The Matriarch Read online

  I see Carla frown at the mention of the nieces. I’m sure she’s not fond of these girls, not at all, and I wonder why. Charlotte takes the sack, and Frank walks Carla and Dante to the Cherokee.

  I haven’t a clue what to say to the girls. They make no move to go and stand regarding me with their cool green eyes.

  “I’m not a fig fan,” Charlotte says finally and gives me a smile. It’s the first one she’s directed my way, and it’s lovely; it warms her face.

  “I love them,” Shelly says and picks one out of the sack. She takes an enthusiastic bite and smiles at me while juice runs down her chin. It clings to her chin, glowing there.

  “We’ve got to go,” she says and Charlotte nods.

  “I’ll walk you,” I say, and take Charlotte’s arm. I love the feel of her arm in my hand, and I don’t want her to leave.

  Charlotte slides gracefully into the front seat of the blue woody. Shelly gets in on the passenger side, and Charlotte puts the sack of figs on the seat between them. She starts the engine.

  “I’ll see you two later, I hope,” I say, looking at Charlotte. Her eyes are on mine as she drives off, giving me that beautiful smile again.

  For dessert that night after a dinner of roast beef and green beans, Frank slices thick slabs of cornbread and serves it with Arty Banyon’s honey. We sit in the kitchen at the small oak table with Lester-Lee, who hasn’t spoken in hours. An exhausted Louie lies under the table with his head on my bare foot. The honey is dark with tough little bee’s wings caught in it, and I smear it thick onto the cornbread. There’s a basket of fresh figs on the table.

  “Lester,” Frank says, “you wanna go get us that quart of Dickel?”

  The man rises, and I’m surprised when Louie scrambles to his feet and follows Lester the few steps to the walk-in pantry. I didn’t think Louie really took to strangers. But how would I know? I really don’t know much about my new puppy.

  Lester returns with an unopened quart of George Dickel Tennessee sour mash whiskey. He places it on the table next to a pitcher of water. He then gathers up three tumblers, three shot glasses, a tray of ice, and a chilled quart of Heineken. Lester sets all this out on the table and sits down. It seems to be a familiar routine. Frank lights his cigarette and slides the pack of Camels toward me along with a box of wooden matches.

  Louie resettles himself under the table, and this time his head rests on Lester-Lee’s sock-clad foot. I’m amazed at the twinge of jealousy I feel.

  “Your pleasure, boys,” Frank says. He gestures toward the array of masculine indulgences on the table and nods at both of us. “Help yourselves.”

  As a kid, I sat at this same table with my dad and Frank along with their sour mash and water back, and I’m pleased with the memory. And moved. Lester pours himself a glass of beer while Frank opens the Dickel, fills a shot glass, and tosses it back. His eyes close in the shudder of visceral pleasure that fine sour mash always seems to bring. I pour some whiskey into a shot glass and take a healthy swallow.

  My family lived here with Aunt Emma and Uncle Frank for almost five years after a fire destroyed our home in San Diego. As if the fire gutted my dad along with his home, he never picked up the pieces and moved on with his life. He had been an architect, but eased himself out of the profession, as content to accept his brother’s charity as Frank was to give it. Even my mom, Catherine, gave up her gentle pressure on her husband, and accepted the help as well.

  Since Emma had long ago tuned off Frank’s endless dissertations on horses and ranch life, Frank was delighted to have new listeners. For those few years, we all lived the good country life and then, in less than four months’ time, it all turned to shit.

  My mom became ill with stomach cancer and died in just two months. Dad slid into a profound depression and isolated himself from everyone, including me. Aunt Emma went to bed with a flu that raced into virulent pneumonia, and she died, a scant two weeks after Catherine. Frank’s reaction to his wife’s death was much the same as his brother’s, and the two men merely dragged themselves through the motions of living.

  I was painfully alone.

  Catherine left a surprisingly healthy amount of money to my dad, and just after my fifteenth birthday, he decided we needed a ‘change’. Burt packed us both up, and we left for his birthplace, Eugene, Oregon.

  I look down at my glass and am surprised to find it empty. “Pour me another, will you Uncle Frank?” The old man seems pleased and complies.

  “Your health, Cassidy,” he says. He takes another slug of the mash, then the water, and then a drag on his Camel.

