The Matriarch (6 page)

Her father continued to hound Al for money. He threatened a lawsuit, so Al packed up his single mom, and they left the Denver area for San Diego. It had been surprisingly easy.

Al didn’t hear from Kelly’s family again, and he figured they knew there was no point in going after money that simply wasn’t there.

When he thinks of Kelly now, he sees that white puffy face and eyes practically hidden by heavy, reddened lids. His regret, sometimes overwhelming, is that he has trouble picturing her as she’d been before everything went so terribly wrong.

Deputy Schmidt dresses with care as always. He has his uniforms professionally tailored and knows he looks sharp. He loves the feel of clean khaki on his body—loves the weight of the pistol at his side, the holster secured firmly to his thigh. His left hand rests on the smooth head of the baton at his belt, and Al knows that a well-rehearsed motion of less than a second will put it in his right hand, ready for action.

In the uniform of a deputy sheriff, he has learned to walk with a practiced swagger that shows the world a cool and competent lawman. At first that had been enough. It gave him a tremendous kick to make deputy, but now he wants more. Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt has the ring of authority and clout that Al knows he deserves.

Dressed and ready for duty, Al is pleased with what he sees in the mirror. He keeps his thick brown hair cut short like a helmet and uses a little peroxide once in a while to streak it light. He does this in guarded secrecy; not even Gin knows. His well-tanned face sets off a thin white scar from a fall he took as a boy. The scar angles down his forehead and joins a solitary frown line; it’s a good, dangerous look.

Al gives himself a snappy salute and leaves the room.

I wake after a restless night in my parents’ old four-poster. I look around the bedroom, awash in uncomfortable nostalgia. It’s like a shrine to my mom and dad. Catherine and Burt’s old dresser stands under the west window, its surface cluttered with a silver-trimmed hand mirror, comb, brush, and Burt’s mom’s silver jewelry box, all badly tarnished. Photos are on every available surface. Most are framed, but many snapshots are simply propped up against the books on the homemade shelves. Burt had been a fine carpenter, and the bookshelves against the south and east walls are beautifully crafted in stained oak. I see myself in almost all the pictures. Apparently not a month of my youth went unrecorded.

The memories the room evokes are happy ones, and that’s where the discomfort comes in. They seem to belong to someone else—some lucky little fucker I don’t know any more who hung out in a family equally unknown.

As if sensing my distress, Louie wakes up next to me on the bed and begins some serious, creative licking.

“How you doin’ sweetheart, after your wild night out with coyotes?” I push the pup gently away and climb out of bed. “Let’s get some breakfast, Louie, what d’ya say?”

Lester-Lee is eating as if starved, and I have no trouble keeping up with him. Frank has made pancakes with genuine maple syrup and butter along with hash browns, scrambled eggs, and fried onions. This feast is topped off with strong and delicious black coffee.

“No more, please, no more,” I say and push my chair back.

“Me neither, Boss.” Lester grins at me.

“Lay-abouts. That’s what you boys are.” Frank slides a plate of cut up pancakes and eggs under the table for the puppy. “But not Louie.”

“I brought kibble for him, Frank.”

“Kibble, hah! Don’t talk dirty in my kitchen!” He pours more coffee. “How’s that pup gonna put in a day’s work without a good breakfast? You boys too, for that matter.”

“I guess I’ll have to fake it,” I say, and Lester laughs.

Frank sits down at the table and lights up a Camel. “You want to do up that new barricade today, Cassidy?”

“Sure, Frank.”

“And then I thought you might take a look at what’s needed in the barn. Puttin’ the stall doors back on the square and such.”

I nod my agreement.

“I need to give you a shootin’ lesson though. That has to be done first.”

“Why?”

Frank frowns and waves a hand, brushing the question away like an annoying fly. He wants his nephew armed, and I still don’t know why.

“Before you go to work on the barricade, I’ll need you to take me into town to the garage there to pick up my truck that’s being repaired. I hope the barricade won’t take you too long. I don’t want to wear you out on your first day.”

“I don’t like that tree,” Lester says, staring down into his coffee.

“What is it that bothers you?” I ask him.

He frowns, silent.

Frank drains his cup and stands. “C’mon Cassidy, let’s have that shootin’ lesson now. I’ll leave the kitchen to you, Lester-Lee.”

The lesson takes place near the exercise ring, and I think we look silly with our identical guns and belts and holsters—like little boys playing. Frank is dead serious, though, as he sets up some cans on a log for targets. He then proceeds to blow them all to hell with rapid, ear-shattering accuracy. He doesn’t seem bothered by the noise at all. By now the old guy is probably losing a bit of his hearing along with a few other abilities. This whole gun bit strikes me as ridiculous.

“Your gun’s a single-action revolver with this here revolving cylinder.” Frank spins the cylinder. “It takes six cartridges. This gun can bring down anything.”

He shows me how to load it. “You slide in one hollow point at a time … see? You unload it the same way ’cause the jackets might swell and then stick a little in the chambers.”

“Why do you use hollow points?”

