The Backwoods

by Edward Lee

  Junior’s eyes were red with rage. He shook off his brother’s hand, then turned and stalked off. Ricky followed him.

  When they were back at the road where everyone had parked, Ricky slapped Junior’s shoulder. “Shit, man! I thought you were really gonna shove Sutter!”

  “Damn well had a mind to. I’d love to roust that fat fuck.”

  “So’d Trey slip ya the contact?”

  Junior reached into the back pocket of his slacks. “Fucker should be a pickpocket. Slippery, ya know? I didn’t even feel it.” He slipped out a small piece of paper.

  The paper read: The Hilds. Tonight. Glove compartment.

  “Hmm,” Junior said.

  They both lumbered to their pickup truck, a dented hulk. Ricky excitedly flung open the door, then popped down the door to the glove box.

  “The man came through!”

  Junior eyed the contents of the envelope. “Yeah, and he ain’t foolin’ around.”

  A thousand dollars in cash filled the envelope.

  (II)

  Later, the house sprawled with friends, neighbors, and other well-wishers. This is definitely a Southern-style funeral reception, Patricia observed. The gathering began quietly but soon unwound into something close to a party. Local women had all brought food—cakes, salads, cold cuts—but it didn’t take long before the banquet table took a backseat to alcohol. This is how they do it. . . . Younger Squatter women silently aided Ernie in dispensing the drinks, yet Patricia didn’t see any of the Squatters actually drinking themselves. Oh, that’s right, she remembered. They’re teetotalers. Just about everyone else, though, was proving the opposite.

  But Patricia was surprised by how well composed her sister remained during the service. There were tears, of course, but nothing close to the breakdown Patricia foresaw. Again, it seemed that Patricia’s mere presence was her sister’s main source of comfort.

  As late afternoon became evening, Patricia began to feel more at ease herself. At first she’d felt a bit like an outcast in this crowd of seeming strangers, but eventually many of the faces sparked her memories of when she’d last lived here; she was greeted cordially time and time again, even by some whom she didn’t remember until names were mentioned. The entirety of the affair was rich with sentimental talk, like, “Dwayne surely will be missed,” "What a tragic passing,” “We’ll really miss him,” and on and on—things Patricia knew were being said only for Judy to overhear. In the parlor, some older local men spoke more along the lines of the truth: “Judy’s so much better off without that lyin’, cheatin’ prick,” and “Good riddance to the bastard.” Patricia’s city-born cynicism forced a smile.

  She kept her own drinking on the light side—she wasn’t in the mood, and she didn’t want to make a bad impression by getting too tipsy in front of the others. I’m here for my sister, so I don’t need to be getting pie-eyed.

  But every so often—she couldn’t help it—she cast a glance toward Ernie.

  Not this again . . .

  He had his suit jacket and tie off now, the sleeves of his white dress shirt rolled up over toned, tanned forearms. He’d unbuttoned the shirt a few notches, and she could see his pectorals flexing when he lifted a tray of sandwiches.

  Her eyes raked down his body, and suddenly she was imagining him naked, on top of her . . .

  I have to stop this! This is crazy!

  “You must be Patricia, Judy’s sister from Washington.”

  The sudden voice hawked down on her; she flinched as a child might when caught doing something naughty. A very well dressed blond man stood beside her, hard blue eyes, a flirting smile. She’d been so caught off guard musing about Ernie, she was nearly annoyed.

  “Yes, I’m Patricia,” she said when she recovered. “And you are?”

  “Gordon Felps,” the man replied. His hand felt cool, strong. His complexion seemed blanched, which only intensified the blue eyes. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from your sister. My only regret is the circumstance I’ve finally gotten to meet you under.”

  Felps, Felps. Patricia struggled. Then she remembered. “Oh, you’re the construction magnate.”

  The man chuckled. “I wouldn’t call myself a magnate by any means, but I am a builder, yes.”

  “The luxury condos that are going on up on the river side of the Point.” Her lawyer’s instincts instantly engaged. “And you’d like to continue building on this side of the Point. My sister mentioned that you’d already made an offer for her property, so you’ll need to know that I’m Judy’s acting legal counsel for all personal and business matters.” A cordial smile as she handed him her business card. “Please feel free to contact me in the future for any inquiries regarding my sister.”

