The Matriarch

by Hawes, Sharon;

  “Mrs. Banyon?” Al says. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to stay right where you are. Don’t move and don’t touch anything. You hear? Not one thing.”

  “I have to put some clothes—”

  “Later, Ma’am. You can do that later. I’ll be at your door in less than fifteen minutes.” He pauses, listening to her breathe. “You hear me, Mrs. Banyon? You wait right there for me. You got that?”

  She sighs. “All right.”

  He hears her hang up. Al swings into action. He yells at Kitty, the dispatcher, and tells her to contact the on-duty unit and send it to the Banyon residence. Then he tells Kitty to hold off for ten minutes on that directive.

  Shit, I gotta get a grip. I need to be the first lawman on the scene!

  He races outside to his own unit, starts it up, and sets off, gears and tires screaming. Al goes four blocks in the wrong direction before he calms down enough to think.

  The Banyons live near the Murphy spread, Al remembers. Matter of fact, they are neighbors to Frank Murphy. Along with Carla and the late Dante Russo, another entertaining coincidence. The computer info on the Murphy kid becomes even more interesting. Al doesn’t really think of Cassidy Murphy as a genuine suspect in either murder, but questioning the kid will help Al look like the heads-up, balls-out lawman he sure as shit is. Compared to Teddy-Bear Manny Ramirez, Al is about to look like one fuckin’ hell of a competent sheriff.

  Al thinks on the fact that peaceful little Diablo hasn’t had a murder on its books for years. Shit, maybe never! And now it has two in the three days since Cassidy Murphy hit town.

  I sit across the kitchen table from my Uncle Frank. He looks dead, bloodless. His complexion matches the gray of his faded flannel shirt. The red that rims his eyes is the only color he has. And he looks smaller. His shirt droops from his shoulders in loose folds, and the gun and belt he still insists on wearing hangs low on his scrawny hips. With that stupid gun, he looks like a kid playing a game he doesn’t really understand.

  Under the table, Louie sleeps like the dead.

  The acting sheriff called Frank earlier with the astounding news that Arty Banyon was dead, apparently murdered by his wife, Lindee. With Sheriff Ramirez still down with the flu, Acting Sheriff Al is running the investigation, and I’m not confident that guy knows what he’s doing.

  I had listened to Frank’s side of the conversation. At one point he shouted, “A wallboard hammer?” And I knew that fool Al was shooting his mouth off again. Since when do law officers blab the details of a case that’s under investigation? More important though, how could another wife have murdered her husband? Another wife gone mad, right along with Carla. What’s going on with these women anyway?

  I wonder how long before Manny returns to his job. I hope he’s far more competent than his deputy. Diablo needs a smart, cool head to run this investigation.

  Frank clutches his coffee mug and stares down at the tabletop.

  “How about some toast?” I ask. We’ve had very little to eat, and I need to get some food into this man.

  “Nah.” Frank grimaces as if I’d offered him a plate of worms. He takes a swallow from the mug.

  “What’s Manny like?” I ask Frank.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Is he a good lawman? Do you have confidence in him?”

  “You mean is he better than Deputy Schmidt?” Frank smiles, and I grin at him. “I sure as shootin’ hope so!” We share a chuckle.

  “Shit sakes, Cassidy!” Frank slams his mug down onto the table. The noise startles us both. “It’s like the world’s gone plum crazy!”

  I hear Louie grunt his agreement.

  “These crazy women …” Frank goes on, his voice faint now. “I don’t understand.”

  “Yeah, the women … I don’t get it either.” I lean toward him. I need to hear myself talk about my growing suspicions. “What if there’s more?”

  “More?”

  “Yeah. What if this is the beginning of an epidemic?”

  Frank snorts. “That’s crazy. There won’t be any more.”

  “Well, if Carla and Lindee were women known to be violent, their actions could probably be explained. At least better understood.”

  “I knew Carla the best.” Frank rubs at his eyes. “I’m not living under her bed, you understand, but there’s just no way she could have attacked Dante with a meat—”

  “I know. Something happened to her, but what?”

  Frank doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he heard my question.

