The Backwoods

(I)

More white lies, Patricia thought when she set her cell phone down. She’d just hung up with Byron, having kept the conversation innocuous. She was still so befuddled over her trip to the county morgue. What could I tell him, for God’s sake? So she’d told him nothing of significance. Dwayne’s head seemingly disappearing off his body as though it had never been there? Junior Caudill with no internal organs? Patricia was confident there was a scientific explanation, but she simply couldn’t imagine what it was just yet. Of course, they’d do more tests. . . .

Nevertheless, there was no need to tell Byron. It’d just give him one more thing to worry about.

She stepped out onto the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part of the garden. The cicadas thrummed—she was finally getting used to it. It just kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad flowers smelled luscious: asters, pyxies, and goldenrod. Being here continued to supplant her. She was no longer the high-roller attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home in the midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that image of the peaceful—and very sane—backwoods town.

Murder. Drugs. Turf wars by some unseen dope gang.

Every place has something, she thought. Doesn’t matter if it’s the city or the sticks.

At the end of the yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about the flowers; the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a sophisticated woman. Since Dwayne’s death, too many things that were wrong about her environment threatened her ability to view her life and the world.

She doesn’t know which end is up. . . .

“Hi,” Patricia greeted her, meandering up the path.

“Oh, hi, Patricia. I’m just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia realized. “Yeah, it sure is. And your gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as it did when we were kids.”

Judy sat down on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. “Yeah, but just because they look the same don’t mean they are the same. It’s like everything’s gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter just called me, said Junior Caudill’s dead.”

Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a tailspin now. “I heard about that myself—”

“Drug dealin’, murder, arson—all on my land. And God knows what killed Junior. Never thought much of him—he was always into trouble—and now he’s dead too. ”

“Judy, there’s no reason to believe that his death is related to anything that’s been happening in Squatterville.” Patricia knew at once that this was going to be a long day. “He probably had a heart attack,” she urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even having a heart. “They’re still doing tests is what I heard, and there were no signs of foul play. Anyway, all these things that are happening lately don’t have anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living out here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no good. It’s human nature.”

Judy looked up dolefully. “I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say about this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I’m in charge around here, everything’s goin’ to hell. And now I just feel worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and look what happens. Folks killin’ each other. I wouldn’t blame ya if you never came back to this godforsaken place.”

Patricia knew that she had to work around her sister’s mood swings, not confront them head-on. “Of course I will; you’re my sister. And you should come out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let’s just take things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company’s doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven’t turned bad have never been happier or more productive. You have this beautiful house in a beautiful place. You’re a successful businesswoman with lots to look forward to.”

Judy shrugged, noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that everything was terrible. That’s my sister, Patricia thought. “So what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.

Before her sister could answer, a horn honked. Past the shrubs Patricia saw an old pickup truck idling on the dirt road that descended the hill toward the Point.

Judy looked at her watch. “My, where has the day gone? It’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

“The Squatter cookout. Oh, that’s right, you ain’t been to one since you were a kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on.” ,

Patricia honestly didn’t remember these cookouts. When she looked at her own watch she saw that she, too, had lost track of time. Where’s the day gone? She followed Judy down the path that exited the backyard. “Who’s in the pickup truck?” she asked.

“Ernie. He’ll be driving us down there.”

This is just what I need. Patricia thought The truck jostled down the dirt road, springs creaking. She and Judy had squeezed up front on the bench seat, the pickup’s back bed loaded up with baskets of food and chests full of ice. Of course, Patricia ended up being in the middle, pressed right up against Ernie behind the wheel. Ernie wore his typical work jeans and boots but also a nice white dress shirt. Redneck high fashion, Patricia mused. Why does he have to look so good all the time? By now the situation amused her as much as aggravated her: how fate kept putting them together. Every time he shifted gears, his hand slid against her bare knee. Yeah, that’s just what I need. . . .

“Really whacked out about Junior Caudill, huh?” Ernie made conversation.

Don’t bring it up! Patricia wished she could tell him. Don’t bring up anything that’s been going on. Judy’s enough of a basket case as it is. “He probably just had a heart attack; it happens.” She desperately shifted subjects. “So what kind of food did you prepare for this banquet?”

