“If there’s a doctor, I suppose they’re also the vet.”
“Why isn’t there anybody on the sidewalks?” Forrest complained. “Is this a movie set for a bad Western?” The buildings, venerable but undistinguished, bothered Forrest; the way they stood scattered, oddly spaced, made no sense to his urban eyes. “Why is there a horse in a pasture right behind the People’s Bank of Maypop?”
“Never mind the horse. Have a look at the church.”
Forrest looked. “Holy crap.”
“Yes, and a lot of it, I would say.” Even with its rather squatty steeple, a concession to hurricane country, the church loomed by far as the most imposing structure in Maypop.
“Third light ahoy,” said Quinn.
“First cypress swamp to the right and straight on toward Mom’s place.”
The swamp quip turned out to be prophetic, but Forrie saw that he should have added cotton fields, a dairy farm, several ponds, numerous pinto horses, and a scattering of very modest houses.
After a few miles, Quinn started watching the numbers on the mailboxes. “We’re getting close.”
Quinn sounded tense, and Forrie noticed because he felt tense. More than tense. Worried. Scared. What the heck was going on with Mom?
Trying to lighten the mood, he remarked, “Do you think she was serious when she said it was pink?”
“I’d say.” Quinn pointed.
“Whoa!” Forrest pulled the rental car off the road, stopped it, and stared. Nestled amid clouds of fluffy pink mimosa blossoms glowing in the sunset light, Mom’s shack looked like it belonged in a fuchsia fairy tale.
Quinn concurred with Forrie’s unspoken sentiment. “That is so Mom it is eerie.”
“I expect her to come flying out on her broom at any moment.”
“Don’t we wish.” Quinn unbelted his seat belt. “Turn this pitiful car off and let’s go see what’s what.”
A smell diametrically opposed to that of mimosa blossoms assaulted their nostrils the moment they got out of the car. Wordlessly they exchanged a shocked look. Forrie stared straight ahead and let Quinn lead the way to the back door. Pinching their nostrils against the stench, they let themselves inside.
It seemed much darker there. Who could think anything so aggressively pink could be so dark? Forrest groped for a light switch, but when he found one and flicked it, he wished he hadn’t. It would have been better not to see what the maggots were doing to Schweitzer.
Quinn made a retching noise, U-turned, and rushed out back to lean against Mom’s car for support. Forrest retreated there too, staying a safe distance away from his brother. Quinn had not actually vomited—yet—and Forrest didn’t want him to in case his own stomach responded accordingly. Grabbing Quinn’s elbow, Forrest said, “Come on. Fresh air,” and tugged his brother toward the portion of the yard farthest from the house. There, under the lovely low branches of a mimosa tree, both stood and breathed deeply.
“My God,” Quinn burst out as if he had just that moment realized how seriously screwed things were. “My God, where the hell is Mom?”
• • •
Those good ol’ boys drinking whiskey and rye in the “American Pie” song, singing “This’ll be the day that I die!” had no idea what they were talking about. But I couldn’t get that plangent song out of my head as I brought Stoat tepid water, drank some myself, offered to put a wet cloth on his face, and got no answer except the mean stare of his one eye and the even meaner twofold regard of the business end of his shotgun.
Fighting to remain conscious and in control of me, Stoat did not eat. Because I needed to stay physically strong, I made myself eat stuff out of cans, using my fingers as knife, fork, and spoon. Cold baked beans. Ick.
Very icky, because Stoat waited for that moment to pick up his big buck knife again and point it at me to gesture: Come here. Every movement cost him a gasp of pain, and he panted so badly that pity helped me overcome my fear. But as soon as I reached the picnic table bench where he sat, I was sorry. He grabbed me hard by one arm while he stretched his other hand up to my shoulder.
Golly gee whiz, had he put down his shotgun?
Golly gee nothing. I stopped trying to joke with myself when I felt Stoat place the edge of his knife against my neck.
“Help me up,” he ordered, his voice thick. I wondered whether his tongue had swollen along with the purple half of his pockmarked face. I also wondered where the heck he thought he was going, but with his buck knife nudging my neck, I wasn’t about to ask.
Making very sure to keep my hands above his waist and below his neck, I helped him up. With both of his arms on my shoulders he leaned on me hard, shuffling toward the front door. To the van?