Edward Lee - The Backwoods

“He’s still got that torch burnin’ for you,” Judy said. “And he’s still as handsome as ever.”

“I’m sure he is,” Patricia played along, “but my husband’s still got all my bases covered.”

“Oh, I know, and I’m so glad you’re happy with Byron. How is he, by the way?”

“He’s fine . . . and you’re exhausted, so . . .” Patricia snapped off the bedside lamp. “You go to sleep, and we’ll have a big breakfast together in the morning.” She kissed her sister’s forehead, then stood back up. Judy wouldn’t let go of her hand.

“Oh, Patricia,” came the whisper. “You don’t know how much it means to me that you come all this way to be with me.”

“You’re my sister and I love you. Now go to sleep!”

But Judy’s eyes kept staring up. “I-I never told you . . .”

“Never told me what?”

“How . . . Dwayne died.”

“Of course you did.” Patricia bent the truth. Actually, her sister had never elaborated. “An accident, you said.”

Judy’s voice piped up like a child’s. “His head was cut off, and nobody knows how it happened.”

Patricia stood in a silent shock. She’s serious. . . . She had no idea what to say in response.

“And the head was never found,” Judy groaned out the rest.

Murder, not an accident. What condolence could she add now? But when Patricia looked again, Judy had already fallen asleep.

My God . . .

The windows stood open at the end of the hall, letting in the cicada sounds, and the house’s deep, old Colonial decor made her feel a thousand miles away from her condo in D.C. She stepped into her bedroom, felt odd at once, then backed out. Sleeping there would just remind her of more childhood memories, but she couldn’t stay in her parents’ old room, either—that would just be worse. One of the guest rooms downstairs, she decided, then drifted back down the stairs to go out and get her bags from the Caddy. The macabre distraction was sidetracking her: Dwayne’s head. Did she mean that somebody cut off Dwayne’s head?

She stopped midway down the step. How the heck did—

Her suitcases sat neatly stacked at the bottom of the steps.

“Didn’t know where ya’d wanna be sleepin’. . . .”

Ernie Gooder stepped from behind her baggage, looking up.

“We was expectin’ ya much earlier,” he said next, “like about noon.” He glanced to the window. “Looks like ya barely beat sundown.”

Patricia felt a shock: Judy wasn’t kidding. . . . Ernie had always been attractive: well contoured, strong arms, broad-backed. Dark eyes glittered in an appearance of youth that should’ve disappeared a decade ago. If anything he looked late twenties instead of mid-forties. The only difference, now, was his hair. For all the years she’d known him, Ernie had had a nearly military cut, but now he’d grown it out shoulder-length. When she finally found words, she blurted, “Your hair!”

He looked sheepish. “Yeah, I growed it out fer the hell of it; now everybody likes it, so I guess it’s here to stay.”

She came down the stairs and gave him a hug. “Ernie, did you find the fountain of youth somewhere out in the woods?”

“Huh?”

“You look the same as you did years ago. You look great.”

The remark embarrassed him; he almost blushed. “Aw, well, thanks, Patricia. You look really fantastic your own self. I like your hair shorter that way; ain’t never seen ya with it like that.”

“It makes me look more like a lawyer, I guess.” Then she remembered his first comments. “And, yeah, I did plan on getting here this afternoon, but I wound up dillydallying. Had breakfast in Richmond, lunch in Norfolk. I burned the whole day driving around.”

He seemed instantly uncomfortable. “Well, yeah, that sure is understandable—that you wouldn’t be in any hurry to get here. This old backwards town’s gotta remind ya of . . . well . . . you know.”

His stilted compassion was sweet, the way he awkwardly talked around her obvious motive. Naturally she hadn’t been in any hurry to get back to the place that made for the worst memory of her life. It didn’t bother her, though, which seemed strange. Nor was she bothered by the obvious difficulty that Ernie was having in keeping his eyes from roaming her obviously braless bosom. He’d always had a thing for her. Always. The silliest thought occurred to her then: Maybe I subconsciously didn’t wear a bra because I knew it would rile Ernie up. . . .

But that was ridiculous.

If anything, his darting eyes flattered her, even caused her to want to tease him a little. No harm in that. The poor lug is probably still nuts about me.

“So how’s yer, uh, yer husband?”

“Oh, he’s fine, Ernie. He was going to come down with me but he’s busy with his job. What about you? You must be married by now.”

More embarrassment. “Aw, no, never did tie the knot with no one. One day maybe.” But as he spoke he kept looking down. Still as shy as ever , Patricia thought. Like a little boy .

“Anyway, it’s good to see ya, Patricia,” he went on, shuffling his feet in place. “Well, not like this, a’ course, but . . . you know what I mean.”

“Sure I do, Ernie. A funeral is always the worst occasion to see old friends.”

“We all know you don’t like to come down to Agan’s Point much, but what’cha gotta know is that it really means a lot to Judy.”

“She looks really shaken up,” Patricia said. “It’ll take time for her to jump back to normal.”

“I hope she can jump back to normal.” Ernie shook his head. “She sure was crazy in love with Dwayne. No one could ever figure it out. Enough of that, though. You want me to put your bags in your old bedroom, or would ya rather—”

“The guest room down here would be better, if that’s okay.”

He seemed visibly enthused. “It’s bigger and catches the sunlight in the morning. Plus it’s right down the hall from my room, in case ya need anything.”

No wonder . . . “It’ll be fine.”

He picked up her bags and led her through the back of the house. 1 feel good all of a sudden — hell, I feel great , she admitted to herself. All day long during the drive, and even the first few minutes back in the house, a heavy oppression seemed to be hunting her. Now it was all gone. Maybe this trip won’t be as bad as I thought

“Really bad about Dwayne,” Ernie made conversation.

Patricia couldn’t take her eyes off the strong, tapered back as they moved on. “Oh, yes.”

“He wasn’t a good man by any stretch, but no man deserves to die like that. I believe that ya get what’s comin’ to ya in this life. What goes around, comes around. But that? Jesus.”

Patricia touched his arm, urging him to stop and turn. The contours of his silhouette opposed her, the strong legs in tight jeans, the bulging biceps. She frowned at herself. “I didn’t know the details until just now—she told me when I put her to bed. He was decapitated?”

“Somebody cut his head clean off, I guess.”

Strange way to say it. “You guess?”

“That’s what Chief Sutter told Judy. Judy wasn’t up to seein’ the body, so he did it for her, for proper ID ‘n’ all. But there’s all this talk now.”

“What kind of talk?”

“Rumors about somethin’ really wrong about Dwayne’s body, and I mean . . . somethin’ more than just losin’ his head.”

Patricia couldn’t imagine. What could be more wrong than losing your head? It was something she could look into, though. As a lawyer, she was an expert at expediting Freedom of Information Act requests. There must be a death certificate and an autopsy report. . . .