The Matriarch

by Hawes, Sharon;

  “Hey, Georgie,” one of the women calls in a high, keening voice, and Shelly feels the horse shudder beneath her. She sees his ears flatten themselves against the sides of his head and feels his body tighten.

  “Hey there, pretty boy,” cries the other, “Come on over here.”

  Georgie thrusts his head down, snorts, and begins to back up. Shelly tries to bring his head up with the reins, but he keeps his head down and continues his stubborn steps backward.

  “He’s scared,” Lester says. He makes soothing sounds, trying to calm the frightened horse. Shelly sees his shirt is dark with sweat. He looks back at the tree.

  “Oh fuck,” he says as the women begin walking toward them. They both wear black ankle-length skirts.

  Even from a distance Shelly can see their grins. Georgie yanks his head and pulls the rope from Lester’s grasp. He turns away from the tree and the women, and Shelly presses her knees hard against the horse to keep from falling off. She feels Georgie’s muscles bunch up under her and knows he’s about to run like hell for the rise.

  I’ll never make it!

  Georgie makes it easy for her. As if she’s an annoying fly on his back, he bucks and unseats her. Shelly falls hard onto the grassy turf, sprawled and breathless. Everything stops including—it seems—her heart. She waits to see her life pass by, but all she sees are blades of grass so close to her eyes, they’re slender pillars of greenish yellow.

  “Up, Shelly—NOW!”

  She raises her head and sees the women—on horseback now—coming toward her, one well ahead of the other. The woman nearest has her mouth hanging open in a cartoon-like rictus. Shelly feels as if she’s being sucked into a horror movie.

  “Up, Chrissake Shelly—now!”

  She sees Lester then, astride a sweat-frothed Georgie who’s prancing near her like a young show horse. Lester leans down toward her. “Grab my hand! C’mon!”

  Shelly raises a leaden hand to his, and he jerks her to her feet. She hears hooves on the turf and turns to see a woman bearing down on her. She’s leaning down from her horse and spewing rank, sugary breath as she reaches for Shelly’s arm with a claw-like hand. But it’s Lester’s strong arm she feels encircle her waist and sweep her up onto Georgie in front of him. He whoops as Georgie whirls and sprints for the rise.

  Shelly looks back and sees that the women have stopped. One raises her fist and shakes it at them.

  “I don’t get it,” Shelly says, scared witless yet somehow exhilarated. “What are they so pissed about?”

  And what are we so frightened of? They’re just a couple of women.

  After Frank’s fainting spell, I don’t want to leave him alone, at least not for a while. I decide that a short walk won’t hurt him—might even be good for him—so Louie and I take him outside for a stroll.

  Not interested in quake damage at the moment, he wants to skip the walk and pace off the area he thinks will be ideal for a new training arena he wants to build.

  Why? Why a new horse arena? He’s only got one horse! But what the hell; with any luck at all I’ll soon be on my way out of here. Yeah, but to where? Doing what? I know I’m considering flight again, just as Lauren says I always do. But life here is too complicated, what with my uncle flipping out and those Goddamned figs!

  Watching Frank now, I remember my idyllic days on this ranch when it was twice as big. It was a working ranch then where Frank grew a few different types of grain, and boarded horses along with his own. His joy was birthing foals and teaching them the lead, bridle, and saddle.

  About a year before my exodus along with my dad to Oregon, Frank took a spill off a filly he was training. Though he suffered no real physical damage, he changed. His easy competence and rapport with the horses he boarded left him, and he began to say things like, “I’m not getting any younger, you know” and to talk of “cutting back.”

  Six months later, Frank accepted a generous offer and sold off half his land. This helped him retire in fair financial shape while retaining the few ranch buildings and ten acres of pasture.

  And that’s how the old guy should leave it!

  “I need to tell you again, Uncle Frank, I can’t stay a long time. I figure to help you out with the quake damage—just a couple weeks or so.”

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I have to go somewhere.

  Frank stops his pacing and scowls down at the pad of paper he’s holding.

  “I mentioned that to you when I arrived, remember?”

  “That’s just like you, Cassidy,” he says, glaring at me. “Takin’ off when things get rough. I had hopes you’d be gettin’ over that habit.”

  Shit! Is my failing that obvious?