  I take a generous swallow of whiskey, light up one of the Camels, and suck down some smoke. “Some health,” I mutter, my eyes tearing.

  Frank chuckles. “Dante says Carla’s mad as hell about his nieces, Charlotte and Shelly, comin’ for a visit. Tells me they’re just lazin’ around together. Don’t do a lick a’ work around the place.”

  “That Charlotte is a real beauty. What’s she like?”

  “I don’t know.” Frank gives me a somewhat probing stare. “I haven’t gotten to know either one yet. Dante says Shelly’s a bit on the wild side.” He takes a drag on his cigarette. “You got a lady friend, Cassidy?”

  “Not at the moment. Why are Charlotte and Shelly here, Frank?”

  “Yeah, well, that’s kinda odd, I think. Seems Charlotte’s lost her job. She worked for a lawyer in San Diego. Anyway, she was real upset, and her mom, Dante’s sister, wanted her to come out here to get her mind off the job loss and all. And then Shelly showed up along with Charlotte and Carla’s kinda pissed off. A bit strange, I think. I mean shit sakes, these girls are Dante’s family.”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “How’d you happen to pick up this here Louie fellah, anyway?”

  “Well …” I slide a foot over to Louie and wiggle my toes up against the dog’s warm neck. “He fell in with bad company, so I persuaded him to come hang with me.”

  Frank smiles. “Maybe sometime you’ll tell me the real story.”

  “That I will, Uncle Frank, but it’s been a long day.” Louie, on cue, gives out with an audible yawn. “See what I mean?”

  Frank reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Like I been sayin’ Cassidy, I’m real glad you’re here. I need your help with the quake damage … everything’s outta alignment in the barn. That was the hardest hit. Lester and me haven’t made much progress with the repairs.”

  “Sure, I’ll help out, but—”

  “And then, there’s somethin’ kinda strange goin’ on here … since the quake. Tell you the truth, I feel … well …”

  “What, Frank. What do you feel?”

  “I’m not sure. But things … things just don’t feel quite right since that damned quake. The only thing going right since then is that fig tree. Like I was tellin’ you, boy, that thing’s gone crazy popping out so many figs all the time.”

  With over half his acreage sold off some years back, Frank is living a comfortable life off the proceeds, and I’m sorry the earthquake has upset him. But I’m not sure what I can do about the situation. And I know I don’t want to be drawn in to a lengthy stay on the ranch.

  I guess I really am a runner … But …

  “I need to tell you, Uncle Frank, I can’t stay very long. I’ll help you some with the quake damage, but I’m thinking I’ll be here two weeks tops.”

  But what about Charlotte? What if she turns out to be the wonderful creature I think she is? And what if—

  Frank holds up a hand. “I surely do hope you won’t be runnin’ off all that soon, boy. Like I’ve been sayin’, I need you. Well … we’ll talk tomorrow. You take your pup and get on to bed. You can use your folks’ old room; it’s ready for you.”

  Lester gets up, goes to the sink, and busies himself with the few dishes.

  I peer into the basket of figs and pick up a fat purple one. “It’s good to be here, Uncle Frank,” I say, surprised to find that statement actuall
y true. Frank says nothing, but his cheeks redden with pleasure. “I’ll turn in now,” I say. Louie and I start off down the hall to Catherine and Burt’s old bedroom. We pass the guest room and Frank’s room on the way.

  I don’t particularly like figs, but I’m thinking it might cut the taste of sour mash that still clings to my teeth and tongue. I bite into the fig, and my mouth is instantly flooded with sweet, delicious juice.

  I hear the sound of boots on the porch then, and there’s a heavy knock on the front door.

  Lordy-God, who the hell is that?

  It must be 9:30 p.m. at least, Frank thinks as his hand goes to his belt. No gun. He walks to the door and Louie careens into his legs, almost tripping him.

  “Louie!” Cassidy calls out and comes after his dog.

  “He’s all right,” Frank says. He takes hold of Louie’s collar and opens the door a crack.

  “Not too late, I hope?”

