The Matriarch (21 page)

Gwen and Ed Schwartz live a few miles from Frank in a small Spanish style bungalow. I knew this couple before, but not well. As we enter their driveway, I see a plump woman in blue jeans and a white tank top on her knees in a patch of yellow daisies that border the walkway to the house. She wears sunglasses and a ratty straw hat that dips down over her forehead.

We climb out of the van and walk slowly toward her. “Hello Gwen,” Frank calls out. She smiles at us nodding, her hat bobbing as she gets to her feet.

“Mrs. Schwartz,” I say, “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Cassidy Murphy, Frank’s nephew.” I extend my hand.

“Oh,” she cries. “I’m delighted!” Her face breaks into a grin, and she hurries toward me, tearing off her gloves. She grasps my hand tightly. “My, what a pleasure. I know Frank has just been beside himself waiting for you!” Frank nods, smiling.

A warm, charming woman, I can’t help but respond to her. Dott introduces herself and the girls, and Gwen turns to Lester. “Oh my …” Her green eyes grow wide and she covers her mouth in shock. “You … are so like … our Oliver.” Her voice trails off, and she reaches for Lester-Lee, grasping his upper arm. I watch with some alarm as her eyes fill with tears.

At first Lester stands frozen, then he puts a hand over hers and smiles down at her. “Pleased, Ma’am,” he says.

“Our boy … gone so long now.” She speaks so softly that I can hardly hear her. She shakes her head and scrubs at her dirty knees. “How are you, Frank? I do thank you for all those wonderful figs!”

“In a way, Ma’am, that’s why we’re here,” I say.

“Really,” Gwen says, raising her eyebrows. “But I’m rude!” She clutches my elbow. “Please do come in out of the sun. It’s not too early for lemonade, is it?” She shoos us into her home with little happy cries of courtesy, and waves us at the couch and chairs in the living room. The room is cool, darkened by cloth shades drawn against the morning sun.

“Ed, darling,” she calls down a hall leading from the room. “We have guests. He’s not feeling well,” she whispers, and my heart revs up.

“How sick is he?” I ask, not thinking how my question sounds.

“Somewhere between ‘as a dog’ and ‘unto death,”’ she says with a grin and tosses her hat onto the nearby game table. She runs stubby fingers up into her curly iron-grey hair. “Oh he’s fine, really. Just overdid, you know.” Below merry green eyes, she purses her lips in pseudo disapproval. “Went bowling with the gents and stayed out far too late. But he’ll be right out, I’m sure. Ed
loves
company.”

On cue, the man appears clutching a shabby blue terry-cloth robe around his substantial frame. “Frank, hey! Glad to see you,”

“Ed,” Frank says, shaking Ed’s hand. “Hear you’re under the weather.”

“Nah, nothing contagious. I’m just tired.”

“This here’s my nephew, Cassidy,” Frank says. “He was just a kid last time you saw him.” He introduces Lester and the girls.

“I heard you folks out here and thought maybe we had people here to see the Erni,” Ed says.

“We’ve just acquired this new print,” Gwen explains. “On our trip to Lucerne. It’s a Hans Erni.” She speaks with pride and turns on a wall light that illuminates a large print. It takes up most of the wall. “Isn’t it a handsome thing?”

With a sense of losing time as well as control, I gaze dutifully at the print. It portrays two muscular horses—one white and one a burnished brown—nuzzling each other gracefully, as if in a stylized dance.

“Handsome, yes,” I say.

Charlotte and Shelly murmur agreement as Dott walks to examine it at closer range. Lester sits quietly on the couch, hands folded. Ed seats himself at the game table.

“Any refreshments coming?” he asks.

“Of course, dearie,” his wife says fondly. “I’ll pour us some lemonade.”

“Please not on our account, Mrs. Schwartz,” I say. “We want to ask you about the figs—the ones from Frank’s tree.”

“Oh please call me Gwen. Yes, the figs are quite tasty. And so many different flavors!”

“Some people,” Dott says, joining Ed at the table, “have complained they don’t feel good after eating them.”

“Really,” Gwen says, shaking her head in amazement. She walks into the kitchen.

“Woman loves to cook,” Ed says, smiling after his wife with obvious devotion. “Always in the kitchen. She loves your figs, Frank. Can’t get enough.”

He pushes an outsized book on the table over to Dott. “This here art book’s got Erni in it,” he says. “He’s a real good painter.”

Dott smiles and begins to page through the book.

I see nothing in the couple’s attitude toward each other but warmth, and there’s certainly no hostility toward Ed from Gwen. They remind me of the Russos before Dante’s murder. Is Gwen Schwartz a powder keg waiting to blow? It’s either that or my fig theory is shit. I’m ashamed of myself for the frustration and disappointment I feel at finding Ed in such good condition.

I walk around the room looking for a clue of some kind. It’s furnished with an overstuffed couch in a faded plaid fabric and two matching chairs—lackluster type stuff. On a coffee table I see two tired looking figs in a bowl. They look like they need to be refrigerated, and soon. Will Gwen ask Frank for more?

She returns from the kitchen with glasses of lemonade on a tray. She serves everyone and sits down on the couch next to Lester-Lee. Absentmindedly, she places a hand on Lester’s knee as if repeating a long familiar gesture. Lester looks uncomfortable but allows her hand to remain.

