The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  “I ain’t tellin’!” She seemed ashamed. “You’d laugh!”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Everd says when we’re ’round local folks, we use our other names; we only use our clan names around ourselves. Everd says it’s easier for us to fit in. We all know we don’t fit in with ya all.”

  Dwayne was only worried about one thing fitting in, and it had nothing to do with names. But the man she referred to—Everd Stanherd—was a strange coot indeed. He was the clan’s elder, the wise man, so to speak, for all the Squatters. The fucker claimed to be sixty but he looked eighty . . . except for his hair. Not a gray hair on his head anywhere, just jet-black. All the clan had weird shiny jet-black hair, even the older women. Dwayne couldn’t see folks like this using hair dye.

  “You feel really good . . . Cindy,” he guttered. As his own arousal steepened, the dense chorus of cicadas seemed nearly deafening. Now his hands roamed all over—she felt tiny in them, the lithe frame, the reed-thin physique almost disproportionate to breasts firm and full as the popovers Judy made on holidays—and just as warm.

  Playtime was over; Dwayne was more than ready behind the zipper. He urged her through trees hanging with mops of Spanish moss, sort of pushing her along with his groin, and his fingers slid back up to her nipples. She was panting when he got her to the clearing.

  “Yeah, right here,” he said. He turned her around, placing her hands on his belt, telegraphing that it was time for her to take off his pants.

  Now her words sounded parched from desire. “You sure you don’t wanna go back to my shack?” she almost pleaded.

  His jeans fell down. ″Naw.″

  “It’d be lots more comfortable. What’s so special about this place?”

  Dwayne dragged her down into the dirt, and as he pushed her knees to her ears, his thoughts answered her question: This place? It’s only about ten feet from where I dug the hole last night. . . .

  One

  (I)

  I wonder how he died, came the spontaneous thought. Even as a lawyer, Patricia White never imagined herself to be capable of such mental ill will, but here it was, secretly staring her in the face. Her promotion couldn’t have been farther from her mind, nor the idea of so much extra income via the profit sharing. No, there were only these fleeting thoughts of darkness and morbidity. Judy said he’d been murdered but she didn’t say how. The next question bloomed as she gazed numbly at a series of Ming Dynasty-styled statues:

  I wonder . . . how. . . .

  Yes. Exactly how had her sister’s husband been murdered? What circumstances? And what modus? Gun? Knife? Bludgeoning?

  Then: I’d better get my head back on straight, before my own husband thinks I’ve completely flaked out.

  Byron sat across the table from her, trying not to look like he noticed her distraction. His first tack—when he knew something was bothering her—was to get her talking from any tangent available. “I’m not yet sure if this is the best Chinese restaurant in town,” he said, “but I’m prepared to proclaim even at this early interval that it’s the best-smelling Chinese restaurant in town.”

  So deep was Patricia White’s distraction that she hadn’t noticed until he’d mentioned it, but when she did, her eyes widened. Slim Asian waitresses scurried back and forth, bearing huge trays of food that seemed to draw aromatic banners throughout the restaurant. “Oh, Byron, wow. You’re right. The aromas here are almost . . .”

  His broad face widened as he grinned. “Erotic.”

  “You would say that, Mr. Perverted Food Critic.”

  He splayed his hands over the soup bowl that had until a moment ago been filled with shark-fin soup. “Good food is supposed to involve a sensual reaction; it has since early man began cooking. I see nothing perverted about it.”

  She couldn’t help it, leaning over to whisper, “Except for maybe the time when we were in L.A., and you insisted on bringing the slice of Chocolate Martini Cheesecake home from Spago’s and eating it off my stomach when we got back to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

  “Um-hmm. And I think I can honestly describe your reaction to that as particularly sensual. And don’t forget, Mrs. Perverted Power Attorney, what you did with the whipped cream first.”

  Patricia blushed immediately. How had she forgotten that part? More wonderful aromas rose to her face when their own entrées arrived: tangy sauces and elaborate spices and herbs carried upward in steam.

