wildscape. literary journal

WHAT LUCY DID
by Patricia Canright Smith

WHERE LUCY WENT 
Pinckney Wildlife Refuge. The thick dark enveloped her as though welcoming her home, and her mind quieted. Without light, she could smell: pluff mud’s salty sparks, shell road’s chalky cornstarch. At Ibis Pond: grassy tang, earthy algae, something ammoniac; fresh water’s clean scent, and, barely discernible beneath piney loblollies and eggy bird shit, the faintest note of dry old lady—her Irish grandmother!
     No: feathers.
     She’d made it to the roost.
  
WHAT LUCY DID 
Lucy killed her husband.

WHY LUCY DID IT
Because he threw pecans at Morgan le Fay, the feral tabby; because he was the important cardiologist with insufferable silver curls; because he moved them to a plantation—South Carolina’s gated communities were called plantations; because he flaunted his smile-so-white, including into mirrors; because he was unencumbered by self-doubt; because he always walked in front; because he chewed so loud; because he patronized Lucretia; because he insisted he didn’t snore; because he played bridge, played tennis, played golf, and sailed; because he was a liar and a bore, and he was not funny; because he peed on the toilet seat; because, when Lucy was doing it, thinking was deemed overthinking; because he hacked up star jasmine and crepe myrtles before they could bloom; because he took impediment as personal affront; because he treasured an entitled, suboptimal penis; because he fed marshmallows to alligators; because he shot bee-bees at wood storks; because he greeted his rich-friend cohort—Sir!—in that hearty manner; because he’d rowed crew for Princeton! back in the day; because he cheated: his partner, his nurse, at golf, on taxes, on Lucy; because he conflated serving as Commodore of the Carillon Pointe Yacht Club with serving his country, and wore the brass to restaurants; because he signed all the petitions—against the removal of Confederate statues—against critical race theory—against religious sanctuaries; because he did not give a shit when every bay tree on the Island—every. single. one.—died during the drought, insisting that “global warming” had nothing to do with it, seeing as how “global warming” wasn’t scientifically proven—and then he sneered that she didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about—
     she stabbed him.

WHAT LUCY DID NOT KNOW
That shock can trigger cardiac arrest.

WHAT LUCY DID NOT DO
Lucy did not call 9-1-1.

HOW LUCY BECAME UNHINGED
She read The New Yorker.
     If humans stopped spewing pollutants into the atmosphere tomorrow—fat chance—global warming might—might—be maintained at or below one-point-five degrees Celsius, which meant melting ice shelves; rising sea levels; heatwaves, droughts, wildfires, extreme weather events; degradations in food security, human health, the environment, and development. Mass extinctions. Like a giant ship, it would take time to turn things around—30 years. And one-point-five for 30 years was a best-case scenario.
     Two degrees would mean even more melting ice, even higher sea levels, even more extreme storms, even hotter heatwaves, even longer droughts, even more devastating wildfires, even more starvation, degradation to the environment, etc. etc. etc.    
     Three degrees “will stress our civilization to the point of collapse.” 

WHAT LUCY DID DO
Lucy laid the knife in the sink, stepped onto the verandah, removed her rings, and tossed them into the pond. She hoped the alligators wouldn’t eat them, but no matter; when they pooped, the rings would sink to the bottom where they belonged, blood diamonds in the muck.
     She took a moment.
     Then she grabbed her purse, grabbed a Cucinelli hoody, and took off out the back gate.

LUCY’S DELIBERATION
Not Insanity, not Intoxication, not Mistaken Identity, not Factual Impossibility, not Automatism, not Entrapment, Not Citizen’s Arrest (Preserving the Peace), but YES Duress, YES Provocation, YES Necessity, Reasonable Excuse, Killing in the Heat of Passion, Killing in the Name of Duty, Self-Defense and Defense of Another. Also, technically it was an Accident—the death part anyway.

LUCY’S CONCLUSION
 Nix Accident. Go with Self-defense and Defense of Another—the Planet. Killing in the Name of Duty. Necessity: Someone had to do something. He and his degenerate, ravaging cohort had to be stopped. She could afford the best lawyers; she would take it all the way to the Supreme Court. Like MeToo, it would explode.

WHERE LUCY CAME TO REST
Sitting on switchgrass amidst feathers and bird shit, she wrapped her arms around her legs and laid her head on her knees. Without light, she could hear: a splash, a chirr, a rustle in a nest; the metallic clack of palmettos, something snuffling dry leaves, and the faint scuttle of crabs on the move. And she could feel: coarse prickles on her bum, gentle breeze on bare arms. Atmospheric shifts at the roots of her hair and in her chest: the vast expanse of salt marsh was breathing her.
     Lucy raised her head.
     Come and get me.

Interview with Patricia

Patricia is one of our featured writers for Issue 4. The interview between Patricia and our Interview & Feature writer, Angela Heiser, is forthcoming.

about the author // Patricia Canright Smith