The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  The premises of the trauma. She thought over the odd choice of words. But he’d been right. I moved away as fast as I could. . . .

  “What happened to you will always be there,” he continued, fingering a paperweight shaped like a blue pill that read STELAZINE. “I’m a behavioralist psychologist; I’m not so liberal in my manner of interpreting human psychology. Other professionals would tell you that it’s unhealthy to leave your traumas because they remain in your psyche whether you know it or not. That’s not true with regard to how we must function in our lives, in our society, and in the world. If not living in Agan’s Point restores you to that kind of functionality, then you’ve done the right thing. Your trauma becomes neutered, ineffectual—it becomes a thing that can’t affect you anymore. It no longer has any bearing on your life, and never will . . . unless you let it. You don’t need a regimen of antidepressant drugs and costly psychotherapy to deal with your trauma; all you need is to be away from the area of the occurrence. Your life right now is validation. You’re a fabulously successful attorney enjoying a fulfilling career and a wonderful marriage. Am I right?”

  Patricia splayed her hands on the couch. “Yes.”

  “You aren’t traumatized by what happened to you when you were sixteen, are you? You aren’t a psychological basket case; this event in your past hasn’t ruined you. You can’t tell me that this twenty-five-year-old tragedy still rears its head and exerts a negative force in your existence, can you? Can you tell me that?”

  Patricia almost laughed. What he was forcing her to admit to herself was now replacing a creeping despair with a frivolous joy. “No, Doctor, I can’t tell you that at all.”

  He looked at her with a blank expression. “So your problem is . . . ?”

  She conceded to him. “You’re right. I don’t have a problem anymore.”

  He raised a finger. “Proximity to the scene of the trauma is your only problem. Whenever you return to Agan’s Point, your despair recommences. When you’re away from Agan’s Point, your mind functions as though the trauma never occurred. We know I’m correct about this because every aspect of your life verifies it. Let me put it in the most sophisticated, clinical terminology I can, Patricia. Fuck Agan’s Point. Shit on Agan’s Point. To hell with Agan’s Point. How’s that?”

  Now Patricia was laughing outright.

  And he finished, “Your despair is activated only when you return to Agan’s Point, so my professional advice is never to go back there. You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. If you want to see your relatives, then they can come to you. You don’t have to go to them. Agan’s Point is a bowel movement that you flushed down the toilet years ago. Solution? Don’t go back to the sewer.”

  And that was that. Not only had Patricia gotten a great laugh from Dr. Sallee’s acumen, she’d needed to see him only that one time for all to be set back to rights. When she’d gone home from her sister’s wedding, it all returned to her—indeed, like a toilet backing up. Now that I’m away from that hellhole . . . I feel great. . . .

  And she continued to feel great . . . until she’d received the call from Judy reporting her husband’s murder.

  I’m going back to the sewer, she recalled the doctor’s metaphor as the Caddy brought her closer and closer. I don’t know what else to do. She’s my sister. . . .

  This was all she could do, and she knew it. “And I’ll just have to make the best of it,” she said to herself. “It was so long ago anyway. I’m acting like a baby.″ Admitting that to herself was easier than admitting her optimism was forced.

  She let more of the road take her, the Cadillac almost too quiet and smooth as more roads turned rural, and more turnoffs took her farther away from her metropolitan world. The wilds of southern Virginia were an opposite world—farms instead of skyscrapers, old pickup trucks and tractors lumbering along quiet, tree-lined roads, quite unlike the manic traffic streams of the city. She knew that home grew ever closer by still more telltale signs: AGAN′S POINT CRAB CAKES, boasted a roadside restaurant. Then a market: WE SELL AGAN′S POINT CRABMEAT. Her sister’s crabmeat was locally renowned. Eventually the scenery began to calm Patricia’s nerves, and she actually smiled. Would she really be able to forget about her trauma of decades ago? Maybe it’s all just worn off, she hoped.

  Then another sign swept by:

  AGAN’S POINT—3 MILES.

  She steeled herself behind the wheel. It’s no big deal, no big deal. I’m over it!

  And then the awful words came back to haunt her just as effectively as she was being haunted by her past:

  Yes, her own father’s words . . .

  How could you let something like that happen?