  Felps wasn’t fazed by her polite show of force; if anything he was impressed. He pocketed the card. “I will, thank you—not that I suspect it will be necessary, not at this point. Judy’s made her desires clear to me. She doesn’t want to sell the family land, and I respect that. Actually I’ve made several offers, but anything more than five million wouldn’t be practical from my standpoint.”

  Five million? I thought she said one million. . . .

  “I fully understand her loyalty to Everd Stanherd and his people. She doesn’t want to put them out; regrettably, if I took over the property, I’d have no choice. I’d build an entire community where they’re living now.”

  “The Squatters have always been sort of a surrogate family—they worked for my mother and father when they started the crabbing business in the fifties.” But in the back of Patricia’s mind, she kept thinking, Five million? Wow . . .

  “Of course. I’ll have to keep my project on the river side, but I’m sure it will still stimulate the town’s growth.” He looked around the reception. “Anyway, it’s uncouth of me even to be discussing it at such a time—sorry.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad you two could meet.” Judy emerged from the crowd and squeezed between Patricia and Felps, draping an arm around each of their shoulders. “Mr. Felps is the man I was telling you about, the construction man.”

  “Yes. We were just having a chat,” Patricia said.

  Judy was obviously in her cups, stooping over a little. But at least the tears had dried. She hugged Patricia harder. “Oh, and it was Gordon who supplied all the liquor for Dwayne’s reception. Wasn’t that kind of him?”

  “Yes, it was.” But then Patricia thought, Probably hoping you’d get drunk and sign a bad purchase agreement.

  “It was nothing, Judy,” Felps said. “For the short time I’ve been here, you and Dwayne have been good friends, and my heart goes out to you now in this sad time. I hope it goes without saying, but if you need anything—anything at all—just ask.”

  “Thank you, Gordon.” Another tear now; then she looked glitter-eyed to Patricia. “He’s such a sweet man.”

  He may be a con man, but I don’t know how sweet he is, Patricia thought. She was just being protective, of course. Felps was probably a fine person and a legitimate businessman, but since lawyers tended to despise businessmen, and vice versa, she supposed her guarded reaction was normal.

  Felps stood his ground in spite of the sudden discomfort. Judy was close to drunk now, and she was a sloppy drunk. Was she clutching Felps so hard on purpose? Was she deliberately pressing her left breast against him, or was she just unaware of it in her inebriation? The stooped pose lowered the vee of her black dress, showing a depth of cleavage. Could my sister possibly have a crush on this guy? came Patricia’s off-key thought. Judy’s bosom was almost as formidable as Patricia’s. She watched Felps’s eyes, hoping to catch them straying to the cleavage . . . but it never happened.

  Then Patricia berated herself. My head has been in the gutter since the minute I came back here. I’d better straighten up.

  “I’ve got to visit the ladies’ room, but you two keep chatting,” Judy slurred next. She gave Patricia a kiss on the cheek, then a squeezy hug to Felps, and she was gone.

  “I’d better
get going myself,” Felps said, glancing at his watch. “Early day tomorrow. But it was very nice meeting you.”

  “You, too.”

  Interesting, she thought after he’d left. He could be the greatest guy in the world, but . . . I don’t think I like him.

  It was just more attorney cynicism, but what did it matter? When she looked back into the dining room to see if Ernie was still there, all she caught a glimpse of was his back as he disappeared into the kitchen.

  Was she suddenly obsessed with him? Had returning here sparked some until-recently-dormant middle-aged biological clock? We weren’t even high school sweethearts, she reminded herself. He wanted to be but I didn’t. Was some fossil of regret inching out of her soul?

  Ridiculous, she dismissed the thought. Even in her darkest and most personal hours, she knew she’d found total happiness—as well as sexual satisfaction—with Byron. When she’d called him on her cell phone just before the services, simply hearing his voice had sparked a few sexual wires. Her nipples had hardened even as she related her very dull goings-on thus far. I don’t know what this Ernie thing is, but it’s stupid and nonsensical, so I’m going to put it out of my mind, she determined.