  It’s that crazy preacher lady grinning at him in that ridiculous Smokey Bear hat of hers, sure of her welcome even at this hour. “Well … it is kind of—”

  “I know, and I’m sorry,” Dott Pringle says, and grins past Frank at Cassidy like she isn’t sorry at all. “I’m just now through at church, and I did so want to pop in and say a word of welcome to your nephew, Frank. And who’s this little fellow?” She settles onto her ample haunches to pat Louie. “What a cutie you are!” Louie’s whole body wriggles with enthusiasm.

  Frank sighs.

  Was there ever a woman as annoying as this one?

  She drives him crazy. Frank met her at a get-together at the Russos, and ever since she seems to think they’re the best of friends. Dott is somehow connected to a tent-house church called Perfect Peace, or something like that. It arrived in town some weeks past. Frank doesn’t care much for any sort of religion, and certainly not one that has the pig-headed arrogance to house itself in a traveling tent.

  And there’s something else about the woman that bothers Frank; something he can’t quite put his finger on.

  “Cassidy, this here’s Dott Pringle.” Cassidy shakes her hand. “Dott, this is my nephew, Cassidy, and his pup, Louie.”

  She’s a sight, Frank is thinking, a strapping woman with that damned hat planted on top of her mussed up grey hair. She’s wearing denim shorts, a Mackinaw jacket, and dirty logging boots. The woman puts him off, and it isn’t just the clothes. Plenty of women in rural Diablo dress like men. But this one … she’s more masculine than most of the men he knows.

  “Preacher-lady,” Frank says to Cassidy.

  “Perfect Peace,” Dott says, and Cassidy nods as if that explains everything. Frank has to smile.

  In a few minutes, he has everyone settled down at the kitchen table. Lester mops off the tabletop and sits down as well. Common courtesy tells Frank he should offer something to drink. He suggests beer, and damned if everyone doesn’t accept.

  Dott is a talker. She acts like some kind of TV interviewer asking Cassidy so many questions, Frank thinks his nephew will surely beg off answering. But no, the boy seems actually pleased with this chat.

  “Did you leave a brokenhearted girl or two in Oregon?” Dott asks.

  “I left a girl, but she wasn’t exactly brokenhearted,” Cassidy says with a laugh.

  Now there’s a thing he hadn’t known, Frank realizes. She also asks him about his job in Eugene.

  “A nothing job. It wasn’t hard to leave it.” He glances at his uncle with a rueful smile and Frank figures he might have been canned. “I drove a lumber delivery truck and helped out in the yard.”

  He’ll have a good long talk with the boy, Frank decides. All he’s really found out about Cassidy is that he has some time for this trip to the valley and that he has a new dog.

  “Where did Louie go?” Frank asks then, interrupting the others.

  “I let him out,” Cassidy says, nodding toward the back door.

  Frank’s hand goes to his belt again. No gun. “Bad idea,” he says.

  “He won’t run off,” Cassidy says.

  “This place is new to him.”

  Frank stands quickly and goes to the back door. He takes his gun and holster down from a hook near the door and buckles it onto his belt. He sees that Lester looks worried too. He grabs a flashlight, the big one.

  Cassidy gets up. “Frank, there’s no need—”

  Frank flings the back door open. “Come out here with me, Cassidy. I need you to holler for your dog.”

  Cassidy walks out into the yard. “I told you, Louie won’t go far.”

  Frank is still, staring out into the blackness. His hand is on his holstered gun. “You don’t feel it?” he asks.

  “What?”

  He tries to think. Nothing comes. Nothing sensible, anyway. A feeling though. Frank has been trying to choke down this feeling ever since the quake. Something heavy. Dark. A presence.

  “I don’t know … what it is,” Frank says quietly.

  I hear Dott and Lester coming along behind us. The night’s warm but visibility is poor as clouds veil the moon.

  Frank stands well out into the yard with the flashlight in his hand. “Yell for Louie,” he orders me. And I do. But no Louie.

  “Come on over here, Louie boy,” I call out again. No Louie. I’m beginning to worry. Maybe my puppy is more adventurous than I thought. Frank trains his light on the nearby fence line, moving it back and forth.

  “You think he’d take off for the barn?” Frank asks. I don’t think so, but I start walking toward it anyway. I yell for Louie every few steps, my anxiety growing. I see something up ahead—points of light reflecting back at us. The lights divide into twos as we draw closer.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” Frank says, and I realize what we’re looking at. Eyes. Several pairs of glowing, disembodied eyes shine out at us.

