The Matriarch Read online

  Carla walks to the sink and turns on the cold water. She splashes it onto her face and neck and into her hair.

  Oh my goodness; that feels good!

  To prolong the refreshment, she lets the water dry naturally on her face and gazes out the kitchen window at the barn and the stand of tall Eucalyptus that buffers their home from the dusty road. She selects another fig from a bowl, this one a delightful bright orange. What a pretty place they have, she and Dante, especially just now as the sun is low in the sky, preparing to set.

  Sweet fig juice courses down her chin, and she dabs at it with the towel. She must ask Dante to get some more of these tasty fruits from his friend Frank. Dante told her Frank has many more than he can possibly use. Carla is forgetting something … What?

  I filed for divorce today.

  What? What an astonishing thing her mind has just said to her!

  Rubbish! That simply can’t be true!

  Carla’s mind goes completely awry then and shows a very disturbing picture of herself talking with the Russo’s attorney, Brandon Sims.

  Whatever about?

  “Aunt Carla, what time is dinner?” Charlotte calls out from the living room just as the oven timer dings.

  “Oh, an hour or so,” Carla cries, slipping on her oven mitts. “Around six o’clock.” She opens the oven door. The fragrance of warm cinnamon and caramelized sugar fills the small kitchen and instantly generates a profuse amount of saliva in Carla’s mouth. No doubt about it, she’s every bit as good a baker as all her friends say.

  Carla wants a cookie in the worst way but knows that at the moment they’re way too hot. Not one for patience, she casts her eye about the kitchen in a frantic search for something sugary. And she finds it. Of course! God bless Frank Murphy and that fig tree of his!

  She puts the cookie sheet down on the counter, pulls off the oven mitts, and snatches up another fig, a greenish-purple one this time. She takes a large bite.

  Oh my goodness!

  Juice bursts from the pulp in her mouth and mingles with her saliva, creating an overwhelming sweetness that goes right to her brain. She’s transported. Before conscious thought returns, Carla has devoured three figs.

  Her mind is now a study in focus and clarity. She remembers her day and everything in it like a movie being played out in her mind’s eye in living Technicolor.

  Especially the part dealing with that prick she’s married to. Of course, she’ll divorce Dante. Why has she waited so long? There’s a slight blur in her mind as to what it is exactly that makes him so distasteful, but the fact that he’s profoundly unsuitable as a husband is now crystal clear to her. So clear, it actually hurts her head to think about it.

  Carla hears him then, stomping into the house through the laundry room. She can smell the man, even before he gets to the kitchen. Dante stinks. Not the usual workingman-in-the-sun smell, no. It’s more odiferous than that, more of a leaden stench. If she examines him closely, Carla is sure she’ll actually see the aura of rank odor that surrounds him.

  “Hi sweetie,” the prick says cheerily as he comes into the room, stinking up her clean kitchen.

  Carla doesn’t bother to respond.

  Dante opens the fridge, pulls out the jar of ice water, and tips it to his mouth. She hates that, when he doesn’t use a glass. The man is more than she can bear.

  “Prick,” Carla says softly to her husband’s back as she picks up the meat cleaver.

  Charlotte comes striding into the kitchen. “We’re out of figs, Aunt Carla. I’m going—” she stops short as she sees the cleaver in Carla’s hand.

  Carla quickly changes her grip on the cleaver as if offering it to Dante. “I was just asking your uncle to trim these chops a bit,” she says. “There are some figs left here, Charlotte.” She nods toward the bowl on the butcher block. “But you could drive up to Frank’s and pick up some more. He says he’s got plenty.”

  “Oh,” Charlotte says, staring at the cleaver. “I … I’ll do that … yes.” She seems confused, taken aback.

  Dante takes the cleaver from Carla, and she’s relieved. She hopes Charlotte didn’t notice her wielding that cleaver like a weapon.

  I’m pleased to see Charlotte pull up in the blue woody. She’s come for more figs, and I decide to take her out to The Tree.

  “I want you to see this thing,” I say as we walk slowly across the bridge. Her thigh brushes against me, and I don’t think it’s by accident. Wishful thinking?

  “Shelly loves these figs, but I think they look disgusting,” Charlotte says.

