The Matriarch (7 page)

“Messiest trees in the world,” Frank says fondly. “Don’t they shed a fine carpet?”

“They surely do.”

We go through the barn first, Frank pointing out the quake damage as we walk. I keep Louie close; I’m not sure how the puppy will react to these new sights and smells. The building is a source of pride for the old man as he had built it himself. He made sure to include more doors and windows than customary in order to let in more sunshine and fresh air. Since the quake, though, the stall walls are sagging, and the doors and gates are off the square. These are minor things I know I can handle.

I say hello to Georgie, patting the horse’s dapple-gray rump. I hum a tune to him, and the old gelding does me the courtesy of nickering back.

“I think he remembers you, Cassidy.”

“No way, Frank. It’s been a long time. How old is Georgie, anyway?”

“He doesn’t like me to talk about his age.”

I smile. “No offense, Georgie.”

Standing in the roomy stall, Frank puts his hands on the horse’s neck and moves them in a circular sweeping motion. He works up to the head, using the heels of his hands. Georgie stands motionless, eyes half closed as if swooning with pleasure. I feel like a voyeur.

After lunch that afternoon, we walk back to the barn. Frank explains the new barrier he wants me to build—it’s basically the same as the old one but a whole lot bigger. He gestures toward a stack of pine 4 × 6’s. “You can use those as posts for the fence; they’re already cut to size. Just haul ’em to the tree in your Ranger. That bridge will hold up just fine. And take that sack of concrete with you, a’ course, and that five gallon drum a’ water.” He looks hard at me. “You remember how to do this, right?”

“Fence posts? Sure.”

Frank continues staring at me. “I’ve got Lester mucking out Georgie’s stall, but I can pull him off that if you want help.”

I shake my head.

“You sure you’re all right with this?”

“Of course I’m all right,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

The old man’s eyes go to my empty belt. I had taken my gun and holster off before lunch. “Where’s your gun?”

“I don’t want to haul it around, Frank. I don’t need—”

“I got you that gun so’s you’d wear it! What good’s it gonna do if you don’t put it on?” Frank’s face reddens.

“Frank … you know something I don’t? Like why the hell I need to wear a side arm to build a fence around a tree? What’s that gun supposed to do for me, anyway?”

Frank sucks in air like there’s a shortage, hands twitching at his sides.

“Well … I guess I’m not sure, Cassidy. But there’s somethin’ strange here since …” He takes another deep breath. “Havin’ that gun on you just seems … prudent.”

Prudent. Not a word I hear Frank use a lot. “Well, okay,” I say. It isn’t okay, but I don’t want his face getting any redder. “That’s fine with me.”

“Get your gun, Cassidy, then take me to the card room in town while I wait for my truck to get fixed, okay?”

We load up my truck, I drop Frank off at the card room in Diablo, and then I drive back to the ranch. As Louie and I cross the bridge to the barricade, I keep thinking about Frank’s strange attitude toward the guns he insists we wear. I’ve never known my uncle to give a damn about shooting for any reason—not for hunting or targets, and certainly not for protection. But maybe a man of his age has a right to be a little strange, and that weird tree would spook anyone. I’m looking forward to building the new barricade though. I’m good with my hands—always have been.

I stop the truck about fifteen yards from the tree and stare at the thing.

It’s bigger!

And the sagging barricade looks even smaller. But that’s impossible; it’s only been a few hours! Many of the pinks have fallen into the profusion of colored figs on the ground, and they look obscene, like globs of pink flesh. It’s hot now, but I’m shivering. And the leaves … even from the truck I can see the bright green leaves have a ragged blade-like edge to them as if they’ve been honed into serrated teeth.

I’m disgusted, letting myself get so unstrung by this crazy tree. I drive a little closer and stop. I unload the truck while Louie scouts out the neighborhood. With a mallet, I knock the now useless barricade apart and toss the lumber from it into the bed of the pickup.

