Edward Lee: The Backwoods

“Yeah, right here,” he said. He turned her around, placing her hands on his belt, telegraphing that it was time for her to take off his pants.

Now her words sounded parched from desire. “You sure you don’t wanna go back to my shack?” she almost pleaded.

His jeans fell down. ″Naw.″

“It’d be lots more comfortable. What’s so special about this place?”

Dwayne dragged her down into the dirt, and as he pushed her knees to her ears, his thoughts answered her question: This place? It’s only about ten feet from where I dug the hole last night. . . .

(I)

I wonder how he died , came the spontaneous thought. Even as a lawyer, Patricia White never imagined herself to be capable of such mental ill will, but here it was, secretly staring her in the face. Her promotion couldn’t have been farther from her mind, nor the idea of so much extra income via the profit sharing. No, there were only these fleeting thoughts of darkness and morbidity. Judy said he’d been murdered but she didn’t say how. The next question bloomed as she gazed numbly at a series of Ming Dynasty-styled statues:

I wonder . . . how. . . .

Yes. Exactly how had her sister’s husband been murdered? What circumstances? And what modus? Gun? Knife? Bludgeoning?

Then: I’d better get my head back on straight, before my own husband thinks I’ve completely flaked out .

Byron sat across the table from her, trying not to look like he noticed her distraction. His first tack—when he knew something was bothering her—was to get her talking from any tangent available. “I’m not yet sure if this is the best Chinese restaurant in town,” he said, “but I’m prepared to proclaim even at this early interval that it’s the best -smelling Chinese restaurant in town.”

So deep was Patricia White’s distraction that she hadn’t noticed until he’d mentioned it, but when she did, her eyes widened. Slim Asian waitresses scurried back and forth, bearing huge trays of food that seemed to draw aromatic banners throughout the restaurant. “Oh, Byron, wow. You’re right. The aromas here are almost . . .”

His broad face widened as he grinned. “Erotic.”

“You would say that, Mr. Perverted Food Critic.”

He splayed his hands over the soup bowl that had until a moment ago been filled with shark-fin soup. “Good food is supposed to involve a sensual reaction; it has since early man began cooking. I see nothing perverted about it.”

She couldn’t help it, leaning over to whisper, “Except for maybe the time when we were in L.A., and you insisted on bringing the slice of Chocolate Martini Cheesecake home from Spago’s and eating it off my stomach when we got back to the Beverly Hills Hotel.”

“Um-hmm. And I think I can honestly describe your reaction to that as particularly sensual. And don’t forget, Mrs. Perverted Power Attorney, what you did with the whipped cream first.”

Patricia blushed immediately. How had she forgotten that part? More wonderful aromas rose to her face when their own entrées arrived: tangy sauces and elaborate spices and herbs carried upward in steam.

“So before we dig into our northern-China feast,” Byron said, “why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?”

Why not just say it? “I feel bad,” Patricia admitted, “for not feeling . . . bad.” Her eyes glanced up from the exorbitant plate of seared langoustines in shallot sprouts. Her normally stable gaze was confused now. “Does that make any sense?” she asked.

Byron’s chopsticks stalled as he would have plucked up a strip of flash-fired abalone, his broad face contemplative in candlelight. “Honey, in this case it makes perfect sense. It’s hard to put into words because we’re not supposed to speak badly of the dead. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”

“Yes . . .” She set down her own chopsticks on the porcelain prop. The circumstances were obviously killing both their appetites, which was a shame in such an upscale restaurant known for such exotic cuisine. “Part of me feels so bad for Judy, but most of me feels . . . Oh, damn it. I feel like such a shit heel for even thinking it.”

“Let me finish for you; tell me if I’m on track. Most of you feels good for Judy, because she’s too good a person to be married to a guy like Dwayne. Dwayne was a pretty crappy person. He was a liar and a criminal and a con man, and now he’s dead. And some part of you is glad he’s dead. And you feel guilty about that. I do too a little, but I’m also glad he’s dead. Nobody ever liked that guy. I only met him that one time, and I could tell at a glance that he was a shifty redneck who only married your sister to make his own life better. He was causing her great grief that she didn’t deserve. He used to slap her around, for God’s sake. Well, now he can’t do that anymore. All in all, Dwayne’s getting killed was a good thing. The world’s a better place without him, and Judy is better off.”

“I know,” Patricia confessed, ″but—″

“But she’s your sister,” Byron continued, “and you love her and you know that you’re not supposed to feel happy that her husband is dead. A situation like this can never be simple.”

“She was always convinced that he’d change eventually, that it was just his background that kept him down—″

“Of course, because that was the only thing she could think to ever have hope. The truth is, guys like Dwayne don’t change. They’re predators till the day they die. You can blame environment or upbringing or bad education or whatever, and sometimes those really are factors that need to be considered. And sometimes they’re not. Dwayne was simply a bad person, and always would have been.”

Patricia shook her head. “But she loved him so much.”

“Sometimes love is blind and very illogical,” Byron added. “Your sister’s always been a bit insecure. She bought into Dwayne’s phony charm and that rugged, tough-guy look, and she wound up getting screwed. She should’ve sent him packing a year after they got married, but that’s when the insecurity kicks in. Happens a lot with women her age; after forty, they look at whoever they’re with like it’s a last stand.”

“A woman her age?” Patricia questioned, but it was more as a joke. “She’s forty-two; I’m forty-three.”

“Yes, but the difference is, she was married to a brawny redneck; you’re married to a bald gourmand. I’m the insecure one in this marriage. Most men my age have beer bellies.” Byron patted the girth in his lap. “I have a foie-gras-and-chateaubriand belly.”

They both shared a laugh, which was more than welcome in the midst of the bad scene. Byron was a food critic for the Washington Post . He made a good living eating at the best restaurants in the D.C. metropolitan area, yet he was constantly poking fun at himself. Patricia’s salary was five times what he earned, and now that she’d made partner, it would be even more. And she wore her middle age quite deceptively, looking more along the lines of a woman in her early thirties. In spite of her workload, she still managed to make it to the gym three times a week, and nature or God had been kind enough to keep the wrinkles at bay. The wall by their table, just beyond an elegant, white-brick-bordered fish pond, was a mirror that doubled the restaurant’s proportions, and when Patricia stole a glance at herself, she remained quite satisfied with the image that reflected back. Her silken, straight red hair shone about her face, long bangs pushed back. She’d just had it cut a few days ago, collarbone length, straight as a bezel. The sleek black jersey skirt only highlighted her slim physique, made even sexier by a bosom ample enough to leave most of Byron’s friends convinced that she had implants when in fact she didn’t. She looked exactly like the in-shape, attractive D.C. businesswoman that she was. Byron, on the other hand, incarnated the word jolly, and he knew it, which was just another reason why she loved him. He was overweight but he was genuine, and in the Washington power circles such men were rare indeed. She truly had married her best friend, and she knew she’d be at a loss without him. I lucked out , Patricia thought in a grateful calm. I wish Judy had. . . .