  Patricia’s eyes suddenly flooded with tears. She couldn’t control herself; she couldn’t even remember what she was doing, her sensibilities jerking away from her like something being stolen. Without even realizing it, she pulled the Cadillac to the shoulder and got out, her heart hammering, sweat pasting her red bangs to her forehead. A passerby would’ve dismissed her as a crazy woman about to run amok into the woods. Tears blurred her vision. Her feet took her in a blind run away from the car. When she fell to her knees several minutes later, she looked up, choking through sobs, and then saw a smaller sign just before the turn onto a narrow country road. She had to squint through her tears to focus until she could finally read the sign, a right-turn arrow and the words:

  BOWEN’S FIELD.

  Patricia shrieked, vomited into the grass, and passed out.

  (II)

  “It just seemed weird to me, Mr. Chief,” the slim, curvy girl with tousled black hair was relating into the driver’s-side window of the Agan’s Point police patrol car.

  The strange accent was more of a giveaway than the pale skin and black hair, not to mention the “Mr. Chief.” One of Stanherd’s Squatters, Chief Sutter realized. They always called him Mr. Chief. He didn’t recall seeing this one around, but then he didn’t typically pay much attention to the Squatters—he didn’t have to. They kept to themselves, stayed out of trouble, and worked hard, most of them taking minimum-wage jobs at the crab company. Chief Sutter was a reasonable man. Work your job, pay your taxes, and obey the law, and you’ll have no problem with me. Right now, however, Chief Sutter was having a problem of his own, with this girl who’d flagged them down on Point Road. As she leaned over the window, to convey some mishap at the Qwik-Mart, her breasts stared him bold in the face. The homemade tomato-red jumper top restrained a pair of breasts that might be getting close to D-cup territory. The hand-set stitches of the top, in fact, were stretching enough to show lines of flesh in their seams. She also wore an equally tight threadbare skirt hemmed uncomfortably high on the thigh. The Squatters made their own clothes from fabric scraps they bought at Goodwill, and this little thing was obviously still growing into her getup. A heat wave flashed in Sutter’s groin when, as he listened, his eyes shot a quick glance down the front of her abdomen and hips. Oh, lord, he commiserated. Her right foot crossed over the back ankle of her left, a dollar-store flip-flop hanging off the sleek, voluptuous foot. Jiminy Christmas, even her fucking feet are hot . . . Hence Chief Sutter’s “problem.” The images distracted him, such that he found himself nodding as if in attention but hearing almost nothing of what she said.

  “—and they was kinda grinnin’ and lookin’ me over,” she went on, “the way fellas’ll do, makin’ me really uncomfortable, and when I told ’em I didn’t wanna buy none, they said somethin’ like, ‘Well, that’s all right, we’ll give ya some fer free if ya come and party with us.’”

  The Squatter girls weren’t much above the neck, sort of wide faces and flat noses, not the best teeth, and that ratty black hair. But below the neck?

  Jiminy Christmas, Sutter repeated the thought. They all had bodies that would make a calendar girl feel insecure.

  “What’s that you were sayin’ there, hon?” Trey asked. Sutter could tell by Trey’s squint and the tone of his query that he too w
as experiencing a problem with distraction. Any officer’s job was to get all the facts, and that wasn’t working well here, not with this Squatter bombshell’s pair of absolutely state-of-the-art breasts practically falling out of that top in front of them.

  “What was it you say these fellas were tryin’ ta sell you?” Trey blinked hard enough to get out.

  Her hip cocked, which caused her bosom to sway delectably in the hand-stitched top, and she explained in that weird accent that all the Squatters seemed to have, “Ice! Can ya believe that? They asked me if I wanted to buy some ice! Sure, it’s hot ʹnʹ all, but we got a bunch a’ ice trays in our freezer just like dang near everyone, and even if we didn’t, I could walk right in the Qwik-Mart and buy me a bag. Dumbest thing I ever heard anyone tryin’ ta sell right out front of a convenience store. Who sells ice out of a truck, Mr. Chief? So’s that’s why I flagged ya down, just ‘cos that whole thing seemed really weird and so did them fellas. Thought the police’d wanna know.”

  Sutter and Trey exchanged glances. At least now they had some police business, which was good, because if Sutter had to spend another minute looking at this girl’s outrageous body he might have a heart attack right there in the cruiser.

  “That was right of you to flag us down, missy,” Sutter said, “because fellas like that are definitely not the type we want in Agan’s Point. You see which way they went?”