“Oh, just side dishes,” Judy answered glumly. “All the main courses they make. The Squatters really do have a talent for usin’ what the land gives ’em and turning it into a cuisine a’ their own.”

Ernie laughed, nudging Patricia. “Aw, yer sister’s a big fan of Squatter food, Judy. Just the other day she drank a whole cup of ald that Regert made for her down at the pier. Said it was the best thing she ever tasted.”

Patricia frowned, remembering the drink’s tang. “Actually, Ernie, it wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He raised a finger to denote an additional point. “Oh, yeah, and she also ate a whole bowl of pepper-fried cicadas.”

“I ate one! And never will again.”

Ernie winked at her with a cocked grin. “She never did tell me if they worked, though.”

Patricia almost blushed at the inside joke, recalling the wives’-tale insistence that cicadas had an aphrodisiac effect.

She also remembered the dense sexual fugue state she’d experienced after eating it.

I was going to have sex with him. . . . She choked before she could respond. And I can’t blame the damn fried cicadas. I can only blame my own weakness and immorality.

But she’d stopped short, hadn’t she? I said no at the last minute, so I never really cheated on Byron. . . .

Judy was scowling at her. “Patricia, one thing you don’t need to be eatin’ are cicadas, not unless your husband is with ya.”

Ernie chuckled softly to himself, their inside joke still alive. Patricia wanted to wilt right there on the front seat. My God . . .

Ordinarily the acre or so of land before Squatterville was barren, but now it looked more like a fairground. Savory smoke drifted off of open-pit fires over which abundant meats were being cooked. Squatter women busied themselves at fold-down tables, serving up plates heaped with steaming meals. Lines of people, Squatters and townsfolk alike, trailed around the table, chatting amiably. As the sun faded, the scene appeared almost surreal: faces seemed diced into wedges of firelight. Chatter warbled in and out, and laughter rose up.

“There’s pitchers of ald over there.” Ernie pointed to another table. “Too bad there’s no booze.”

“Hush,” Judy whispered. “Just ’cos Squatters don’t drink don’t mean we can’t.” And then Patricia and Ernie saw her lower a silver flask into a pocket.

“This is some feast,” Patricia said, marveling over the various dishes set out. Ernie appeared behind her with a loaded plate. “Try some duck. The Squatters do it up great. It’s slow-roasted.”

Patricia took the plate. It smelled delicious, the skin dark and crisp.

“And you must have some of this, big sister,” Judy insisted, thrusting a pewter mug toward her. “Squatter ald.”

“I had that the other day. It tastes like swamp water!”

“Shh! The Squatters’ll be offended, dear. You can’t decline their hospitality,” Judy whispered lower. “And don’t worry; I tuned it up with a drop of vodka.”

“Oh, teirific . . .”

“Come on,” Ernie coaxed her further. “When in Squatterville, do as the Squatters do.”

When Patricia took a sip, her brow shot up. Oh, yeah, just a drop of vodka . . . “You’re just trying to get me drunk,” she joked to him.

“Why?” he said, deadpan. Then he cracked a smile and laughed.

Oh, that’s right. She’d never forget what almost happened in the woods. I’m just a tease. The roasted duck came apart fork-tender beneath crunchy skin. “My God, this is probably the best duck I’ve ever had.”

“Glad ya like it,” Ernie said. “It’s not really duck. It’s seagull.”

“You’re so funny. . . .”

Her eyes roved the other offerings on the table: stout sausages, steaming kettles of stew, homemade biscuits and seasoned flatbreads. The aromas were almost erotic. Byron would go to town here, she thought. Another table sat heavy with various crab dishes. Something like a Newburg cooked in empty shells, crab-stuffed wild peppers, crabmeat po’boys. She helped herself to several fried crab fritters and found them delectably crunchy inside. “These are fantastic!” she exclaimed, cheeks stuffed.

On her third one, Judy tugged her arm. “Not too many a’ the fritters, hon. It’s the Squatter crabcake recipe wrapped around a fried cicada.”

Not those things again!

Ernie laughed.

