The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  Naive, naive, naive! “I will definitely look forward to meeting Mr. Felps,” she said. Oh, you can bet on that.

  She was relieved at the break now in the conversation, Judy keeping any further thoughts to herself. Patricia just relaxed in the sun, peering around at the spacious yard’s beauty. The cicada sounds seemed more distant, lulling her. A wine cooler would be nice right about now, she considered, but then looked at the time. In another hour they’d have to start getting ready for the services.

  In the distance, she could hear . . . something.

  What is that?

  A sharp thwack, thwack, thwack!

  The noise persisted, drawing closer.

  “Here comes Ernie,” Judy said.

  Patricia glanced around, then at the edge of the yard noticed a shirtless Ernie going at the blocks of hack-berry bushes with a pair of hedge clippers.

  Thwack, thwack, thwack!

  “He does such a wonderful job with the yard,” Judy commented through a drowsy smile.

  The image caught Patricia off guard. “Oh . . . yes. Yes, he does.” But her focus was elsewhere—not on Ernie’s hedge work; it was on Ernie himself.

  On Ernie’s body.

  His toned back muscles flexed with each thwack of the clippers. Then his angle changed; she could see his chest, the well-defined pectorals tensing, his six-pack abdomen running with lines of sweat. He paused for a moment, wiped sweat off his brow with a toned bicep. Then he got back to work.

  Oh, for pity’s sake, Patricia thought.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him, off the magnificent physique, and her mind dragged her back to last night’s dream.

  The terrific sex.

  Patricia could only shake her head at herself. Her eyes stayed fixed on Ernie’s sweat-drenched chest. I’m turning into a sex-obsessed floozy!

  She knew it was going to be a long day.

  (II)

  “Hey, Pappy Halm!” Trey called out just as he stepped out of his cruiser in front of the Qwik-Mart. “What’choo think you’re doin’?”

  The old proprietor stopped, cane in one hand, dragging the large front garbage can with the other. “I’m takin’ out the fuckin’ garbage, ya moe-ron. What’s it look like?”

  “Looks like an old codger tryin’ ta pull twice what he weighs. Let me take care a’ that for ya.”

  “Aw, fuck you, ya young fuck!” the old man railed. “I was bustin’ beaver when you was a tadpole in yer daddy’s sack. Back in my day I could haul ten of these, with you on my back.”

  “I’m sure ya could, Pappy. But that was back when Roosevelt was in office. Teddy Roosevelt. So why don’t ya let me take that?”

  Old man Halm jerked on the big can a few more times, grunted, then gave up. “Fuck it! My taxes pay your salary, so you empty the sucker!”

  “My pleasure, Pappy. You can gimme a free coffee once I’m done.”

  Halm waved his cane in the air. “Yeah! I got’ cher free coffee for ya right here, so you come ‘n’ get it!” And then he grabbed his crotch and hobbled back into the store.

  Sergeant Trey laughed at the old man’s spunk. A tightwad pain in the ass, but Trey liked him. Pappy Halm was a black-and-white, commonsense kind of fella, and Trey felt that he himself was too.

  What he was doing right now, for instance . . . it made sense, and no, it had nothing to do with giving the old man a hand taking out the store garbage.

  The point was the contents of the garbage can.

  If I don’t do it, someone else will.

  Trey knew he was a lousy cop deep down, but he felt confident that that didn’t mean he was a lousy person. It’s all give and take. Dog eat dog. Shit, I‘m a decent guy mostly. I pay my bills, provide for my wife, even go to church at least twice a year. . . . Perception was interpretive and abstract. Trey arrested bad people, so that was good, right? He helped make the world a little bit safer by submitting to an ungratifying and often sordid job. He and Marcy never had kids—because, after knocking up a good dozen gals before tying the knot and paying mightily for abortions, he got a vasectomy. See, one thing was for sure: he sure as shit didn’t want kids. Marcy wanted kids bad, but he never told her about his trip to the doctor, because if he had she never would’ve married him, and back in her day she was one hot number. Trey wouldn’t stand for her marrying anyone else, especially as good in bed as she was. So that was the short version. He lied. He let her marry him believing he would give her children when in fact he was shooting big-time blanks.