I repeat the idea that the figs might be causing physical problems in some people. Gwen pronounces that idea as ridiculous indeed, and Ed nods his head in agreement. Gwen takes two swallows of her lemonade and launches into a chatty discussion of her recent trip to Lucerne.

I’m bored stiff and anxious to get on with The Tree problem. I realize I don’t care if my theory doesn’t hold true with Ed and Gwen; I still want to destroy that tree. I can’t shake the idea that she’s gaining strength as we sit here wasting time. I firmly believe that The Tree’s fruit drives women—at least
some
women—to acts of lethal madness. So why is she doing this? What’s her plan?

The breeze that courses gently through my branches and leaves brings me the disquieting news that several nearby humans will soon try to keep me from fulfilling my dream of populating this world with my clones.

They have no idea of my strength, my power. My roots are strong and deep. They are already coiled and ready to defend me.

The arrogance of these beings is amazing—to believe that they are any match for me!

Why the female and not the male, I’m asking myself. What female property does the fig alter with such disastrous results? I need data, evidence. I watch Gwen’s animated replies to Dott’s questions about Lucerne and consider her apparent immunity to the figs. I have a feeling—gut-level type—a strong one.

I don’t believe it. It isn’t real. What am I missing here?

I have to know more about Gwen. What is she
really
like? Maybe she’s on drugs, so high all the time the woman doesn’t realize she’s come to hate her husband. Unlikely. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a fast look at her medicine cabinet. That would, at least, tell me more about her.

I ask to use the bathroom and excuse myself. Thankful there’s apparently just the one, I open the door and go into the small room. I wait a moment and then flush the toilet to cover the sound of my opening the cabinet. It contains the usual deodorants, skin creams, mouthwash, and toothpaste. There’s Tylenol, insect repellent, styling mousse, eye drops, dental floss, and sun block. There are also five containers of prescription drugs.

Two are for Ed and three for Gwen. Ed is taking Flexeril for back pain and Restoril for occasional insomnia. For Gwen I see Dicyclomine for abdominal discomfort, a very strong Motrin, and a large plastic bottle of Adrena Test capsules.

Mmmm … Adrena Test. As in adrenal?

As in adrenal gland, the one that produces and secretes hormones?

I feel a small thrill, almost a rush. I run water in the basin to cover any sound of my removing the plastic container for closer examination. Under the word Adrena Test the label reads: Synthetic Androgen—full strength—200 mg. I notice several pharmaceutical inserts jammed behind the Motrin and find the one for Adrena Test.

Each 200 mg capsule contains: Testosterone Cypionate … 800 mg., Benzyl Benzoate … 0.2 ml, Cottonseed oil … 560 mg., and Benzyl alcohol … 9.45 mg. The directions read: One capsule daily as directed by physician. One hundred capsules, two refills remain. The doctor’s name is Lance Pruitt, and the drug store is Sherman’s in Diablo.

I don’t know what this means, if anything, but I pocket the insert, shake out two of the capsules, and slip them into my jean pocket.

“I’m confused as hell,” I say as we drive away from the Schwartz’s. I tell them about the capsules I’ve taken. “Maybe that Adrena Test stuff is protecting her somehow.”

“I have to tell you, Cass,” Dott says, “I have my doubts. You’re asking me to believe that sweet lady back there is just a pill or two away from knocking off her husband. Without Adrena Test, Ed would be a dead man? After seeing them together, I have a real problem with that.”

“I don’t,” Lester says from the back seat.

I check him out in the rear view and see that his face is covered with sweat. He’s sitting as close as humanly possible to Shelly who seems to be enjoying his presence immensely.

“I can believe it easily,” he says. “Can’t trust how folks
seem
to be. Maybe she’s just coasting, you know? Maybe she’s getting ready to haul off and—”

“Did it bother you that you reminded Gwen of her dead son?” Dott asks.

“Well, maybe a little. I’d like it better if I reminded her of somebody alive.”

Shelly giggles and snuggles closer to him.

“She didn’t actually say he was dead,” I say. “She said ‘long gone.’ Maybe he just left … or something.”

Of course he’s dead, I’m thinking. Men all over this valley are dropping like flies.

“I still think the medication she’s taking is shielding Gwen in some way from the effects of the figs,” I say, trying to steer the conversation back to the puzzle.

“Okay,” Charlotte says, “so what’s in it?”

I fish the insert out of my pocket and pass it to her.

“Testosterone Cypionate seems to be the main ingredient,” she says. “It’s listed first. And there are 800 mgs of it. That’s a male hormone. Why would a woman probably somewhere in her sixties be taking a large dose of a male hormone? And on a daily basis, at that.”

“I don’t know why she’d take it at any age,” I say. “We need knowledgeable input. From an expert.”

“A druggist—that’s who we need!” Dott whacks her knee in excitement. “And I just happen to know one. He’s at Sherman’s Pharmacy.”

“Lucky,” I say. “That’s where Gwen’s prescription is from. But we’re wasting time! That Tree is growing. She’s getting stronger by the minute.”

“There’s no other women eatin’ those figs now, though,” Frank says. “Nobody’s been by to pick any up. Not since Gwen yesterday morning.”

“That’s good news,” I say. “If Adrena Test is a deterrent, we could buy up a bunch to pass out to any woman who has eaten those figs.”

“That’s a big ‘if,’” Dott says. “And, we’ll need a prescription.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem,” Frank says. “Once I fill him in, I’m pretty sure my doc will do it.”

“Okay,” I say. “But we need more data.”