The Matriarch Read online

  “Fence posts? Sure.”

  Frank continues staring at me. “I’ve got Lester mucking out Georgie’s stall, but I can pull him off that if you want help.”

  I shake my head.

  “You sure you’re all right with this?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  The old man’s eyes go to my empty belt. I had taken my gun and holster off before lunch. “Where’s your gun?”

  “I don’t want to haul it around, Frank. I don’t need—”

  “I got you that gun so’s you’d wear it! What good’s it gonna do if you don’t put it on?” Frank’s face reddens.

  “Frank … you know something I don’t? Like why the hell I need to wear a side arm to build a fence around a tree? What’s that gun supposed to do for me, anyway?”

  Frank sucks in air like there’s a shortage, hands twitching at his sides.

  “Well … I guess I’m not sure, Cassidy. But there’s somethin’ strange here since …” He takes another deep breath. “Havin’ that gun on you just seems … prudent.”

  Prudent. Not a word I hear Frank use a lot. “Well, okay,” I say. It isn’t okay, but I don’t want his face getting any redder. “That’s fine with me.”

  “Get your gun, Cassidy, then take me to the card room in town while I wait for my truck to get fixed, okay?”

  We load up my truck, I drop Frank off at the card room in Diablo, and then I drive back to the ranch. As Louie and I cross the bridge to the barricade, I keep thinking about Frank’s strange attitude toward the guns he insists we wear. I’ve never known my uncle to give a damn about shooting for any reason—not for hunting or targets, and certainly not for protection. But maybe a man of his age has a right to be a little strange, and that weird tree would spook anyone. I’m looking forward to building the new barricade though. I’m good with my hands—always have been.

  I stop the truck about fifteen yards from the tree and stare at the thing.

  It’s bigger!

  And the sagging barricade looks even smaller. But that’s impossible; it’s only been a few hours! Many of the pinks have fallen into the profusion of colored figs on the ground, and they look obscene, like globs of pink flesh. It’s hot now, but I’m shivering. And the leaves … even from the truck I can see the bright green leaves have a ragged blade-like edge to them as if they’ve been honed into serrated teeth.

  I’m disgusted, letting myself get so unstrung by this crazy tree. I drive a little closer and stop. I unload the truck while Louie scouts out the neighborhood. With a mallet, I knock the now useless barricade apart and toss the lumber from it into the bed of the pickup.

  I didn’t think to bring a rake for the fallen figs, and I keep stepping on them. Soon the fig mush on my boots exudes a sugary reek that goes to my head in the form of a dull ache. I turn my back on the tree and light up a cigarette. I take a drag, and my throat seizes up with dryness. My head begins to pound as I start to cough.

  I toss the cigarette and cup my hands to get some water from the drum. It tastes great, and I gulp it down.

  Checking Frank’s drawing of the new barricade, I pace off the distance the old man wants between posts and go to work. It’s been a while since I’ve actually built something, and I soon begin to enjoy the process.

  In about three hours, I’ve dug the postholes and set the new posts into them along with hardening concrete. I’ve lost myself in the job, and my headache has disappeared. I light up another Marlboro and survey my work with pleasure. I know I’ve done well.

  “Pretty good, huh Louie?” The dog looks over at me from the shade of the truck where he’s drowsing the afternoon away.

  I decide to finish up with the boards of the fence in the morning after the concrete is good and hard and the posts will be able to withstand the nailing. I look up into the branches of the tree and hear the breeze start up. But … again … there is no breeze.

  So, what is making that sound?

  Standing perfectly still, I listen hard. I feel something as I stare up at the moving leaves. A presence. Yeah, I reply in my head, going along with this fascinating dialogue I’m having with myself.

  A waiting presence. And there’s a pattern to the sound. It’s coming in waves. With regularity. It’s like … breathing.

  “Wonderful,” I say aloud. I know now why Frank has taken to wearing a gun. “Just wonderful. A living breathing fig tree.” I laugh loudly, as if the noise will clear my head and lessen my mindless fear.

