The Backwoods

Patricia could’ve laughed. “Judy, the only difference between the Squatters and the Pennsylvania Dutch is that the Squatters are even more puritanical. They make the Amish look like party animals.”

“I don’t know,” her sister repeated. “I get to thinkin’ that maybe they’re startin’ to turn bad ‘cos of me.”

Patricia was getting close to wringing her sister’s neck. “Okay, let me see. You give them work. You give them a free place to live, free electricity, and free water. So how are they turning bad because of you? You’re the best thing they’ve got going for themselves.”

Judy dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “I feel like a welfare lord. I give ‘em work, sure, but it ain’t nothin’ but minimum-wage work. The men go out ‘n’ catch the crabs and the women pick the meat. It’s sweatshop work, and most of ‘em got nothin’ but tin shacks to live in. Don’t matter that I don’t charge ‘em rent for the land. It ain’t much more than ghetto life, and I’m the one danglin’ the bait. Lot of ‘em think there ain’t nothin’ else, nothin’ that might be better for them out in the world.”

Patricia shrugged. “For people like that there probably isn’t. The Squatters exist in their own little society. They’re self-sufhcient, living off the land. They’re pretty much uneducated and unskilled. The world can’t save everyone. All that matters is they’re making the best of what they’ve got and they’re very happy. They practically worship you—you’re like their queen. I’m not saying that you have an obligation not to sell the land if you really want to. It’s just that there’s no reason to do that. And for God’s sake, Judy, you’re not keeping them from greener pastures by giving them full-time employment. If they weren’t here, they’d be standing in breadlines, living in homeless shelters. If they think they can better themselves somewhere else, then they’re free to leave. But they don’t, because they know they probably can’t. They’re simple people who live a simple, hardworking life. Same as the Amish, same as the Quakers, same as a lot of the Appalachians. You’re not keeping them down by keeping them employed.”

Patricia felt winded after the philosophical exchange, and she felt frustrated as well. Where is she getting these nonsensical ideas?

Judy mulled it over in the silence, then said, “You’re probably right. Guess I’m just in a mood.”

“You’ve got a lot on your mind. Just focus on today”.

It was about the only advice Patricia could think of. This guy Felps, she thought next. Maybe he’s the one filling her head up with this crap. “So tell me about this construction man who made the offer.”

“Oh, yes, Gordon Felps. He’s very successful, been buildin’ luxury homes all up ‘n’ down the East Coast for a long time. And he’s very nice.” Judy blushed, looking down at her knees. “He even asked me out when he first come to town. Didn’t know I was married, a’ course, till I told him. But he really is a nice man.”

By now, Patricia thought she’d develop permanent wrinkles from frowning so much. She is so friggin’ naive I can’t believe it! “Judy, you own a lot of valuable property. You have to be very careful with people who seem ‘nice’ if they have an ulterior motive. You know, like wanting to buy your land for several times less than what’s it worth!”

Judy didn’t even hear her. “And I’m sure you’ll meet him today at the funeral. I think he ‘n’ Dwayne were even friends. I saw ‘em talkin’ several times, gettin’ on real fine.”

Naive, naive, naive! “I will definitely look forward to meeting Mr. Felps,” she said. Oh, you can bet on that.

She was relieved at the break now in the conversation, Judy keeping any further thoughts to herself. Patricia just relaxed in the sun, peering around at the spacious yard’s beauty. The cicada sounds seemed more distant, lulling her. A wine cooler would be nice right about now, she considered, but then looked at the time. In another hour they’d have to start getting ready for the services.

In the distance, she could hear . . . something.

What is that?

A sharp thwack, thwack, thwack!

The noise persisted, drawing closer.

“Here comes Ernie,” Judy said.

Patricia glanced around, then at the edge of the yard noticed a shirtless Ernie going at the blocks of hack- berry bushes with a pair of hedge clippers.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

“He does such a wonderful job with the yard,” Judy commented through a drowsy smile.

The image caught Patricia off guard. “Oh . . . yes. Yes, he does.” But her focus was elsewhere—not on Ernie’s hedge work; it was on Ernie himself.

On Ernie’s body.

His toned back muscles flexed with each thwack of the clippers. Then his angle changed; she could see his chest, the well-defined pectorals tensing, his six-pack abdomen running with lines of sweat. He paused for a moment, wiped sweat off his brow with a toned bicep. Then he got back to work.

Oh, for pity’s sake, Patricia thought.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him, off the magnificent physique, and her mind dragged her back to last night’s dream.

The terrific sex.

Patricia could only shake her head at herself. Her eyes stayed fixed on Ernie’s sweat-drenched chest. I’m turning into a sex-obsessed floozy!

She knew it was going to be a long day.

(II)

“Hey, Pappy Halm!” Trey called out just as he stepped out of his cruiser in front of the Qwik-Mart. “What’choo think you’re doin’?”

The old proprietor stopped, cane in one hand, dragging the large front garbage can with the other. “I’m takin’ out the fuckin’ garbage, ya moe-ron. What’s it look like?”

“Looks like an old codger tryin’ ta pull twice what he weighs. Let me take care a’ that for ya.”

“Aw, fuck you, ya young fuck!” the old man railed. “I was bustin’ beaver when you was a tadpole in yer daddy’s sack. Back in my day I could haul ten of these, with you on my back.”

“I’m sure ya could, Pappy. But that was back when Roosevelt was in office. Teddy Roosevelt. So why don’t ya let me take that?”

Old man Halm jerked on the big can a few more times, grunted, then gave up. “Fuck it! My taxes pay your salary, so you empty the sucker!”

“My pleasure, Pappy. You can gimme a free coffee once I’m done.”

Halm waved his cane in the air. “Yeah! I got’ cher free coffee for ya right here, so you come ‘n’ get it!” And then he grabbed his crotch and hobbled back into the store.

Sergeant Trey laughed at the old man’s spunk. A tightwad pain in the ass, but Trey liked him. Pappy Halm was a black-and-white, commonsense kind of fella, and Trey felt that he himself was too.

What he was doing right now, for instance . . . it made sense, and no, it had nothing to do with giving the old man a hand taking out the store garbage.

The point was the contents of the garbage can.

If I don’t do it, someone else will.

Trey knew he was a lousy cop deep down, but he felt confident that that didn’t mean he was a lousy person. It’s all give and take. Dog eat dog. Shit, I‘m a decent guy mostly. I pay my bills, provide for my wife, even go to church at least twice a year. . . . Perception was interpretive and abstract. Trey arrested bad people, so that was good, right? He helped make the world a little bit safer by submitting to an ungratifying and often sordid job. He and Marcy never had kids—because, after knocking up a good dozen gals before tying the knot and paying mightily for abortions, he got a vasectomy. See, one thing was for sure: he sure as shit didn’t want kids. Marcy wanted kids bad, but he never told her about his trip to the doctor, because if he had she never would’ve married him, and back in her day she was one hot number. Trey wouldn’t stand for her marrying anyone else, especially as good in bed as she was. So that was the short version. He lied. He let her marry him believing he would give her children when in fact he was shooting big-time