  “So before we dig into our northern-China feast,” Byron said, “why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

  Why not just say it? “I feel bad,” Patricia admitted, “for not feeling . . . bad.” Her eyes glanced up from the exorbitant plate of seared langoustines in shallot sprouts. Her normally stable gaze was confused now. “Does that make any sense?” she asked.

  Byron’s chopsticks stalled as he would have plucked up a strip of flash-fired abalone, his broad face contemplative in candlelight. “Honey, in this case it makes perfect sense. It’s hard to put into words because we’re not supposed to speak badly of the dead. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

  “Yes . . .” She set down her own chopsticks on the porcelain prop. The circumstances were obviously killing both their appetites, which was a shame in such an upscale restaurant known for such exotic cuisine. “Part of me feels so bad for Judy, but most of me feels . . . Oh, damn it. I feel like such a shit heel for even thinking it.”

  “Let me finish for you; tell me if I’m on track. Most of you feels good for Judy, because she’s too good a person to be married to a guy like Dwayne. Dwayne was a pretty crappy person. He was a liar and a criminal and a con man, and now he’s dead. And some part of you is glad he’s dead. And you feel guilty about that. I do too a little, but I’m also glad he’s dead. Nobody ever liked that guy. I only met him that one time, and I could tell at a glance that he was a shifty redneck who only married your sister to make his own life better. He was causing her great grief that she didn’t deserve. He used to slap her around, for God’s sake. Well, now he can’t do that anymore. All in all, Dwayne’s getting killed was a good thing. The world’s a better place without him, and Judy is better off.”

  “I know,” Patricia confessed, ″but—″

  “But she’s your sister,” Byron continued, “and you love her and you know that you’re not supposed to feel happy that her husband is dead. A situation like this can never be simple.”

  “She was always convinced that he’d change eventually, that it was just his background that kept him down—″

  “Of course, because that was the only thing she could think to ever have hope. The truth is, guys like Dwayne don’t change. They’re predators till the day they die. You can blame environment or upbringing or bad education or whatever, and sometimes those really are factors that need to be considered. And sometimes they’re not. Dwayne was simply a bad person, and always would have been.”

  Patricia shook her head. “But she loved him so much.”

  “Sometimes love is blind and very illogical,” Byron added. “Your sister’s always been a bit insecure. She bought into Dwayne’s phony charm and that rugged, tough-guy look, and she wound up getting screwed. She should’ve sent him packing a year after they got married, but that’s when the insecurity kicks in. Happens a lot with women her age; after forty, they look at whoever they’re with like it’s a last stand.”

  “A woman her age?” Patricia questioned, but it was more as a joke. “She’s forty-two; I’m forty-three.”

  “Yes, but the difference is, she was married to a brawny redneck; you’re married to a bald gourmand. I’m the insecure one in this marriage. Most men my age have beer bellies.” Byron patted the girth in his lap. “I have a foie-gras-and-chateaubriand belly.”

  They both shared a laugh, which was more than welcome in the midst of the bad scene. Byron was a food critic for the Washington Post. He made a good living eating at the best restaurants in the D.C. metropolitan area, yet he was constantly poking
fun at himself. Patricia’s salary was five times what he earned, and now that she’d made partner, it would be even more. And she wore her middle age quite deceptively, looking more along the lines of a woman in her early thirties. In spite of her workload, she still managed to make it to the gym three times a week, and nature or God had been kind enough to keep the wrinkles at bay. The wall by their table, just beyond an elegant, white-brick-bordered fish pond, was a mirror that doubled the restaurant’s proportions, and when Patricia stole a glance at herself, she remained quite satisfied with the image that reflected back. Her silken, straight red hair shone about her face, long bangs pushed back. She’d just had it cut a few days ago, collarbone length, straight as a bezel. The sleek black jersey skirt only highlighted her slim physique, made even sexier by a bosom ample enough to leave most of Byron’s friends convinced that she had implants when in fact she didn’t. She looked exactly like the in-shape, attractive D.C. businesswoman that she was. Byron, on the other hand, incarnated the word jolly, and he knew it, which was just another reason why she loved him. He was overweight but he was genuine, and in the Washington power circles such men were rare indeed. She truly had married her best friend, and she knew she’d be at a loss without him. I lucked out, Patricia thought in a grateful calm. I wish Judy had. . . .

