The Matriarch Page 2

  “Across this bridge here and then just over that rise.”

  “So, how is Georgie?” I remember the grey gelding my uncle’s had for years.

  “He’s all right. Eatin’ himself silly on those figs I told you about. I need you to build a new barricade ’round that crazy tree.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  We drive through the fenced pastureland that Frank cleared himself years ago. There’s been enough rain that even in August the land is still blooming lush and green. It’s mostly flat with a few gentle swells, and I love the bright, healthy look of it in the sunlight. Scrub oak and wild peach trees are growing everywhere.

  Frank points out a large tangle of naked vines. “You remember those blackberries, Cassidy?”

  “I do.”

  “Those vines are barren now. Since that quake. I don’t know why. ’Specially when that tree’s spittin’ out figs right and left.” He waves a hand out at the land. “This here’s Georgie’s territory. He crosses that bridge and then has this big old dining room all to himself.”

  Here the peach trees have little fences built around them. Barricades to keep Georgie away, Frank explains. We drive on slowly toward a large tree, not a peach or an oak. As we come closer, I see the tree’s branches have pushed at its barricade and caused it to sag badly. It’s much too small for the tree. We stop about fifteen feet from it.

  “Ain’t she somethin’?” Frank says.

  “Yeah … but what?” I’m looking at a very ugly tree.

  Frank shakes his head. “I can’t believe the way this thing’s growin’!”

  The thing looks to me like it’s growing all helter-skelter, with no natural plan. It stands over twenty feet tall, with foliage growing out to its sides so green it looks artificial. The tree is much wider than it is high. We climb out of the truck and walk a little closer. I can see several pink bulbs peeking out from behind the leaves.

  “What are those pink things?”

  “Figs a’ course,” Frank says with a snort.

  “They look … weird.”

  “Yeah, I don’t think the pinks are ripe yet. There are all different colors on the tree right now, but it’s just the pinks that stand out. You can see the others when you’re closer.”

  I don’t want to go closer. I feel Louie rub up against my leg and hear him give a little whimper. I guess my puppy doesn’t want to go closer either. I notice a smell—a strong, sugary scent—and see several figs resting on fallen leaves around the trunk. As I watch, a bright green one falls from the tree. It makes a soft plopping sound as it lands.

  “I don’t know enough people to give the fruit away to,” Frank says. “I give a bunch to Gwen Schwartz, a neighbor of the Russo’s, ’bout every other day, and I’ve still got a lot left. I’ve taken to dumping most of ’em. I hate to waste them that way. Can you smell them?”

  I nod. It’s disgusting.

  “They rot so bloomin’ fast.” Frank’s voice is faint. “I don’t understand figs myself; I just come out here every day and pick ’em up. Forgot to bring the basket this afternoon.” Frank looks down at his hands as if surprised to find them empty.

  There’s something really disconcerting about this tree. Its sweet stench is wafting over me like a fine, invisible mist.

  “I thought I’d put you to work on a new barricade tomorrow, Cassidy. You can see this old one is just about useless. Way too small.”

  “What’s to stop the tree from outgrowing the new one?”

  “We’ll just have to make it plenty big, I guess. I don’t want Georgie makin’ himself sick on these figs. He’s gobblin’ them down like they’re apples. That horse doesn’t have very good sense, you know.”

  “Why not just keep Georgie out of this pasture?”

  “But he loves this pasture, loves the grass here.” Frank’s voice is fading. It blends in with the sighing sound of the breeze in the leaves of the tree, which is disturbingly human. “Besides, Cassidy, how much bigger can this thing get?”

  It’s hard to listen to my uncle; I’m too focused on the tree. It seems foreign to me … alien. I feel Louie still leaning hard against my leg. In an unwelcome rush of sane thought, I realize I can’t really feel the air moving, but I see the leaves move.

  There is no breeze!

  My mouth goes dry. A chill crosses my neck. I look over at Frank. My uncle is standing still, staring at the tree. Frank’s right hand is resting on the butt of his gun. Strange to admit, but I wish I had a gun too.

  We get into the Ranger and drive back to the ranch house, both of us sobered by that tree.

