by Edward Lee
“Howdy, Mr. Felps,” Pappy said.
“Mr. Halm, Chief Sutter, Sergeant Trey,” the man said in return. His voice was light yet somehow edged, sibilant. “Things are going well for you all, I trust?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Felps,” Sutter replied. Felps’s presence always affected Sutter and most townspeople as something close to regal, for some disjointed reason. He wasn’t necessarily the town’s savior, because Agan’s Point had always been self-sufficient—but just barely. Instead, Felps was the bearer of some energetic new blood that was sorely needed. His Riverside Estates luxury condo complexes would siphon upper-income families out of the state’s overpopulated big cities. There were already several hundred preconstruction sales, along with pricey television ads throughout Virginia. This transplantation would divest Agan’s Point of some of its natural beauty but deliver a much-needed economic shot in the arm. Sutter saw it as the progress he’d waited for all his life, and he saw Felps as its herald. “Things are just dandy ‘round here.”
“And theyʹll be getting even better soon,” Felps said, picking up a coffee and Danish. “You’ve probably noticed that the foundations have already been laid. Things will change around here fast. You’ll all be very pleased.” The man’s enthusiasm, however, seemed dulled, lost in his businessman’s veneer. Sutter supposed any successful construction magnate carried the same air. And what did it matter, anyway? All our lives will improve because of this fella, Sutter realized.
Felps’s stay was brief, to the point. He paid up, bade them a good day, and left.
“Not the friendliest fella in the land,” Pappy said, “but do you think I give a flying fuck? My business’ll triple the first year those condos start opening.”
“He’s a big-city builder, Pappy,” Sutter reminded him. “Guys like that are no-nonsense and all business. That’s why they’re millionaires.”
Trey shrugged, leaning on the counter. “He ain’t such a poker face once ya get to know him. Matter of fact, I had a few beers with him at the bar the other night.”
Sutter felt secretly jealous. “You’re kidding me?”
“Naw. He and a few of his managers walked in. They asked me to join ‘em and we all sat there for an hour shootin’ the shit and pounding a few. When Felps is off the clock, he’s a regular guy just like you and me.”
Sutter’s jealousy remained. If there was one man he wanted to be pals with, it was Felps. I’ll have to work on that. . . .
“Later, Pappy,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
“You boys take it easy the rest of the day.” Pappy cackled. “Don’t wanna wear yourselves out kickin’ scumbag ass.”
“Just another day in the lives of two hardworkin’ cops,” Trey said, casting a final glance at the men’s mags.
Back outside, Sutter didn’t even have time to grab his keys before a shadow moved behind him. He hadn’t heard a sound. Had those drug dealers come back for revenge? Impossible, he thought. They’re lucky if they made it to the nearest hospital on their own. . . . Sutter spun, instinct charging his gun hand, but then found himself looking into the face of a gaunt old man.
“Hey, there, Everd,” Trey greeted.
Everd Stanherd stood like a meticulously dressed scarecrow, neat as a pin in his typical faded black suit and tie. Short jet-black hair didn’t look right atop the old, waxen, and deeply lined face, yet the deep-socketed eyes appeared vibrant, the eyes of a twenty-year-old set in an old man’s skull. The only detail that might tell him apart from any elderly man was the pendant around his neck: a black silk cord connected to a small black silk sack.
Everd lived with his wife, Marthe, in the only house at the end of the point, a decrepit slat-wood mansion built a hundred years ago. Judy Parker let him live there, and he shared the house with other elders of his Squatter clan. The rest of the Squatters lived all about the property surrounding the house, in surprisingly well built tin huts erected in the midst of the heavy woods—Squatterville, most people called the area. Judy let them all live there rent-free as a benefit of their employment with the crab company. In all, the Squatters were respectful, law-abiding, and industrious in their own simple way, and this frail yet vibrant man standing before them was their leader.
“It’s good to see you, Everd,” Sutter said. “Any word on those couple of folks in your clan who can’t be accounted for?”
