Nevertheless, there was no need to tell Byron. It’d just give him one more thing to worry about.
She stepped out onto the little patio off her bedroom to stand amid part of the garden. The cicadas thrummed—she was finally getting used to it. It just kept taking her back to her childhood. The scents off the myriad flowers smelled luscious: asters, pyxies, and goldenrod. Being here continued to supplant her. She was no longer the high-roller attorney from the city; she was the country girl at home in the midst of nature. But now so many ugly facts kept dicing that image of the peaceful—and very sane—backwoods town.
Murder. Drugs. Turf wars by some unseen dope gang.
Every place has something, she thought. Doesn’t matter if it’s the city or the sticks.
At the end of the yard, near the kiosk, she spotted Judy wandering about the flowers; the troubled look on her face was no surprise. Talk about being thrown for a loop, Patricia thought. Judy was not a sophisticated woman. Since Dwayne’s death, too many things that were wrong about her environment threatened her ability to view her life and the world.
She doesn’t know which end is up. . . .
“Hi,” Patricia greeted her, meandering up the path.
“Oh, hi, Patricia. I’m just out moseying around. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
Small talk is all she can deal with, Patricia realized. “Yeah, it sure is. And your gardens really top it all off. Everything looks the same as it did when we were kids.”
Judy sat down on a stone bench, her hands clasped in her lap. “Yeah, but just because they look the same don’t mean they are the same. It’s like everything’s gone mad overnight. Chief Sutter just called me, said Junior Caudill’s dead.”
Here we go. Patricia knew the day would be a tailspin now. “I heard about that myself—”
“Drug dealin’, murder, arson—all on my land. And God knows what killed Junior. Never thought much of him—he was always into trouble—and now he’s dead too. ”
“Judy, there’s no reason to believe that his death is related to anything that’s been happening in Squatterville.” Patricia knew at once that this was going to be a long day. “He probably had a heart attack,” she urged, not adding the little part about Junior not even having a heart. “They’re still doing tests is what I heard, and there were no signs of foul play. Anyway, all these things that are happening lately don’t have anything to do with you. There are a lot of Squatters living out here. It stands to reason that a few of them will get up to no good. It’s human nature.”
Judy looked up dolefully. “I hate to think of what Mom and Dad would say about this. They never had problems with the Squatters, but now that I’m in charge around here, everything’s goin’ to hell. And now I just feel worse about it. You come all the way out here to help me, and look what happens. Folks killin’ each other. I wouldn’t blame ya if you never came back to this godforsaken place.”
Patricia knew that she had to work around her sister’s mood swings, not confront them head-on. “Of course I will; you’re my sister. And you should come out to visit Byron and me sometimes, too. But let’s just take things one day at a time. Look at the good things. Your company’s doing better than ever, and the Squatters who haven’t turned bad have never been happier or more productive. You have this beautiful house in a beautiful place. You’re a successful businesswoman with lots to look forward to.”
Judy shrugged, noncommital. Some people just had it in their heads that everything was terrible. That’s my sister, Patricia thought. “So what’s on the agenda today?” she asked.
Before her sister could answer, a horn honked. Past the shrubs Patricia saw an old pickup truck idling on the dirt road that descended the hill toward the Point.
Judy looked at her watch. “My, where has the day gone? It’s time to go.”
“Go where?”
“The Squatter cookout. Oh, that’s right, you ain’t been to one since you were a kid, but they are a lot of fun. Come on.” ,
Patricia honestly didn’t remember these cookouts. When she looked at her own watch she saw that she, too, 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 . . .