  In the silence I hear the clock ticking. It gives the room a cold metallic heartbeat that belies the sunlight on the scarred worn wood of the tabletop. I put a hand down on that wood and rub it back and forth, glad for the warmth it creates. I hear Louie’s breath breezing in and out, and I take comfort in that as well.

  Why am I getting involved in this? It’s none of my fucking business after all. I’m out of here in ten days, easy—two weeks tops. I’m sorry Frank is beginning to lose it, but there’s nothing I can do for him except maybe find him a good psychologist, an expert on aging. But I keep thinking about that Goddamned tree and those Goddamned figs …

  I think of Dott’s reaction to The Tree, and Louie’s. And I think of the obscene surplus of rotting fruit beneath it. Frank hasn’t seen it for a day or two—he doesn’t realize how fast it’s growing.

  “Something changed Carla,” I say. “And probably Lindee.” Frank opens his bloodshot eyes. “Maybe something they both ingested before they lost their minds. Maybe other women will—”

  “Cassidy, you’re calling two deaths an epidemic.” He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back. His cheeks are reddening. “Something in the ice cream, maybe?”

  “Uncle Frank—”

  “In the water?”

  “Well, how about those figs?” There. I finally say it. Out loud. “The figs you’ve been passing out all over town? Maybe it’s those figs from that crazy tree.”

  Frank glowers at me, his breath ragged. He’s almost panting. “There’s another couple,” he says. “Ed and Gwen Schwartz. She’s been droppin’ by regular, last couple weeks, pickin’ up figs. Always takes a lot home with her. Been here this mornin’, matter a’ fact. I just let her go on out to the tree on her own. Ed’s still vertical far as I know.”

  That does throw me. I know I have to see this couple.

  “I don’t know, Uncle Frank. But you haven’t seen The Tree lately. Let’s take a walk out there and—”

  He turns from me and stumbles to the sink. Head down, he puts his hands on the counter and leans forward. I stand and go to him.

  “It’s crazy,” Frank says to the sink. “Whacko. I know you’re wrong, Cassidy, but problem is I don’t know what’s right. This world isn’t logical anymore, and I don’t understand it.”

  He looks so frail, I want to pick him up and carry him off to bed. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off. I back up and stand a respectful few feet away from him. But I have to continue.

  “The Tree is different now.”

  “So?”

  “It’s … grown.”

  “Like I said before, growin’ is what trees do.” He faces me, leaning against the sink.

  “And, like I just said, you haven’t seen it in a while. Dott saw it. It freaked her out too. She said it wasn’t from God. I don’t pretend to know what I’m talking about, Frank, but if you saw that thing now, today, you’d know that something really weird is going on.”

  “I’ve been eating those figs like peanuts. How come I’m not out there taking after folks with a shovel or something?”

  “Maybe it’s a sexual thing.”

  Frank snorts again. “What?”

  “I mean as in gender. Maybe whatever it is just affects women. Hell, I don’t know. What I do know is that fucking tree needs to be put to sleep.”

  “So Dott tells you the tree isn’t from God, and you come up with this crazy gender thing. You’ve got to think
, boy! Besides, that woman’s a different breed a’ cat. I wouldn’t trust a thing she says!”

  “Frank—”

  “But that’s not why you’re wrong.” He squints at me as if I’m in bright sunlight. “Your theory of the figs affecting women, changing them—it’s no good. You remember Kate Hammond? You met her at the funeral along with her husband and little girl.”

  “Yeah.” I remember her all right.

  “Well, she’s crazy about my figs. She’s had more than Carla and Lindee put together. She’s been here twice this past week beggin’ for more. And her husband Vic is still kickin’.”

  I’d feel a whole lot better if I could actually see hubby Vic still kicking.

  “This epidemic shit,” Frank goes on, jamming his hands down into his pockets. “Who in the world of statistics would call just two of anything an epidemic? On top a’ that you’re sayin’ whatever it is doesn’t affect men ’cause of their gender? Like folks with dicks don’t get it?” Again with the derisive snort.

  “Why are you so angry?”

  Frank seems to actually consider my question. “Shit sakes Cassidy, I’d hate to think that the figs I’ve been giving away … have caused …” He shakes his head. “I think you’d better watch yourself around that Dott woman.”

