The Matriarch (5 page)

“I let him out,” Cassidy says, nodding toward the back door.

Frank’s hand goes to his belt again. No gun. “Bad idea,” he says.

“He won’t run off,” Cassidy says.

“This place is new to him.”

Frank stands quickly and goes to the back door. He takes his gun and holster down from a hook near the door and buckles it onto his belt. He sees that Lester looks worried too. He grabs a flashlight, the big one.

Cassidy gets up. “Frank, there’s no need—”

Frank flings the back door open. “Come out here with me, Cassidy. I need you to holler for your dog.”

Cassidy walks out into the yard. “I told you, Louie won’t go far.”

Frank is still, staring out into the blackness. His hand is on his holstered gun. “You don’t feel it?” he asks.

“What?”

He tries to think. Nothing comes. Nothing sensible, anyway. A feeling though. Frank has been trying to choke down this feeling ever since the quake. Something heavy. Dark. A presence.

“I don’t know … what it is,” Frank says quietly.

I hear Dott and Lester coming along behind us. The night’s warm but visibility is poor as clouds veil the moon.

Frank stands well out into the yard with the flashlight in his hand. “Yell for Louie,” he orders me. And I do. But no Louie.

“Come on over here, Louie boy,” I call out again. No Louie. I’m beginning to worry. Maybe my puppy is more adventurous than I thought. Frank trains his light on the nearby fence line, moving it back and forth.

“You think he’d take off for the barn?” Frank asks. I don’t think so, but I start walking toward it anyway. I yell for Louie every few steps, my anxiety growing. I see something up ahead—points of light reflecting back at us. The lights divide into twos as we draw closer.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Frank says, and I realize what we’re looking at.
Eyes.
Several pairs of glowing, disembodied eyes shine out at us.

“Go slow now,” Lester says. “They’re coyotes.”

“No,” Frank states. “There are no coyotes in the Diablo Valley.”

“Coyotes,” Dott murmurs. “Lester’s right.”

“What did I just tell you people?” Frank whispers. “There are no coyotes in the Diablo Valley. Not for fifteen years at least. Animal Control had a campaign back then. Got rid of every last one. But … I don’t know what these critters are.”

“They coulda come back, Boss,” Lester says.

We all stop about twenty feet away from those eyes, and I can make out vague shapes. I see that one pair of eyes is different from the others. It belongs to Louie. Three coyotes or maybe small wolves are crouched on the ground. They surround the puppy who stands motionless in their midst.

Frank sweeps the light slowly across the animals. It doesn’t seem to bother the coyotes, or Louie. Everyone, man and animal alike, seem to be studying the other. I don’t call to Louie now; I don’t want to upset this delicate balance.

Georgie nickers from the barn, and the coyotes rise as one. It’s as if Georgie has given them a signal. I see Frank draw his gun.

“No, Frank,” I say. “You might hit Louie. They’re going to leave anyway.”

“How do you know?” Frank asks.

“Just a feeling,” I say.

“Females,” Lester whispers. “They’re all females.”

I can just make out the set of flaccid teats that hang under each belly.

“All mothers,” Dott says softly. “Maybe they’ve lost their cubs somehow.”

Like silent dreaming robots, the coyotes turn toward Louie and pad past him. They pick up speed, trot to the fence, and leap it easily. They’re gone.

“Louie,” I call in a low voice, and the puppy seems to wake from a standing sleep. Tail wagging, he trots over to me.

Carla Russo lies on her side, turned away from Dante. A nice time, she’s thinking, at Frank’s. He’s a dear, that man. And it’s a real pleasure to see Cassidy again. He’s turned into such a fine handsome lad. He seems taken with Charlotte, but that might turn into quite a disappointment for him if Charlotte and Shelly are what she thinks they are. But sisters? Do sisters indulge in that sort of gross, homosexual behavior? Carla doesn’t want to concern herself with such disgusting speculation.

She sucks at her teeth and thinks she might get up and brush them once again. Those figs are so sugary sweet; their syrupy flavor lingers in her mouth. She ate two of those delicious things just before getting into bed.

Carla feels her husband’s body at her back as he snuggles up against her. They’ve been married forty-two years, and she can count the nights spent apart on the fingers of one hand.

He slides a warm callused hand onto an ample breast and squeezes lightly. Dante kisses the back of her neck and begins moving his thumb over her nipple. She feels him grow hard at the cleft of her buttocks. If asked, Carla will say she indulges in frequent sex for Dante’s sake. ‘Some men are like that you know; they never tire of it,’ she would say. In truth, however, she enjoys sex as much as Dante, maybe more. Usually. Tonight seems to be an exception. Carla is feeling more irritation than arousal.

Can’t this man give me a night off, for heaven’s sake?

“A night off?” Dante asks, and she realizes she’s spoken aloud.

“Well, why not?” She’s vexed now but not sure why. “I don’t always have to be ready and willing do I?” She feels him pull away from her.

“Carla, luv, I don’t understand. I would never force—”

“Give it a rest, can’t you?”

Give it a rest? Where did
that
expression come from?