  “Disgusting?” I carry a basket Frank has given me for the figs.

  “Yeah. So personal. Kind of … ovarian, somehow.” She laughs. “Though I don’t really know what an ovary looks like.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  “Like I’m eating something private, intimate. Some kind of organ.” She puts her cool arm through mine.

  I smile down at her, unable to suppress a mild shudder.

  She’s crazy. In a charming way. Sort of …

  “I’m not a fan of figs,” I say.

  The tree looms up several yards ahead of us, and I pull Charlotte to a stop. In my head, I capitalize it: The Tree. I swear it’s grown in just the few hours since I worked on the barricade. Its limbs reach out to the unfinished barricade that already looks barely adequate. The sun at the horizon behind The Tree sends a bright orange glow through its branches. It looks solid and powerful, like it’s been standing here for centuries.

  “Oh it’s beautiful!” Charlotte cries out. “I had no idea it was so lovely.” She releases my arm and runs toward it.

  “Don’t get too close!” I yell, suddenly afraid for her. Stopping beneath the fig-laden branches, she turns and laughs at me as I run up to her.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this, Cass.” She gazes up into the tree. “There are so many of them! All different shapes and sizes. And the colors!”

  “I know.” Though my run to her has been a short one, my breath is coming in gasps.

  “Frank could go into the fig business. This thing is a prolific wonder. And look at all these fallen ones, ripe as can be.”

  I’m clutching the basket to my chest, trying to calm down. “Don’t you notice that smell?”

  “Well, sure. The fruit just needs to be gathered more often, that’s all. My God, you don’t even have to harvest them, they just fall off the tree right at your feet!” She laughs again, prying the basket from my hands and stooping to gather some up.

  I watch her—a lovely young woman happily picking up fruit—and know I would rather eat shit than one of those fucking figs.

  “A problem?” she asks, looking up at me.

  “No, it’s nothing.” I force a smile. I start to kneel to help her, but she rises and touches my swollen head with her hand.

  “How did this happen?” she asks, her voice soft.

  I’m silent, my mind clouded by her nearness. I want to pull her close. As if reading my mind, she reaches behind my neck—her hand so cool there—and draws my face to hers. She kisses my temple, then my lips. I close my eyes, gratefully shutting out The Tree, and give myself to her kiss. Her lips part as I run my hands down her back to the swell of her hips.

  A soft plopping sound. And then another. A chill brushes my neck and then my mind. I crack open an eye and see figs dropping to the ground. All around us. I suck in a breath and push Charlotte away. Her face is flushed, her mouth open in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and grab her hand. I pull her along with me, out from under The Tree. The figs stop falling. “It’s not you,” I say. I put an arm around her and pull her close, my mouth at her ear. “It’s this fucking tree.”

  She tries to laugh. “What, the figs scare you?”

  What can I say, that I have a problem with fruit trees? That falling figs once wounded my mother?

  “What’s wrong, Cass?”

  “I … don’t know.” I kiss her forehead gently. “Let’s
get back to the house.” I nudge her back toward The Tree. “Get that basket of figs for us, will you?”

  We return to the house and find Frank and Louie in the kitchen preparing to fry up some steak and potatoes. While the old man can’t be called a gourmet chef, he is very good with the basics.

  “Figs.” Charlotte plops the basket of fruit she’s gathered on the kitchen table and goes to Frank. She gives him a loud kiss on his whiskery cheek. “That’s some prolific tree you’ve got, Frank.”

  He nods as he pounds the hell out of a slab of beef on the wooden counter top with a lethal looking mallet.

  “Called Carla.” Head down, Frank is speaking to the meat. “No answer.” A shot glass of sour mash whiskey near him on the counter jumps when he whacks the beef. His eyes are red, his face rosy. “Cassidy, you peel them spuds.” He waves the mallet toward a small pile of potatoes. “Wash ’em first.”

  “You can leave the skins on, Uncle Frank. They’re—”

  “Peel ’em,” he says, giving me a brief glare, the mallet raised. “Charlotte, will you make us a salad? Lester’s in town. Got the night off.”

  “Sure,” she says and calls Carla on her cell phone. She explains she’s staying here for dinner and then goes to the fridge. Charlotte favors me with caring glances while she brings romaine, celery, fresh mushrooms, and tomatoes to the counter, tosses them into a huge colander, and runs water over them.