  I can’t seem to get this man to really consider what I’m suggesting.

  “Think about this, Cassidy. That woman pals around with a bunch of religious nuts who live in a tent, for shit sakes. She calls that tent a church!” He pauses, frowning as Louie comes out from under the table, his ears at attention. I guess he’s responding to the excited tension in Frank’s voice. “There’s some kind a’ name for that groupie sort a’ stuff … cult! That’s it! And her sexual problem has probably screwed her up plenty as well.”

  “So you think Dott is a member of a religious cult. And a screwed up homosexual. That’s wonderful Frank, a really thoughtful opinion.”

  “Well, okay, maybe not,” he allows, grudgingly. “But she’s nobody for you to take seriously, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Just let me show you how that tree is changing, Uncle—”

  “No! I don’t have to …” A look of surprise comes into his eyes then. His mouth drops open, and his face goes white. His apparently boneless hand drifts down the face of a cabinet as he falls. It’s such a graceful move it looks rehearsed, and for a brief moment, I think he might be kidding—making some sort of lame joke. But of course, he isn’t.

  I kneel and grab his shoulders, shaking him gently. “Don’t do this, Frank. Come on now.” Louie rushes over and begins licking the old man’s face.

  He sits on the floor, his back resting against a cabinet. His eyelids flutter. He looks like a cadaver trying to come back to life. I put a hand behind his neck and massage it.

  “C’mon, man, please.” After a moment his eyes slide back into focus. “Thank God,” I murmur. I get to my feet, find a glass, and fill it with water. I kneel again, pressing the glass to Frank’s lips.

  I never should have pushed him that way. What the fuck is wrong with me? If the old guy doesn’t want to see The Tree, he doesn’t have to!

  Water dribbles down Frank’s chin, and Louie laps it up. At last Frank takes a bit of liquid into his mouth and swallows.

  “Good man! That’s the way.” A few more swallows, and I help him stand. He allows me to lead him to a chair at the kitchen table. I put two pieces of bread into the toaster. “You have to eat something, Uncle Frank. That’s all there is to it.” His eyes redden, and I know he’s close to tears. “It’s going to be all right … really.”

  “Work’s the thing,” Frank mumbles. “It’s time we got started on the quake damage. That’s what we need to get us back to normal.”

  I haven’t felt normal since I arrived in this valley. Diablo sounds more and more like a very apt name for this place. I put the heels of my hands to my temples and press, massaging my head there with tight circular motions. I can’t shake the memory of Frank sliding down to the floor, morphing from his cantankerous old self into this frightened and defeated old man I don’t even recognize.

  Something is very wrong here. Something with that tree. What can I do about it? Who can I talk to?

  Charlotte. I’ll start with her. I should at least tell her about the Banyon murder.

  The toast pops up, and I set it on the table with a jar of jam. “Okay, we’ll go to work, Uncle Frank, first thing tomorrow. Eat this toast now, will you? And then take it easy the rest of the day. Where’s Lester, anyway?”

  “Now there’s an interesting thing,” Frank says as he gingerly picks up a piece of the toast. “He’s off with the girls. Charlotte and Shelly. They asked him over for dinner at the Russo place, and I figured he needed a night off.”

  “That is interesting.”

  Frank studies the toast as if it’s a piece of foreign matter. But he finally takes a bite.

  Breathing hard, Molly Hammond stands in the kitchen looking down at her stepfather. Her right hand is sticky and feels hot.

  “Oh God.” Her voice is soft.

  She’s holding a hatchet, its blade red with blood. Victor Hammond lies face down on the floor, the back of his head a tangle of blood, hair, and … ugly stuff.

  Did I do that?

  Victor’s blood has spilled from what’s left of his head onto the white ceramic tile of the kitchen floor. It’s soaking into the grout, turning it a vivid pink. Molly is grateful he’s on his chest and belly; she can’t see his eyes—his dead, staring eyes.

  She didn’t like her stepfather, never had. Maybe she even hated him. Especially lately since he’d taken to teasing her about her height. But to whack him with a hatchet? She must have hit him plenty hard, that’s for sure. So how come she doesn’t remember doing that?

