The Matriarch Matrix

by Maxime Trencavel

  Again to his surprise, she kisses him on the forehead. “And maybe some women have grown out of that alpha male type. My ex was one. And look where that got me.”

  Out the open door, an old white pickup truck can be seen pulling up, and out exits a large man, chiseled face, day-old stubble, perfect chest-to-torso ratio, tattooed arm, dressed in a tight-fitting grey compression tank partially covered by overalls. He yells, “And you would be trying to seduce someone too young for you just a week after our divorce papers were final.”

  Amelie bolts up, straightening out her top and hair. “You should show this young man some respect. He helped your daughter get into Stanford, Princeton, and Harvard. Something that you couldn’t do.”

  Barging in the open door, slamming it shut, reeking of alcohol, the worst, cheapest kind, he pulls Peter up by his hair and leans his rough face into his. Spitting away, he says, “An intellectual, huh? That means you have nothing in the shorts worth speaking of. Didn’t you know my ex here only likes her men big? But take my advice, she isn’t worth it. Don’t fall for her act. I did.”

  “Randall,” Mrs. Harrison yells. “Get out of here. Haven’t you hurt us enough?”

  And the perfect alpha-formed Randall lets go of Peter and grabs his ex-wife by her tank top, stretching it well off her body. He slobbers out, “I’m here for my daughter. She shouldn’t be living with you. You’ve missed paying my first month’s alimony already. What kind of role model are you, parading around like this?”

  And the straw that breaks the banana slug’s back—the big man strikes her, drawing blood. And what is he thinking? Peter, that is. For he grabs this man, who must be fifty percent bigger than he in all dimensions.

  “Mr. Harrison, you need to sober up and come back later. It would be best for all.”

  “Oh, Mr. Egghead here thinks he can talk me into leaving. And let him try to be a role model for my daughter? Not happening,” he yells, taking Peter’s hand off him.

  And that gene activates, the same exact one that wrote in the margins of that pristine, pompous professor’s paper about how wrong he was about the Black Sea hypothesis, and out of Peter’s mouth comes, “You know that one to two percent of our genes come from the Neanderthals. But in your case, the aliens who designed us made an exception. You must be at least fifty percent. You should leave nice homo sapiens ladies alone so our species can keep evolving. So, crawl back to your cave, why don’t you?”

  Whap. Something very hard rips Peter’s skull. Barely standing, wavering to and fro, Peter feels warm fluid drip down his hair onto his neck. Bright crimson stains form, blanching down towards Sammy.

  Looking up from the redness streaking through his beloved slug, Peter tries to focus as his glasses have gone flying. And then Peter sees it. Randall Harrison had a gun in those overalls. A gun now pointed at his face. A gun with his blood on it.

  And he stands there frozen in time. There he was at 157th and Broadway, staring down the barrel of a gun. There he was in his father’s den, staring at the gun in his bloody mouth. There he was in the forests, staring down an arrow at…at his sister’s breast. Frozen forever in time.

  But it is her screams that snap him out of it. With an iron grip on her tank top, stretched out so nothing is covered, the caveman drags poor Mrs. Harrison towards the bedroom, yelling he is going to collect an advance on the alimony she owes.

  Words won’t save him. Words won’t save Mrs. Harrison, Amelie. What can he do? He taps on his MoxWrap, looking for 911. What is he doing? She needs him now. And the welterweight editor, the alien-loving omega male sci-fi nerd, this average-height twig of a man tackles the monstrous caveman.

  Whap. Well, his tackle is more like a ping-pong ball against the side of an elephant as Peter flies backwards to the floor. Maybe he’s merely stunned. Maybe he’s petrified by a haunting flashback. But for sure as he looks up, he’s staring once again into the darkness of a gun barrel. Maybe there’s a glint of a bullet. But that’s the last thing he sees.

  *

  “And what do you think you were doing, young man?” asks Samantha Gollinger. “I didn’t raise my son to be a ruffian lout. And certainly the Gollinger men weren’t born to be the hero type.”