Carla’s heart kicks up, and she doesn’t trust herself to speak. She tries to relax, taking deep breaths …

Out with the bad … in with the good. Out with the bad …

She finally drifts off into a troubled sleep.

Three hours later she awakens, still troubled. And thirsty—but not for water. In her mind’s eye she sees that sack of figs from Frank on the kitchen counter. They seem to beckon her. She rises, goes to the kitchen, has one, then two more before her thirst fades. She has another for good measure and walks back to the bedroom. In bed she looks over at her husband and realizes he’s certainly not a good looking man. Why, for heaven’s sake, he’s almost ugly! Why is it she’s never noticed that before? And that revolting sound he makes as he breathes! It’s so disgusting, she pictures herself putting her pillow over his face to shut it off. To shut
him
off.

He’ll struggle though—of course. Is she strong enough to keep the pillow on his face? Another way would be better. Something quicker—a blow from something sharp. Like what?

Carla turns away from Dante and starts deep breathing again. Thinking of sharp objects, weapons she might have around the house, she finally goes back to sleep.

Deputy Sheriff Albert Daniel Schmidt rolls over and flings an arm out, knocking the blaring radio off the bedside table. It hits the floor with a thud and gurgle of sound, and then silence. How many times, he wonders, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of a hand, does he have to tell her not to set the fucking alarm so fucking loud?

“Gin!”

No answer. He hears her in the kitchen and hopes for her sake that she’s doing her wifely duty and fixing his breakfast.

Al swings his legs off the bed and sits slumped, head down. Fingers at his temples, he pokes and prods the dull ache there until it begins to fade. Al whacks the bedside table top with the flat of his hand. It feels so good he whacks it again. Then he remembers that Sheriff Ramirez, his boss, is out with the flu. That means Deputy Sheriff Albert J. Schmidt is the acting sheriff!

“Al?”

There it is, that nobody-home voice of hers.

“Yeah?” He knows Gin is standing behind him in the bedroom doorway, her face clenched in worry, her hands twisted together in front of her.

“What time will you be home for dinner?”

“Let’s work on breakfast first, shall we Gin?” He stands and faces her. He’s naked. Al is naked as much as possible, because he loves the freedom of it, the feel of air on his muscled body, his rock-hard stomach. He grins at his wife and lowers a hand to cup his balls.

The silly woman blushes and looks away. If Al had the time, he’d take her. Right here, right now. He’d throw her down onto that thick shag and do her up just fine. As if reading his mind, she backs out of the doorway.

“Breakfast will be ready soon,” she says and walks away.

Could be worse, he knows. He could have lost his mind completely and married a liberated type. Could be a whole lot better too, he thinks for about the zillionth time.

Al sighs and goes into the bathroom to shower. He runs the water hot and scrubs at his body with the scouring side of a large kitchen sponge until his skin stings and turns red. As usual, his thoughts go to the two loves of his life: the gorgeous Kelly McIntyre and his football career. Or rather, his lack of a football career. He spits into the drain and keeps his head low so the hot water hits him on the back of his neck.

Those were the days for fuckin’ sure—the wrenching, jarring violence of the game. It was a thing of brutal beauty. The ball carrier was Al’s prey—hit him low and hard and bring him down grunting from the impact. Nothing on God’s green earth like it, the feel of the other man’s body giving way and going down under his.

Bad grades, though, and no money for college, so no way to get to the pros. Bummer. Coulda been a contender. Well … maybe.

The water courses down his back and butt, and he thinks of Kelly.

Al had been thrilled when she told him she was late. Seventeen years old and crazy-stupid to be so happy, but that’s what he’d been. He always wanted to cry remembering those two beautiful kids—so fuckin’ dumb they didn’t know they were doomed. So sad.

He said to her, “Kelly, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.”

“How?” Her lovely eyes filled with tears.

“We’ll get married.”

“My parents will kill you.” He remembers how she said that. No emotion, just a calm statement of fact.

“They won’t kill the father of their grandchild.”

They altered their IDs and were married by a drunken justice of the peace at the state border. Al felt blessed with good fortune; he had never been so happy.

I’m too smart for that kind of mindless joy now … way too smart.

They lived at their respective homes and tried to save money. When Kelly’s condition became obvious, her parents took her out of high school and kept her at home.

“But we’re married,” Al said to them, and they laughed as if he’d told them a joke. They didn’t allow him to see her, and he gradually slipped into a numbing lethargy. He lived like a robot. He played football, and his coach told him to watch ‘the unnecessary roughness.’ Al didn’t watch it; he came to love it. The coach benched him. Permanently.

Kelly’s father called him on the phone and told him Kelly had given birth to a daughter. The little girl had severe brain damage, and Kelly’s father, now willing to accept the fact of their marriage, wanted to know Al’s plans for support of the child.

Kelly, when they let him see her, was a complete stranger to him. Heavy and bloated, she looked as if her blood had turned to ice. She asked if he wanted to see his daughter, but he declined. He had no heart for anything then and saw his future as one long funeral. A very expensive one.