  “Howdy, Patricia. My condolences, a’ course. Sorry it took me so long to welcome ya back to town.”

  Another startlement as she’d been musing. It was Chief Sutter who’d approached her. She’d always thought of him as a clichéd country-bumpkin-type chief, complete with the suspenders and big belly, but she’d always remembered him as a considerate man who very much cared about the residents he was employed to protect. She remembered how gentle, how caring he’d been in the aftermath of the rape, as well as the delicacy with which he’d handled her during the grueling but necessary questioning.

  She smiled warmly, shaking his hand. “Chief Sutter. I’m happy to see you. In fact, I waved yesterday when I was coming into town.”

  He winked. “The Qwik-Mart. Yeah, Trey ‘n’ I caught a glimpse of ya in that shiny new car of yours. Judy’s always tellin’ me how well things are going for you ‘n’ your husband up in D.C. We’re all so happy for ya.”

  It was just small talk, but Patricia appreciated it, and it truly was good to see him. “Thanks, Chief, and I hope things are going well for you, too.” She quickly glanced around. “Where is your deputy, by the way? I know I saw him at the service.”

  “He had to go back out on patrol, but he sends his condolences as well.” Suddenly something like concern touched the chief’s face, and she noticed that he was holding a dark plastic bag with some official-looking seal on it. “But if I could trouble ya for just a minute? Could you take this and see that Judy gets it when the time is right?” He held up the bag. “It’s from the country police lab, and they’re done with it now.”

  “What is it?”

  “Dwayne’s personal effects, stuff he had on him when his body was found. They released it me today, but it ain’t really appropriate to give it to Judy just yet.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Just his wedding band, watch, wallet ‘n’ all.”

  Patricia opened the bag and looked inside. “Did the crime lab find anything in the way of evidence?”

  “Unfortunately, no. And there’s some cash in there too, just so ya know. A goodly amount.”

  Watch, wallet, gold wedding band? Patricia thought, thinking it odd. She opened the wallet, saw some cash, but also noted five hundred-dollar bills in the bottom of the bag. “That’s strange, isn’t it, Chief?”

  “You mean that whoever killed him didn’t take his valuables and the cash? Yes, it is. A’ course, anyone’s first guess is that Dwayne was murdered, ya know, on account . . .”

  “On account of him losing his head, sure,” she finished.

  “Right. But, uh, the cause of the decapitation itself was officially labeled as ‘undetermined.’ In other words, the coroner wasn’t convinced it was a murder. Could’ve been a fluke accident, who knows?”

  Patricia withheld an overt frown. Instead she asked, “Is it true that no one ever found . . .”

  “Dwayne’s head? Yeah, that is true, I’m afraid.”

  Patricia doubted it was an accident, but the point wasn’t worth belaboring. Oh, well. An “undetermined” decapitation. “I’ll put this in a safe place, Chief,” she assured him, “and show it to Judy when the time is right.”

  “Thanks much, Patricia. And thanks for comin’ all this way. It means an awful lot to Judy.” He shook her hand again. “But I’d best get along now. I’m sure I’ll be seein’ ya again before you leave.”

  “I hope so, Chief. Good-bye for now.”

  Chief Sutter wended off through the crowd. I guess I’ll put this in the den, Patricia concluded of the bag, but in her mind it kept occurring to her that the only thing stranger than the notion of the decapitation’s being an accident was Chief Sutter’s sudden uneasiness when talking about it at all.

  Like something bothered him more than the obvious facts. Dwayne’s death was indeed a mystery, but . . .

  It’s almost like the chief knows more than he’s telling, she thought. she looked into the living room and was content to see Judy on the couch, surrounded by friends. She’s getting drunk again, but she’s more than entitled to do that today. Then she slipped off down the hall and switched on the light in the small den that Judy used for an office.

  The room seemed sterile with its wall of file cabinets. Company records, I’m sure. On the wall over the desk hung Judy’s very first incorporation certificate and her business license that had been changed over since their parents’ deaths.

  A picture on the other wall left her morose—a shot of her father, long ago, hauling bushels of crabs off a small trawler. I’ll bet that was taken before I was born. Her father, though spry and muscular in the photo, still had the same cold, humorless look in his eyes she’d always known him for.