  The bright white institutional lights of the urgent care clinic burn his eyes only a modicum less than his mother’s words do his ears. He is trapped here waiting for the neurologist report stating that he does not have a concussion. Fortunately, he only smells bleach and antiseptics, with no trace of sulfur, gunpowder. He hasn’t been shot. But his ego sure feels like it, trounced first by that Neanderthal and now by his archetypal helicopter-parent mother.

  The woman dressed in the latest MoxFashion cashmere slip dress in Rhonda’s recommended beige, with carmine trim and a gold cross dangling from her neck, resembles his ex, Sarah, but a couple inches taller. Come to think of it, so did his all of his girlfriends. And he shouldn’t complain. Samantha has bailed him out of all sorts of problems and troubles, as far back as he can remember.

  And then the stinging. She has licked her fingers to wipe his right temple clean, near the caveman’s steel club strike. And with all of her saliva-laden-finger-administered salves, that warm feeling, the relaxing opening sensation, overcomes him. She did the same at his father’s grave, the only action that could stop his near-hysterical crying. He needed her helicoptering hovering healing.

  “My father was not an overgrown lout. Nor was your father, my George. Look at your frail pappy. You all were born with the genetics to be simple men. Better suited to being librarians than adventurers. But you all fancy yourselves Indiana Joneses without the panache, fantasizing about your next archeological dig which will reveal the truth behind that inane family mystery,” Samantha admonishes, brushing her very blond locks back behind her ear. “What were you thinking, tackling that idiot?”

  Peter glances around but cannot find her. He asks, “Where is Mrs. Harrison, anyway?”

  “You mean Amelie?” his mother mocks with eyebrow raised. “She came by to see you while you were getting your head examined. Apparently your MoxWrap dialed 911, and the police arrived shortly after you tried to play defensive tackle. We’re supposed to go to the local station and give a statement when we’re through here. You know, if you’re going to save a damsel in distress, maybe you should pick a more modestly dressed one. Although at least she has the sense to be in tune with Rhonda’s colors of the week.” And Samantha brushes her cheek, showing she has the same hue as the MoxMedia anchor babbling away on the screen above about the rumors of the Kurds in Turkey forming another new nation. “Men like you should be finding a woman who can take care of herself, at least defend herself.”

  “I wasn’t dating her, Ma. I helped her daughter get into Stanford and a couple Ivies, just like I did for Michaela.”

  She ruffles his hair on the side opposite the gun butt wound. Her best emulation of her husband’s attaboy. “And that, you are good at. Not that physical hero stuff. Since you broke up with Sarah, you really have been acting strange. The protein shakes, the push-ups, sit-ups. Did you tackle Amelie’s ex because he represented Sam, the ex-Ranger Sarah left you for?”

  Now his head hurts even more as he remembers the day he moved his worldly goods out of Sarah’s place, ready to come home to his beloved Pacific. And Sam was there. His rectangular face with high cheekbones screamed security, strength, and bad boy sex. A distinctive double-clefted chin that could launch a thousand ships. Bare-chested, showing off his massive pectoral muscles, immaculately sculpted six-pack abs. And his gun, big and bad as he cleaned it on the table, watching Peter’s every move as if to say “one false move” with anything to do with his Sarah—not Peter’s, but his—and that gun would be discharged into something vital of Peter’s.

  And again, a gun in Mr. Harrison’s hand. One he didn’t even see until too late. A pistol whip administered by Randall the Ape Man. Chiseled face. Tattoos across his massive muscular body. If only Peter could have been born with their kind of b
odies—big, tall, structured.

  A perceptive Samantha interrupts his self-flagellations with her “en pointe” motherly advice. “I didn’t marry your father because he was a muscle-bound knight and could protect me from dragons. I married him because he partnered with me equally, loved me for my failings as well as my aspirations, and would be a wonderful father to wonderful children. Like you and Michaela.”

  With dour face looking beyond his mother’s shoulder, Peter laments, “And look where that got him. And us.”

  And that stern mother look washes over Samantha’s face as she puts her hand under his chin, squeezing his now dimple-less cheeks. “We’ve been down this road before. We need to move on. He didn’t abandon us. He loved us. He loved you. And do I need to say for the umpteenth-thousandth time that you should ignore that daft grandfather of yours? Your father didn’t fail. Fail us. Fail you. And you are not failing because you haven’t found that stupid object.”

