If Darcy had told him the truth, Cliff could already be on his way. Michelle couldn’t chance getting out of Pink’s Suburban at Lulu’s house for fear Sheriff Fisk might recognize her as the crazy woman who’d been taken away in an ambulance a few days earlier.
“I know all that property up there,” Pink said. “What road’s your place on?”
“Hurst Road.”
Pink seemed to be pondering the information, his eyes straight ahead. “Is your place near Pink Souder Road?” he finally said.
“Yes.” She wanted to tell Pink they were headed to his cabin, wanted to see his expression when she told him where she lived, still unsure what she hoped to discover.
“I’m embarrassed to say that road was named after me,” Pink said. “My mama’s idea. Seems like every damn road around here’s named after somebody, but I had nothing to do with it. Which place is yours?”
“204 Hurst Road.”
For a few minutes Pink didn’t say anything and Michelle wondered what was wrong, why he suddenly seemed distant. “That’s my old place,” Pink finally said, “the one I was telling you about.”
Michelle was about to acknowledge that she already knew that but decided not to. “Really?” she said.
“Can I ask you something, Mrs. Stage?” Pink said, tugging at his ear lobe.
“Sure,” she said, curious about his new somber tone.
Pink studied the rearview mirror a second then twisted toward her in the seat. “I know it’s none of my business, but are you in trouble with the law?”
“No. Of course not.” She wondered if Pink had heard about her being whisked away in an ambulance, if the story of the crazy woman from Atlanta had merited enough interest to make the local rumor mill. Could that account for the new reticence in his tone, the concern in his voice?
She shifted her gaze to the road. The pavement wound along a clear river strewn with large boulders and frothy riffles. A moment later, the road swept up a hill then curved down to the left away from the stream. She had never been on this road before.
Pink cleared his throat. She glanced over, lost in her own thoughts, not having noticed how quiet Pink had become. His eyes were fixed, his expression dull.
When they rounded the next turn, a waterfall white with cascades came into view.
“Wow,” Michelle said. “That’s beautiful.”
“Ever been to Niagara Falls?” Pink asked.
“No.”
“That’s where I wanted to go on my honeymoon,” Pink said. “And we would have if it hadn’t been for Isabelle’s mother.”
Michelle turned to look at Pink.
“She killed herself. Blew her fool head off with a dang shotgun.” Pink twisted up his mouth. “I don’t know what was wrong with that woman. The day of our wedding, Isabelle’s daddy came into the church, all covered in blood. He said Isabelle was Satan. Can you imagine that picture in the wedding album? He died a few years later in a tractor accident. Isabelle never even went to the funeral. I think that’s why she’s so sick, but she won’t hear it. Screams at me, says I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Doctors aren’t sure, but they ain’t growed tired of taking my money for drugs and tests.”
Michelle took her eyes back out the window, recognizing the Mountain View Cottages, Holman’s Stone Sales, and Brenshaw Tool and Rental with the line of red tractors parked out front.
“Since we’re going right past it anyway, do you mind if we drop the dog off at my mama’s house on the way up to the cabin?”
“Sure, no problem.” She pictured the dilapidated shack. Pink’s mother had seemed full of vitality at Lulu’s, and Michelle couldn’t imagine her living in such a dump. Maybe she’d moved but still lived nearby.
When Pink pulled into the driveway, Michelle recognized the house immediately—the picket fence, the shutters, the wooden porch—but everything was cared for and fresh. She remembered the enormous tree in the front yard.
“That hemlock’s over two hundred years old,” Pink said, as if he’d read her thoughts. “Lots of old hemlocks up here, if the dang blight don’t kill ’em all off.” He reached across the seat and lifted Burrito from Michelle’s arms. “I’ll only be a minute. Do you need to use the facilities?”
“The what?” Michelle asked.
“The bathroom.”
Michelle was about to say no but decided she wanted to see the inside of Mattie’s house. “Sure.”
Pink twisted the knob and walked in. “She always leaves the back door unlocked,” Pink said. “I tell her it ain’t like it used to be up here, with all the transients now, but she won’t listen.”
When Pink set Burrito down, the dog’s nails slipped on the linoleum floor. “Bathroom’s through there.”
Remembering Pink’s open admission that his mother was a witch, Michelle was surprised by the interior of the house. It was nothing like she expected. The very sound of the word witch brought to mind all sorts of queer objects—jars filled with strange roots and herbs, newts and lizards. She imagined cobwebs hanging from each rafter, a cauldron sitting off to one side. Instead there were framed prints on the walls with cosmic motifs—moon, planets, and stars—and a metal pentagram on the kitchen table, similar to the one she’d found at the cabin behind the toilet, along with four placemats and a bowl of fruit—bananas, apples, and pears. Nothing remarkable. In the bathroom she noticed some brightly colored stones then another that looked like a crystal and one the color of honey. Next to the soap dish was a plastic cup with a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.
Michelle quietly opened the medicine cabinet—Vicks, floss, lipstick, eyeliner, nail polish, hand cream, ointments and razors, deodorant. Attached to the glass was a dreamcatcher and next to it a stained-glass ornament of a dove, light from outside illuminating its wings. Above the toilet, a shelving unit filled with colorful towels—red, pink, and lavender. It could have been Darcy’s condo.
Michelle bent over the sink and doused her face with cold water. How could you know if you were crazy? she thought. The answer that came back was more disturbing than the question: you couldn’t. She studied her face in the mirror. It was gaunt and drawn and nothing like she remembered. Michelle undid her jeans and pushed them down past her knees, checking for the scar where she’d cut herself. She ran her finger over the raised skin, barely red, nearly healed. She felt reassured, until she realized that the only thing the fresh scar proved was that she’d been tromping around in the woods that night. Nobody had disputed that.