  Now she stood on both feet, legs parted, and leaned back with hands on hips. More distraction: she was so short—all the Squatters were—and as she leaned back like that, she nearly appeared unreal, like something manufactured at a scaled-down size. When she pointed across the windshield, Sutter’s eyes bugged as one immaculate breast rose in the top, and in that little gap underneath he could see the bare bottom of it in all of its orbicular glory. “They ain’t went nowhere yet, Mr. Chief, ‘cos see? They’re still there. That’s them in that orange boxy-looking truck parked right out front of the Qwik-Mart, and that’s one of ‘em standin’ right there talkin’ on the pay phone.”

  Trey’s expression revved up. “Well, ain’t that grand, yes, sir!”

  “You got that right,” Sutter agreed, then back to the girl: “You’ve done a fine civic duty today, missy, and we appreciate it.”

  She seemed delighted by Sutter’s response, and then her not-so-comely face lit up with a big smile—not that Sutter nor Trey, was focused on her face. “You have a fine day, Mr. Chief, and . . . and . . . and Mr. Chief’s partner.”

  Sutter paused to himself. Shit. I gotta know. “By the way, missy, if you don’t mind my asking . . . how old are you?”

  Her eyes beamed. “Why, it’s funny you should ask, but I just turnt fifteen yesterday!”

  Trey spit out a mouthful of coffee while Sutter thought in a long, low groan: Oh, my great God in . heaven. . . .

  The girl waved giddily as the cruiser backed up and began to turn. “Jiminy Christmas,” Sutter muttered like a man with a bad bellyache. “That dizzy brick shit-house was almost the death of me just lookin at her.”

  “Damn near busted my pants, Chief. And did‘ja see how little she was? Bet she wasn’t five feet. And who cares about the butt-ugly face? Them Squatter chicks got bods on ’em that make me wanna howl at the fuckin‘ moon.” Trey may have momentarily rubbed his crotch when Sutter wasn’t looking. “I got myself a leapin’ lizard down here.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  His slapped his thigh. “And she’s only fifteen!”

  “Tell me about it,” Sutter repeated, pulling around.

  Trey was shaking his head. “But just as they got bodies from hell they ain’t got but shit fer brains.” He let out a hick laugh. “She thinks those guys are selling ice cubes! How’s that for a dumb shit?”

  “Aw, give her a break. She’s had a shit life, no proper schooling, and works her ass off at the crab plant.”

  Trey belted out another laugh. “Shit, Chief, with that bod, she can work my ass off anytime she likes!”

  Sutter shot him a reproving glare.

  “Er, I mean, once she turns eighteen,” Trey added in haste.

  “That’s what I thought you meant. Christ, ten minutes ago you were runnin’ your mouth all about how God helps us out if we obey His laws.” Sutter chuckled. “You sure lost your religion quick enough, lustin’ after that Squatter.”

  Trey roused to object. “I was just speakin’ figurative, Chief,” he said, pronouncing the word as figgur-tive, “as men will do when they’re amongst themselves, but in my heart—and I say this ’cos I know it’s in your heart too—men married in the eyes of the Lord wouldn’t even think of havin’ any carnal knowledge with no gal other than his lawful wife, no matter what age she is. I asked Father Darren ’bout it once.”

  “About what?”

  “About lust in the heart, and he said that since all men was born in original sin, we’re all guilty of lust—can’t help but be—‘cos it’s all in our genes. So it’s okay to eyeball a hot gal now and again, ’cos it’s a manner of appreciatin’ the beauty God gave to women.”

  Sutter’s eyes narrowed. “Father Darren said it’s okay to eyeball other women?”

  Trey raised a finger to finish his point. “As long as you know in your heart that ya wouldn’t really have sex with her once it got down to brass tacks. I know you’d never cheat on yer fine wife, June, and I sure as shit’d never cheat on Marcy. Don’t matter that they both gone to fat and got tits hangin’ down to their thighs. That’s ’cos God blesses us in our love.”

  Sutter sighed.

  “Anyway, Chief, that’s what Father Darren means in a nutshell. It’s okay by Him that you look at other chicks every once in a while as long as ya’d never really hobnob with ‘em.”

  Well, that’s sure good to hear, ‘cos I still got half a hard-on in my pants from lookin’at that little thing, Sutter thought sourly.