  With awkward haste, I yank my work gloves off. My hand is sweating as I pull my gun from its holster.

  Behind me, I hear a growl. I turn to see Louie get to his feet. The ruff on his neck and back is coming up, much darker than I’ve ever seen it. I feel the hairs on my own neck come to attention.

  I whirl back, facing the tree. Waving my weapon in the air, I wonder where my mind has gone. I frown, and my forehead feels like it’s splitting into pieces. Moving closer, I decide to fire a shot up into the branches. Why? What’s that going to accomplish? Louie growls again and thrusts his head and shoulders against my legs.

  The Colt seems too heavy. It wavers, and I have trouble keeping it steady.

  A stupid move, I know, but I’m going to fire up into the tree anyway. I start to squeeze the trigger, and my left boot catches on an exposed root. I lose my balance and pitch forward. I hit the side of my head on the tree trunk. Hard. There’s flashing pain as I slide down the trunk into the mush of fallen figs. And into a soft, calming darkness.

  “Stupid, dumb-ass thing to do,” I mutter. I feel a rough rubbing on my forehead, like someone using wet and warm sandpaper. Louie is patiently licking my face. I’m on my back on a carpet of sweet, rotting figs.

  I put a cautious hand to the left side of my throbbing head. Some swelling, I think, but no blood. Gently then, I rotate my aching left ankle. No break, I’m pretty sure, and maybe no sprain.

  As if guided by his master’s thoughts, Louie turns his attention to the ankle, and I feel his healing tongue.

  “Thanks, boy,” I say to him.

  I am blessed with this dog.

  I look up into the tree’s branches with my head next to the offending trunk and see a plethora of figs. It’s a glut in every stage of development imaginable—so many sizes, shapes, and colors.

  My head gradually clears, and I hear that breathing sound again. I sit up quickly, powered by fear. The motion makes me dizzy, and I clutch at Louie to steady myself. I glance down and see an insect pry its way out of a squishy globular fig. It flies clumsily off on iridescent wings.

  I roll over onto my knees. Using my right foot and both hands, I push myself … but then fall over onto my side. I’m so damn weak!

  Louie’s warm tongue goes to my face again, and I work myself back up into a crouch. I put a hand on the tree trunk and pull it right off. The bare, greenish wood is warm and moist … almost like … I don’t want to finish that thought.

  I hold a hand out to Louie, who graciously allows me to lean up against him until I’m finally able to stand. I take an awkward step away from the tree trunk and make myself take slow deep breaths. My ankle hurts some but not all that bad.

  The gun. Where’s my gun? I look around for it and the root that tripped me, but don’t see either one.

  Looking back at the tree, I notice again the creamy-looking green wood where the bark has peeled off. It doesn’t look like wood though. It shines with a healthy inner moisture.

  “I have to say it, Louie my boy, that tree trunk looks and feels like living skin.”

  I’m way too close to that disgusting trunk, and I step back, almost tripping again. At a safer distance, I light a cigarette and stare up at the tree.

  I know then, a terrible truth.

  The tree is staring back at me. It’s waiting … for what?

  I want to run to the truck. I want to grab Louie, get in that truck, and throw it in gear … but where’s the fucking gun?

  I
have to find it. The alternatives are unacceptable. “Sorry, Uncle Frank, I lost the thing … okay?” Or “Your tree ate it, Frank … what can I say?” Okay, okay. I have to think. Where exactly was I when I lost it? That’s easy. I shudder as I force myself to move back near that God-damned trunk. Rotting figs suck at my boots while I examine the mush at my feet. I bend down and plunge my bare hands into the moldering decay. It’s warm. I move my shaking hands back and forth through the mess. My fingers find a cool hardness, and I push the rot away from it.

  The Colt lies caught in a nest of small, white, vein-like roots. I pull at the weapon, thinking one easy tug will free it. The pale veins quiver though and tighten their hold on the gun.

  Fuck! The thing is hanging onto the gun!

  I hear an eerie sound then; it’s coming from Louie. He’s howling. It’s a high, unnerving sound that I’ve never heard from my puppy before.