I didn’t think to bring a rake for the fallen figs, and I keep stepping on them. Soon the fig mush on my boots exudes a sugary reek that goes to my head in the form of a dull ache. I turn my back on the tree and light up a cigarette. I take a drag, and my throat seizes up with dryness. My head begins to pound as I start to cough.

I toss the cigarette and cup my hands to get some water from the drum. It tastes great, and I gulp it down.

Checking Frank’s drawing of the new barricade, I pace off the distance the old man wants between posts and go to work. It’s been a while since I’ve actually built something, and I soon begin to enjoy the process.

In about three hours, I’ve dug the postholes and set the new posts into them along with hardening concrete. I’ve lost myself in the job, and my headache has disappeared. I light up another Marlboro and survey my work with pleasure. I know I’ve done well.

“Pretty good, huh Louie?” The dog looks over at me from the shade of the truck where he’s drowsing the afternoon away.

I decide to finish up with the boards of the fence in the morning after the concrete is good and hard and the posts will be able to withstand the nailing. I look up into the branches of the tree and hear the breeze start up. But … again … there is no breeze.

So, what is making that sound?

Standing perfectly still, I listen hard. I feel something as I stare up at the moving leaves. A presence. Yeah, I reply in my head, going along with this fascinating dialogue I’m having with myself.

A waiting presence. And there’s a pattern to the sound. It’s coming in waves. With regularity. It’s like … breathing.

“Wonderful,” I say aloud. I know now why Frank has taken to wearing a gun. “Just wonderful. A living breathing fig tree.” I laugh loudly, as if the noise will clear my head and lessen my mindless fear.

With awkward haste, I yank my work gloves off. My hand is sweating as I pull my gun from its holster.

Behind me, I hear a growl. I turn to see Louie get to his feet. The ruff on his neck and back is coming up, much darker than I’ve ever seen it. I feel the hairs on my own neck come to attention.

I whirl back, facing the tree. Waving my weapon in the air, I wonder where my mind has gone. I frown, and my forehead feels like it’s splitting into pieces. Moving closer, I decide to fire a shot up into the branches. Why? What’s that going to accomplish? Louie growls again and thrusts his head and shoulders against my legs.

The Colt seems too heavy. It wavers, and I have trouble keeping it steady.

A stupid move, I know, but I’m going to fire up into the tree anyway. I start to squeeze the trigger, and my left boot catches on an exposed root. I lose my balance and pitch forward. I hit the side of my head on the tree trunk. Hard. There’s flashing pain as I slide down the trunk into the mush of fallen figs. And into a soft, calming darkness.

“Stupid, dumb-ass thing to do,” I mutter. I feel a rough rubbing on my forehead, like someone using wet and warm sandpaper. Louie is patiently licking my face. I’m on my back on a carpet of sweet, rotting figs.

I put a cautious hand to the left side of my throbbing head. Some swelling, I think, but no blood. Gently then, I rotate my aching left ankle. No break, I’m pretty sure, and maybe no sprain.

As if guided by his master’s thoughts, Louie turns his attention to the ankle, and I feel his healing tongue.

“Thanks, boy,” I say to him.

I am blessed with this dog.

I look up into the tree’s branches with my head next to the offending trunk and see a plethora of figs. It’s a glut in every stage of development imaginable—so many sizes, shapes, and colors.

My head gradually clears, and I hear that breathing sound again. I sit up quickly, powered by fear. The motion makes me dizzy, and I clutch at Louie to steady myself. I glance down and see an insect pry its way out of a squishy globular fig. It flies clumsily off on iridescent wings.

I roll over onto my knees. Using my right foot and both hands, I push myself … but then fall over onto my side. I’m so damn weak!

Louie’s warm tongue goes to my face again, and I work myself back up into a crouch. I put a hand on the tree trunk and pull it right off. The bare, greenish wood is warm and moist … almost like … I don’t want to finish that thought.

I hold a hand out to Louie, who graciously allows me to lean up against him until I’m finally able to stand. I take an awkward step away from the tree trunk and make myself take slow deep breaths. My ankle hurts some but not all that bad.

