“Because Kenny’s dumber than cardboard, and Isabelle will never let me hear the end of it. Aw, hell, it doesn’t matter anyway. She’s always mad at me about something.” When he’d reached out to touch Claire’s breast in a gesture of reconciliation, she’d slapped his hand away. “What’d you do that for?” he’d said.
“For Christ’s sakes, Pink, go back to bed.” Claire had jerked the blanket up over her shoulders. “I gotta get some sleep so I can figure out what to tell Kenny.”
Pink hadn’t understood that last comment. He’d never figured out anything in his sleep, always waking with the same problems he’d gone to bed with.
He closed the front door behind him and shielded his eyes from the glare off the snow. The buds on the trees were blanketed with white, and Pink couldn’t comprehend how Mother Nature could let a thing like this happen, all those brand-new buds frozen solid. Maybe it did have to do with the Quickening, Pink thought. Clarence had told Pink all about it after hearing something on late-night public radio. “The Quickening,” Clarence had said, his eyes dark and serious as drilled holes, “I’m not fooling, Pink. Feller on the radio said all kind of strange things would happen closer we come to end-times.” End of April snowfall would surely have to count as a strange thing, but it had happened before, not that long ago, and much worse than this.
Pink recalled the snowstorm of ’93. Over thirty inches deep in some places on the mountains, with eight-foot drifts. Weekenders from Georgia, Alabama, and Florida were trapped in their vacation homes, no power, no phones, a two-day supply of food, and depleted end-of-winter woodpiles. Some folks burned expensive chairs and dressers, huddled next to the fireplace under blankets to stay warm, while others tested the drifts and howling winds on foot, only to be turned back by exhaustion and fear. Unsure how long the snowstorm had been predicted to last, Pink, Loudon, and a few of Loudon’s deputies had tried to rescue some of those people stuck on the mountains. All they’d managed after eight hours effort was to burn up two Hummers and a Jeep when snow caked the drive trains and plugged the radiators, overheating the engines and seizing the pistons. The Quickening, Pink thought, snickering to himself. Coddled folks with too much time and imagination came up with some pretty crazy notions.
Pink opened the door of the Suburban and brushed snow off the seat where it had blown through the missing window. The truck fired after a few cranks. Pink dropped it into four-wheel drive, adjusted the heater—even though it didn’t feel all that cold—then backed out of the driveway. He couldn’t stop thinking about the night before: Kenny holding a gun on them, Claire standing on the bridge railing wearing less clothing than a Bible-belt stripper, jumping into the lake. It had been quite exhilarating, and the sex afterward in the front seat was right up there with the best he could remember. Even Claire had seemed to ride the rush of fear, having two orgasms before worry set in.
“What if Kenny comes back with Curly?” she’d said.
“Christ, Claire. Forget about Kenny and Curly. Their noses are probably packed full of coke by now. They’re not going—”
“Let’s get out of here,” she’d said, pushing away.
No amount of pleading had swayed her from leaving, and Pink had only prayed it wouldn’t take jumping off a bridge naked before he had great sex again. But he would jump every day if that’s what it took, it was that good.
Pink was still mesmerized with the fragrance of Claire’s lilac shampoo when he turned onto the road leading to his mama’s house. Loudon, his badge sparkling like a gold brooch, stood in the road, his jacket puffed up around his neck and ears to block the wind. Pink stared at him through the jagged opening of the broken window. “Lose your car, Loudon?”
“Something like that,” Loudon said. “How about that window?”
“Cold shattered it,” Pink said. “Ain’t that a hell of a thing?”
Loudon nodded, his eyes narrowed in disbelief. Before Loudon could ponder the lie much longer, Pink asked him why he was standing in the middle of the road without a car.
“Elmer was so damn sure he could make it up the mountain,” Loudon said. “Even though I told him the snow was too deep.”
“Where is he?”
“Around the first bend. Put it right into a damn drift three feet deep. He’s calling for backup. Slider has the four-wheel drive up on Slocum Mountain trying to help some folks get down to the grocery store. Hell, if it’s not just like the storm of ’93, all the damn roads—”
“Hell, Loudon, this ain’t nothing like ’93. You need a ride up the road? Hop in.”
“I don’t think you can make it.”
“Get in, Loudon. I’ll get you up the dang hill.”
“Pink, the drifts are a lot deeper than you think.”
Pink leaned across the seat and popped the door open. “Come on, Loudon. We can even pick up Elmer. Where you needing to go?”
As Loudon pulled himself into the front seat, Elmer came stiff-legged down the road like a man trying to walk on ice skates. “Stay down here and wait for Slider,” Loudon yelled at him before slamming the door. Elmer nodded, then slipped and fell on his butt. “Christ,” Loudon said to Pink, shaking his head.
“You okay, Elmer?” Loudon asked.
Elmer held up his left hand, waving them off as if to say, “I’m fine,” then steadied himself with his right hand as he rolled to his side and tried to stand.
“Go on, Pink. I can’t watch this.”
“You got snow caked on the back of your trousers, Elmer,” Pink yelled as he rolled by. “Makes your ass look like a powdered donut.” Elmer laughed and shook his head, his cheeks pink and round as Valentine cupcakes.
The snow grew deeper as they passed the squad car, its hood and fender nose-down in the embankment like the shiny flat side of a new shovel. As the incline increased, Pink fed more gas to his Suburban. He felt a tire or two slip and catch, then another, as if the wheels were playing a game of tag on the frozen pavement. The vehicle never stopped moving forward, even though the tires spun on one side, then the other.
Halfway up the mountain, the road and shoulders turned into a continuous ribbon of white, a scraggly row of white pines, poplars, and beech trees marking the edges, the branches fat and sagging with snow.
Loudon wore his grave expression, the same one he wore whether he was fly-fishing the Chattooga River for enormous rainbows and browns or sitting at the courthouse listening to a defendant lie about being innocent. Pink had urged Loudon to spend some time in the poker room in Tunica. “No one can read your mug,” Pink had told him.
“I don’t go in much for gambling, Pink,” Loudon had said. “If I was sure I would win, I might give it a try.”