The Matriarch (2 page)

“Lindee!” His voice sounds foreign to him, as if he’s in pain.

She grins.

And then—like an ocean breeze on a hot day, like a draught of icy beer sliding down his parched throat—sweet relief washes through Arty Banyon.

God love her, she’s playing a game!

Of course! She’s probably read some hot shit article in one of those damn magazines about “How to drive your man crazy-wild for you!” Something like that. She’s gotten carried away, that’s all.

Smiling with relief, Arty takes a couple steps toward her, his arms outstretched.

What a wild and wonderful woman my Lindee is.

A blur of motion as Lindee swings something out from behind her back. He hears a pop, and there’s a stinging, scalding pain at his wrist.

Christ-a-mighty, but that hurts!

Arty clutches his wrist and goes down onto his knees. With a loud crash, he falls against the small table—the one where Lindee has her glass animal collection. Her cherished animals fall to the floor, many broken and scattered.

What a clumsy oaf he is! Lindee will be so pissed. Arty holds his throbbing wrist against his chest and struggles to get up. He lurches into the counter and knocks over a jar of freshly harvested honey. It shatters and honey oozes out onto the floor.

“Lindee, help me up, will you?”

She looks strange to him—an alien being. In detached bewilderment, he watches her lift up a silvery object.

That’s my wallboard hammer!

It’s his favorite—the one with the raised grid on its striking surface. He can’t think just now why that grid is so special to him, but it irritates him that his wife is playing around with it. She shouldn’t be—

Lindee hauls the hammer up high over her head, holding it with both hands.

It comes to Arty then that Lindee has broken his wrist with his favorite hammer. And then …

She cocks it back, grunts, and swings it down onto Arty’s left temple.

He goes down again—this time all the way. His mind—what’s left of it—turns all reds and yellows. It’s a light show sweeping through his head, a jumble of bright, flashing colors. He’s on his back among broken glass and fallen figs, his eyes tightly closed, his face clenched in pain and terror. Arty hears himself whimper. He forces his eyes open.

She stands over him, his Lindee, her knees bent and feet planted on either side of his body. Arty hears her heavy, ragged breath and smells it—a heavy, too sweet smell, like fruit gone bad. Hands thrust high over her head, she still holds the hammer. Her face is a mask of pure loathing.

Arty tries to move, to somehow help himself. He manages only a faint fluttering of his hands. He sees the hammer twitch in her hands and knows she’s about to finish him off.

“Why?” he asks, but the sound is just a weak gurgle.

The hammer begins its descent. He sees the grid on it coming down for him. In the precious mote of time left to him, Arty gets mad. His Lindee is sending him to eternity, and she doesn’t even do him the common courtesy of telling him why.

We’re up early, Louie and me, packed and making our exit. No point in hanging around—that’s for sure—not after the blow-up last night and Lauren throwing me out. I can still hear her strident cry when I arrived home with Louie, the sweet puppy I just rescued—well, okay … stole—from some punks.

“That’s a Pit Bull for God’s sake, Cassidy,” she cried. “You brought home a Pit Bull—the most vicious breed of dog known to mankind.”

“Lauren, he’s a puppy.” I kept my voice low in what I hoped was a calming tone. “He’s just a few weeks old, sweetheart.”

“Puppies grow, Cass. Did you know that? And Pit Bull puppies grow up into killers!” She threw the
Time
she’d been reading at me. “And what about your job?”

Oh yeah. The next thing I told her, while clutching little Louie to my chest, was about the job. The one I quit right before I stole Louie.

“You come home with a soon-to-be-savage dog in your arms and tell me you quit your job. A perfectly good job!” She was practically snarling. “What do you think your news does to our possible … maybe … heavy on the ‘maybe’ …get married plans? You think I can support the two of us?”

Yeah, yeah. I’m remembering the situation now as Louie and I pack up the Ranger. I realize though, this action is more of an escape than an exit. If I’m completely honest, I’m relieved. Actually relieved to be getting the hell out.

Lauren is driving me crazy. Endless complaints about my complaints. “If you don’t like your job, get another one, for heaven’s sake!”

Yeah, sure, like that’s a piece of cake, a simple thing to do. Hell, I was lucky to have been employed at all. Local businesses here in Eugene aren’t lined up waiting for a chance to employ Cassidy Murphy.

