Edward Lee - The Backwoods

“But that’s probably all it is when ya get right down to it—just talk. You know what this place is like. People got nothin’ better to do than run their mouths ’bout every little thing that ain’t their business.”

One rumor generates more rumors , she knew too well, and at the end of the line there’s no truth left at all, just distortions . “It’s really odd, though, and Judy does have a right to know all the details concerning her husband’s death.”

“I went down to the county morgue myself and tried to see the body, but it had already been cremated. Then I asked to see the autopsy report and they told me it was confidential,” Ernie said, pronouncing the last word confer-din-shul.

We’ll see about that confidential part, Patricia vowed.

The guest room was cozily decorated and large, with fat, tapestried throw rugs and tasseled drapes. It felt unlived-in, which was what she wanted. French doors, closed now, showed a charming little porch over looking backyard flower beds. In the moonlight she could see the flowers swaying in a night breeze: pansies, baby breath, daisies.

“Will this do ya?” Ernie asked. “There’s a smaller room on the east wing.”

“No, this is perfect, Ernie.”

“And you can open the windows if ya want, catch the breeze off the bay most of the night. It comes right through the pine trees, brings that scent right into the room.”

“I just might do that.” She sat down on the high bed, testing the mattress. Suddenly the day’s long drive caught up to her, and she couldn’t wait to fall asleep on the comfy bed with the moon on her face. “What time are the services tomorrow?”

“Noon. I’ll be fixin’ breakfast at eight.”

“That sounds great. See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

She leaned over to untie her sneakers, and in the fringes of her vision noticed his shadow still there. Before she even looked back up, she could guess the reason. I’m leaning over . . . and I’ve got no bra on . Ernie was getting an eyeful.

Then she looked back up at him with the thinnest smile. “Was there something else you wanted to tell me, Ernie?”

His eyes darted out of her cleavage. He quickly cleared his throat and said, “Oh, yeah, just that it’s great to have you back in town for a while.” And then he rushed out of the room and closed the door.

Men. But some would say she was asking for it, wasn’t she? Wearing no bra, with her bosom? But then part of the tease in her returned. I guess it’s not that big a deal. At least I gave the poor guy something to think about.

Alone now, she switched off the bedside lamp, undressed, and shouldered into her typical nightwear, a soft spearmint-colored lounger, which she quickly zipped up the front. Without thinking, next she took Ernie’s advice: she opened the window. Warm air and cicada sounds instantly flooded the room; she felt tranquilized. And Ernie was right—soon the moonlit room began to flux between sultry summer heat and a fresh, pine-scented coolness from the bay breeze filtering in through the woods.

As if they were a lover’s hands, the dark air and pulsing sounds pushed her down to the mattress. Her fatigue left her dopily giddy as she stretched out, flexing her toes, arching her back. An impulse from out of the dark brought her hands to her thighs, slipped them up under the lounger. When she closed her eyes, she imagined that it was the darkness feeling her up, exciting her nerves. Her hips squirmed around in unbidden horniness, and when her fingers walked up her belly and threatened to slip beneath her panties, her conscience dragged them away. What are you doing? she scolded herself. You’re exhausted. Go to sleep. What am I all hot and bothered about? I’m going to a funeral tomorrow . . . .

The dark thickened around her, broken only by the wedge of moonlight that lay right beside her, a pearlescent bedmate. The cicadas thrummed and thrummed, rocking her in a strange and primitive lullaby. Then she faded off, but—

Oh, my God . . .

—at once, her sleep dropped her into a dream gushing with sex. She lay cringing, raw, and naked on her living room floor, her ankles locked desperately around the back of a faceless man. Patricia knew it was her living room back in D.C. because she saw her business dress, high heels, and blouse flung over her litigation bag, which she always set down right next to their coffee table. The Rothko print that she’d bought for Byron for a past birthday hung just above the faux fire-place, and on the mantel sat the crystal carriage clock he’d bought her years ago for an early anniversary. These were familiar things, things that rooted her to her life with Byron, and she loved these things. But through her cringing sexual angst—as she was being fastidiously penetrated on the floor—she noticed the clock’s glass dome bore a crack, and the Rothko hung upside down.

A climax clenched her up—she couldn’t breathe for a moment—and then she looked up at her aggressive lover’s face. She fully expected it to be Byron’s, but she could see no face, and it wasn’t his rotund body atop her but a lean, muscle-rippled physique. Oh, my God, do it harder , harder, she thought, teething her lower lip, and then the desires of her mind were answered. The rigid penis boring in and out of her stepped up its delicious tempo, pile driving her loins into the bed. Another orgasm rippled through her as her lover withdrew and released himself across her belly and breasts. He knelt between her legs now, looking down at her; then he grabbed her hand and glided it over the lines of warm sperm—an earthy love lotion.

Patricia lay quivering, heaving in breath. Who is he? Who is he? The question reeled around and around in her head. She could see every detail of his chiseled body shellacked in sweat, but his face still remained shrouded, as if by smoke.

The smoke moved downward; he was lying beside her, his mouth sucking pink marks on her neck, and his fingers playing lower. Just the touch of his hand riled her up; she was just about to come again, but then her eyes darted off a moment and she saw Byron sitting fat and naked on the couch, his face forlorn as he watched this other man electrify her.

Patricia didn’t even care.

She lay back, tensing more, begging for this strange mystery lover to take her again right there in front of her husband, the rough hand expertly gentle with her most private parts, and then her legs shot upward, toes straining toward her living room ceiling when she recognized Ernie Gooder’s face on the man who was burying her in the most wanton ecstasy—

Patricia shrieked in the throes of another climax . . . and—

—then awoke naked and clenching in her sister’s guest room.

Oh, jeez . . .

There was no one beside her, of course, no Ernie finishing up, and the only hand between her legs was her own.

What’s gotten into me? she thought. Her confusion melted into a drowsy disorientation. It frustrated her, even half-asleep as she was, because it made her feel unaware of herself. The cicada sounds seemed twice as loud now, the moonlight dimmer yet somehow edgier. During the fitful dream she’d kicked the covers off the bed and cast her cotton lounger to the floor, and now she didn’t even bother putting it back on. The moonlight made the sweat on her breasts, belly, and thighs appear frostlike.

She let her confusion fade away behind her fatigue, then curled up into a nude ball. Her sex still tingled as she drifted back to sleep, completely incognizant of the face peering in at her naked body through the window.

(II)