  “I drove through Diablo on the way here, Uncle Frank,” I say. “The place was dead. No one on the streets or anywhere. Odd for a Sunday, I thought.”

  “Yeah, town’s pretty quiet these days.”

  “Why?”

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Frank says. “Why do you ask?”

  “Seems strange on a Sunday. The place actually gave me a kind of ominous feeling, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know. What d’ya mean, ominous?”

  “Spooky,” I say. “I was happy to drive on through and get out of the place.”

  “Well, like I said, Cassidy, I don’t know why you feel that way. Diablo’s always seemed pretty harmless to me.” He pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lights it. “That tree now … I don’t think it’s exactly ‘spooky’ but it sure is unusual … right?”

  I nod. I’m spooked by both the town and the tree, but I don’t share that with my uncle … not yet, anyway.

  We arrive at the ranch house and I put Louie on a leash. We start out and Frank grabs my arm. “I’m really glad you’re here, Cassidy. I need you.” I’m surprised that my uncle keeps telling me he needs me. It’s a little unnerving. We start up the stairs to the house. “What’s the puppy’s name?”

  “Louie.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned. C’mon Louie.” The three of us go up to the porch. “I’ll have you meet some friends.” There’s a faint scent of warm cornbread in the air as we walk over to a round wicker table.

  “This here’s my brother Burt’s boy, Cassidy,” Frank yells as if everyone is hard of hearing. “And his pup, Louie.”

  An old couple is seated at the table. They look familiar to me, but I can’t remember their names. I knew them when I lived at the ranch, and I remember them fondly. Two young women are at the table as well—one just taking a bite out of what looks like a fresh fig. Her mouth is partly open, and she’s sucking in shreds of the meat of the fig. She grins at me as juice runs down her chin. It’s not a pretty picture. I’ve never before seen anyone assault a piece of fruit that way. And, she has another fig in her hand, at the ready.

  A burly man with close-cropped reddish hair hovers near the table, and I think this is probably Lester-Lee, the man Frank told me he’d hired to help out around the place.

  Bottles of Heineken are on the table along with a pot of tea and some cups. There’s also a basket of cornbread, some paper plates, and an open jar of honey. A half-filled bottle of Jameson Scotch whiskey stands next to a basket of fresh figs. A cooler sits nearby on the floor.

  “You remember Carla and Dante Russo, don-cha Cassidy?” Frank asks. The old man rises and extends a hand. “A pleasure to see you again, Cassidy,” Dante says. I grin as we shake hands; I’m genuinely pleased to see this man again. “You remember this fellah, my love?” Dante gestures toward the white-haired woman.

  “I surely do,” she says, getting up and coming around the table to me. “Though he’s certainly changed a bit.” She chuckles and envelopes me in a warm hug. I remember her clearly now, a large woman with hazel eyes and short, mussed brown hair. “Carla Russo,” she says helpfully into my ear. I return her hug and draw in the faint scent of Scotch whiskey, though she has an empty wine goblet in one hand. I remember this woman as being somewhat pushy—never shy about expressing her opinions—but always kind and caring toward me.

  “A pleasure, Carla,” I say. It
’s good to see her again. Her hair is completely white now, but still thick and wild.

  “And these lovely young ladies are Dante’s nieces.” Frank stands behind the seated women and puts his hand on the shoulder of the one with red hair. “Charlotte Russo,” he says, “and her sister, Shelly. They’ve come for a visit.”

  I smile at them. The redhead is beautiful, the direct opposite of her sister who is still stuffing figs into her mouth. Charlotte, the lovely one, raises a cup to her lips and gazes at me with huge green eyes, and I feel a sudden and delightful warmth low, in my belly. Her pale skin is set off by auburn shoulder-length hair—straight and thick. She wears a skimpy green tank top. She’s an absolute knockout.

  I’m amazed at my sudden response to this woman. Here I am not three days out of a serious relationship, and I’m already hooked by another woman? Well … maybe so. I know I sure as hell want to see a whole lot more of this beauty.

  The fig eater, Shelly, a brunette, raises her Heineken to me in friendly salute.