She called me a runner. “When there’s a problem,” Lauren went on in that harsh voice of hers, “you run from … stuff. Whatever. You never really address the problem—whatever it is. You just never resolve it. I can’t trust you, Cass. You quit a perfectly good job just because of a bad day. My God! You have no positive direction, you know that?”

“Isn’t ‘down’ a direction?” I said with my usual charm.

“I’ve had enough, Cass. Tomorrow morning … please leave. Enough is enough.”

So, the breakup is something of a relief, but I’m not sure how long that relief will continue.

I pick up the latest letter from my uncle Frank as Louie and I make our last trip to the truck. This letter has teeth—financial teeth—500 of them. Frank wants me to come down to his ranch where I lived as a boy near Santa Barbara, California. He goes on and on about a fig tree of his and how, since the recent earthquake, it’s growing like crazy and producing a huge amount of figs.

“Why?” He writes, “What’s going on? I thought that tree had died! Somethin’ strange goin’ on here, Cassidy. I need you to come have a look.”

Uncle Frank writes also that he’s hired a man, Lester-Lee, to help out around the ranch since the quake. But he says the man isn’t working out all that well. I know my uncle is probably thinking that I’ll work out as a hired hand better than Lester-Lee. Hell, maybe I would!

It’s just 6:30 when we put the Ranger in gear and take off for the Santa Barbara area to check out Uncle Frank and his crazy fig tree.

Louie and I drive through the small town of Diablo on our way east from Santa Barbara to the Diablo Valley where Frank’s ranch is. A charming addition to the place is a meridian down Main Street planted with jacaranda and myrtle trees along with white and blue daisy-like flowers. And, a few of the shops have new wooden facades, giving an old west look to the street.

It’s quiet, no people about anywhere, and every shop is closed which seems strange. Isn’t Sunday a good day for tourists to be out and spending? I see an old restaurant my family used to enjoy, The Main Street Dairy Lunch and Lounge. It’s closed as well, but I can remember Sunday morning breakfasts there once in a while—a special treat.

I feel an ominous, almost threatening vibe coming from the town, and I’m pleased to simply drive on through.

It’s late afternoon when we pull the Ranger into Frank’s driveway. I see that my uncle has company. Two cars are parked in front of the ranch house: one a dirty red Cherokee and the other a gleaming blue woody. I park my truck behind the blue wagon and stare at the old house. I remember the Spanish tile roof, the adobe walls, and the big porch shaded by a generous overhang. The place looks worn around the edges, like an old friend whose features have softened and blurred with age.

Frank comes down the porch stairs and walks quickly toward us. I clip Louie’s leash to his collar, take a deep breath, and climb out of the truck. Stiff from the drive, I stand, weaving slightly—a little off balance. Louie pees in the dirt as Frank comes up.

“Hi Uncle Frank.” He’s shorter than I remember but hasn’t changed all that much. Frank’s thick white hair still stands up in spikes as if he’s plugged in to a power source unavailable to the rest of the world. He’s sun-tanned a rusty brown, and his skin stretches itself firmly over the corded veins in his neck and arms—it wraps him up tight.

“Cassidy?” Frank peers at me, frowning.

Who does he see when he looks at me? Except for the same blue eyes as my uncle, the adolescent boy I used to be has disappeared. He sees heavy dark brows, a skinny nose, and a bony jaw covered with a gunmetal stubble—all softness gone. And at six-foot three I’m certainly a lot taller.

Frank reaches out and grasps my arm. “C’mon boy, I want to show you somethin’. We’ll meet up with those folks on the porch later. Get back in your truck; we’ve got to drive.”

“What—”

“What kinda dog is this anyway?” Frank shoos Louie back up into the front seat and gets in next to the pup. “C’mon Cassidy!”

I climb back in and start up my Ranger. “What the hell, Frank? Where are we going?”

“Across the bridge to Georgie’s pasture. I’ve got to show you that tree.”

I see my uncle has a holster and gun on his belt. “Uncle Frank, you’re wearing a gun!”

“Yeah, I am. I got one for you too, Cassidy. It’s back at the house.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.” Louie puts his head in Frank’s lap, and Frank scratches him behind his ears. “Nice pup,” he says.

“Yeah, I think he’s a Pit Bull. Maybe got a little Boxer—”

“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.