“No, sir,” Everd replied. They all spoke so strangely, yet Everd’s tone and diction were the strangest of all. His thin lips barely moved around the words, almost as though they were being projected from elsewhere. And that indefinable dialect. “As a matter of fact, two left for Roanoke last week, quite verifiably. I suspect the same can be said of the others, as you suggested. It’s just uncharacteristic for members of our clan to leave without notice.”
“Everd, when I was a kid, I ran away a bunch of times, and never told my parents where I was headed,” Sutter pointed out. “There’s over a hundred Squatters you got livin’ on the Point. You can’t keep tabs on them all.”
“You’re correct, sir,” Everd returned. He stood absolutely motionless as he spoke, save for one crabbed hand fingering the black pouch about his neck. “However, a third member seems to have disappeared—a young girl named Cynabelle—Cindy, to you. But I must confess that she may have fallen with a bad crowd and vacated, too, for more adventurous exploits in the city.” Everd paused, as if about to say something difficult. “She lacked the standard of morality that my clan lives by, and I’m afraid several of the girls have fallen by the same wayside in the past. Not many, but a few. I feel it’s my failing ultimately.”
“Trickin’ herself out, you mean.” Trey got the gist. “Everd, your Squatters have a lower crime rate than the general population. From a police officer’s point a’ view, they’re about as low-maintenance as you can get.”
“Don’t kick yourself in the tail,” Sutter added some consolation. He was actually relieved by the extent to which Everd was reasonable about things. “You run a tight ship with your people, and we’re grateful. But you can’t go blamin’ yourself because a few girls go bad. They’re ain’t nothing you can do about it. In any community, there’s always gonna be a few girls who decide they can make more money with their bodies than workin’ a proper job. Been that way for thousands of years. And there’s always gonna be a few fellas who go bad too. Don’t worry about it.”
“Nevertheless, I apologize for such mishaps,” the man intoned. “I will try to keep a closer rein on it. But I’ve also come to thank you.”
“For what?”
“Just earlier,” Everd said. He kept touching the pouch. “Some ruffians from the city attempted to corrupt one of our young girls. She came immediately and told me. She said that you and your deputy repelled these two criminals convincingly.”
“Oh, yeah,” Trey said. “Couple drug dealers tryin’ to sell their crap in our town. We sent ’em packin’, didn’t we, Chief?”
“You won’t have to worry about them boys anymore, Everd,” Sutter guaranteed. Every so often, he’d cast a glance to the pendant, at first paying it no mind, but gradually growing more curious.
Everd looked him right in the eye, his own eyes green as emeralds, flecked with blue—another trademark of Squatter heredity. “You men have the utmost gratitude of my clan. This I cannot emphasize enough. I’d like to invite you both to my home tonight for a meal prepared in the tradition of our ancestors. Marthe will be serving an andouille-style sausage made with slow-smoked muskrat, crab-and-chickpea bisque, cattail cakes, and the seasonal delicacy this year, something we call custa.”
“Custa? What’s that?” Trey inquired.
“Cicadas roasted in wild mint and cracked white peppercorns.”
Yow! Sutter’s doughnut-filled stomach lurched as if kicked. “That’s, uh, mighty generous of ya, Everd, and we definitely will take you up on that kind offer down the road. But, see, Trey and I have some important police work to do for the next few weeks.”
Everd
nodded. “In the future, then, when it’s more convenient to your busy schedule. You’re always welcome at my home. And remember the clan cookout next week.”
“We’ll be there for sure,” Trey said.
“So until we meet again, gentlemen, I bid you a pleasant day.” But before Everd turned to leave, Sutter couldn’t resist: “Everd, tell me somethin’, will ya? What is that thing around your neck?”
The old man seemed unfazed by the question, untying the sack. “It’s called a tok.” He removed something stiff and twisted.
What in shit’s name!
It was a chicken head.
“It’s the severed head of a black cock—not an ordinary chicken, mind you,” Everd explained. “Upside down in the pouch. It preserves wisdom.” He started to take it off. “Here, I’d like you to have it, as my gift.”
