Edward Lee - The Backwoods

The entirety of his bulk flinched at a hideous noise. He rolled over in bed and noticed the even larger bulk lying beside him. June always slept naked. Her blubbery belly and breasts vibrated through each cycle of that awful noise-her snoring. Sutter looked at her aghast in the moonlight. Is that my wife or did someone dump three hundred pounds of vanilla pudding in my bed and put a wig on it? This new image only doubled the cruelty of the dream: first the Squatter girl and her perfect image of sexual beauty, then this pale pile of human lard that he would spend the rest of his life with.

Suddenly all the unfulfillment of his life landed on him at once. Over-the-hill, up to my neck in debt, and married to that, he realized.

This was it. This was his life, staring him in the face in all its irrevocable truth.

He actually could’ve cried. The bed jostled like a small earthquake when he slid off and stood up, pasty, belly sticking out under hairy man-tits, forty-eight-waist boxer shorts bunched up his ass. Comfort food was the only ticket to cure this grim hour of the wolf, so he trudged out of the noisy bedroom to the kitchen.

He clumped through the darkness, and finally a smile found his mouth. Nice and cool , he reminded himself. At least I have air-conditioning, and yesterday I didn’t. The brand-new unit was doing its job on the summer heat, purring away. He’d thought about it and thought about it, and he’d finally come to the honest decision that taking that dope money off those scumbags represented no infringement on his sense of professional ethics. It was just drug money. If I’d turned it into the county sheriff’s, they would’ve confiscated it . One thing to feel good about was better than nothing. He’d done his job beyond the call of duty, and . . .

And I got a little perk , he rationalized. Ain’t no harm in that.

The refrigerator light flooded the kitchen when he opened the door. A little less dejected than before, he pulled out a fat Boston cream pie that June had picked up at the grocery store and cut himself a sizable slice, but before he could take his first sloppy bite . . .

He smirked in the dark.

Snippets of the dream swept around his mind’s eyes like a flock of birds. The girl’s stunning, earthy, sweat-glistening beauty unfolding before him and then—

Whup . . .

Her head falling off right into his lap.

I must be really fucked-up in the head to have a dream like that, he considered. Why in God’s name would I dream something like that?

Her head falling off.

Her head . . .

Heads, he thought.

It couldn’t help but remind him: Dwayne Parker’s funeral was tomorrow. The most bizarre death his little town had ever seen.

He knew about the rumors. The EMTs had run their mouths, and probably so had some folks down at the county morgue. Can’t say that I blame them. Who could see something like that and not mention it to anyone?

At least they were just rumors at this point, and he hoped they’d fade away after Dwayne’s ashes were cast to the four winds. Even minus the head—which still had not been found—there’d been no doubt as to positive identity. The tattoos were right, the clothes were right, and the ID in the wallet was right. Two days later the fingerprints came back from NCIC, and they were Dwayne Parker’s. The death certificate had read: Anomalous death-COD : Decapitation via smooth transection of levator scapulae muscular process and #5 & 6 cervical vertebrae. Mode of transection as yet undetermined and curious.

That was the tech talk. Sutter himself had been one of the few to see the body. The coroner’s remarks—undetermined and curious— were understatement. Sutter had never seen anything so strange, nor inexplicable.

He’d never forget the sight of the body when the attendant had opened the body bag.

Jesus . . .

It seemed less like his head had been cut off and more like it had vanished off his body. There was no telltale "stump.” No cut marks or blade striations. Dwayne Parker’s skin, in fact, seemed to cover the area of space between his collarbones as though the skin had impossibly grown over the decapitation wound.

Sutter sighed, his appetite lost. He put the pie back in the refrigerator.

Goddamn Dwayne, he thought, wincing the vision out of his mind as he headed back to the bedroom. Almost like he’d never had a head in the first place.

Four

(I)

When Patricia opened her eyes, the bedroom was shimmering in sunlight. She felt warm and rested, ready for the day in spite of its circumstances. The funeral , she thought. She’d dreaded it, hadn’t she? Because she’d dreaded coming back here, but so far her return had provided the opposite of what she’d expected. I feel great , she realized, and then she hopped up from the big bed and looked at herself in the dresser mirror. And I look great, too . Her skin shimmered like the light in the room. Her eyes looked back at her, vibrant, bright. Her naked body had never appeared healthier, her breasts heavy yet high, her waist tight, bereft of even a trace of middle-age flab. And I’m starving , she reminded herself. The aromas of coffee and bacon drifted into the room, seducing her She quickly pulled her robe over her shoulders and rushed into the hall toward the shower. She grabbed a towel from the linen closet, then opened the bathroom door—

A blue-jeaned and shirtless Ernie looked at her, a toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. His eyes widened, and he flinched at the sight of her. “Jesus, Patricia,” he mumbled through lips foamy with toothpaste.

Patricia stalled, blinked; then a shock bolted through her brain. My God, I’m practically naked! It had taken her a second to realize that her robe hung wide open, affording Ernie a complete full-frontal glimpse. Then her face must’ve turned nearly as red as her hair. She pulled the robe closed and sprinted back to her room, squealing in embarrassment.

She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, bug-eyed. What in God’s name is wrong with me? What kind of a complete airhead am I? Was she that distracted by coming here? She didn’t feel distracted at all; in fact, until she’d opened the bathroom door, she’d been marveling at how good she felt, and how together. Ernie’s going to think I’m an exhibitionist!

Then she reflected further: Maybe I did it on purpose. . . .

Something in her subconscious. She even admitted to herself that she’d been sort of teasing him last night, when she’d bent over braless to untie her shoes. She knew he’d been looking down her blouse... and she didn’t mind.

And now this.

He just saw everything. . . .

More reflections spun around her head. Something weird’s happening me . Since the minute I got back to town, I’ve been horny as hell. Then last night I dream about having sex with another man right in front of my husband-the lewdest dream of my life. I took my nightgown off in my sleep, and I even had orgasms during the dream, and then . . . then I wake up masturbating. And to top it all off, the first thing I do after Iwake up is expose myself to Ernie! What is going on in my head?

Patricia was a very logical woman, but she could find no logic in this. Agan’s Point is the town where I was raped. I should feel very unsexual.

So why the opposite?

The good feelings she had wakened with were ruined. She waited till Ernie was finished in the bathroom, then showered quickly. She made a point to wear a bra this time, an old baggy crewneck T-shirt and a cotton ankle skirt. The frumpy clothes made her feel very un sexy.