Next Patricia scanned around in general. The quiet revelry buzzed around her; it all seemed so hearty and honest. But again she thought it strange to have such a feastlike cookout so soon after four Squatters had been killed. The positivity of their religion, she remembered. Almost like evangelists. Even death is a joyous occasion, because death is just another step toward eternal life in heaven.

Patricia hoped that was true.

She sampled more food, finding the cuisine complex and fascinating. Judy wandered off, tipsy already, while Patricia and Ernie stood aside to eat and people-watch. I must be getting tipsy, too, she suspected, or maybe it was just fatigue compounded by the perplexities of the day . . . especially her experience at the morgue. She pushed the morbid images from her mind and instead just tried to relax, melting into the lazy, darkening atmosphere. Squatters greeted her happily, offering her more of their wares. Music—a quavering violin, it sounded like—echoed around the grounds, yet she couldn’t pinpoint the source. As the sun died completely, faces seemed brighter and more focused somehow, in spite of the seeping darkness.

“There’s the money man,” Ernie commented. At the last table she spotted Gordon Felps sampling a cobblerlike dessert. He seemed to sense her notice, looked up and nodded to her, then returned his attention to the person talking to him: Judy. She doesn’t really have a crush on him, does she? Patricia asked herself. She could tell by Ernie’s sedate expression that he found it amusing. But at least her sister was getting over Dwayne; perhaps it took his death to make her realize what an awful person he truly had been, not even worth mourning. Chief Sutter and Trey cruised another table full of plank-roasted bluefish and large soft-shell clams whose necks stood out straight from steaming. Sutter actually manipulated two plates of food, which wasn’t surprising. Eventually he wended his way over to Patricia and Ernie.

“Some spread, huh, Patricia?”

“It’s incredible,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d like much of this type of cuisine, but so far every single thing I’ve had is delicious.”

“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters?” Ernie joked.

“Even the crab-and-cicada fritters, Ernie,” she admitted.

“Oh”—Sutter changed the subject—“the county coroner told me you’d been in today.”

Damn. She hoped this wouldn’t open a can of worms. “I just wanted some details on Dwayne’s death.”

“Pretty off-the-wall. So you also know about Junior Caudill, then.”

It wasn’t a question; Patricia sensed he was fishing for something. “Yes, she did mention it.”

“Even stranger than Dwayne.” Sutter shook his head.

“Damn near everyone in town’s heard that news,” Ernie piped up. “Some contagious disease that dissolved all his insides.”

Sutter smirked. “There ain’t no contagious disease, Ernie, and don’t’cha be tellin’ folks anything of the sort. The rumors’re bad enough around here.”

Ernie shrugged. “Just tellin’ ya what I heard, Chief.”

“I don’t think it was anything contagious, Ernie,” Patricia added. “But I don’t guess we’ll know anything until more tests are done on the body.”

“The kick in the tail is there ain’t no evidence a’ foul play, yet everyone thinks that’s exactly what it was,” Ernie said.

Patricia kept her mouth shut and her ears open.

“And it don’t help for Junior’s brother to be accusin’ Everd Stanherd of being involved and then for Everd to disappear,” Sutter stepped up the gossip. “I don’t believe nothin’ that comes outta Ricky Caudill’s yap, but that don’t change the fact that I got no choice but to drag Everd ‘n’ his wife in for questioning.”

Interesting, Patricia thought. “I hadn’t even noticed. Neither Everd nor Marthe is here.”

“Probably never see ’em again,” Ernie said.

“Maybe they ain’t disappeared at all,” Sutter offered, stuffing his face. “Maybe they’re dead.”

“How would they come to be dead?” Patricia had to challenge.

“Well, it was something Trey was kickin’ about, and now that I think of it, it makes sense. Already had a couple a’ turf killings over dope. Maybe Everd ‘n’ his wife were part a’ the same dope ring that David Eald and the Hilds were in.”

Both Patricia and Ernie frowned at that one.

Sutter looked like he regretted the suggestion a moment later. “Well, I guess that is stretchin’ things a bit.” Suddenly he was looking around. “Speakin’ of Trey . . .”

“He was just here a minute ago,” Ernie said.

Patricia looked around herself, straining her vision in the fire-diced dark. Sergeant Trey was nowhere to be seen.