  The restaurant busied itself around them, soft chat haunted by barely audible Oriental harps, and soft accents explaining tonight’s specials: Thai-style cuttlefish in three spices, Peking duck, and Szechuan beef proper.

  More seriously now, Byron said, “I’m sorry this other matter’s darkened your celebration dinner. I wanted this to be special.”

  She squeezed his hand under the table. “It’s very special. It could be McDonald’s and it would be special, as long as you were here.”

  Byron smiled meekly. “Anyway, a toast. To your promotion.″

  They tinked tiny glasses of rich plum wine. Patricia was a real estate lawyer whose firm had just officially elevated from number two to the number one spot in the field. For the last ten years the realty market in the entire Washington and northern Virginia area had been going nuts, and it had never been nuttier than now, which meant prime business for attorneys such as she. Making partner gave her a share of company net earnings, and their Georgetown brownstone was already paid off and worth five times what they paid. She and Byron had always had a good life together, but now it was going to be a great life.

  “I don’t like it, though. It seems sexist.” Byron returned to some levity, expertly chopsticking a piece of rumaki. “Your firm, McGinnis, Myers, and Morakis. You’re a partner now. Shouldn’t it be McGinnis, Myers, Morakis, and White?”

  “Bad aesthetics, Byron,” she answered. “That would screw up the marketable ring—the three Ms. Besides, I don’t need my name on the door. First thing I do with my signing bonus is take my wonderful husband to Hong Kong so you can finish your fine-dining book.”

  “It may sound like a foolish indulgence for me to have this gluttonous dream, but what you must understand is that a preeminent critic such as myself needs to experience tao fu fa smoked bean curd and fish-head soup at the best Cantonese restaurant in the world—″

  She smiled, looking at him. “Whatever turns you on, honey. I admire your passion. Me, I love good food too, but I don’t have the same appreciation.” She gestured at her plate. “This, for instance. It’s great; it’s even probably the best shrimp I’ve ever had—”

  Byron winced automatically. “Honey, they’re not shrimp; they’re langoustines from Morton Bay in Australia. Not shrimp at all, but actually a genus of crevice lobster—”

  Patricia nodded it off. “Fine. But to an unsophisticated taste like mine it’s shrimp, and it’s great, but I just don’t have your knack for communicating that to other people. I don’t have your love for that. You’d probably describe this as—″

  Before she could finish, Byron plucked a langoustine off her plate, savored it in his mouth, and said, “A mysterious conspiracy of authenticated spice work, punctuating the sweetness of this distant and very exotic crustacean. The wild bite of tender shallot sprouts has been sufficiently tamed by just the right heat, all to impart a magnificent delectability rarely available to American palates. In all, the dish equates to culinary poetics.″

  “Exactly,” she said, and laughed. “Hong Kong will definitely be your element, and I can’t wait to see you in it.” And it was true. They’d been together for twenty years, and it was Byron who’d worked so many extra hours while Patricia had been in law school and doing associate work. “You helped make my dream come true,” she said more quietly, “and I know a lot of the time it seems like I’ve forgotten about that.”

  “Nonsense, it′s our dream, and we get to live it together,” Byron said.

  She wondered, feeling even more guilty now. Most of the time she was too busy writing interrogatories for pretrial hearings to remind herself that she was a part of his life. I’ll make it all up to him, starting now, she promised, hoping it wasn’t just another excuse. He’d always wanted to go to Hong Kong—for the restaurants—and in twenty years, she’d never had time. She’d always been too busy. Well, not anymore, she thought. I’m one of the bosses now. “So like I said, the first thing I do as partner is take you to Hong Kong.” But then a troubling thought intervened. “Well, I mean . . . the second thing.”

