“Well, let’s have us a dance while you’re waiting on George to burn your dinner.”
“No, thank you. I think I—”
“Go on, Michelle,” Pink said. “The only thing Lyman does better than make corn liquor is the two-step.”
Michelle hadn’t danced in years and had never done the two-step, but before she could protest again, Lyman had her on the dance floor. He showed her the steps, how to move. Michelle was amazed how fluid the large man was.
“So how is it one gets so good at dancing and making corn liquor?” Michelle asked. “Or is that a secret?”
“Yes, ma’am, that is a bit of a secret. But I can tell you how to make corn liquor.” Lyman laughed and spun her around.
Michelle had almost forgotten how morose she’d been at the motel earlier that evening, how much she’d wanted to die. Anytime she thought Cliff’s reality might be the only one, the right one, she lost all energy for life. The only one? The right one? How many realities are there? she thought, feeling stupid for having asked the question of herself. There’s one, Michelle, a voice came back inside her head. One reality per person, that’s all you get. It was only during these brief moments of normalcy, like dancing or swimming laps or driving with the windows down, that Michelle even questioned the night Cliff disappeared. She wondered if it actually had happened, if she had scrambled down the hill in the dark following some mysterious light. Then there was Darcy’s voice on the phone earlier, asking Michelle to come home. What would Darcy think if she saw Michelle two-stepping at the Hilltop with a moonshiner named Lyman? How real was this?
When the song ended, Lyman escorted Michelle back to the table and thanked her for the dance. Pink smiled and pushed the plate toward her. “The finest ostrich burger in all of Ardenwood. How was your dance?”
“Good,” Michelle said, sipping the liquor Pink had put in front of her. She couldn’t believe how jumpy she was over what she had to say to Pink. She felt like a smashed watch—the cogs, gears, and springs exposed. She drained the glass, and the sting of the liquid spread through her sinuses. Pink handed her a glass of water. “Whew, it’s really strong,” she said, downing the water.
“Pink,” Michelle began. “There are things I didn’t tell you earlier, things I need you to hear. But they’ll sound even crazier than the other stuff. And if you couldn’t believe that, then . . .”
“Hell, Mrs. Stage, if you got something you need me to hear . . . well, I’ll listen. Maybe it ain’t about me believing anything. Maybe it’s about you needing to say some things, get ’em off your chest.”
“This isn’t easy to say, Mr. Souder. It’s about the night my husband, Cliff, disappeared. Remember how I told you about Cliff going down the mountain looking for the light—”
“I thought you said you were the one that went down the mountain in the dark,” Pink said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
Michelle stuttered a bit. “Well, that’s how it ended up, I guess. But originally Cliff was missing—”
“This here is a dad-blamed difficult yarn to follow,” Pink said, taking a drink of corn liquor.
“I know it is,” she said. “But remember how I said I called the police and Sheriff Fisk arrived with—”
“Elmer. Yep.”
“Yes, Elmer,” Michelle said. She glanced down at her hands, then back to Pink. She tried to settle herself before speaking. “Well, Sheriff Fisk told me a story about how the state police had dug up the entire yard at the cabin, at your cabin . . .”
Pink jerked backward, his expression dark. “Why would he tell you such a thing? That never happened . . . Why would they dig up the yard at my cabin?”
“They were looking for a body—”
“A body!” Pink shouted. Heads turned toward their table. “Whose body?”
“Isabelle’s.”
Pink’s eyes pressed to slits, cutting fat creases across his cheeks. “Why the hell would Loudon go and say a fool thing like that? He’s lost his cotton-pickin’ mind. I’m gonna have a talk with—”
“He won’t remember saying it,” Michelle told Pink. “He didn’t say it here . . . in this . . . oh, never mind. He wouldn’t remember, that’s all, so there’s no use talking to him.”
Pink sat a moment, glaring at the floor. “Let me get this straight. You said your husband doesn’t remember any of this, and Loudon and Elmer don’t remember any of this, but you do.”
The statement was more accusation than question. It made Michelle uncomfortable.
“How was she supposed to have died?” Pink asked. “Who buried her there?”
Michelle gulped down the last of her corn liquor, thinking about the bubbles, hundred proof. Proof. That’s what she lacked. “Everyone thought you did, Pink. They believed you killed Isabelle and buried her at the cabin.” The words sounded harsh and she couldn’t believe she’d said them out loud.
At first Pink just stared at her, the way one might regard a door-to-door salesman. Then he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Stage, but you’re nuttier than a PayDay candy bar! But you are entertaining!”
Pink stood up and placed a twenty on the table near Michelle’s plate. “The least I can do is buy you dinner,” he said. “Thanks for the memorable evening!” Pink shuffled through the club, tucking his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers, laughing all the way to the stairs.
*****
Lyman walked in silence beside Michelle, opening the door for her when they got to his truck. The sky was quilted with dark clouds, the faint smell of winter riding the crisp night air. Michelle wished she’d brought a jacket with her. She pulled the door closed as Lyman climbed in behind the steering wheel.
“I appreciate the ride,” Michelle said.
“Where you staying?” he asked.
Michelle was about to say the Ruby Motel. “Do you know where Mr. Souder lives?”
“Pink?”
“Yes. Can you take me there? To his house?”
Lyman turned the key in the ignition. “That’s not a good idea. Pink’ll have my ass if I take you over there. What you want to go there for anyway?”
“I have to. I’m running out of time.” The cab of Lyman’s truck was dark, the dash lights a faint yellow, making everything look nicotine-stained, even though the truck smelled of fresh pine. “I want to apologize to him,” Michelle finally added.
Apologizing was part of her reason for wanting to go, but mostly she had to meet Isabelle, look into her eyes. Michelle didn’t know what she expected to find, but time was compressing, squeezing out options and hope. How long would it be before Cliff found her? And now that she’d made a fool of herself with Pink, would he call Sheriff Fisk and tell him he’d found the crazy woman from Atlanta?