Yow! Sutter held up his hand. “Aw, no, Everd, I couldn’t. But thanks just the same.”
“Very well. But it’s been a pleasure to be in your company these few minutes. I look forward to our next meeting.” And then Everd slipped away, silent as a shadow.
“How do you like that funky shit?” Trey chuckled. “With all the shit he said he was servin’ for dinner, I’m surprised there ain’t no chicken on the menu. Ain’t that some weird superstitious jive they got goin’ on?”
“You got that right,” Sutter said. “And I’ll definitely pass on the muskrat and cicadas.”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Chief, why don’t ya hang a chicken head from the cruiser rearview? Maybe it’ll give us wisdom!”
Sutter looked after the old man, who’d already made it halfway up the road. “The Squatters are tough to figure. They’re kind of like Indians, but they don’t look it. All those charms they’re into.”
“Or like Gypsies,” Trey compared. “But they don’t look like Gypsies, either. They don’t even look European.”
“The accent’s weird too. One time I asked Everd where he and his people were from, and you know what he said? He said ‘the Old World.’ Then I asked him what the hell that mean, and he told me Agan’s Point is where they’re from. That his ancestors’ve always been here.” Sutter pinched his chin. “I wonder where they’re really from. . . .”
“Yeah, then there’s always the one question that’s more important than that,” Trey posed.
“What’s that?”
“Who gives a flying rat’s ass?”
Sutter was inclined to agree. He looked down the road again and saw no sign of Everd Stanherd. Trey had his back to him, looking off in the opposite direction. “Ooo-eee, Chief! Would you look at that Caddy!”
“Yeah. Nice set of wheels.”
A snappy, late-model Cadillac coup was cruising along past them, a ragtop, with a deep, rich paint job the color of red wine. The driver obviously spotted the two police watching her, and slowed down a bit.
Trey squinted. “Looks like some dandy tail drivin’ it, too. Looks hiiiiiigh-class.”
“Yeah, too high-class for this town, now that ya mention it,” Sutter considered. “Bet that car runs eighty grand outta the showroom, Trey. What the hell’s a rich gal like that doin’ in Agan’s Point?”
“Red-hairt, too,” Trey could see. “Ah-oooooo-gah! Bet she’s got red carpet to match those red drapes.” He elbowed Sutter. “Looks like she’s doin’ about five over the limit, Chief. What say we pull her over, see what she’s got to gander?”
Sutter frowned. “Git your mind outta the sewer, Trey.” But it wasn’t that bad an idea. Cops worked hard. They needed a perk now and again.
Then, as the car flashed by, the driver waved and honked.
Both men looked behind them. Trey scratched his head. “She wavin’ at us?”
That was when the red hair and upscale look clicked. “Ah, I know who that is, and so do you.”
“Huh?”
“Patricia, Judy Parker’s sister.”
Trey stared off after the vanishing car. “Ya don’t say? Ain’t seen her around here in—”
“About five years. Looks different ‘cos she cut her hair. Came back for Judy’s marriage to that scumbag Dwayne, and now it looks like she’s here again—”
“—for the scumbag’s funeral.”
A silence passed between them. The Cadillac disappeared around the road’s bend.
“Too bad about her, ya know?” Trey said.
Sutter nodded at the words. “I remember Patricia since she was tiny—shit, I wasn’t but twelve or thirteen myself when she was born. Fiery, chatty little kid, she was. Full a’ life, always happy.”
“Yeah. Then she just turned cold. Bet I didn’t hear her say two words before she ran off to college and law school.”
Sutter jingled his keys. He remembered. “Poor girl never was the same,” he said, “after the rape. . . .”
Three
(I)
An instant reminder: the odd knocker on the center stile of the front door. I’ve always hated the knocker, Patricia thought. She had parked the Caddy in the cul-de-sac, and had sat a while looking up at the house she grew up in. The great wooden edifice went back to pre-Civil War days, and had been refurbished incrementally over the decades. It looked the part: a Virginia plantation house with a high, sloping roof and awnings, and a screened porch that defined the entire circumference of the lower level. A grand house. There were plenty of ghost stories dating back to the days of slavery, when previous owners often executed unruly workers and buried them around the foundation to fertilize the hedges and flower beds. It made for excited talk, but in the eighteen years Patricia had lived here, she’d never seen a ghost.
