummerbund!”

  “A cummerbund?”

  Isabelle pulled Pink out of the bathroom by the sleeve. Claire, her maid of honor, was standing in the back of the church, chewing gum. “Get rid of that, Claire, dammit.” Isabelle looked around, not really surprised that her father hadn’t shown, but disappointed nonetheless. She had known all along her mama wouldn’t come.

  “Go get your daddy,” Isabelle had told Pink. When Pink came back with Buck, Isabelle asked Buck if he would walk her down the aisle.

  Buck adjusted his glasses and shook his head. “I can’t do that, Isabelle. I didn’t even want to come. Mattie made me.” As Buck turned to leave, he gave Pink a look so hard it forced Pink back a step, like he was about to be hit. But Buck spun away, then went and took his seat next to Mattie. Mattie looked as though she were crying.

  “You still want to do this, don’t you, Sweet Potato?” Pink had asked.

  “Yes,” Isabelle said, wiping her eyes. “And don’t call me that anymore. I hate it.” Almost as much as she hated her next thought. “Pink, go get Clarence and tell him to get his ass back here. You go back up and wait with the groomsmen.”

  “But Clarence is my best man.”

  “Shut up, Pink, and do what I told you, okay?”

  Pink walked away down the side aisle. Claire was giggling with the other girls, pulling her dress up to expose her new nylons, then squeezing her breasts upward in her dress until they shined like domes.

  When the music started, Isabelle flew into a rage, calling the organist an idiot, throwing her hands in the air. People in the last few pews turned around at the commotion.

  “He’s not supposed to start yet!” she’d said to Claire. “That’s not even the right song!” She sent the flower girl down the aisle, then the ring bearer, then herded the bridesmaids into a line and forced them down the aisle.

  Everyone was in place at the altar, and Isabelle could see Pink whispering something to Clarence. Clarence looked toward the rear of the church, craning his neck like he’d heard a wild turkey in the bush, then strolled down off the altar with a confused look on his face. He said hello to everyone he recognized with his customary thumbs-up greeting as he walked by. “Pink said you wanted to see me,” Clarence said. Isabelle proceeded to push his hair off his forehead and straighten his tie. “Tuck in that shirt, Clarence,” she said. “You look like a damn hobo.” Clarence raised one shoulder then the other, shoving his hand down his pants, working the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. Isabelle shook her head when she noticed the sandals on Clarence’s feet.

  “What the hell are you wearing?”

  “Found them at Sadie’s Thrift Store,” he said. “They keep the fungus from growing between my toes.”

  “Come on,” she said, hooking his arm through hers. “Don’t look anywhere but at the altar, and don’t say nothing to nobody.”

  Isabelle and Clarence were halfway down the aisle when eyes shifted from them to the back of the church. Women put hands over their mouths or looked away. Men stood up as if there was going to be a fight, others peeked around the ones standing. A few people gasped, and Isabelle turned to see her father standing at the back of the church, his shirt and pants covered in blood. He shuffled toward her down the aisle. Clarence untangled his arm from Isabelle’s and took a few steps back. People near the ends of the pews moved away, but her father’s eyes were only for Isabelle. He stood in front of her, his eyes burnished and raw, his hands dangling at his sides big as shovels, dripping blood. “You’re wicked, child,” he said, drawing a deep breath, then backhanding her across the face. “You’re Satan.”

  The memory made Isabelle close the magazine and drop it on the floor. She felt tired, ready to nap. After scooting down in the bed, she pulled the blankets up over her breasts, pausing a moment to touch them. Pink hadn’t touched her breasts in over five years, even when they made love, which they hadn’t done in a long time. She couldn’t blame him though; she was death itself lying there. She wouldn’t look in the mirror, afraid of what she might see staring back.

  “Want your hair brushed?” Claire asked, poking her head through the doorway. Isabelle wiped her eyes.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” Isabelle said.

  “Thought I’d drop by on the way to the store. See if you needed anything.”

  Claire came over to the bed, taking the brush off the dresser, and sitting next to Isabelle. She pulled up a thick sheaf of Isabelle’s hair and combed it out, then gathered up another. Isabelle cried harder with each stroke of the brush.

  “I’m thirty-eight years old and I look like a hundred,” Isabelle said. “Why can’t I get better, Claire? Why won’t I get well?”

  Claire laid the brush on the quilt and eased Isabelle’s head to her chest.

  “It’s gonna be okay, baby,” Claire said softly, running her fingertips along Isabelle’s scalp. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  Chapter 10

  “I called the police, Michelle! I thought somebody stole my fucking car! Christ, what did you think I would do? What were you thinking?”

  Michelle absently put away the groceries she’d purchased, the phone wedged between her cheek and shoulder, listening to her sister. She bought the food with cash in case Cliff checked their credit card account online.