  “Pappy showed me Uncle James’s parchment. Why didn’t Pa tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? I could have taken up where Pa left off years ago,” Peter laments.

  Big deep breath and then a long sigh as the stern hovering mother deflates. Fighting the inevitable has just come to a head today. Her son will be the inevitable’s next victim unless she says the right thing. She wraps her fingers around the gold crucifix around her neck.

  Kissing his forehead, she says in a softer voice, “My son, my family, your father’s family, we’re different. We’re plagued by some bizarre notion that we can find the special, the ultimate in saving mankind. The truth is, only through our Lord can we find that salvation. You must believe me. Christ was our savior.”

  Seeing she’s not making a dent in her son’s already dented head, she adds, “I know how much the pain of your father’s death has led you to believe aliens created God. I am not going to debate you again on this subject. But listen to your great-grandmother Camilla’s wisdom on the topic of these family legends. She taught me that if the men in our generation cannot solve the mystery, then they need to focus on procreation. No different from what our Bible tells us, except in that the next generation or the ones after might live in a world where these mysteries can be solved.”

  Clasping his hands over his ears as he sits on the edge of the examination table, Peter moans. “And now comes the ‘where are my grandchildren?’ discussion.”

  She kisses his forehead. “Don’t dismiss what a good woman in life brings. And think about how successful you’ll feel when you see your children master the family oral traditions and show you where that tail of the bird star is at night. Teaching our next generation, raising them to be even better than us, is equally or even more fulfilling than our own personal successes.”

  Silence. Well, the noise of the urgent care unit still rattles and clanks in the air, but the two are quiet. A little buzz on the wrist, and Peter glances at his MoxMail. “Ma. I got it. I got it. MoxMedia accepted my application, and they say I should be expecting more information shortly.”

  “But what about the job you thought Jerrod was going to offer you? A bird in the hand is always better.”

  “Uh, Ma. He fired me this morning.”

  “Seriously, Peter? Again? Can’t you call him up and beg like you did the first time he wanted to fire you?”

  “Ma, don’t you understand? The number one company to work for in the world just invited me to come and interview. Well, part of the number one company. MoxMedia. They’re looking for a copy editor in their Middle East news group, and they’re interviewing a highly select group of candidates at their new San Francisco office. I can chase my family legends, your family legends, and you won’t have to loan me more rent money…after this month, that is.”

  She fully expected his rent payment remark. Why else does a son ask to see his mother at the same time each month? But the protective, concerned mother in her emotes, “Peter, please don’t tell me you’re going to have to run around with your keyboard over there. With the re-emerging war stance between Turkey, Russia, and the Chinese-funded Arabic Confederation, you’d be in the middle of what might be the next world war. What did we just say about not being the hero type?”

  “Ma, you just rattled off all the reasons why this is the best editor job in the world right now. And besides, they always put the junior editor in a four-by-four cube, shielded from the real world. There’s no way you’ll see me running around out there with bombs falling all around, Ma. That’s so not me. That’s for the war correspondents, whose words I will be making dance and sing.”

  “But didn’t your sister call that company’s CEO evil? He’s a Russian crook, no?”

  “Ma, that’s only malicious rumormongering. Alexander Murometz is no crook. He’s the most successful global entrepreneur of this millennium. He is a giant among giants. His MoxWorld Holdings spans the globe like no other multinational company ever did before. Your MoxWrap is a prime example of his brilliance.”

  “I don’t know, Peter. Wouldn’t calling Jerrod back and begging be better? You read all those stories about how devious that CEO is and the unethical practices that made him his fortune. And you’re so vulnerable right now. Just waiting for another male figure to follow, like you did with that president you voted for.”

  “Gossip, Ma. Idle gossip. Fake news from jealous competitors. Mr. Murometz will be a great man to work for. You know these huge complex corporations. I’ll never even meet the man. But mark my words, Ma—today, Peter Gollinger is going to turn his life around. No more perennial loser. No more moping about Sarah and alpha male snipers. I’m going to do something that’s going to make a difference in this world.”

  A beep sounds and the holographic image of another woman appears, blond hair flaring out, wearing a red nightshirt emblazoned with a big white S.