  I find a knife and start working on the potatoes. Charlotte seems at home in the kitchen, I’m thinking, as I watch her graceful hands at work. I’m happy to be near her, alongside her in companionable silence.

  “Carla … the way she acted,” Frank says, “comin’ at me with that giant purse of hers … makes no sense, none at all.”

  “I can talk to her tomorrow, Frank, see what’s going on,” Charlotte says.

  “No, don’t.” He smiles at Charlotte and cuts the meat into three huge steaks. He then dredges them through a seasoned flour mixture.

  I finish peeling and slicing the potatoes and put them into a large frying pan with a generous dollop of olive oil. I light the burner under them.

  “You want a beer, Charlotte?” I ask, going to the fridge. She shakes her head. I pop a bottle open for myself and hear the screen door open and then bang shut.

  “Hall-oo the kitchen.” It’s a female voice, and I hear boots clomping toward us.

  “Shit,” Frank mutters under his breath, and Dott Pringle strides into the kitchen. She looks a little weird in her Smoky Bear hat, red tee shirt, boots, khaki shorts, and jacket. She takes her hat off her tousled hair and tosses it onto the counter, giving us all a gap-toothed grin.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting you folks,” Dott says. She bends down to greet the ever-lovin’ Louie.

  “Well,” Frank says, “it is getting on toward dinnertime.” He slams the steaks into another frying pan.

  I’m surprised by my uncle’s rudeness and stick out my hand to her. “It’s good to see you again, Dott,” I say. She stands and envelops my hand in hers. Her dark brown eyes are crinkling at the corners. Charlotte turns from her work and smiles at Dott.

  “This is Charlotte Russo,” I say. “She’s here for a visit with her Aunt Carla and Uncle Dante.”

  “Hello Dott,” Charlotte says with a smile.

  I watch as Dott stares at Charlotte and her grin changes into a ‘struck dumb’ look. An awkward silence comes into the room while Frank pokes at the sizzling steaks. Louie is ricocheting around the kitchen taking runs at Dott. I feel as if I’ve come into a play halfway through the second act and haven’t a clue as to the plot.

  “Settle down, Louie!” I take a swipe at the dog’s collar as he careens by, but I miss. “Sit!” I yell, and Louie drops to the floor on his belly, his tail a blur as he sweeps the floor behind him. Silence then. Everyone gapes at the dog, stunned by his sudden obedience.

  “You like some supper?” I ask Dott, trying to break the uneasy quiet.

  “Just got three steaks here, Cassidy—”

  “Jesus, Frank, They’re big enough for three people each!” I say. “There’s plenty of food here.”

  Dott continues to stare at Charlotte, her cheeks growing red. “It’s nice to meet you, Charlotte,” she murmurs finally.

  “Same here. You like a beer?”

  Dott stands mute. Charlotte takes that as an affirmative and hands Dott a beer from the fridge.

  The woman seizes the bottle, tips it to her mouth, and guzzles down a third at least. The bottle looks like a toy in her ham-like hand.

  “I’ve already eaten, thanks,” she says. “I just dropped by to see how everybody is after last night.” Her gaze goes to Charlotte. “Coyotes,” she mutters, her face now a glowing, rosy red.

  “Dog never should have been let out on his own that way,” Frank says with a snort. He tosses his fork into the pan with the steaks. “Watch these steaks, will you Charlotte? They’ll need turning in a minute or so.” Not waiting for an answer, he marches out of the room.

  I follow my uncle into the dining room, and the door swings shut behind me. Frank pulls out a drawer in the sideboard and begins to rummage through its contents.

  “Where the hell are my extra potholders?”

  I put a firm hand on his shoulder. The man holds himself rigid as if fighting for control.

  “What’s the problem here, Frank?” I ask in a whisper. “Have you got something against Dott?” Frank peers into the drawer, his hands still now. “It’s not like you, the way you’re treating her.”

  He sighs, closes his eyes, and massages his temples with his fingers. “I think Dott might be a … you know?”

  “A what?” But then I do know and kick myself for not figuring it out sooner.