  “And Cassidy, this here is Lester-Lee, my helper.”

  The big red-haired fellow nods at me, then drops to his knees to pet the puppy. “His name’s Louie?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” These two are taken with each other, I see; they’re instant best friends.

  “Can I take him out in the yard?” Lester asks. He’s like an excited child.

  “Sure.” I give Lester the leash, and he and Louie race down the stairs and off toward the nearby horse ring. “They really hit it off.”

  “He’s good with animals,” Frank remarks.

  “Perhaps you’ll join us for dinner some night next week, Cassidy,” Carla says as she sits back down. “When it cools down a bit. You and Frank.” She helps herself to a fig from the basket. “Charlotte will be there of course …” she nods toward the redhead, “with Shelly.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Carla.” Charlotte, her name is Charlotte. Carla mentions these girls, I notice, with a decided lack of warmth. She reaches for the Scotch bottle and pours a dollop into her wine glass.

  “That honey there on the table is from Arty Banyon’s hives,” Frank says. “It’s the best in the county. Have some on that corn bread there, Cassidy.”

  I shake my head. “Not hungry just now, Uncle Frank … thanks though.”

  “Well then, how about a beer?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good. But let me hit the john first. It’s been a long trip.”

  I open the screen door and walk into the living room. The room plunges me back in time, back to the youth of a boy protected and cared for by a loving family. A boy who bears no resemblance to the man I’ve become.

  There are floor to ceiling windows with brightly patterned café curtains drawn across the lower half, giving the old room a colorful, refreshing look. I see the worn, almost colorless woven rugs thrown here and there onto the hardwood floor that’s scratched and marred by time and family. And there’s the old glass-topped wagon wheel table where I had done homework and worked jigsaw puzzles.

  Embroidered doilies still cover the arms of the shapeless brown leather couch with its twin indentations where Frank and Aunt Emma settled themselves in the evenings. My dad always favored the matching chair by the huge, brick fireplace that fills the entire northeast corner of the room. In front of the couch is the long wooden coffee table. It’s stacked with books and newspapers as always, but is missing the vase of fresh flowers my mother used to place at one end.

  Full of energy, Catherine Murphy had always been busy with projects like sewing or gardening—she was never idle. She complained to me about that one day just before her illness, saying she didn’t know how to simply “hang out.” What’s the secret, she’d asked, to doing nothing all day and being refreshed by it?

  Oh Ma, I’ve learned the do nothing part really well.

  There’s a tarnished brass lamp on the parson’s table behind the couch. It’s placed near an old family photograph and I walk over to study it. My mother gazes at me with no censure, supportive and nurturing as always.

  My mother loved me, but she died.

  Next to that picture is the color photo of Uncle Frank and Aunt Emma on their wedding day. The frame is badly tarnished, and their faces are fading away.

  I notice my aunt’s silver tea service resting on the floor under the table. It used to sit gleaming on the sideboard in the dining room, but is now almost black with tarnish.

  I walk over to the built-in bookshelves that stretch from floor to ceiling on the west wall. They’re still full of westerns of every style and type—hard covers, paperbacks—

  “Hold it right there, boy.”

  I whirl around and look straight into the barrel of a gun. My uncle stands just a few feet away, holding a revolver in both hands, the business end pointing at me. The old man has a wild grin on his face. “This is the gun I bought you, Cassidy.” Frank twirls the gun like an expert and extends the butt to me. “It’s a fine piece; a Colt single action … a 45. Army gun. Good for defense. Just like mine.”

  I take it with care. Defense against what exactly? I’ve never held a handgun before. Heavier than it looks and cool to my touch, it slides into my hand as if made for me. I’m a little uneasy holding the thing, but pleased with the sense of power it gives me.

  “Well … thanks Uncle Frank. Is it loaded?”

  “Soon enough,” Frank says, and takes the gun back, his grin gone. He nods his spiky head toward the wagon wheel table where I see a box of cartridges next to a coiled black belt and holster. “I’ll load it up now and check you out on it tomorrow.” Frowning, the old man goes to the table, spills some cartridges out of the box, and begins inserting them into the chambers.

