Edward Lee - The Backwoods

“And it could just as easily be that someone else torched the place, couldn’t it? Another turf murder. Didn’t you say the Hilds were murdered by a rival drug gang for operating on their turf?”

“Well, it’s possible. That’s what the police think. But . . .” She paused over the phone. How can I argue with him? He’s actually right. The place very easily could have been burned down by a rival drug gang. “Honey, still, you’re overreacting. Everything’s fine here, and we’re perfectly safe. Judy’s still shaken up over the funeral and all, so that’s why I’m here. I told you, I won’t be gone longer than a week.”

“Promise.”

She laughed. “I promise!”

“So what are you going to do today? Chew tobacco? Sit on the porch in a rocking chair?”

“Agan’s Point isn’t quite that backward. I’m just going to go for a drive into town this morning—”

“You shouldn’t be driving into town; you should be driving out of town.”

She just shook her head and continued. “And then I’ll probably just hang around the house and help Judy with some things.” She began to tell him about the big clan cookout tomorrow—if the Squatters still had it now—but as she talked, her focus dissolved. Was that a splattering she heard? Yes, and a hiss. She noticed then that her bedroom door was open a crack, and as she peered down the hall, she saw that the bathroom door, too, stood open a few inches.

Ernie’s in there taking a shower, she realized. He’s so used to having this wing of the house to himself that he forgot to close the door . . . . This wouldn’t have meant anything to her, but . . .

She could see flesh.

A convenient angle allowed the shower to reflect in the bathroom mirror, which she could see a significant slice of through the crack in the door.

She kept talking to her husband without even thinking, and suddenly had gotten up and walked to her own door for a better view. She could see him in there, all right—he hadn’t closed the shower curtain.

My God, what am I doing? What if he saw me? He’d think I was a total perv . . . which I guess I am. A female voyeur? Looking at other people in secret had never been a desire of hers, but then a lot of things about herself had changed since she’d gotten back. What would Dr. Sallee say about this? she wondered. It was just the midlife sexual peak of all women, so . . .

Was it that bad?

Her sense of guilt struggled to cut into her thoughts—as she continued to talk to her loving husband, no less—but she easily blocked them out.

And watched.

And then imagined.

Suddenly she saw herself in the shower with Ernie, and the more deeply she thought about it, the more clearly the vision focused. . . .

He wasn’t even surprised as she stepped in; it was as though he were expecting her, as though his flesh were a summons to her desire, and he knew it. When the cool spray hit Patricia’s breasts, her nipples shot right up. Something else shot right up, too, when she put her hand to his sudsy groin. She could feel it beating in her hand.

Then, in gestures that nearly seemed rough, his calloused hands spun her around by the hips, and then he was feeling her up into a suit of suds. He stood behind her, his manhood hot against her buttocks. He was manipulating her flesh the way a sculptor manipulated clay. Patricia grew short of breath at once, rising on her tiptoes, her mouth and eyes wide open. The rough fingers skipped back and forth between corkscrewing her nipples and massaging her sex. She just stood there and let herself be felt . . . .

She talked on to Byron, locked in some split stream of consciousness, communicating to him and regarding his replies with no real awareness . . . while the rest of her mind delved deeper into the sexual musing. Ernie still stood behind her, the shower hissing over them. One strong forearm locked around her waist, and then he was lifting her up. Her feet came off the shower floor. She could feel her buttocks sliding over his penis as she continued to rise, as if he would penetrate her from behind with her feet off the ground. Her sex burned; she was squirming—

Oh, God, no . . .

“Patricia?”

It was about to nudge into her all at once.

“Patricia? Damn, I think your cell phone cut out. Can you hear me?”

Her legs were tensing, her back arching as her inflamed breasts and nipples thrust outward, and she was already beginning to cli—

“Patricia!”

Reality slapped her in the face. No, she wasn’t in the shower with Ernie; she was talking to her husband! “I’m here,” she assured him, waiting for her heart to slow down.

“You sounded way off in space.”

Not in space, she thought, visibly blushing. Just in the shower . “The reception down here isn’t always that great. When I call tomorrow, I’ll use Judy’s phone.”

“So how is Judy doing, considering?”

Patricia tore herself away from the gap in the door, then went back and sat on the bed. Her last real image of Ernie had been of him stepping out of the shower, in the reflection. She struggled to reengage her mind against a backwash of guilt. “Actually, okay, I think. She’s seemed to be handling Dwayne’s death pretty well since I got here, but now she’s kind of rocked by what happened last night. She even said something to the effect that it might be a good idea for her to sell the Point.”

“I think she should. Sounds like the whole place is turning into Drugtown. Sell it before all the property value goes down the tubes.”

“Really, Byron, it’s not that bad. There’re luxury condos going up on the other side of the river. That’ll drive any bad elements out faster than anything.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You get back to work now,” she said, “and I’ll call tomorrow. And there’s something you need to know.”

“What?”

“I love you,” she said.

“Well, I love you, too, so come back soon, will you?”

“I will,” she promised, and then they hung up.

Patricia sighed. My fantasies are out of control! It aggravated her so much now. But at least there was some solace: Dr . Sallee said this is common for women my age. There’s no reason to feel guilty, because they’re just fantasies. I’d never really cheat on Byron. . . .

Before she could consider anything further, she spotted Ernie coming down the hall in a robe.

“Hey, Ernie?” she called out.

He stuck his head in, his long hair combed out in wet lines. “Oh, hey. I didn’t even know you were here.”

Yeah, I’m here, all right, spying on you in the shower. “I meant to get up early, but it took me a while to fall back to sleep once we got back from the fire. How’s Judy?”

“It’s funny,” he said. “She’s more pissed off than depressed about the Ealds. She don’t like the idea that Squatters are makin’ dope on her land.”

“Well, it’s just a few of them.”

“Yeah, I know. She’ll be all right. It’s just too much goin’ on at once. She ain’t handlin’ it well.”

Patricia deliberately avoided eye contact. Just his being in the same room relit some of the shower fantasy’s fire. “I wanted to ask you something. Do you know who officially declared Dwayne dead? I know he was cremated at the funeral home, but where was he autopsied? Is there a family doctor or something?”

“It was the EMTs who picked his body up just off the Point,” Ernie informed her. “And they took Dwayne’s body to the county hospital there, to the county morgue. So I guess that’s where they did the autopsy, but that’s about all I know. You might wanna ask Chief Sutter.”