  Which was beside the point.

  The point, relative to the true nature of Trey, was that if he did have kids, he’d be a decent father. He knew that. He wouldn’t neglect his kids, wouldn’t beat ‘em, and would make sure they always had food in their bellies. Period. And as far as husbanding went? The same. I’m a good husband, damn it, he felt sure. He kept a roof over Marcy’s head, kept food in the fridge, and never slapped her around, even when she mouthed off. Five years after they got married, her looks went to shit in a handbasket, legs turned to cellulite tubes, tits dropped down to her belly like a couple of limp sacks full of flour, but even with all that, Trey never cheated on her. Oral sex on the side wasn’t cheating (it was a Southern law: “Eatin’ ain’t cheatin’,” and by God, Trey was a Southern man) because it lacked the intimacy of intercourse, that parameter of closeness that coupled the body and soul, so a few blow jobs per week from hookers and bar tramps hardly constituted a breach of the covenant of matrimony. So, yeah, Trey was a faithful husband to boot.

  And as for certain private activities that he might engage in on occasion . . . did that make him a bad person?

  No, he felt determined. No way.

  He had some connections—all cops did. Ain’t no force on earth can stop the drug trade. Better me makin’ some cash than a dealer. After all, he’d spend the money more responsibly, wouldn’t he? Once he dragged that big garbage can around to the back of the store, it didn’t take too much plowing around before he came up with the tackle box full of crystal meth that Chief Sutter had dropped in there yesterday.

  Yes, sir, Trey thought.

  He tossed the box in the patrol car, emptied the garbage, and brought the can back around. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, looking at his watch, and I gotta go pick up the chief. He was about to go in the store for a quick coffee, just when his cell phone rang.

  “Sergeant Trey here.”

  “You recognize my voice? Just say yes or no.”

  “Sure do.”

  “Good. Don’t say my name.” A pause. “You recall our previous conversation? About the backup plan?”

  “Sure do,” Trey said.

  “Things aren’t working as well as I’d like. So I’m going to implement that plan. Are you up for it?”

  Trey smiled. “Sure am.” Then he remembered what he’d tossed into the patrol car a moment ago. “And you ain’t gonna believe what I just pulled out of the trash. . . .”

  Five

  (I)

  “. . . and so whoever believeth in me shall never die.’ ” The loud voice reached across the field. Father Darren stood tall, broad-shouldered, with brown hair sweeping past his shoulders—an imposing figure. His gentle expression and blazing eyes seemed to maximize the effect of the words he was saying.

  Patricia struggled not to shield her eyes. All dressed in black like that, the congregation appeared as stark shadows in blazing sun. The moment felt odd, the thrumming of the cicadas adulterating the silences between the service intercessions.

  And it was stiflingly hot.

  Judy stood next to her, holding her hand and sobbing very quietly. Patricia’s eyes darted around as the minister read on. There were a number of townspeople gathered around, but she didn’t remember their names. Chief Sutter and his deputy—Trey, she thought his name was—stood off to the side, and then she spotted old Mr. Halm, who ran the local convenience store. Angling off in another direction stood a dozen or so Squatters, all dressed in austere black clothes. The oldest f
ace there she recognized at once—Everd Stanherd. This elder of the clan looked deceptive, black, black hair belying the lined face. The short hair was so dark it could’ve been a badly chosen wig. Next to him stood his wife, Marthe, graceful, swanlike in some aura of backwoods stature; Patricia remembered her too, still slim and attractive in her sixties, black hair lustrous around the set face. Both of them wore odd pendants about their necks, pouchlike things, which Patricia couldn’t identify until she thought back. The Squatters are so superstitious, she remembered. All those trinkets and charms they wear. A number of the other Squatters in attendance wore similar items, either pendants or bracelets, and to confuse her more, several others wore crosses.

  But something was bothering her—not her sudden recollection of the Squatters’ superstitious totems but . . . something else. Something seemed to nag at her. . . .

  A moment later she sensed more than saw a presence behind her.

  More of Father Darren’s words resounded around them: “ ‘So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.’”