  “These are hollow point, Cassidy,” he says conversationally. “Tear a man up pretty good.” He flashes a smile as my heart kicks up.

  “Why, Uncle Frank? Why would you want to tear a man up pretty good?”

  “Protection a’ course. If I need to fire this baby, I want it to do the job. I don’t want no half-ass shots doin’ half-ass damage.”

  “You’re thinking you need protection? Is something going on here?” And then I think of the deserted main street of Diablo. Deserted on a Sunday.

  Frank pauses with his loading and stares at me. “Maybe,” he says. “Not yet, exactly … but if and when …” His voice trails off. “This here place is different these days, Cassidy. Ever since the quake. There’s something … dark here now. I got to be ready.”

  “Something dark?” His eyes are glazing over like he’s in some kind of trance. I don’t like the idea of my uncle walking around with a loaded gun looking for “something dark.”

  “Do you feel threatened?”

  The old man frowns and sucks in a breath. It’s obvious he doesn’t like the question. “Did you know a bunch of earthquakes came along once so strong they changed the flow of the Mississippi river?” He looks at me with sharp piercing eyes. “Think of that, Cassidy! The mighty Mississippi. Just turned it plum around.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Yessir! Happened in a town in Southeast Missouri—little place called New Madrid. That river had its own tidal waves. It made new little islands all over the place, and big hunks of land just sank right out of sight, gone forever. Aftershocks. Lordy-God the aftershocks amounted to full-fledged quakes themselves and went on for over a year.” Frank shakes his head in wonder. “Incredible destruction.” His voice weakens. He looks down at his hands and seems surprised to find a gun there. He finishes loading the revolver and slips it into the holster.

  My uncle is out to fucking lunch.

  “So … the Diablo quake … it’s got you kind of upset, right?”

  “Shit sakes, Cassidy,” he says, waving his arms about. “I’m not upset!” Then, suddenly out of gas, he calms right down and stands quietly, hands at his sides. He looks exhausted and fragile. “Remember those blackberry vines?”

  I nod.

  “Those vines always produced like crazy. I’
d give them to anybody who’d take the trouble to pick ’em. This year, like I was tellin’ you on the way to the tree, they just quit. Healthy lookin’ vines but no berries.”

  “Well—”

  “Fig tree though, in the same pasture, is growin’ figs like there’s no tomorrow! I’d given up on the damn thing, thought it was barren. That tree’s the only positive thing goin’ on around here since the quake. It’s goin’ crazy. You saw them figs on the table out there?”

  “I did.”

  “I just … don’t understand.” The old man stares down at the floor. “I’m sure glad you’re here, Cassidy” he says, his voice almost a whisper. “I need you.”

  There it is again. My uncle needs me. I don’t know what to say. Frank is clearly on the decline, and I don’t know how to help him. I do know, though, that something is sure as hell expected of me. Lauren’s voice rings in my head: “You’re a runner, Cass … When there’s a problem, you run.”

  I have to think … got to figure out what to do.

  I walk over to Frank and give his shoulder a friendly punch, then go on down the hall to the bathroom.

  By the time I get back to the porch, the Russos and the girls are leaving.

  Lester-Lee has brought Louie back and tied his leash to the porch railing. The pup lies panting hard from his play with Lester who stands near him.

  Frank offers Carla a paper sack full of fresh figs. “Just gathered these beauties this morning. They’re fresh as a bloomin’ daisy,” he says, beaming.

  She peers into the sack. “How many fig trees do you have out in that pasture, anyway?”

  “Just the one.”

  “But there are so many varieties here.” Carla frowns. “Does a fig tree do that? Grow so many types on the same tree?”

  “I guess so,” Frank says, looking confused. “But it never used to.”

  I look over at Charlotte and Shelly who stand leaning against the porch railing. Charlotte’s white shorts are clinging to her pale, slender legs. My gaze goes from her legs to her eyes … and she’s looking at me. I feel that delicious emotional tug again.

  “Charlotte,” Frank says, “this other sack is for you and Shelly. If you run out, just come on back, any time at all. I’ve got plenty.”