Edward Lee: The Backwoods

She should never have gone in the first place. I just want to go back to my life.

Patricia knew she would never take it for granted again.

The highway breezed by. It seemed like she was driving away from the night, leaving its secrets well behind, which suited her just fine. This early there was scarcely any rush hour, even when she was all the way back to D.C. The smog and the ugly monolithic buildings and potholed roads couldn’t have made her happier to see. She’d figure out something to tell Byron later, something feasible to explain Judy’s death, and the rest of it. She didn’t want to lie, but with this?

The truth wouldn’t do.

I’m going to forget about everything right now , she promised herself. The resolution made her feel rejuvenated, and a monumental burden disappeared. When she parked the Cadillac in front of the condo, she felt giddy.

She walked quietly up the steps, and was careful to keep the keys from jingling when she unlocked the door and came in. The instant she stepped inside, she truly felt that she was home. She was back where she belonged.

She traipsed in, hoping Byron was still asleep. I’ll slide into bed next to him and let him find me there when he wakes up . It would be the best surprise. She’d be right there in bed next to him, two days earlier than he expected.

She kicked off her sandals. She looked around the living room—dim in morning light—and actually had tears in her eyes, she was so happy. Byron’s pretentious art prints on the wall delighted her now. The feel of the carpet beneath her bare feet titillated her. Even the air smelled comforting.

She began to unbutton her blouse when she entered the bedroom.

Her hand fell.

Her heart almost stopped.

Patricia stood there for a long time, looking at the bed.

Indeed, Byron was still asleep, and he would definitely be surprised to find that his loving wife had returned two days earlier than he expected.

You bastard, she thought.

A woman lay in bed next to Byron. She looked young, early twenties, half of her skinny, naked body crooked out from under the sheets. A small, pert breast stuck out too, and she had some silly tattoo on her thigh. And as she lay all cuddled up nice and cozy next to Byron, she was snoring.

Patricia’s mind essentially switched off. There was no tirade, no lamp throwing, no profanity-laden shouts. There was nothing like that at all. Instead Patricia walked back out to the car, opened the door, and got in.

She didn’t drive anywhere. Had she had more presence of mind, she would’ve driven either to a friend’s or a divorce lawyer’s. But she didn’t even put the key in the ignition.

She didn’t know how much time passed when she finally said aloud to herself, “What am I going to do? My husband is upstairs right now—in my bed—sleeping with another woman. What am I going to do?”

The answer sat next to her on the front seat.

The clay pot.

The sacrament.

The Squatters had left it in the woods with her. But there was still a small amount left inside.

Patricia looked up at her bedroom window.

I’m going to go to the drugstore now, buy some paper, and buy an envelope. Then I’m going to go to the post office and buy a stamp.

And then mail a letter.

EDWARD LEEhas had over twenty-five books published in the horror and suspense fields, including Flesh Gothic, Messenger and City Infernal . He is a Bram Stoker Award nominee, and his short stories have appeared in over a dozen mass market anthologies, including The Best American Mystery Stories of 2000 , the Hot Blood series, and the award-winning 999. His movie, Header , has been filmed and awaits release. Lee lives in Florida′s St. Pete Beach. Visit his official web-site at www.edwardleeonline.com.