  Trey grinned. “And look at it this way, Chief. That little piece a’ eye candy got your mind off your money problems, huh?”

  The recollection of those breasts, those curves, and those legs waylaid him. “It got my mind off ‘em, but I still got ’em, Trey.”

  “Patience is a virtue, Chief. Says so in the Bible. God smiles upon a patient man. . . .”

  Sutter shook off the after-imagery as he pulled into the convenience store, where a gleaming, brand-new Humvee occupied one of the parking spots, tangerine orange and ten coats of lacquer. A shifty-looking black guy in his mid-twenties, in baggy pants and gold chains, had just hung up the pay phone and was coming back to the car, giving them the eye.

  “Fucker’s got more gold chains than Mr. T.,” Trey observed with a smirk. “And look at the watch on the son of a bitch. Looks like a Rolex.”

  “We know where he gets that kind of money,” Sutter remarked. His own watch cost $7.95 at the drugstore. “And look at those rings on him, too. Fucker’s all decked out like a Harlem pimp.”

  In the Hummer’s driver’s seat sat a long-haired white kid with scruff on his chin, and similar gold chains and watch.

  “We know what these scumbags are all about, so keep on your toes,” Sutter said. “I’ll take the rapper and you take the white guy.”

  “Gotcha, Chief. Thumb snap’s off.” He grinned at his boss and released the snap on his holster. “We ain’t had a tussle in a spell. I’m ready.”

  “You keep your dander down unless ya need it.” Sutter hit his own thumb snap; then he added, “And it can’t hurt for us to mitt up.”

  “Roger that,” Trey assented. They each slipped on their pair of Bianchi elastic-stretch sand mitts with nude trigger fingers and heavy-duty leather sand pouches reinforcing the knuckles and palms. Ideal for punching through doors or busting a scumbag’s face without consequently busting one’s own knuckles.

  Sutter moved his own considerable bulk out of the car. He blocked off the black guy before he could get back to the Hummer, while Trey leaned against the driver’s door, arms crossed.

  “Is there a problem, O
fficer?” the black guy asked a bit haughtily. His T-shirt read, RAPPINʹ AND CAPPINʹ, and he had a tattoo of an AK-47 inked over one apple-sized bicep.

  “Oh, there’s a problem,” Sutter confirmed. “Turn around, hands flat out on the roof, and spread ’em. No sudden movements. Don’t fuck with me.”

  “The fuck?” the white guy complained.

  “Pipe down, Kid Rock,” Trey said, “or I’ll pipe ya down.”

  The black guy glared. “I haven’t done anything wrong! You’re just shaking me down ‘cos I’m black!”

  “Don’t give me that racist jive,” Sutter said back. “I don’t give a shit what color a man’s face is. The only kind of black man I call a nigger is a black man trying to sell crystal meth to kids.”

  That was all the black guy needed to hear—“crystal meth”—before he realized he could either run his ass off or do three-to-five for possession and distro of Class II narcotics with another five tacked on for attempted distro to a minor. He chose to run his ass off.

  Shit!

  He bolted off the car. Sutter, since he was not exactly dextrous nor physically fit, being obese and close to sixty, managed to get a handful of T-shirt, which sufficed only to slow the guy down around the comer of the car, whereupon the T-shirt tore away.

  As for Trey, he didn’t appear to even break a single bead of sweat when in some impressive synchrony he—

  Whap!

  —landed a solid fist right smack-dab into Kid Rock’s forehead, then—

  “Holy Jesus, man, that hurts like a motherfucking motherfucker!”

  —emptied half a can of GOEC-brand chemical spray into his eyes and bleeding, split-open face.

  “Got ya covered, Chief,” Trey said next, sidestepping forward. He moved fast enough to cut off the black guy before he could get clear. Then—

  Thud.

  —palm-heeled him once in the solar plexus.

  Which sufficed to circumvent the attempt to flee.

  “Getcha a case of beer for that one, Trey,” Sutter said approvingly, then lumbered over. “You simmer down the long-hair while I read this suspect his rights.” The black guy was sprawled out belly-down on the pavement, bug-eyed, barely able to move. He was sucking wind. Sutter promptly stepped on the back of his head, treating his face to a little dermabrasion the hard way. The guy flip-flopped on the pavement, shrieking like a little girl who’d just been scared out of a carny house of horrors.