The Matriarch (26 page)

My hands are slick with sweat, and I hope to God I’ll be able to hold my gun with a steady hand.

“Please, Shelly.”

She doesn’t seem at all shocked or alarmed at seeing me—so much for the element of surprise. She snorts, shaking her head in disgust.

“Come on, Shelly,” I plead. “What
is
important here?”

Please start talking. Open up so I can somehow talk you out of this madness.

“Mother,” Shelly says softly and lowers her head. She appears to be searching for words.

Lester crawls past Shelly, and over to me. I step aside slightly to let him go on out of the room.

“Go on, Shelly,” I continue, hoping she doesn’t notice Lester’s exit.

“Her children,” she says.

“Yeah, I got it,” I say. I don’t get anything. The room is lighter now, and I can see she’s naked. “Your mother?”

“No. Not really.” Shelly raises her head, and I see the faint glimmer of tears on her face.

“Not really your mother. But how then, a symbol? A symbol of your mom?”

Shelly looks away from me, at the window over the bed. She seems to be listening to something.

“What about the figs?” I press on. “Do they make you think of your mother in some way?”

She faces me then with a snarl. “You want to kill the tree, and you haven’t a prayer.” She points at me with the knife. “You’re doomed, Cass. There’s no way you can come out of this alive. And that goes for the rest of you as well.” She takes a step toward me, brandishing the knife blade in front of her.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Shelly. I don’t know where you get that.” In careful slow motion, I move my right hand to the butt of my holstered gun.

She throws her head back and laughs, a harsh, rending sound. “You’re a lying prick, Cass Murphy! Do you think I’ve forgotten? You’ve called her names, and you’ve vowed to kill her, to destroy her. You plan to do that today!”

I need to get her back into telling me about Mother. “Shelly, the ‘mother’ you speak of—that’s The Tree, right?” She doesn’t answer, but I know I’m right. “Okay, okay,” I say in what I hope is a soothing tone. “I understand now. I won’t do that, Shelly; I won’t hurt her. And I’ll see to it that no one else hurts her either.” She brings the knife down to her side, and I think I might have a chance to turn this horror around. Somewhere inside this tortured creature is Charlotte’s little sister. “Let’s talk, okay?” She frowns, peering at me.

“Yeah,” I continue. “Let’s sit down and talk.” The only place to sit is the bed. Shelly is still naked, but she doesn’t seem to give a damn about that. I sit, leaning a shoulder against the iron footboard. If I can find a way to reverse the effect of the figs, I’m thinking, maybe I can bring the real Shelly back. Back to sanity. But she’s clutching the knife against her belly, holding it at the ready. She’s a long way from any sort of sanity.

I have to disarm this woman.

She looks so tired, so defeated I want to reach out and comfort her … but not while she’s holding that knife.

“How about giving me the knife, Shelly? So we can talk together more comfortably.”

Her head jerks backward as if something is yanking it. In a blur of rapid movement, she takes a couple steps past me, and is now between the doorway and me. That knife is pointed my way again, gripped tightly in her hand. She glares at me, her teeth bared.

All thoughts of saving this woman leave me; I’ll be lucky to save myself. To do that I have to get past her and the knife, then out into the barn. Unless … can I get out through the window? My eyes leave hers as I look back at the window. It’s wide open.

Shelly grunts. She goes into a crouch, her upper body curved downward over her bent knees.

Is she in pain? What
—

With a cry, she springs. Pushing off, she shoots up at me in a leap, arms extended, knife thrust out toward me.

I throw myself off the bed and onto my knees. I look up to see Shelly airborne just above me. With macabre grace, she flies headfirst into the iron of the footboard. The sound is obscene—a moist thwack, like a melon thrown against a metal wall. Her neck crumples, head lolling, twisted to one side.

“Shelly!”

I haul myself up onto the bed and pull her away from the merciless iron. Her neck straightens with a crackling sound. One eye gazes directly into mine, while the other, its focus skewed by the bar she’s just slammed into, peers off in another direction. She has an angry red gouge above her right eye where the iron has done its damage. Shelly has a grotesque, demented look to her.

I know it’s hopeless, but my fingers seek a pulse at a limp wrist. Nothing. She’s broken beyond repair.

I groan and close my eyes. Kneeling at the bedside, I rub my fingers over my forehead and eyes, as if I can erase the sight of this poor girl. But I know the obscene image on the bed will stay with me always; it’s forever etched into my mind. I pull my hands down and clasp them together between my knees. I force my eyes open. My breath comes in short gasps now, and the room grows dark as neon sparks obscure my vision.

I’ve got to get it together! Got so much to handle, so much to do. What am I going to tell Charlotte? And where the hell is Lester?

I force myself to stand and shake my head to clear it. I try her pulse again. She has none. She’s still clutching the knife, and I pry it from her hand. I pull a couple of Lester’s shirts off his clothing rod and cover Shelly’s nakedness. Gently smoothing the hair back off her forehead, I brush my fingers over her eyes, closing the lids. The rage I’d seen in her face has disappeared now. Except for the gouge and the swelling, she’s lovely once again. She looks like she’s accidentally hit her head and is at rest, sleeping off the ill effects.

“Oh, Shelly.” I drop to my knees again and press the heels of my hands against the sides of my head.

This sweet, lovely girl. How can I tell Charlotte?

I walk to the basin and put my head under the spigot. The water is wonderful. I let it drip down my face. There’s a plastic glass on the basin, and I start to fill it but notice a bottle of Johnny Walker Red on the floor. I reach for it and see that it’s unopened. Lester’s probably saving it for a special occasion. This qualifies, I think. I sit down on the bed, utterly exhausted. I see the trail of Lester’s blood going out the door into the barn.

