“I understand you met Pink Souder?”
What was this about? She wanted Cliff and Cassie to show up, wanted to go back to Atlanta and forget everything.
“I’d like to drive up there with Pink,” the sheriff said. “Just ask you a few questions. Promise we won’t stay long.”
How could she sit across from Pink and deny Pink’s account of the last few days? Or corroborate everything? It was impossible.
“This is probably not . . .”
“Pink’s in a pretty bad way. Keeps saying crazy things. He’s confused and upset. I thought it might help to get your side.”
It won’t help, Michelle thought. It won’t help anyone. She thought about what Mrs. Souder had told her: It would drive Pink insane. There seemed nothing Michelle could do to stop it.
“Sure, that would be fine.” Michelle was already sorry she hadn’t said no.
When Sheriff Fisk arrived, Pink wasted no time getting to the point. “Tell Fisk about going to the Hilltop, about coming to my mama’s house, about us hiking down through the damn woods in the middle of a damn snowstorm!” Pink appeared distressed, his features vague and faulty, as if some life-sustaining armature had been removed from his body.
Michelle motioned for them to sit, but Pink refused, pacing across the braided rug. He spun toward Michelle, his eyes flashing. An uneasy heat spread through Michelle.
“I don’t know what to say,” she told Sheriff Fisk. “There’s so much I can’t recall.”
Sheriff Fisk suggested talking about the events of the last week.
“To hell with that, Loudon!” Pink said, pumping his hands into fists at his sides. “I’m drowning in madness here and you want to stroll down memory lane.” Pink looked over at Michelle. “Tell him what happened last night, dammit! Tell him about the last two days.”
What could she say that could possibly help?
“Tell Loudon about the ceremony my mama performed,” Pink said. “Tell him about the damn snow! I know you remember that.”
Fisk tried to settle Pink.
“How am I supposed to calm down, Loudon? I don’t have a home, business, or pot to piss in. Hell, I don’t even have a damn car! Where the hell did it all go, Loudon? If you can tell me that, I’ll calm right down. Hell, I’ll be calm as a bluetick hound with a neck bone.”
Sheriff Fisk looked at Michelle with apologetic eyes, then down at his shoes. His hands were wound into a bony knot in his lap. He leaned forward and studied his knuckles.
“Maybe you wouldn’t be so calm if you saw my mama’s house,” Pink said to Michelle, standing near her chair now, angling his face to catch her eyes. “Maybe we should take a little drive down there. Then you might feel a . . .”
“I’ve seen it Pink,” she said.
“Not like this you haven’t,” he said.
“Yes, I have. The gate is hanging by one hinge. The paint is peeling. The window to the right of the front door is broken out. The place is a shambles.”
Pink stepped back and stared down at her, then glowered at Sheriff Fisk as if accusing him of collusion with Michelle. Fisk only half-shrugged and shook his head.
“What the hell is going on here?” Pink said.
Michelle looked up at him, wanted to talk to him in private, pull him aside and explain everything. Not that he would believe her. But if she framed it in witchcraft, maybe it would help. Just then a car pulled in the driveway. This was not how she imagined her homecoming. She wasn’t sure she could lie to Pink and the sheriff in front of Cassie.
Cliff was halfway up the walk when Michelle ran out to meet them. Michelle felt an instant peace anticipating her reunion with her daughter. But Cassie wasn’t with him. Michelle’s eyes searched frantically, looking around him toward the car.
“Where is she! Where’s Cassie?” Michelle blurted out.
“She had a swim meet,” Cliff said. “She was so bummed. She really wanted to come. She’s captain of the swim team now. Did you know that?”
Michelle’s heart fell, followed by a moment of relief. Maybe it was best she hadn’t come. She didn’t want Cassie to witness this scenario.
“Is everything okay?” Cliff asked, turning his eyes toward the sheriff’s car.
“Pretty much,” Michelle said. “They have a few questions.”
“Isn’t it enough you’re back?” Cliff said. “Can’t they leave you alone for two minutes?”
“It’s okay. None of that matters now.” Michelle studied Cliff, his forehead, his hands.
“What?” Cliff asked, apparently noticing her intense survey.
No scar. All his fingers. Everything she already knew but wanted visual proof of. She wanted Pink to have proof as well, some confirmation that he had not imagined everything. Could anything do that now? Could Michelle’s account possibly stitch together Pink’s two disparate worlds? She decided to tell Fisk about everything, the ceremony, the snowstorm, coming down the mountain, the dusk-to-dawn light. Validate Pink’s experience and at the same time, feel no responsibility for explaining it.
“Cliff, everything you’re about to hear is going to sound strange,” she told him. “Just don’t freak out on me.”
“Sure.” Cliff followed her into the house. Fisk stood and shook Cliff’s hand.
“We’re thankful your wife is back,” Sheriff Fisk said to Cliff. Pink stared at Cliff, his face leached of life.
“You!” Pink said. “You . . . you’re dead!”
Cliff glanced at Michelle then at the sheriff. “Excuse me?” Cliff said.
Pink trembled, moving in a wide arc around Cliff, knocking a picture from the wall as he scooted past him, giving Cliff wide berth. “You’re dead!” Pink looked over at Fisk. “Christ, Loudon, don’t you remember? You pried the damn gun from his hand, remember?”
Cliff looked shocked, glancing toward Michelle then back to Pink, the sheriff.
Pink implored the sheriff to remember, recounting the details of Cliff’s suicide, detailing the blood, the snow. Fisk urged Pink to stop.
“Let’s go, Pink,” the sheriff said. “Sorry for the disturbance, folks.”
Pink refused to go. Fisk grabbed him by the arm and led him toward the door.
“Dammit, Loudon. I want some answers,” Pink said, jerking his arm free. “She knows what’s going on. Make her tell you!”
“Not today, Pink,” Fisk said. “Let’s go.”