“More damage done,” Frank says with a grin. “The shot scatters and expands on impact.”

“Why do you need so much damage?”

Frank’s grin fades. He nods toward the targets. “Have a go at those cans, Cassidy.”

I get off a couple wild shots, surprised at the weight and heft of the gun and the power of the recoil. Frank helps me with my stance and the sighting of the weapon, and after a few minutes I’m pleased to gain at least a modicum of accuracy.

It continues to irritate me that my uncle keeps dodging the question of why he thinks it’s so important to be armed. And with hollow point cartridges at that. After this lesson, though, I
do
feel good wearing the gun, though it might be just the excuse to play cowboy again.

Lester takes his time in the kitchen. He loves cleaning the various surfaces, the smooth tile and the shiny terra-cotta vinyl on the floor. He loves to rub lemon oil into the oak tabletop and make it glow.

Best of all, he loves his hands in hot soapy water as he washes the dishes—it’s a very soothing experience. There’s such comfort in the warmth of water made soft by soap.

A gentleman, that Cassidy,
he’s thinking.
I really like him. I wish I’d answered his question about the tree. But … shoot, plenty about that tree bothers me.

As always when troubled, thoughts of his daddy come into his head. Unfortunately, that always leads to memories of Mommy.

Lester-Lee had been a little over two when he first learned there was something about him that upset Mommy.

He lay on his stomach, stretched out on the hall floor in front of the door to Mommy and Daddy’s room. It was a warm night, and the smooth planks of the floor felt good against his bare belly. Lester could see through the slightly open door, and the light from the pink lamp shone on Mommy’s fluffy pink slippers as she walked back and forth. The front part of those slippers looked just like little bunny tails. When he raised his head he could see Daddy lying on the big bed in his underwear, his hands making a pillow behind his head.

Fun stuff, this spying!

His mind tingled with excitement. Lester knew if Mommy and Daddy heard him, he’d be scolded, which made this adventure all the more exciting. It had taken him a really long time to crawl from his room to their door, because he had to be so quiet. To add a thrill, he pretended he was a soldier crawling through land mines to get away from the enemy.

Gosh, but Mommy is walking fast. Can’t sleep, I guess. Just like me.

“Time,” Daddy said, his voice gruff. “Give the kid some time.”

“Fuck time.”

Mommy sounded mad, and Lester felt a little …
thing
in his tummy. Like a piece of food—maybe a potato lump—had gone down his throat wrong and was being mad down there in his belly.

His mommy stopped at the table, her back to Lester-Lee. Then he heard her fuss with her cigarettes, heard the match scrape against the box. He closed his eyes and waited. There it was, that wonderful smell. Smoky wood. Lester loved it when Mommy lit her cigarette with a wooden match.

Mommy started walking fast again. “It isn’t that he’s slow,” she said to Daddy. “That sorry state can perhaps be overcome with tutors and the like. But Sweet Christ Les, he doesn’t even look like us!” Lester-Lee heard her slam the matchbox down on the table as she walked by. “You told me he would look like he came from us.”

“The agency assured me he would. We gave them all those photos, remember?” Daddy’s voice was kind of high. “They said his parents were British.”

“He looks like a Nazi thug.”

Lester felt funny. Sort of bad funny. Like Mommy wasn’t happy with him, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

The thing about these memories … when they start coming to the grown-up Lester, they’re hard to stop. All the comforting, hot and soapy water in the world cannot stop them.

The next night, the one after the bad-funny feeling he got outside his mommy and daddy’s room, little Lester-Lee’s world shattered completely.

Daddy was out, and Lester thought he heard Mommy call to him while she was in the tub having a soak. He knocked on the door, because he knew better than to barge in on her. Silence, so he knocked again.

Laughter. A giggle. He turned the knob slowly and opened the door. The room was kind of dark, but he could see her. “Mommy?” He took a few steps toward her. She lay in the tub, covered with watery soapsuds. There weren’t enough, though, to cover her breasts and the dark place between her legs, so he looked away. He heard her laugh again. He forced his eyes everywhere except on her, and he saw a red candle burning on the edge of the tub. A little puddle of melted wax held it there next to a tall green bottle and a glass of something kind of dark yellow. He thought it looked like a glass of pee. He wanted to laugh but couldn’t.

“Lester-Lee,” Mommy said, real loud, “look at me.”

He did as he was told. She was holding something. It was shiny in the light from the candle. It looked like some kind of knife. Watching him, she put it on her arm at her wrist.

Red…

It came so fast! The red went into the water and turned pink. The red kept pouring out of Mommy’s wrist and into the pink water. Lester-Lee felt dizzy.

“See what you made Mommy do?” his mommy asked him with a smile. He sat down onto the bathroom floor. Hard.

“C’mon, let’s check out the barn,” Frank says after the shooting lesson. Gun belts on, we start off, Louie along with us on a leash.

Most of the ranch structures are near the house. Their worn wooden facades look blurred, as if coated with golden dust. Several Eucalyptus trees near the house and barn are dropping their leaves and bark, which make a thick ground cover that cushions our steps.