  “Of course,the funeral,” Byron said more soberly. “Why don’t you let me go with you? It’s a long drive by yourself.”

  “It’s only three hours or so.”

  “Well, that′s not what I mean. You won’t want to be alone in that crowd and that situation.”

  She knew what he meant. She’d never felt in place down there in Agan’s Point, because she simply wasn’t in place. They all think I’m a conceited cosmopolite . . . which I guess I am. “Judy’s fine with me,” she assured him, “and as far as the others go, to hell with them.” It was a strange sentiment. Only ingrates left their birth-place for the city, people who thought they were better than everyone else. “I won’t lie to you: I don’t want to go, and if you want to know the truth, they can drop Dwayne’s body in a trench and cover it over with dirt and not even have a funeral service . . . but—”

  Byron nodded. “But you need to be there for Judy. Of course you do. That′s how any real person would feel.”

  But her own thoughts, and what Byron had finished for her, made her feel awkward. I was never there for her when she really needed me, was I? Family loyalty and careers often warred with each other—a trademark of modern nuclear families—and in Patricia’s case, the family loyalty had lost out. Deep down Judy never forgave me for not staying in town to go to a closer college not too many years after Mom and Dad died. . . .

  More war, between her life as it was now, and however familial responsibility might be interpreted. Instead, she changed the subject. “I also want to look at the company records, see what kind of damage Dwayne may have done behind her back. The deal was, she did the accounting and Dwayne supervised the personnel, but I have my doubts. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if he was skimming some kickbacks off the crabbers.”

  “Don’t change the subject. I still think I should go with you,” Byron prodded.

  She sighed. It was out of the question. His family crises had never interfered with her; hence, she was determined not to allow the opposite. “You can’t take off work just for that,” she deflected.

  “My monthly column’s already finished—the piece on local caviar lounges—and I could zip out this week’s feature review tonight. Going back to Agan’s Point under these circumstances will be pretty damn uncomfortable for you. Let me go—even if it’s only for the first few days. It might keep some of the stress at bay.”

  Patricia dearly wished she could say yes—she wanted to so much. But it’s not fair to him. That backwoods place is just as weird and awkward for him as it is for me. “No,” she declared. “You stay here and do your job. You’re the best culinary critic
on that whole paper. I can’t have you slipping because of me.”

  ″But—″

  “No,” she repeated. Then she leaned over and whispered, “Just give me some great sex before I leave.″

  Byron’s rotund face seemed to brace for a moment. Then he shrugged and said, “No problem.”

  The dim morning light seemed to make the street feel more desolate. Just this moment, it looked like anything but summer in the city. Only the faintest tinges of sunlight began to filter through the smog, which would only get worse when rush hour commenced. At least she wouldn’t have to drive through any of that this morning.

  Patricia felt disconnected as Byron placed her suitcases in the trunk of the sporty Cadillac SRX. In the meager light, the car’s sumptuous burgundy paint job looked black.

  Byron glanced up a moment, puzzled. “If you drive with the ragtop down, you’ll cause multiple wrecks, you know.”

  She returned his expression, just as puzzled. “What?”

  “But I have to admit, I like the idea of all those Virginia rednecks envying me.”

  “Byron, what are you talking about?”

  “Your bra, or I should say lack thereof.”

  She briefly touched her bosom and then stifled her shock. She almost always wore a bra, yet at that moment she didn’t consciously recall deciding not to this morning when she’d dressed. Her sizable bosom in addition to the plain white blouse would likely incite any gawkers on the highway. “I’d keep the top up to avoid sunburn anyway, Byron, so the jealous male sexual animal in you can relax. The only person I’ll probably come in contact with today will be my sister.”

  “I’m relieved,” he joked. “Believe me, this convertible plus that blouse plus your set of boobs would definitely cause a ten-mile pileup.”

  “See? I’m thinking solely of public safety.”

  The condo building loomed behind them. Byron smiled, the little bit of hair he had left disarrayed in spikes, stubble dark on his face. “Last chance. I could change real quick and go with you.”