The Backwoods

blanks.

Which was beside the point.

The point, relative to the true nature of Trey, was that if he did have kids, he’d be a decent father. He knew that. He wouldn’t neglect his kids, wouldn’t beat ‘em, and would make sure they always had food in their bellies. Period. And as far as husbanding went? The same. I’m a good husband, damn it, he felt sure. He kept a roof over Marcy’s head, kept food in the fridge, and never slapped her around, even when she mouthed off. Five years after they got married, her looks went to shit in a handbasket, legs turned to cellulite tubes, tits dropped down to her belly like a couple of limp sacks full of flour, but even with all that, Trey never cheated on her. Oral sex on the side wasn’t cheating (it was a Southern law: “Eatin’ ain’t cheatin’,” and by God, Trey was a Southern man) because it lacked the intimacy of intercourse, that parameter of closeness that coupled the body and soul, so a few blow jobs per week from hookers and bar tramps hardly constituted a breach of the covenant of matrimony. So, yeah, Trey was a faithful husband to boot.

And as for certain private activities that he might engage in on occasion . . . did that make him a bad person?

No, he felt determined. No way.

He had some connections—all cops did. Ain’t no force on earth can stop the drug trade. Better me makin’ some cash than a dealer. After all, he’d spend the money more responsibly, wouldn’t he? Once he dragged that big garbage can around to the back of the store, it didn’t take too much plowing around before he came up with the tackle box full of crystal meth that Chief Sutter had dropped in there yesterday.

Yes, sir, Trey thought.

He tossed the box in the patrol car, emptied the garbage, and brought the can back around. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, looking at his watch, and I gotta go pick up the chief. He was about to go in the store for a quick coffee, just when his cell phone rang.

“Sergeant Trey here.”

“You recognize my voice? Just say yes or no.”

“Sure do.”

“Good. Don’t say my name.” A pause. “You recall our previous conversation? About the backup plan?”

“Sure do,” Trey said.

“Things aren’t working as well as I’d like. So I’m going to implement that plan. Are you up for it?”

Trey smiled. “Sure am.” Then he remembered what he’d tossed into the patrol car a moment ago. “And you ain’t gonna believe what I just pulled out of the trash. . . .”

Five

(I)

“. . . and so whoever believeth in me shall never die.’ ” The loud voice reached across the field. Father Darren stood tall, broad-shouldered, with brown hair sweeping past his shoulders—an imposing figure. His gentle expression and blazing eyes seemed to maximize the effect of the words he was saying.

Patricia struggled not to shield her eyes. All dressed in black like that, the congregation appeared as stark shadows in blazing sun. The moment felt odd, the thrumming of the cicadas adulterating the silences between the service intercessions.

And it was stiflingly hot.

Judy stood next to her, holding her hand and sobbing very quietly. Patricia’s eyes darted around as the minister read on. There were a number of townspeople gathered around, but she didn’t remember their names. Chief Sutter and his deputy—Trey, she thought his name was—stood off to the side, and then she spotted old Mr. Halm, who ran the local convenience store. Angling off in another direction stood a dozen or so Squatters, all dressed in austere black clothes. The oldest face there she recognized at once—Everd Stanherd. This elder of the clan looked deceptive, black, black hair belying the lined face. The short hair was so dark it could’ve been a badly chosen wig. Next to him stood his wife, Marthe, graceful, swanlike in some aura of backwoods stature; Patricia remembered her too, still slim and attractive in her sixties, black hair lustrous around the set face. Both of them wore odd pendants about their necks, pouchlike things, which Patricia couldn’t identify until she thought back. The Squatters are so superstitious, she remembered. All those trinkets and charms they wear. A number of the other Squatters in attendance wore similar items, either pendants or bracelets, and to confuse her more, several others wore crosses.

But something was bothering her—not her sudden recollection of the Squatters’ superstitious totems but . . . something else. Something seemed to nag at her. . . .

A moment later she sensed more than saw a presence behind her.

More of Father Darren’s words resounded around them: “ ‘So we fix our eyes not on what is seen but what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.’”

Patricia had a hard time paying attention. She’d never been particularly religious; to her funerals as well as weddings were just fancy words in a ceremonial show. It was the figure behind her that distracted her.

She finally stole a glance to her rear, then, and saw Ernie standing solemn-faced, hands clasped in front. Seeing him in a suit seemed jarring, but with him dressed as he was, and with his long hair pulled back, Patricia had to admit that he looked . . .

Really good . . .

She smiled briefly, then turned back around. Yeah, he looks really good, all right. . . . The delayed reaction smacked her consciousness like a slap, an edgy sense of shame. There I go again—my God. I’m standing here at the funeral of my sister’s husband and I’m checking out the handyman’s bod. That bizarre sexual flux she’d noticed since she arrived had never felt more apparent. Then she yelled at herself. Jesus, Patricia! What is wrong with you? You’re lusting after other men at a friggin’ funeral while your loving and very faithful husband is sitting back at your home paying the bills!

She chewed her lower lip, hoping the tingling in her nipples would pass. . . .

“‘We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain that we can carry nothing out,’” Father Darren continued, this time quoting the Book of Job. “‘The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

The minister’s hands were outspread before them all, his sedate smile exuberant. He held up the urn. “Blessed Lord, we sing praise and thanks to your name! And we beg you to commend the eternal soul of our brother Dwayne unto the kingdom of Heaven—all unworthy servants that we are.” Then Father Darren broke from his portable podium and approached Judy. He handed her the urn full of her husband’s ashes.

Ricky and Junior Caudill were twin brothers, Junior being so named due to the fact that he emerged from his mother’s womb six minutes after Ricky. The Caudill name carried some infamy throughout southern Virginia, which perhaps lent credence to some recent scientific research that suggested antisocial, psychosexual, and overall criminal activity were indeed genetically inherent. Both were stocky, fat-faced, sizably bellied, and both had short, dung-colored hair always sticking up as though they’d just climbed out of bed. Ordinarily their everyday apparel consisted of jeans, boots, and dingy T-shirts, but today they’d dressed up in dark suits each a bit too small, yet suits just the same. Even disrespectful fellows such as these needed at least to look respectful on select occasions.

Ricky spit a loogie between his shoes, but he did so very quietly. See? Even a shiftless sociopath knew some facsimile of ceremony. “Gettin’ boring,” he muttered.

Junior watched as a tearful Judy Parker took the urn from Father Darren. He elbowed his brother with a chuckle. “Bet’ cha that urn weighs less than most, huh?”

Ricky didn’t get the joke for a moment, but then he pondered the remark further. “Yeah. Shit, I wonder . . . I wonder how much the ashes of a head weigh?”

Deep thinking for this pair. Ricky scratched his ass as Judy Parker began to toss plumes of ash into the open air.