Edward Lee - The Backwoods

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!

Ultimately, by the end of the eleventh grade she found all the talk of boys and dating and junior proms and sock hops—and sex—to be annoying. I guess I’m just different from everyone else, she concluded, and didn’t feel at all unusual about it. In not being sexual, she never once thought she might be missing out on anything. But what she wouldn’t miss out on was life, her career, the future. Sex would have to wait.

It was right before school would let out for summer—for some reason she remembered that—and she recalled nothing sexual about her motive, the business about skinny-dipping. She and Judy had gone to a late double feature at the town theater. She’d asked several friends to join them, but, alas, they were all going on to another skinny-dipping party. She and Judy had both passed on the invite—electing instead to go see Star Wars , which everyone was talking about—but regrettably they were forced to sit through some grueling first feature about an Egyptian cannibal in the catering business. Patricia found the schlocky farce hilarious in its bad production, but Judy had left halfway through, too revolted by the hokey violence and fake blood that looked like house paint. Star Wars was fun, though, and exciting. However, while walking home . . .

. . . Patricia got to thinking.

Maybe I’ll try it , she dared herself. In case I ever decide to do it with my friends, I’ll know what it’s like. It wasn’t sex she was considering; it was merely skinny-dipping.

I’ll try it alone first, see if I like it.

But where? Everyone else was out at the lake in Luntville. I know, she thought. She saw the sign right there as she walked along Point Road:

BOWEN’S FIELD.

There was a pond there, and the field itself was almost entirely surrounded by woods.

Perfect.

Her parents were at the fire hall tonight—bingo—and would be home late. The heat and humidity were sky-rocketing as the summer deepened; Patricia was sticky with sweat just minutes after leaving the cool movie theater. A late-night dip in the pond is just what I need.

She cut through more woods, her sandals snapping twigs. Peepers cheeped like parrots, and she had to walk slowly, keeping her eyes on the ground for toads. Then the woods broke, and there she was. . . .

The clearing opened, ringed by tall trees. The moon was just edging over the tallest oaks. Bowen’s Field was a little-used municipal lot: mainly county softball games and holiday gatherings. Picnic grounds with tables and grills dotted the area, and off to one side was the pond.