Edward Lee - The Backwoods

This was all she could do, and she knew it. “And I’ll just have to make the best of it,” she said to herself. “It was so long ago anyway. I’m acting like a baby.″ Admitting that to herself was easier than admitting her optimism was forced.

She let more of the road take her, the Cadillac almost too quiet and smooth as more roads turned rural, and more turnoffs took her farther away from her metropolitan world. The wilds of southern Virginia were an opposite world—farms instead of skyscrapers, old pickup trucks and tractors lumbering along quiet, tree-lined roads, quite unlike the manic traffic streams of the city. She knew that home grew ever closer by still more telltale signs: AGAN′S POINT CRAB CAKES, boasted a roadside restaurant. Then a market: WE SELL AGAN′S POINT CRABMEAT. Her sister’s crabmeat was locally renowned. Eventually the scenery began to calm Patricia’s nerves, and she actually smiled. Would she really be able to forget about her trauma of decades ago? Maybe it’s all just worn off, she hoped.

Then another sign swept by:

AGAN’S POINT—3 MILES.

She steeled herself behind the wheel. It’s no big deal, no big deal. I’m over it!

And then the awful words came back to haunt her just as effectively as she was being haunted by her past:

Yes, her own father’s words . . .

How could you let something like that happen?

Patricia’s eyes suddenly flooded with tears. She couldn’t control herself; she couldn’t even remember what she was doing, her sensibilities jerking away from her like something being stolen. Without even realizing it, she pulled the Cadillac to the shoulder and got out, her heart hammering, sweat pasting her red bangs to her forehead. A passerby would’ve dismissed her as a crazy woman about to run amok into the woods. Tears blurred her vision. Her feet took her in a blind run away from the car. When she fell to her knees several minutes later, she looked up, choking through sobs, and then saw a smaller sign just before the turn onto a narrow country road. She had to squint through her tears to focus until she could finally read the sign, a right-turn arrow and the words:

BOWEN’S FIELD.

Patricia shrieked, vomited into the grass, and passed out.

(II)

“It just seemed weird to me, Mr. Chief,” the slim, curvy girl with tousled black hair was relating into the driver’s-side window of the Agan’s Point police patrol car.

The strange accent was more of a giveaway than the pale skin and black hair, not to mention the “Mr. Chief.” One of Stanherd’s Squatters , Chief Sutter realized. They always called him Mr. Chief. He didn’t recall seeing this one around, but then he didn’t typically pay much attention to the Squatters—he didn’t have to. They kept to themselves, stayed out of trouble, and worked hard, most of them taking minimum-wage jobs at the crab company. Chief Sutter was a reasonable man. Work your job, pay your taxes, and obey the law, and you’ll have no problem with me . Right now, however, Chief Sutter was having a problem of his own, with this girl who’d flagged them down on Point Road. As she leaned over the window, to convey some mishap at the Qwik-Mart, her breasts stared him bold in the face. The homemade tomato-red jumper top restrained a pair of breasts that might be getting close to D-cup territory. The hand-set stitches of the top, in fact, were stretching enough to show lines of flesh in their seams. She also wore an equally tight threadbare skirt hemmed uncomfortably high on the thigh. The Squatters made their own clothes from fabric scraps they bought at Goodwill, and this little thing was obviously still growing into her getup. A heat wave flashed in Sutter’s groin when, as he listened, his eyes shot a quick glance down the front of her abdomen and hips. Oh, lord , he commiserated. Her right foot crossed over the back ankle of her left, a dollar-store flip-flop hanging off the sleek, voluptuous foot. Jiminy Christmas, even her fucking feet are hot . . . Hence Chief Sutter’s “problem.” The images distracted him, such that he found himself nodding as if in attention but hearing almost nothing of what she said.

“—and they was kinda grinnin’ and lookin’ me over,” she went on, “the way fellas’ll do, makin’ me really uncomfortable, and when I told ’em I didn’t wanna buy none, they said somethin’ like, ‘Well, that’s all right, we’ll give ya some fer free if ya come and party with us.’”

The Squatter girls weren’t much above the neck, sort of wide faces and flat noses, not the best teeth, and that ratty black hair. But below the neck?

Jiminy Christmas , Sutter repeated the thought. They all had bodies that would make a calendar girl feel insecure.

“What’s that you were sayin’ there, hon?” Trey asked. Sutter could tell by Trey’s squint and the tone of his query that he too was experiencing a problem with distraction. Any officer’s job was to get all the facts, and that wasn’t working well here, not with this Squatter bombshell’s pair of absolutely state-of-the-art breasts practically falling out of that top in front of them.

“What was it you say these fellas were tryin’ ta sell you?” Trey blinked hard enough to get out.

Her hip cocked, which caused her bosom to sway delectably in the hand-stitched top, and she explained in that weird accent that all the Squatters seemed to have, “Ice! Can ya believe that? They asked me if I wanted to buy some ice ! Sure, it’s hot ʹnʹ all, but we got a bunch a’ ice trays in our freezer just like dang near everyone, and even if we didn’t, I could walk right in the Qwik-Mart and buy me a bag. Dumbest thing I ever heard anyone tryin’ ta sell right out front of a convenience store. Who sells ice out of a truck, Mr. Chief? So’s that’s why I flagged ya down, just ‘cos that whole thing seemed really weird and so did them fellas. Thought the police’d wanna know.”

Sutter and Trey exchanged glances. At least now they had some police business, which was good, because if Sutter had to spend another minute looking at this girl’s outrageous body he might have a heart attack right there in the cruiser.

“That was right of you to flag us down, missy,” Sutter said, “because fellas like that are definitely not the type we want in Agan’s Point. You see which way they went?”

Now she stood on both feet, legs parted, and leaned back with hands on hips. More distraction: she was so short —all the Squatters were—and as she leaned back like that, she nearly appeared unreal, like something manufactured at a scaled-down size. When she pointed across the windshield, Sutter’s eyes bugged as one immaculate breast rose in the top, and in that little gap underneath he could see the bare bottom of it in all of its orbicular glory. “They ain’t went nowhere yet, Mr. Chief, ‘cos see? They’re still there. That’s them in that orange boxy-looking truck parked right out front of the Qwik-Mart, and that’s one of ‘em standin’ right there talkin’ on the pay phone.”

Trey’s expression revved up. “Well, ain’t that grand, yes, sir!”

“You got that right,” Sutter agreed, then back to the girl: “You’ve done a fine civic duty today, missy, and we appreciate it.”

She seemed delighted by Sutter’s response, and then her not-so-comely face lit up with a big smile—not that Sutter nor Trey, was focused on her face. “You have a fine day, Mr. Chief, and . . . and . . . and Mr. Chief’s partner.”

Sutter paused to himself. Shit. I gotta know . “By the way, missy, if you don’t mind my asking . . . how old are you?”

Her eyes beamed. “Why, it’s funny you should ask, but I just turnt fifteen yesterday!”