The gun. Where’s my gun? I look around for it and the root that tripped me, but don’t see either one.

Looking back at the tree, I notice again the creamy-looking green wood where the bark has peeled off. It doesn’t look like wood though. It shines with a healthy inner moisture.

“I have to say it, Louie my boy, that tree trunk looks and feels like living skin.”

I’m way too close to that disgusting trunk, and I step back, almost tripping again. At a safer distance, I light a cigarette and stare up at the tree.

I know then, a terrible truth.

The tree is staring back at me. It’s waiting … for what?

I want to run to the truck. I want to grab Louie, get in that truck, and throw it in gear … but where’s the fucking gun?

I have to find it. The alternatives are unacceptable. “Sorry, Uncle Frank, I lost the thing … okay?” Or “Your tree ate it, Frank … what can I say?” Okay, okay. I have to think. Where exactly was I when I lost it? That’s easy. I shudder as I force myself to move back near that God-damned trunk. Rotting figs suck at my boots while I examine the mush at my feet. I bend down and plunge my bare hands into the moldering decay. It’s warm. I move my shaking hands back and forth through the mess. My fingers find a cool hardness, and I push the rot away from it.

The Colt lies caught in a nest of small, white, vein-like roots. I pull at the weapon, thinking one easy tug will free it. The pale veins quiver though and tighten their hold on the gun.

Fuck! The thing is hanging onto the gun!

I hear an eerie sound then; it’s coming from Louie. He’s howling. It’s a high, unnerving sound that I’ve never heard from my puppy before.

In blind panic, I yank the gun free, holler for Louie, and run to the truck—hurt ankle be damned. I throw the Ranger into gear and race back to the ranch house.

In the driveway, I hose off my disgusting boots and throw my socks away. I pour Louie a measure of kibble in the kitchen, find some aspirin for my aching head and ankle, and get a cold beer from the fridge. Sitting on the glider swing on the porch, I drink half the beer down and light a cigarette. Louie pushes the screen door open and pads out onto the porch. He lies down, his head resting on my foot.

“So … Louie. Did that shit really happen?”

A plate appears in front of Al. Soupy brown stuff is all over some meat, potatoes, and a few very tired carrots. One corner of a slice of white bread is busy soaking up the brown stuff. The silly woman has opened a can of stew and tossed it and a piece of bread onto his plate.

Times like this, Al always thinks of Kelly before the child—when they had been so happy. He can’t imagine her serving up a mess like this. His time with Kelly is a dream, a fantasy glimpsed out of the corner of his eye that vanishes when he reaches for it.

So, why Gin? Why this nervous nothing who stands off to his left now, anxiously watching him? He must have been out of his fucking mind. He gets a can of beer from the fridge and sits back down at the table.

“What a treat, Gin.” He grins at her. “Is this your famous beef stew?”

“There was no time, Al. I can’t have a home cooked meal on the table just like that. You didn’t say when you’d be home—”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve only had … let’s see what time did I leave this morning? About ten hours ago I make it. That’s ten hours you’ve had to get this stew ready, Gin. To get the can all opened up and everything.” He picks up the beer can and throws it at her. It hits the refrigerator behind her, fizzes up, and falls to the floor.

Gin gives a little cry and puts her hands out to him. “Please Al …”

A familiar, delicious feeling blooms in his belly. Gin always enrages him with her careless and fearful ways, but she also excites him. His belly contracts now with that sweet visceral pleasure, and his hand goes to his swelling cock as it pushes against his pants. He knows he can take her anytime he feels like it, with or without her consent. And that knowledge always makes him hot.

But not now, he cautions himself. Al has obligations, responsibilities. He sits rigid, eyes closed tight, willing himself to stay where he is. Al can almost feel her body, the cloth of her panties in his hand as he yanks them down, her pussy clenched against his cock. He clamps his hands together.

“Manny’s sick and I’ve got a shift to run tonight, Gin. You expect me to do that on an empty stomach? Or on a couple of these—what the fuck are these things anyway?” He waves a hand at the bowl of strange looking fruit on the table.