  In blind panic, I yank the gun free, holler for Louie, and run to the truck—hurt ankle be damned. I throw the Ranger into gear and race back to the ranch house.

  In the driveway, I hose off my disgusting boots and throw my socks away. I pour Louie a measure of kibble in the kitchen, find some aspirin for my aching head and ankle, and get a cold beer from the fridge. Sitting on the glider swing on the porch, I drink half the beer down and light a cigarette. Louie pushes the screen door open and pads out onto the porch. He lies down, his head resting on my foot.

  “So … Louie. Did that shit really happen?”

  MONDAY EVENING

  A plate appears in front of Al. Soupy brown stuff is all over some meat, potatoes, and a few very tired carrots. One corner of a slice of white bread is busy soaking up the brown stuff. The silly woman has opened a can of stew and tossed it and a piece of bread onto his plate.

  Times like this, Al always thinks of Kelly before the child—when they had been so happy. He can’t imagine her serving up a mess like this. His time with Kelly is a dream, a fantasy glimpsed out of the corner of his eye that vanishes when he reaches for it.

  So, why Gin? Why this nervous nothing who stands off to his left now, anxiously watching him? He must have been out of his fucking mind. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and sits back down at the table.

  “What a treat, Gin.” He grins at her. “Is this your famous beef stew?”

  “There was no time, Al. I can’t have a home cooked meal on the table just like that. You didn’t say when you’d be home—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve only had … let’s see what time did I leave this morning? About ten hours ago I make it. That’s ten hours you’ve had to get this stew ready, Gin. To get the can all opened up and everything.” He picks up the beer can and throws it at her. It hits the refrigerator behind her, fizzes up, and falls to the floor.

  Gin gives a little cry and puts her hands out to him. “Please Al …”

  A familiar, delicious feeling blooms in his belly. Gin always enrages him with her careless and fearful ways, but she also excites him. His belly contracts now with that sweet visceral pleasure, and his hand goes to his swelling cock as it pushes against his pants. He knows he can take her anytime he feels like it, with or without her consent. And that knowledge always makes him hot.

  But not now, he cautions himself. Al has obligations, responsibilities. He sits rigid, eyes closed tight, willing himself to stay where he is. Al can almost feel her body, the cloth of her panties in his hand as he yanks them down, her pussy clenched against his cock. He clamps his hands together.

  “Manny’s sick and I’ve got a shift to run tonight, Gin. You expect me to do that on an empty stomach? Or on a couple of these—what the fuck are these things anyway?” He waves a hand at the bowl of strange looking fruit on the table.

  “Figs,” Gin says. “Manny brought them by yesterday. They’re from Frank Murphy. They’re good, Al.”

  “Wonderful … just wonderful.” Al can’t hit her. The last time he did that her face swelled up something awful, and he really can’t afford that kind of press. Later.

  I’ll get you later, Gin.

  He throws his chair back and it tips over as he gets up. “I’ll get something at the deli,” he says. He leaves, slamming the back door shut behind him.

  It always amazes Ginny that as much as she wants to please her husband, somehow she never gets things right. She slides to the floor, rests her back against the refrigerator, and thinks about it. Like Al says, she should have figured out when he would be home for dinner and had a nice meal ready. He surprised her so early at 5:00 p.m., but even so, she never should have served him that stupid stew. Ginny could have thawed a roast and made it nice and rare the way he likes it, and she could have baked some little red potatoes until they were crispy on the outside, and maybe even some baby carrots. As usual then, Ginny’s mind leaves the dinner problem and wanders off into what she considers the main issue.

  Maybe if they had a child? Would life be better then? Ginny wants a baby in the worst way. But lately, Al is so rough with her in bed, it’s kind of scary, not to mention the fact that he keeps saying he doesn’t want any babies. She has promised him she’ll do all the work and keep things nice for him, but he always says, “No-way-Jose!” And when she asks him why, he doesn’t even answer.

