The Backwoods

She moaned more, deeper in her throat. Then she grabbed his strong hand and coaxed it down the front of her shorts, beneath the panties, pushed some more and made him feel her there. Without hesitation, her own hand roved his crotch, her fingers testing the already throbbing rigidity. . . .

Then she prepared to haul his pants down and drag him to the ground, make him take her right there in the blazing sun.

She didn’t know what she was doing.

She was out of her mind. . . .

If this sudden departure from her traditional monogamous values could be thought of as a thing, that thing fell apart a second later, just as she was getting his pants open.

Her hand froze; then her eyes vaulted wide and her mouth shot open in a silent scream of self-outrage.

Oh, my God, oh, my God! What am I doing?

She quickly backed away from him, almost tripping over a tree root.

Ernie glared at her. “What the hell?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” she blurted. “I-I-I . . . can’t!”

He stood there appalled, his pants open. “You’re shittin’ me! What the hell’s wrong with you, pullin’ such shit!”

Patricia’s shoulders slumped. Her face was beet red in shame. She fumbled to button her blouse. “I’m sorry,” she peeped.

“Damn it!” He refastened his jeans, clearly outraged. “Patricia, you cain’t be comin’ on to guys like that ‘n’ then changin’ yer mind!”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said yet again.

His glare sharpened. “What, thought you’d git your kicks by gettin’ the big dumb country boy all worked up ‘n’ then pullin’ the plug?”

She shook her head desperately, fighting tears. “No, no, I’d never do something like that, not to you or anyone.”

“What then? What the hell’s your problem?”

“I’m . . . I’m married—”

“Married? Yeah, I know you’re married! And you were married a minute ago when you grabbed my hand ‘n’ put it down your pants! You were grabbin’ me by the hair to shove my face in yer boobs! Don’t sound to me like you were all that worried ‘bout cheatin’ on your husband!”

More embarrassment flushed over her. She struggled for something logical to say, but what could be logical about this? She was mystified at herself. I was about to have sex with him right here in broad daylight. I had every intention of doing that. . . . “Ernie, I don’t know what to say. Something just . . . came over me.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’ve just been . . . weird lately, for some reason. Since the day I got back. I haven’t been myself, and I can’t understand it for the life of me. For those last couple of minutes, I wasn’t even thinking. It’s like I was out of my mind.”

“Well, you are out of your mind for playin’ around with a fella like that,” he grumbled. But at least his frustration appeared to be abating. He sat down at the base of the tree and just shook his head.

Patricia stood in frustration of her own. Her breasts, nipples, and sex seemed to throb in objection, as though her mind had betrayed her body. All that desire building up, building up, about to be relieved, and now this guillotine of last-second morality. “I’m really sorry, Emie,” she kept apologizing.

His own frustration urged a laugh as the moment cooled down. “Well, at least we know now.”

“Know what?”

“That it is true what they say about oysters and fried cicadas.”

She shook her head, smiling. “Come on; let’s go back. I promise not to accost you.”

But Ernie had already stood back up; he didn’t seem to hear her. “I wonder what that’s all about. . . .” He was staring across the hill.

“Huh?”

“Look.”

Her eyes followed his finger.

The town police car was parked at the Stanherd house, its red and blue lights flashing.

“Never seen nothin’ like it,” Sergeant Trey was telling them in the foyer of the old Stanherd house. It had been so long since Patricia had been inside the dilapidated plantation house that seeing it now refreshed no memories. Nothing had been replaced, just repaired, however expertly, such that she could’ve just walked through a time warp, back to the 1850s.

“And I guarantee there ain’t never been nothin’ like it, ever, in Squatterville before, and not in Agan’s Point either,” Trey finished. “Except for Dwayne last week, we ain’t never had a murder in these parts. And like that?”

It was too much information too fast. She and Ernie had jogged up to the house upon seeing the cruiser’s flashing lights, when Sergeant Trey had told them that two of the clan’s elders, Wilfrud and Ethel Hild, had been murdered. Patricia thought she remembered the name, but simply couldn’t place faces that far back.

“Craziest thing I ever heard,” Ernie murmured.

The old house smelled of incense, potpourri, and handmade candles. It stood in dead silence, like something watching them in disapproval. Wide, bare-wood stairs led up into darkness at one end of the foyer, but Trey showed them through a sitting room full of throw rugs, faded, intricately patterned wallpaper, and sunlight filtering through dusty bay windows.

“Is the house empty?” Patricia asked.

“Only one here’s Marthe,” Trey said.

Everd’s wife, Patricia remembered. “So the Hilds lived in the house too?”

“Yeah, along with some of the older couples. All the men are out on the crabbing boats. That’s why Everd ain’t here. And the women are all out gatherin’ for the picnic comin’ up. Ain’t gonna be much of a picnic now. Shit.”

He took them deeper into the house’s first floor, and more sun-edged darkness. No pictures hung on the walls, which seemed strange, but instead all kinds of inexplicable handmade decorations: corn-husk flowers, oyster-shell mosaics, and crosses, of course, some that appeared to be made of small-animal bones. In frames, she also noticed more of those squiggly designs, their mystical good-luck sign.

In the room farthest in back, Chief Sutter was grimly taking pictures with a Polaroid, and making notes. From his face he looked like a man experiencing stomach pains.

“You tell ’em?” he asked Trey.

His deputy nodded.

“Damnedest thing. Murders. In Squatterville, of all places.”

Patricia frowned her confusion. “Chief, I don’t understand. The Hilds were murdered? Where are the bodies?”

“No, no, they weren’t murdered here. Couple miles away, on the Point’s where their bodies were found. Old Man Halm came across ’em doin’ his morning walk. So me ‘n’ Trey checked it out.” He put his notebook down next to the camera, then sat down on a big poster bed that must have been fifty years old. A purplish stone hung above the bed from a piece of red yarn, and on the nightstand sat a jar of what appeared to be pickled eggs.

“What’s that in the jar?” she asked. “Eggs?”

“They call ‘em creek eggs,” Ernie said. “Just regular hen’s eggs that they bury in a creek bed for a coupla months, turns ’em black. Supposed to ward off sickness, more clan superstition.”

“Rotten eggs,” Sutter muttered. “What a bunch of loonies.”

“Stinks something fierce if ya open that jar.”

Gross, Patricia thought.

The rest of the room stood as sparse as the house: a cane chair and small walnut table for a desk. A closet full of clothes. A claw-foot dresser and some candles in metal holders. Above the bed hung a cross made of acorns glued together, and below it, yet another of the good-luck designs.

Guess it didn’t bring them much in the way of luck.

“Shit, poor Marthe’s sittin’ in the other room practically in shock.” Sutter rubbed his big face. “Couldn’t get