I’ll find you, Buddy, and then I’ll pour us both a drink. But there’s so much to do, to take care of!

But I can’t seem to move.

Shelly is dead, and I have to tell Charlotte and everyone else. I have to notify the authorities about Shelly’s death. All that takes time, and what about the fucking tree? The Tree Shelly thought of somehow as
Mother.

How scary is that? What are you doing right now, Mama? What bloody mayhem are you engineering at this very moment?

I know The Mama Tree is not idle. No way is she considering retreat. Or defeat.

How many women have you corrupted? And how many male bodies are lying around waiting to be discovered?

I hear footsteps approaching. Lester? Charlotte?

Charlotte stops in the doorway. She sees Shelly. “Cass! Oh my God! Shelly!” She goes to her sister and puts a hand on her arm. “Shelly? What’s—”

I rise and reach out for her. I try to pull her into my arms, but she takes hold of the iron footboard and pulls herself onto Shelly. She begins to weep. Harsh sounds come from her as if her throat is torn.

“I’m so sorry, Charlotte. The figs. She was crazy with the figs.” The knife is still on the bed, and I gesture toward it. “She had this knife; she came at me with it—kind of leaped for me and landed on the iron. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“The knife?” Charlotte says through her tears. “She was going to cut you?”

I nod. She allows me to touch her arm then, and I pull her gently away from Shelly. I hold her close, against my chest.

“Where’s Lester?” she asks, looking up at me.

“He got cut, but I think he’s okay. He crawled out into the barn. I’ve got to go find him.”

She pushes herself away from me. “You said you’d handle this, Cass! Wasn’t there some way you could have saved my sister?”

Lester-Lee’s mommy kneels on the straw and kisses his forehead. She has the cool, healing lips of an angel. She doesn’t say I’m sorry, sweetie, but he knows that’s what she means to say.

“I know,” he says, as if she’s spoken, and she smiles down at him as she starts to drift away. He sees that she’s wearing that same gown with the fluffy bunnies on her feet. The bunnies are dusty.

“I forgive you, Mommy,” he calls after her. “It’s okay.” And it is. What mommy would cut her wrists that way in front of her little boy? On
purpose
? No mommy would do that, and certainly not his.

Lester feels better. Not just better; he feels almost good. Except for his arm. His right arm feels like it’s put on about twenty pounds of hot, throbbing flesh. He lies on straw on his back in a vacant stall.

He shudders, remembering. Shelly. She cut him, sliced him up real good. The enormity of her act sweeps through him and leaves him weak with wonder.

“Can’t be true,” Lester whispers to himself. “I imagined it.” But what about the enormous, pain-wracked arm that lies alongside him and seems to be connected to him? And what about that crazy sex—did he imagine that too?

“No,” he says quietly. He knows it happened. All of it.

So where’s Shelly now? His eyes go to the door to his room. It’s ajar. He shivers.

Where are you, Shelly?

Then he remembers. Cass saved his life. But—and Lester’s heart lurches in his chest—at what cost? Did she cut him too? Is Cass alive? He has to go and see.

But no, he can’t. She might be waiting in his room for him to do just that, to come back to check on Cass. Lester groans, pulls his damaged arm close to his body, and hugs himself.

I gotta think what to do.

He thinks and thinks and squeezes his eyes shut with the effort. With his good hand, he pushes himself up to a sitting position. His head reels but soon clears. Lester staggers to his feet and begins a slow walk back to the doorway of his room. He’s thinking of Cass and Charlotte, Frank, and Dott, and hoping against hope that they’re all right.

They’re my family now.

I come out the door and see Lester. “Oh, Christ, Lester!” I say. He looks like an apparition from Hell. “Jesus. You look like you’ve been dug up from your own grave.”

Lester grunts and pulls his arm up close to his chest. “Are you all right, Cass?”

“Yeah, Lester. But you—” The man’s upper arm is a bloody obscenity. I can see blood still seeping from the cut.

Charlotte comes out of Lester’s room. “Oh God, Lester!” she cries.

“We have to get him to the ranch house, Charlotte; we have to check out this wound.”

“But what about Shelly?”

I try to find a calming way to say the obvious. “She’s beyond help, Charlotte; we’ll take proper care of her as soon as—”

“But—”

“Please, Charlotte. Please help me with Lester.” Frowning, she looks at Lester.

“Yes … okay,” she says, and I’m grateful.

“Can you walk, Lester?” I ask, and he nods.

“Come help me, Charlotte.” She complies, puts her arm around Lester, and the three of us begin a slow, awkward walk back to the ranch house.

“I’ll handle this,” you said to me,” Charlotte says as we stumble along. “That’s a direct quote. You handled it alright! My God!” She has a fist clenched like she wants to whack me.

“I know,” I say. “But the figs—they were in her head—”

“She may not even be dead, Cass, you don’t know! You say she hit her head. Well, that doesn’t make her dead, for heaven’s sake. I’m going to call a doctor!” She drops her arm from Lester’s waist and starts trotting toward the house.

“Charlotte, she’s dead. Her neck is broken. She’s been dead for over an hour.”

“Who the hell are you to pronounce her dead?” She whirls back to face Lester and me. “Are you a medic all of a sudden?”

“Charlotte, her body is cold.”

We arrive and climb the stairs to the porch. We open the door to a happy, welcoming Louie. He gives us all a what’s-going-on-here-anyway sniff. Charlotte kneels and puts her head next to his. She slides an arm around him. Tears course down her cheeks, and Louie sets about happily wiping them up with his tongue.