  The phone rings, intruding on her thoughts. Ginny crawls over to where it rests on the kitchen counter. She pulls it down onto her lap and stares at it. She certainly doesn’t want to talk with anyone right now. Besides, it’s probably Al’s sister or his mom, and one is every bit as annoying as the other. The answering machine picks up.

  “Hi,” she hears her cheery voice ring out, “we’re not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message and we’ll call you back.” She sounds so cool and together. So happy.

  “Virginia, you there?” her sister-in-law Anna asks in her raspy voice. Ginny holds her breath as if the woman can hear her breathe. She knows her bitchy mother-in-law is probably nearby as well. “Ginny?” She hears the impatience in Anna’s listening silence. “I wasn’t aware you were going out tonight.” Accusing. Then, “Call me.” An order. Anna hangs up, and Ginny lets her breath out.

  She picks up Al’s chair and sits down at the kitchen table. At least she has the night off, because Al probably won’t be home until ten or maybe later. Ginny helps herself to a fig from the bowl on the table—a fat, yellowish one. The fruit is delicious. It was real nice of Manny to bring them by. He’d gotten a whole lot of them from his buddy, Frank Murphy.

  Sucking on the juicy fig, Ginny begins to feel better. Not exactly fine though, because the really bad thing about these upsets with Al is when he decides to forgive her. His “forgiving” is sometimes just too rough. But she doesn’t want to think about that just now, so she has another fig and then feels almost good.

  Odd, Ginny is thinking, because I’ve never really liked figs.

  I’m relaxing in the glider swing, my sore ankle on a pillow, while I work on my second beer and another cigarette.

  Frank’s black pickup pulls up then, and he piles out of it hauling a grocery sack. He stomps up the porch steps and eyes the red bump on my temple.

  “What happened to your head?”

  I start to tell him, but he strides on into the house slamming the screen door behind him. He’s pissed about something, that’s for sure. I get up, putting my weight on my right foot. My left ankle feels pretty good, but my balance is way off so I sit right back down.

  The screen door bangs again, and Frank charges over to me, still hot about something. He has two bottles of beer, hands one to me, and takes a deep draught of the other.

  “Terrible day,” he mutters, sitting down next to me. “You remember Carla, so friendly and all? Remember she asked us to dinner some night this week?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Yeah, well. I went to the market, picked up a couple things, and was starting to walk back to my truck when she comes bursting out of the market behind me. I turn around to say hello, and she damn near
knocks me over! She’s swinging that big black purse of hers. And damn it all to hell, she swings it at me. At me. Cassidy, she was aimin’ for my privates!”

  I laugh. It’s a stupid joke. What he describes is unthinkable.

  “It’s not funny,” my uncle says, scowling.

  “You must be mistaken, Frank. You’re talking about a good friend—”

  “I know. I know.” He’s close to tears.

  I put my arm around his shoulders. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with you. She’s pissed about something—”

  “Well, shit sakes Cassidy … swingin’ that big purse at my privates? What’s she thinkin’ anyhow?”

  “I don’t have a clue, Uncle Frank.”

  Carla Russo is in her favorite place doing her favorite thing. She’s in her kitchen baking lace cookies, a specialty of hers. She’ll drape each over an inverted coffee cup when freshly baked and limp from the oven. When cool and firm, she’ll turn them back over, now in the shape of the inverted coffee cups. After dinner, she’ll spoon vanilla ice cream into them and top each with fresh strawberries, a delightful and pretty dessert.

  Carla takes the marinating chops out of the fridge and sets them on the butcher-block table in the center of the kitchen. She puts the cleaver there also in case Dante wants to trim the meat a bit before he barbecues. She had felt somewhat guilty selecting the nicely marbled lamb chops at the market, because both she and Dante were supposed to be watching their cholesterol intake. Her guilt is fading however as she pats the chops lovingly.

  Wait a minute, Carla thinks, vaguely troubled as she mops her steamy brow with a paper towel. I’m angry with Dante, am I not? And I’m none too pleased with Frank Murphy as well, though just now I can’t think why.