  Patricia had a hard time paying attention. She’d never been particularly religious; to her funerals as well as weddings were just fancy words in a ceremonial show. It was the figure behind her that distracted her.

  She finally stole a glance to her rear, then, and saw Ernie standing solemn-faced, hands clasped in front. Seeing him in a suit seemed jarring, but with him dressed as he was, and with his long hair pulled back, Patricia had to admit that he looked . . .

  Really good . . .

  She smiled briefly, then turned back around. Yeah, he looks really good, all right. . . . The delayed reaction smacked her consciousness like a slap, an edgy sense of shame. There I go again—my God. I’m standing here at the funeral of my sister’s husband and I’m checking out the handyman’s bod. That bizarre sexual flux she’d noticed since she arrived had never felt more apparent. Then she yelled at herself. Jesus, Patricia! What is wrong with you? You’re lusting after other men at a friggin’ funeral while your loving and very faithful husband is sitting back at your home paying the bills!

  She chewed her lower lip, hoping the tingling in her nipples would pass. . . .

  “‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing out,’” Father Darren continued, this time quoting the Book of Job. “‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

  The minister’s hands were outspread before them all, his sedate smile exuberant. He held up the urn. “Blessed Lord, we sing praise and thanks to your name! And we beg you to commend the eternal soul of our brother Dwayne unto the kingdom of Heaven—all unworthy servants that we are.” Then Father Darren broke from his portable podium and approached Judy. He handed her the urn full of her husband’s ashes.

  Ricky and Junior Caudill were twin brothers, Junior being so named due to the fact that he emerged from his mother’s womb six minutes after Ricky. The Caudill name carried some infamy throughout southern Virginia, which perhaps lent credence to some recent scientific research that suggested antisocial, psychosexual, and overall criminal activity were indeed genetically inherent. Both were stocky, fat-faced, sizably bellied, and both had short, dung-colored hair always sticking up as though they’d just climbed out of bed. Ordinarily their everyday apparel consisted of jeans, boots, and dingy T-shirts, but today they’d dressed up in dark suits each a bit too small, yet suits just the same. Even disrespectful fellows such as these needed at least to look respectful on select occasions.

  Ricky spit a loogie between his shoes, but he did so very quietly. See? Even a shiftless sociopath knew some facsimile of ceremony. “Gettin’ boring,” he muttered.

  Junior watched as a tearful Judy Parker took the urn from Father Darren. He elbowed his brother with a chuckle. “Bet’ cha that urn weighs less than most, huh?”

  Ricky didn’t get the joke for a moment, but then he pondered the remark further. “Yeah. Shit, I wonder . . . I wonder how much the ashes of a head weigh?”

  Deep thinking for this pair. Ricky scratched his ass as Judy Parker began to toss plumes of ash into the open air.

  “You think he wants us to do like he was talkin’ the other day?” Junior asked.

  “Hope so. Been a pretty borin’summer. Somethin’ to jazz it up’d be just fine.”

  Junior picked his ear. “Oh, yeah, that’d jazz it up, all right.”

  Ricky’s eyes scanned the crowd. “Lotta Squatters here. Shit, ain’t that a laugh. Dwayne hated the Squatters.”

  “Yeah, but they practically worship Judy. Only reason they got work is ‘cos of her.”

  “You really think it was Squatters who kilt Dwayne? That’s the story.”

  Junior’s chubby face pulled into a smirk of doubt. “Naw. One a’ the construction crew’s what I heard. Dwayne was fuckin’ the dude’s girlfriend, so the dude showed him what trouble really was.”

  Now Ricky was squinting. “Check out the trim standin’ in front of Ernie. I swear I seen her before.”

  Junior squinted too. “Never seen her before, and I’d remember a rack like that. Fuck. She got a pair a’ milk wagons or what?”

  “Oh, now I remember!” Ricky cited with some whispered enthusiasm. “That’s Judy’s sister. She moved to the city a long time ago, married some rich, fat fella. Don’t’cha remember? Patricia’s her name. She was the biggest talk a’ Agan’s Point ’bout twenty-five years ago.”

  Junior crudely calculated in his head. “Twenty-five years ago? Shit, I’se pretty sure I was doin’ my last stint in juvie hall.” .