  Then something else on the wall—an old poster—utterly depressed her.

  COME JOIN US ALL!

  THE FIRST ANNUAL AGAN’S POINT CRAB FESTIVAL!

  MONDAY SEPTEMBER 6.

  NOON TIL EIGHT AT BOWEN’S FIELD!

  Patricia turned away, a lump in her throat and a knot in her stomach. Bowen’s Field, my God . . .

  And suddenly that everlasting look in her father’s eyes seemed more accusory and disgusted than cold.

  Next thing she knew she was standing in a daze. The images in her mind began to tumble backward, pulling at her. . . .

  She’d been thinking about it all day at school. It didn’t seem like her. She didn’t know why. Skinny-dipping?

  It was a big deal back in eleventh grade, and Agan’s Point and some other nearby towns hosted a number of suitable ponds and small lakes. Patricia was constantly being invited by her friends, yet the invitations had never threatened her sexually because it was only her circle of female friends always asking her to go. Boys went too sometimes, but from what she’d heard nothing much ever went on. Safety in numbers. She supposed it was all harmless and normal. It was something sixteen-year-olds did on Saturday nights.

  But Patricia never went.

  She wasn’t inhibited, nor self-conscious about her body. If anything she felt the opposite. Not only had good grades allowed her to skip a grade, it seemed that her body had all but skipped adolescence and hastened toward womanhood faster than the others’. Many times, in the showers after gym class, she felt certain some of the other girls spied her naked body and full bare bosom with strained envy. It was fine with her. “What are you afraid of?” one girl had asked in objection. “Patti, in Agan’s Point we skinny-dip every weekend, so don’t be a prude. If I had your body, I’d show it off every chance I could!″

  But Patricia would have none of that. Showing off wasn’t her nature. She hadn’t even come close to having sex yet—it was something she’d save for the right man. Most of the other girls seemed a lot less choosy, and even this young, Patricia saw that as a pitfall. She wanted to go to college, forge
a career, while most of the local girls rushed to get married right after high school and start having kids. Not me, she resolved. These girls would wind up living here their whole lives and never even know what opportunities might be waiting for them out in the rest of the world. Patricia was determined not to miss out on what was out there simply to have a routine life in the place she was born.

  As for sex . . .

  She’d never had it, nor had she ever noticed in herself any trace of the sex drive that seemed to propel everyone else. She’d dated a few boys, but only once got past French-kissing. One twelfth grader she’d kind of liked from her geography class had gotten her bra off one night at the old Palmer’s drive-in, but the film—something about killer worms—had grossed her out more than scared her. He’d clumsily groped her breasts and sucked her nipples for a few minutes, then evidently spent himself in his pants. He’d also tried to rub between her legs but was only rubbing just below her navel. She hoped he did better in high school geography than he did in female geography. In other words, this excursion left her uninterested. The local boy she’d most been expected to date seriously was Ernie, but when she was asked about the prospect, her response was always akin to: “Ernie’s been my friend since first grade! He’s like a brother! I could never date him!” Only later, just before she graduated, had she learned how badly he’d pined for a romance. She simply wasn’t interested in Ernie—or in any boy, for that matter. Even when friends described their experiences “doing it” (and the fabulous multiple orgasms that always resulted), her response was typically a frown. Masturbation seemed ridiculous, at least from the descriptions she’d heard. What if someone saw me? And what could possibly be that great about it anyway? When she’d been younger—fourteen or so—she remembered leaving volleyball practice—and being late—so she’d cut home through the woods, where she’d accidentally happened upon a boy from Hodge’s Hardware Store coupling naked with one of the Squatter girls. So that’s what sex is, she presumed, unshocked and unimpressed. The boy’s fastidious performance of lovemaking had lasted about three minutes, whereupon he’d re-dressed quickly and left. But the Squatter girl remained, one hand alternately kneading her breasts, the other playing with her sex. Her body had flexed, her back curling backward in a noisy finish that only left Patricia amused and absolutely convinced she had no need to do this to herself. Why? If I made all that noise, my parents would hear!