She did now, though.
The door knocker. It was an eyesore and it was just plain peculiar: an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features. In those last two years here before college, the knocker’s expression had reflected her own.
In truth, however, she had to admit that Judy had kept the place up beautifully, and were it not for the bad memories, Patricia would see the house as a gorgeous abode.
It was just getting dark. I forgot, she thought. Another cicada season. They had so many varieties down here; there were more seasons with them than without. The unique sound in the dark, surrounding her on the porch. She’d looked forward to that sound as a child, but now the throbbing drone served only as another jolting memory.
The summer she’d been raped had been a cicada season, too.
Soft lights lit the front bay windows, but there was only Judy’s car in the court. She shouldn’t be alone. . . . It was too soon. Patricia’s younger sister was a Rock of Gibraltar when in her element, but she was also terribly codependent. With Dwayne gone—abusive as he’d been—Judy would be unstable, flighty, and off-track. She knows I’m coming today, Patricia thought. Knowing her sister as she did, it was surprising that Judy wasn’t pacing the foyer with the front door open.
Can’t stand on the porch all night . . . Patricia winced, raising her hand to the unsightly knocker, but then saw that the door stood open a crack. The house is half-mine, she reminded herself, and stepped in.
The pendulum clock ticked to her left, and to her right stood a long walnut table containing knickknacks and candles, centered by an old framed photo of their parents as newlyweds. For a moment she imagined her father frowning in the frame, as though he disapproved of her arrival. “Judy?” she called out. Only silence returned her call. The interior seemed smaller than she remembered, cramped. Pictures on the walls seemed to hang lower, and had the wallpaper been changed? Everything looks different, but I know Judy would never change a thing.
She turned into the sitting room and stopped cold. A breath caught in her chest and wouldn’t come out.
Judy lay slumped on the old scroll-footed sofa.
“Judy? It’s me.”
Her head tilted aside, her mouth agape. She looked pallid and years older. Patricia’s heart tightened up when she noticed an open bottle of pills on
the old tea table next to the couch. She rushed forward, then sighed in relief. just a bottle of vitamins . . .
But there was an irreducible instant when she’d believed that her sister was dead. She certainly looked it, lying there as if dropped amongst the tasseled pillows.
Judy stirred in her sleep, mouthing something unintelligible, but then real words formed:
“His head,” she whispered. “My God, his head . . .”
Patricia leaned over and gave several firm nudges. “Judy, wake up, wake up. I’m here.”
It was like looking at a countrified clone of herself; Patricia and Judy had near-identical faces, possessed similar figures and the same plenteous bosom. But Judy’s hair lacked the bright red fire of Patricia’s, and instead of being short and straight, it lay long and thick, with high bangs that their mother always called “kitchen-curtain hair.” Five stress-laden years with Dwayne as a husband had streaked her hair with some gray and had blanched the once-vibrant color from her cheeks.
“Judy? Wake up.”
The crow’s-feet at the comers of Judy’s eyes began to twitch. Her breasts rose quickly once; then she gasped herself out of sleep and was finally looking up at Patricia.
“Hi, Judy.”
No recognition at first, just a puzzled stare; then Judy’s arms shot forward and she hugged her sister for dear life. “Oh, God, thank God. I thought . . . Oh, Jesus, I was dreaming—a terrible dream.”
Patricia sat down and put her arm around Judy’s shoulder. “It was just a dream, and it’s over now. Everything’s fine.”
Judy actually shuddered in her sister’s arms. “Thank you for coming. I’ve just . . . I feel like I’m falling apart. I sleep all the time; I’ve just been so tired. The house is a mess; I haven’t even had the energy to pick up.”
“The house looks fine, Judy,” Patricia assured her. “You’ve been under a lot of stress, but things will get better.”