  “I’m sorry, Darce,” Michelle said into the phone. “I need answers. I was going to ask you to bring me up here but . . . I panicked when Cliff called. I’m sorry.”

  “What am I supposed to do now, Michelle? How am I supposed to get to the store in the mornings to open up?” Darcy’s voice trembled, breaking. “Had you thought about that?” Darcy burst into tears. Before Michelle could say anything, Darcy screamed into the receiver, “Goddamn you, Michelle! Why did you take my fucking gun? What are you planning to do with that?”

  Michelle waited for Darcy to calm down, trying to harness her own thoughts into a cohesive response.

  “I was just scared, is all, coming alone. You rememb
er how dark it is up here. I’d never use it.” Michelle was almost able to believe some of that was true. Yet there was no way to explain the other reason for taking it. There was no way to tell her sister that if she couldn’t figure out what had happened the night she went looking for Cliff, if there was no explanation, rational or otherwise, for Cassie being alive when she’d left the cabin and dead in this new version of reality, she was prepared to end her own life.

  “You know Cliff will come up there as soon as he finds out what you’ve done,” Darcy said, a bit of residual anger in her words.

  “I know,” Michelle said. “That’s where I need your help.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Michelle? Lie to him?”

  “Why wouldn’t you? You’re my sister. Just tell him I’m spending the night with you.” Michelle was a bit miffed she had to remind Darcy of where her allegiance should be. Why was she now Cliff’s biggest devotee? After Cliff’s affair became known, Darcy had led the crusade against him. “Dump that loser,” she’d told Michelle. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Then, in the morning when he comes to pick me up from your condo,” Michelle continued, “tell him I was gone when you woke up and you have no idea where I went. Whatever you do, don’t tell him I have your Explorer. I need some time before he figures out where I am.”

  It felt like a full minute before Darcy spoke. “What are you going to do when he figures it out?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe by then I’ll have some answers.”

  “Answers? To what, Michelle? Some mysterious cabin in the woods that disappears when you shine a light on it? To some inexplicable riddle that brings Cassie back from the grave? What answers, Michelle? What answers other than the most obvious ones? Grieving and anger are real and valid human reactions to tragedy, Michelle—not vanishing cabins and mysterious lights. You need help. Do you understand, Michelle? You need help and rest and time, not this bullshit . . . not guns and wild goose chases after real estate agents. Come home, Michelle. Please.”

  Michelle had hoped Darcy believed her story, or at least made room for the possibility. It was obvious now she hadn’t.

  “I’ve got to go,” Michelle said. “I’ll get your car back soon. Oh, and . . . I took some money from your register. I’ll pay you back. Promise.”

  Darcy sighed. “I don’t care about the money. Just come home tomorrow, okay?” Darcy’s voice sounded calm, but strained. “I’ll stall Cliff, tell him you drove to the grocery store to get donuts for breakfast. I’ll make up some excuse.” She paused. “Chelle, move in with me, take some time away from Cliff. You could work at the store. It’ll be fun. We’ll shop for clothes, get you a makeover at Apollo’s Spa, throw together some of those pizzas the way we used to when Mom and Dad went out to the movies. You remember? Anchovies and pineapple and . . . something else . . .”

  “Artichokes,” Michelle said, relieved by her sister’s new attitude. Darcy sounded more like an ally again.

  “That’s right, Michelle. Artichokes. God, I had forgotten that.”

  “I love you,” Michelle said.

  “Me too!” said Darcy.

  Michelle drew the phone away from her cheek and pressed it into the cradle. She was glad they hung up on a high note. Being sisters had always been more important than being right.

  Michelle rummaged in the dresser for her sweatpants. It had been Cliff’s idea to leave clothes at the cabin so they didn’t have to pack everything each time they went up.

  She pulled a sweatshirt over her blouse, took a beer from the fridge, and walked out onto the deck. The night was clear, the sky splashed with stars. She looked down over the rail, half-expecting to see the dusk-to-dawn light so she could get this over with. When it wasn’t there, she looked up and saw the silhouette of a bat dart across the blue-black sky. She took a sip of the beer, then went over and unfolded a deck chair, placing it near the railing. She sat, her feet propped up, watching the tiny lights of an airplane in the distance. The mountains to the east looked like the backs of elephants. The moon had not yet come up, but the glow of its approach was a bright smudge along the horizon.

  Michelle tilted the bottle back, wondering how much time she’d have before Cliff arrived at the cabin. Would he go crazy, make a big scene, or just cry and act like she was torturing him? This was a new Cliff, one she didn’t know.

  Chapter 11

  Pink turned from the window where he’d been watching a woman across the street trying to corral her three children into the back seat of her Lexus. Pink kept hoping that when she bent over to lash the baby into the toddler seat, her dress would blow up and he’d get a peek at her ass.