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember tellin’ ya ‘bout it when I come to visit ya.” Ricky’s face turned up in a big pumpkin grin. “She’s the chick who got raped out at Bowen’s Field. Weren’t but fifteen or sixteen. She was skinny-dippin’ by herself one night at the pond and someone hauled her out and put the blocks to her right there in the dirt. Staked her to the fuckin’ ground, too, while he was doin’ her.”

  Junior popped a brow. “Shit, brother, don’t’cha be talkin’ like that. You’re gettin’ my willy jumpin’.” Then he shot his brother a suspicious glance. “Bet it was you who raped her and you just ain’t tellin’.”

  “Naw, boy, if I’d ever carved me a piece of box that fine, you’d be the first I’d tell.” Ricky rubbed his hands together, still staring at the attractive redhead. “I’d be proud to have a cutie like that screamin’ under me. . . .”

  The highly intellectualized discussion faded now, as Judy was finished dispersing her husband’s ashes.

  Father Darren, ever smiling, spread his hands to them all and said, “‘I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shalt stand at the latter day upon the earth.’ Go in peace, to love and serve the Lord!”

  The congregation’s reply strayed across the field: “Amen.”

  “It’s about time,” Junior said. “I’m tired a’ standin’ around.”

  Ricky’s eyes roamed the crowd as a line formed, townsfolk waiting to convey their condolences to Judy. “Where is he?”

  “Here they come. Shit. Sutter’s coming too.”

  Sutter and Trey approached the two brothers, neither looking happy. “What’ choo boys doin’ here?” Chief Sutter demanded.

  The brothers shrugged. “Just payin’ our last respects to Dwayne,” Junior told him.

  “You boys didn’t give a shit about Dwayne,” Trey said, standing right up to them.

  Ricky frowned. “We knew Dwayne, all right. Didn’t always get along, but now that he’s dead . . . like my brother said, it’s only right fer us to pay some respect.”

  “Bullshit,” the chief said. “You’re about the two biggest lowlifes in all of Agan’s Point—”

  “You ain’t got no right to say that!” Junior said back.

  "—and neither of ya got any respect for no one. I told you two last time after Harriet Farmer got all that jewelry stole out of her house—I don’t wanna
even see either of you nowheres around me. You see me walkin’ down the street, you turn around and walk the other way.”

  Ricky glared back. “We didn’t have nothin’ to with that break-in, Chief,” he lied, “and it ain’t proper for you to hassle us just ‘cos you don’t like us.”

  “You guys busted into that old lady’s house and ya know it,” Trey told them, jabbing a finger hard against Ricky’s chest. “Oh, you don’t like me pokin’ ya? Do something about it.”

  Ricky’s eyes lowered, and under his breath he said, “This is bullshit.”

  Next, Chief Sutter bellied right up into his face. “And I know it was you two peepin’ on the Chester girls and their babysitter. Truck just like yours was seen leavin’ the street. What a pair a’ scumbags.”

  Now Junior tried to get right back in Sutter’s face. “We didn’t peep on nobody,” he lied just as well as his brother. In fact, they’d been doing the same since adolescence. Junior’s voice increased in volume. “And that’s downright shitty a’ you to say we’d do somethin’ like that. The Chester girls ain’t even in high school yet.”

  “That’s what I mean,” the chief countered, and then he jabbed a hard finger. “And you better keep your lyin’ voice down, ‘cos if you disturb this service with your bullshit, I’m kickin’ both your asses.”

  Junior’s face began to twitch, as it often did when he was riled. But was he stupid enough to assault the chief of police?

  Junior opened his hand, prepared to give Sutter a good, hard shove.

  Trey jumped in front of him, pushing him back. Even Ricky, the slightly wiser one, grabbed his brother by the arm to stave off the blow.

  "Forget it, Junior,” he ordered. “Don’t give ’em an excuse to bust us.”

  Trey kept pushing Junior away from the chief. “Grow a brain for a change and listen to your brother, you asswipe.” He leveled his gaze on both of them. “Get your deadbeat asses out of here while you still can. We will not allow a scene here. You fuck this up for Judy, me ’n’ the chief are gonna fuck you boys up but good.”