  Molly suddenly thinks of Victor’s face, his eyes so full of mindless terror. “Oh God.” With amazement, she gazes at the bloody hatchet she’s still clutching in her right hand. “My mother’s husband. Oh God.” She looks at the clock but can’t see it because of her tears. As she blinks her eyes rapidly, she sees the time. It’s almost eleven o’clock at night. Molly has lost a whole lot of time somewhere. She thinks of her mother.

  “I’ll be home by ten, Molly. See that I find you in bed.”

  “Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God! She’s due home any minute!” Never has Molly felt so lost, so alone, so devastated. Not even in the first days of her mother’s marriage when she and Victor had hung on to each other in front of Molly like she wasn’t there. As if Molly had disappeared. Victor and her mother spent long hours locked away in their bedroom making odd scary noises. Today though is much worse.

  Kate had always told Molly that she was special and that she couldn’t live without her sweet daughter. She had explained that the two of them were best friends and didn’t need others at all. Before Victor, Molly spent long lazy afternoons with her mother on a blanket in their lovely backyard with cans of cold soda, books, and Molly’s fantasy comic books. Just the two of them.

  But then, Victor had come along. He had taken her mother away from her. Oh sure, she gave Molly a hug every now and then, but she knew her mother didn’t mean it anymore. Victor was now “the love of her life.”

  And now Molly is alone with his cooling corpse. Again her eyes fill with tears.

  Molly thought she was getting used to Victor, but yesterday proved her wrong. First it was that crappy funeral. After that some bad ideas had come into her head. Lots of them about Victor and what Molly would like to do to him, complete with mental images as clear to her as those in a movie.

  Today has been the worst yet. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t keep those awful pictures from coming into her head.

  After dinner, Kate went off to see one of her girlfriends. Molly and Victor were in the kitchen cleaning up the dishes when Victor lost one of his contact lenses. He got down on his hands and knees to look for it, running his hands slowly back and forth over the tile floor. As Molly watched, nasty
thoughts mushroomed up in her mind just like in a horror movie. All of a sudden, Victor collapsed onto the floor face down, with no back to his head and bloody gunk everywhere. Molly couldn’t bear to think what all that pink, meaty-looking stuff coming out of Victor’s head might be.

  She must have blacked out then, because the next thing she knew, she was standing over that same bloody Victor with the kindling hatchet in her hand. She didn’t remember getting it from the tool shed on the back porch.

  Molly hears a car, its tires crunching on the gravel in the driveway. “Oh God! My mother’s home!” What to do? What can she do? She stands as if frozen, waiting.

  “What …?” Kate Hammond tosses her purse onto a counter. She wears black pants and blouse, her arms ghost-white. Molly watches her mother’s eyes take in Victor’s body, herself, and the hatchet she holds at her side. She’s holding her breath.

  Kate walks to Victor, kneels, and places two fingers at the side of his neck—the side that isn’t bloody.

  “No pulse,” she says. Kate looks up at her daughter, her face stark and colorless.

  Molly can’t meet her mother’s eyes. She stares down at her new white sneakers. They have bloody spots all over them, and she wonders if the spots will come out in the wash.

  Kate rises from Victor’s body and moves toward Molly. She reaches long white arms out to her daughter, and the girl flinches.

  “My poor baby,” her mother coos and gathers Molly close. Kate clasps her body, and with one long-fingered hand—its nails a shiny blood red enamel—crushes her daughter’s face to her lean bosom.

  Molly gasps with relief. Oh God. I’m home again. Like before Victor. She melts into her mother, sobbing.

  Kate lets her cry for a few minutes. Then, “Did you hate him?” She strokes the back of her daughter’s head, and the girl nods, no longer afraid to admit the truth. “Did he drive you crazy, sweetie? Drive you mad?” Molly pulls away slightly and looks up at her mother. “Did you want to hurt him?”

  “Yes, Mama, I did.” It feels so wonderful to confess!

  “Of course you did, Baby Girl, my little sweetie.” She kneels to face the girl and begins to wipe her face gently with a tissue. “Shall I tell you a secret?” Oh, how long it’s been since her mother has asked that question!