  “Did that woman ever call back about the Taylor place?” Pink shouted toward the back office. Clarence didn’t answer. “Clarence! Did that woman, that Mrs. Kaminsky, ever call back about the damn Taylor place?”

  “I don’t think so,” Clarence said from the other room, his voice sounding muffled, as if he were wrapped in a blanket or something.

  “What are you doing in there?” Pink shouted.

  “Spraying my feet.”

  “What color?” Pink laughed.

  Clarence walked into Pink’s office carrying an aerosol can, his feet flour-white against his red sandals.

  “What in God’s name did you do to your damn feet, Clarence?”

  “The fungus is back,” Clarence said, staring down at his toes. “It’s really bad this time. Doc told me to use this.” Clarence held up a yellow can with a green lid. “It’s some kind of antifungal agent or something.”

  Pink strolled over to Clarence and took the can from his hand. “This is for jock itch, Clarence. Did you know that?”

  “Doc said it would work on my feet just the same. ‘Fungus is fungus,’ he told me.”

  Pink handed the can back. “Ever think maybe wearing shoes once in a while might help?”

  “No, Doc said I was doing the right thing.” Clarence bent over to spray a spot he’d missed. “Fungus don’t like all that light and air. Told me not to wear socks either, at least for a while.”

  “You don’t even own socks,” Pink said. “Did Lulu call in sick again?” Over the past four weeks, Lulu had called in for messages and to tell Pink she wasn’t feeling “up to par.” Pink always thought it strange she used that expression because the closest she’d ever been to a golf course was when she went to the Marigold Cemetery to visit her dead husband. The Ardenwood Country Club people bought up the land adjacent to the cemetery and built their course. It caused quite a ripple with the folks of Ardenwood, especially the ones who had family resting up at Marigold. It was disconcerting for folks to visit a loved one and find a Titleist sitting on the grave.

  “Haven’t talked to her in two days,” Clarence said.

  “Maybe I better go check on her,” Pink said, grabbing his truck keys off the desk.

  “You bringing back lunch?” Clarence asked.

  Pink glanced at his watch. “It’s only ten-thirty in the damn morning. Hell, Clarence, I ain’t even made a turd from breakfast yet.”

  “I think this fungus condition’s what’s got me so hungry,” Clarence said. “Just bring me something from the bakery. You pass right by it on the way out to Lulu’s. One of them bear claws if they have it.”

  Pink pulled the door closed and headed for his Suburban. The sun was already bearing down and Pink was sure it would hit seventy-five today.

  “Excuse me,” a woman said, stepping from an Explorer. “Are you Pink Souder?”

  “You recognize me from my billboard, don’t you?” Pink said, studying the attractive woman. Her hair was long and dark brown, except where the sun hit it, shifting it a shade toward orange. She wore it clipped up into a mop at the back of her head, the way Claire wore hers when she cleaned. A bit on the scrawny side, Pink thought, but a nice set of face-warmers up top. “What can I help you with?”


  “My name is Michelle Stage,” she said, extending her hand. “I have a piece of property I want to sell. I was wondering if you could take a look at it.”

  “Well,” Pink said, scratching behind his ear, then checking his watch. “I’m pretty busy today. Think you could come back tomorrow?” The woman seemed disappointed or frustrated, Pink wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to seem too eager. Prospective clients could sense desperation.

  “I need you to come today,” she said. “This morning.”

  “I was headed to check on a piece of property right now,” he said. “But it can wait.” Pink turned away and stuck his head through the front doorway. “Clarence, I ain’t coming back till after lunch, so order a damn pizza if you’re hungry. You can reach me on the cell.”

  Pink slid in under the steering wheel of his Suburban. Mrs. Stage climbed in the other side. He glanced at her legs while she buckled her seat belt. She smelled nice, not saturated in perfume like a lot of his wealthy clients. And she seemed to have a pretty smile, when she used it.

  “Heard about the winter storm headed this way?” Pink asked.

  “I did,” Michelle said. “I didn’t really listen to it, though.”

  “Hell, it’s gonna hit eighty degrees out there today the way it’s going,” Pink said. “I don’t much believe in doctors or weathermen. How many people you know got a job they can do wrong fifty percent of the time and still get paid?” Pink laughed and turned the knob on the air conditioner to make it colder.

  “How do you know they’re wrong fifty percent of the time?” she asked.

  “Law of averages, little lady. Plain ol’ math,” Pink said confidently, even though he wasn’t sure it was true. He’d done poorly in algebra and geometry, but always thought the “law of averages” was an interesting concept.

  Pink was about to pull from the parking lot when he noticed Clarence in his side mirror hobbling from the office and waving. Pink rolled down the window of the Suburban. “What is it, Clarence?”