  “One of those homos … you know?”

  Of course! And she’s taken with Charlotte.

  My uncle stands silent, as if awestruck by the enormity of what he’s just said.

  “I guess she might be, at that,” I say. “But that’s not the end of the world.”

  “I know that!” Frank snaps in a harsh whisper. We hear Dott and Charlotte talking quietly through the closed kitchen door. Frank’s body sags abruptly; it seems to wilt as tension leaves him. “It’s the idea of it,” he says, his head down. “Makes me nervous.”

  I slide my arm around the old man’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Uncle Frank. Really. It’s just a concept you’re not used to. It’s been a hell-of-a day. I know this thing with Carla has blown you away. Let’s just go have a nice meal, okay?” I pull him back toward the kitchen door. “Try to lighten up.”

  Frank allows himself to be led back into the kitchen where the food is sizzling. He turns on the fan above the stove. A loud whirring sound fills the room, making conversation impossible. I shrug, and Dott and Charlotte grin at each other.

  The dining room contains a large, beautifully made oak table, but I can’t recall ever using it. Tonight is no exception as the four of us crowd in at the small table in the kitchen. Louie rests comfortably at my feet. Although Dott claims to have already eaten, she succumbs to a couple of thick slices of corn bread and some salad that she washes down with another cold Heineken.

  We dine off Frank’s heavy, no-nonsense stoneware. The old man’s mood lightens, and for the first time since my run in with The Tree, I feel good. Charlotte’s knee rests against mine, either because she’s crazy about me or because of the lack of room at this small table. I decide on ‘crazy about me’. The food vanishes, and with a collective sigh everyone leans back, sated.

  The figs are passed, and everyone declines. “Figs are an acquired taste, I think,” Dott says. “I saw a fellow eat one of these; took a small knife and laid it open like a surgeon. A lotta folks eat them with cream and sugar.”

  “What kind is this one, do you know?” Charlotte asks. She’s picked up a large purple one.

  “No idea, but it sure is big,” Dott says. “I saw a lot of fig trees in Costa Rica. I couldn’t keep up with all the differe
nt varieties.” She pauses, smiling at Charlotte. “In the Church of Personal Peace, we go on Quests. That’s what the church calls them. For knowledge, you know—a learning sabbatical. Costa Rica is the only one I’ve been on. I stayed two years.” Her gaze is on Charlotte, as if speaking only to her. “I learned a lot about the country. There are lots of fig trees there in the rain forests, but I never saw fruit this large.”

  “You’d think Costa Rica would grow them big, with all that water,” Charlotte says.

  “Were there different types on the same tree?” I ask, remembering Carla’s comment.

  Dott frowns, thinking. “I don’t think so. But that could happen I suppose, now that I think on it.” She pauses. “Frank, could I bum one of your Camels?”

  “Sure.” He slides his pack over to her, and she pulls one out. I light it for her, and she puffs deeply as she settles back into her chair.

  “There’s a very interesting fig tree down there,” Dott goes on, “not one you’ll find in this country. Most figs here are propagated through root cuttings taken from the wood of older trees. In rain forests though, it’s monkeys. They eat the figs and then poop out the seeds in some treetop. It doesn’t have to be a fig tree. The seeds take root there.” She pauses again and leans forward to rest her cigarette in the battered tin ashtray on the table. She seems uneasy, troubled.

  “The roots from the fig grow down from the tree top—all the way down the tree—and wrap themselves around it.” Dott slowly weaves her fingers together as if curled around something. “In time, the roots grow right down into the ground. They kind of twist themselves,” her hands clamp together, chalk-white at the knuckles, “around the trunk of the host tree. They strangle it. That’s what this tree is called, the Strangler Fig. The host tree soon gives up and crumbles into nothing. Gone!” She claps her hands and everyone jumps. “Like it was never there.”

  She stares down at her hands. “It troubles me, that tree, sucking the very life out of its host that way. To this day, I can’t eat a fig. My belly makes a fuss just to see one. But they go way back, you know—fig trees.” She continues speaking directly to Charlotte. “I learned some of their history while I was in Rica. There are a lot of references to the fig in the Bible a’ course. Fig leaves and all. In the old days the fig leaf symbolized sin. Lust.”