  “Go slow now,” Lester says. “They’re coyotes.”

  “No,” Frank states. “There are no coyotes in the Diablo Valley.”

  “Coyotes,” Dott murmurs. “Lester’s right.”

  “What did I just tell you people?” Frank whispers. “There are no coyotes in the Diablo Valley. Not for fifteen years at least. Animal Control had a campaign back then. Got rid of every last one. But … I don’t know what these critters are.”

  “They coulda come back, Boss,” Lester says.

  We all stop about twenty feet away from those eyes, and I can make out vague shapes. I see that one pair of eyes is different from the others. It belongs to Louie. Three coyotes or maybe small wolves are crouched on the ground. They surround the puppy who stands motionless in their midst.

  Frank sweeps the light slowly across the animals. It doesn’t seem to bother the coyotes, or Louie. Everyone, man and animal alike, seem to be studying the other. I don’t call to Louie now; I don’t want to upset this delicate balance.

  Georgie nickers from the barn, and the coyotes rise as one. It’s as if Georgie has given them a signal. I see Frank draw his gun.

  “No, Frank,” I say. “You might hit Louie. They’re going to leave anyway.”

  “How do you know?” Frank asks.

  “Just a feeling,” I say.

  “Females,” Lester whispers. “They’re all females.”

  I can just make out the set of flaccid teats that hang under each belly.

  “All mothers,” Dott says softly. “Maybe they’ve lost their cubs somehow.”

  Like silent dreaming robots, the coyotes turn toward Louie and pad past him. They pick up speed, trot to the fence, and leap it easily. They’re gone.

  “Louie,” I call in a low voice, and the puppy seems to wake from a standing sleep. Tail wagging, he trots over to me.

  Carla Russo lies on her side, turned away from Dante. A nice time, she’s thinking, at Frank’s. He’s a dear, that man. And it’s a real pleasure to see Cassidy again. He’s turned into such a fine handsome lad. He seems taken with Charlotte, but that might turn into quite a disappointment for him if Charlotte and Shelly are what she thinks
they are. But sisters? Do sisters indulge in that sort of gross, homosexual behavior? Carla doesn’t want to concern herself with such disgusting speculation.

  She sucks at her teeth and thinks she might get up and brush them once again. Those figs are so sugary sweet; their syrupy flavor lingers in her mouth. She ate two of those delicious things just before getting into bed.

  Carla feels her husband’s body at her back as he snuggles up against her. They’ve been married forty-two years, and she can count the nights spent apart on the fingers of one hand.

  He slides a warm callused hand onto an ample breast and squeezes lightly. Dante kisses the back of her neck and begins moving his thumb over her nipple. She feels him grow hard at the cleft of her buttocks. If asked, Carla will say she indulges in frequent sex for Dante’s sake. ‘Some men are like that you know; they never tire of it,’ she would say. In truth, however, she enjoys sex as much as Dante, maybe more. Usually. Tonight seems to be an exception. Carla is feeling more irritation than arousal.

  Can’t this man give me a night off, for heaven’s sake?

  “A night off?” Dante asks, and she realizes she’s spoken aloud.

  “Well, why not?” She’s vexed now but not sure why. “I don’t always have to be ready and willing do I?” She feels him pull away from her.

  “Carla, luv, I don’t understand. I would never force—”

  “Give it a rest, can’t you?”

  Give it a rest? Where did that expression come from?

  Carla’s heart kicks up, and she doesn’t trust herself to speak. She tries to relax, taking deep breaths …

  Out with the bad … in with the good. Out with the bad …

  She finally drifts off into a troubled sleep.

  Three hours later she awakens, still troubled. And thirsty—but not for water. In her mind’s eye she sees that sack of figs from Frank on the kitchen counter. They seem to beckon her. She rises, goes to the kitchen, has one, then two more before her thirst fades. She has another for good measure and walks back to the bedroom. In bed she looks over at her husband and realizes he’s certainly not a good looking man. Why, for heaven’s sake, he’s almost ugly! Why is it she’s never noticed that before? And that revolting sound he makes as he breathes! It’s so disgusting, she pictures herself putting her pillow over his face to shut it off. To shut him off.