  “Hey, bro. OMG. Are you okay? What did you do? Try to get Sarah back and that Army ape of hers clobbered you?”

  Sheepish as sheep get, Peter meekly says, “I’m okay. Just a little cut on the head. Well, a bruise on the cheek too.”

  Samantha interrupts, “Your brother tried to play knight in shining armor to a skimpily dressed divorcée, whose ex decided your brother was in the way.”

  Now noticing her mother, Michaela tries to sort out her frazzled blond strands as she says, “Hi, Ma. Don’t be hard on him. He was my knight in flimsy armor. You remember the time you fetched Peter from the emergency room when I was in middle school? He defended my honor then, too. Against really bad odds. But his broken arm and ribs healed fast.”

  Peter’s not-so-little sister turns to him and asks, “So I’m not interrupting another one of those ‘where are my grandchildren?’ talks?”

  A little chuckle and Peter replies, “Sis, yes, you missed her not-so-subtle grandkids innuendo, but she hasn’t had the subtle monthly ‘Michaela the Stanford grad is so much better than you, the Banana Slug school grad’ discussion.”

  “Why, big bro, she’s right, you know. Little sisters can always best their big brothers. And Pappy knows it too. I can even say the precious family words backwards. ‘Save can object the. Peace find you can together two as only.’”

  Eyebrows raised for sibling sparring action, Peter asserts, “Well, Little Miss Stanford Showoff, if you have to know, I was just letting Ma know that your super editor brother has just been asked to interview with MoxMedia.”

  Eyebrows furrowed in alarm, Michaela replies, “Peter, you wouldn’t. Not with that misogynistic MoxWorld CEO. You can’t work for him.”

  Peter is very amused. He hasn’t seen his sister so riled up since the 2016 election. “Admit it, sis, you just don’t like male billionaires. Admit it. Like I say to Ma all the time. Some things are more important than money. Like the truth. And I’ll be a great copy editor for MoxMedia.”

  Seeing the errant strands crossing her face, Michaela straightens out her hair. “Yes, big bro. The truth that you’ll be covering up some huge corporate conspiracy working in his fake news empire. But if you a
re going to sell out your soul to be in that crook’s company, maybe you can get the MoxFashion group to help me get into Shanghai University’s Paris-Shanghai Fashion Institute. They have that place locked down only for their fashion needs. I’d be happy for you to sell your soul if that means I can get into that closed club.”

  With a tsk-tsk-tsk face, Samantha intervenes again. “Michaela, you know better than to joke about selling souls. The Lord looks out for our family and our souls. And no child of mine will be selling their soul, even if it means no grandchildren.”

  “Okay, Ma. No soul selling. Hey, I gotta go,” says Michaela. “Big bro, two things before I go. Faust. Reread it. Be one hundred percent sure of where your moral lines are before you interview. They’re tricky, those Moxers. Before you know it, you’ll have a blood contract with you know who.”

  Peter spies his mother cringing at his sister’s admonitions as Michaela adds, “And Ma’s sure to remind you about your mating success after I hang up. Maybe you’d have better luck if you diversified. Go dark hair for a change. I can set you up with some super-sexy raven-haired sirens at the school here. They’d love that you’re so docile you couldn’t hurt a squirrel, not even if it was a rabid one about to bite you.”

  And with that, her image disappears.

  As the discharge nurse comes and goes, with Peter signing away his life on endless documents, he asks her about the faint bleach smell. She replies a ten-to-one bleach dilution is used for cleaning up bloodstains or spills. He apologizes if he has left too many of these, and she smiles and leaves.

  Alone again, Samantha says her final piece. “I’m proud of my son, of you, for getting invited to interview with the world’s most successful company. Your sister’s Faust comments aside, I’m sure the place is full of wonderful single women and you’ll find a good one somewhere.”

  She brushes her blondness back again. “And as much as I’m flattered that you like women who look like your mother, and your grandmother, Michaela is right. A dark-haired woman who can help you, who can defend herself, but who needs your special gifts to find her special role in the world, you should not turn her down either. But a blonde daughter-in-law wouldn’t be bad either.”