The Backwoods

had lost track of time. Where’s the day gone? She followed Judy down the path that exited the backyard. “Who’s in the pickup truck?” she asked.

“Ernie. He’ll be driving us down there.”

This is just what I need. Patricia thought The truck jostled down the dirt road, springs creaking. She and Judy had squeezed up front on the bench seat, the pickup’s back bed loaded up with baskets of food and chests full of ice. Of course, Patricia ended up being in the middle, pressed right up against Ernie behind the wheel. Ernie wore his typical work jeans and boots but also a nice white dress shirt. Redneck high fashion, Patricia mused. Why does he have to look so good all the time? By now the situation amused her as much as aggravated her: how fate kept putting them together. Every time he shifted gears, his hand slid against her bare knee. Yeah, that’s just what I need. . . .

“Really whacked out about Junior Caudill, huh?” Ernie made conversation.

Don’t bring it up! Patricia wished she could tell him. Don’t bring up anything that’s been going on. Judy’s enough of a basket case as it is. “He probably just had a heart attack; it happens.” She desperately shifted subjects. “So what kind of food did you prepare for this banquet?”

“Oh, just side dishes,” Judy answered glumly. “All the main courses they make. The Squatters really do have a talent for usin’ what the land gives ’em and turning it into a cuisine a’ their own.”

Ernie laughed, nudging Patricia. “Aw, yer sister’s a big fan of Squatter food, Judy. Just the other day she drank a whole cup of ald that Regert made for her down at the pier. Said it was the best thing she ever tasted.”

Patricia frowned, remembering the drink’s tang. “Actually, Ernie, it wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He raised a finger to denote an additional point. “Oh, yeah, and she also ate a whole bowl of pepper-fried cicadas.”

“I ate one! And never will again.”

Ernie winked at her with a cocked grin. “She never did tell me if they worked, though.”

Patricia almost blushed at the inside joke, recalling the wives’-tale insistence that cicadas had an aphrodisiac effect.

She also remembered the dense sexual fugue state she’d experienced after eating it.

I was going to have sex with him. . . . She choked before she could respond. And I can’t blame the damn fried cicadas. I can only blame my own weakness and immorality.

But she’d stopped short, hadn’t she? I said no at the last minute, so I never really cheated on Byron. . . .

Judy was scowling at her. “Patricia, one thing you don’t need to be eatin’ are cicadas, not unless your husband is with ya.”

Ernie chuckled softly to himself, their inside joke still alive. Patricia wanted to wilt right there on the front seat. My God . . .

Ordinarily the acre or so of land before Squatterville was barren, but now it looked more like a fairground. Savory smoke drifted off of open-pit fires over which abundant meats were being cooked. Squatter women busied themselves at fold-down tables, serving up plates heaped with steaming meals. Lines of people, Squatters and townsfolk alike, trailed around the table, chatting amiably. As the sun faded, the scene appeared almost surreal: faces seemed diced into wedges of firelight. Chatter warbled in and out, and laughter rose up.

“There’s pitchers of ald over there.” Ernie pointed to another table. “Too bad there’s no booze.”

“Hush,” Judy whispered. “Just ’cos Squatters don’t drink don’t mean we can’t.” And then Patricia and Ernie saw her lower a silver flask into a pocket.

“This is some feast,” Patricia said, marveling over the various dishes set out. Ernie appeared behind her with a loaded plate. “Try some duck. The Squatters do it up great. It’s slow-roasted.”

Patricia took the plate. It smelled delicious, the skin dark and crisp.

“And you must have some of this, big sister,” Judy insisted, thrusting a pewter mug toward her. “Squatter ald.”

“I had that the other day. It tastes like swamp water!”

“Shh! The Squatters’ll be offended, dear. You can’t decline their hospitality,” Judy whispered lower. “And don’t worry; I tuned it up with a drop of vodka.”

“Oh, teirific . . .”

“Come on,” Ernie coaxed her further. “When in Squatterville, do as the Squatters do.”

When Patricia took a sip, her brow shot up. Oh, yeah, just a drop of vodka . . . “You’re just trying to get me drunk,” she joked to him.

“Why?” he said, deadpan. Then he cracked a smile and laughed.

Oh, that’s right. She’d never forget what almost happened in the woods. I’m just a tease. The roasted duck came apart fork-tender beneath crunchy skin. “My God, this is probably the best duck I’ve ever had.”

“Glad ya like it,” Ernie said. “It’s not really duck. It’s seagull.”

“You’re so funny. . . .”

Her eyes roved the other offerings on the table: stout sausages, steaming kettles of stew, homemade biscuits and seasoned flatbreads. The aromas were almost erotic. Byron would go to town here, she thought. Another table sat heavy with various crab dishes. Something like a Newburg cooked in empty shells, crab-stuffed wild peppers, crabmeat po’boys. She helped herself to several fried crab fritters and found them delectably crunchy inside. “These are fantastic!” she exclaimed, cheeks stuffed.

On her third one, Judy tugged her arm. “Not too many a’ the fritters, hon. It’s the Squatter crabcake recipe wrapped around a fried cicada.”

Not those things again!

Ernie laughed.

Next Patricia scanned around in general. The quiet revelry buzzed around her; it all seemed so hearty and honest. But again she thought it strange to have such a feastlike cookout so soon after four Squatters had been killed. The positivity of their religion, she remembered. Almost like evangelists. Even death is a joyous occasion, because death is just another step toward eternal life in heaven.

Patricia hoped that was true.

She sampled more food, finding the cuisine complex and fascinating. Judy wandered off, tipsy already, while Patricia and Ernie stood aside to eat and people-watch. I must be getting tipsy, too, she suspected, or maybe it was just fatigue compounded by the perplexities of the day . . . especially her experience at the morgue. She pushed the morbid images from her mind and instead just tried to relax, melting into the lazy, darkening atmosphere. Squatters greeted her happily, offering her more of their wares. Music—a quavering violin, it sounded like—echoed around the grounds, yet she couldn’t pinpoint the source. As the sun died completely, faces seemed brighter and more focused somehow, in spite of the seeping darkness.

“There’s the money man,” Ernie commented. At the last table she spotted Gordon Felps sampling a cobblerlike dessert. He seemed to sense her notice, looked up and nodded to her, then returned his attention to the person talking to him: Judy. She doesn’t really have a crush on him, does she? Patricia asked herself. She could tell by Ernie’s sedate expression that he found it amusing. But at least her sister was getting over Dwayne; perhaps it took his death to make her realize what an awful person he truly had been, not even worth mourning. Chief Sutter and Trey cruised another table full of plank-roasted bluefish and large soft-shell clams whose necks stood out straight from steaming. Sutter actually manipulated two plates of food, which wasn’t surprising. Eventually he wended his way over to Patricia and Ernie.

“Some spread, huh, Patricia?”

“It’s incredible,” she said. “I didn’t think I’d like much of this type of cuisine, but so far every single thing I’ve