  A sound from the road draws our attention. A sheriff’s patrol car approaches, kicking up a cloud of golden dust.

  “I’ll bet that’s Manny,” Frank says. “Maybe he’s got some news about these crazy deaths.”

  But it’s Deputy Albert D. Schmidt who pulls up. He slides out of his vehicle and strolls casually over to us.

  Man’s got the swagger of a bully.

  “Gentlemen,” he says, a hand at the brim of his hat in a slight salute.

  “Deputy,” I say.

  “Manny’s still out,” he says. Then he flashes me a stern look. “And I’m still the acting sheriff. I’d like a word with you, Cassidy, if you don’t mind.”

  What’s this asshole want with me now? Registration again?

  “Sure, Al.” I shove my hands into my pockets and wait.

  “You might want it private.”

  “That’s okay. Fire away,” I say, and Frank nods his agreement.

  Al thrusts his pelvis forward in a casual slouch and hooks his thumbs into his belt. “The name Marilyn Connor mean anything to you, Cassidy?”

  “Yeah, it does,” I answer and a wave of adrenaline comes into me. “She was murdered about a year ago, in Eugene. I looked like a suspect, so I was hauled in and questioned. But you know all that don’t you, Al? You also know I was nowhere near the woman at the time of her murder, and I was released. No charges.”

  “Shit sakes, man,” Frank says. “What’re you askin’ him this crap for?”

  Louie comes up to Frank’s side, his liquid brown eyes on Schmidt.

  I see red come into my uncle’s face, and I surely do hope the old man can handle this nonsense.

  Al has some color in his face as well. “As acting sheriff, and with these two murders here, I have a duty—”

  “You’re off your head, Schmidt.” Frank takes a step toward the lawman. “What in hell does Cassidy here have to do with those poor boys gettin’ killed?”

  Al’s eyes go to Frank’s gun belt, which he seems to notice for the first time. I put one hand on Louie’s collar and the other on Frank’s arm. “Easy there, Frank. Al’s just doing his job.”

  I need to get these two away from each other.

  “That dog got a license? What kind of dog—”

  “Yes sir, he does,” I say with a rush of guilt. And I hope to God I can get Louie a license real fast. “And I’ll come down to the station later today and answer any questions about him, or me, that you might have. How about that?”

  “I said you might want this private.”

  “Yeah, you did. I should have taken you up on that.” I turn to Uncle Frank. “He’s got to ask questions, Frank. That’s what depu—that’s what sheriffs do. I have no problem with that.” I smile at Schmidt.

  “All right, you come on down to the station later on,” Al says. “And while we’re at it, what about those guns you gents are wearing?”

  Frank is about to fire off a reply when we all notice we have company. Dott Pringle pulls up in her Land Rover, hops out, and starts toward us. She’s holding the hand of a young girl. I recognize the Hammond kid. She hangs back politely while I assure Al I’ll see him later and answer any questions he may have about anything that’s bothering him. I’m able to send the man off in a fairly mollified state of mind, though Frank stil
l breathes fire.

  “I need to talk with you folks,” Dott says, as we all walk to the ranch house. I persuade Frank to cool his irritation with Schmidt and make us all a pot of coffee. I pour some soda for the girl, and we sit down at the kitchen table. Molly says nothing, just sips at her drink. She looks tired. Tired as in out on her feet.

  “Frank,” Dott says. “Could Molly lie down here for a little while? She’s had a rough day.”

  The old man looks bewildered. “It isn’t even noon yet.”

  “She can use my bed,” I say. Louie and I take Molly down the hall into my room. Molly takes off her shoes and climbs into bed. “You need anything? You want Louie to stay here with you?”

  Molly shakes her head. On her back, she folds her hands across her chest and closes her eyes. I look down at the girl. As pale as she is, she looks like a corpse—as if she’s just laid herself out for burial.

  I return to the kitchen to find that Frank has poured himself and Dott healthy shots of Bushmill’s Irish. He and Dott sit at the kitchen table, and the half-filled bottle of whiskey rests on the table at Frank’s right hand.

  Just what he needs! The time-honored aid to thinking men everywhere—especially the elderly.

  I sit down and tell Dott the shocking news about Arty Banyon. She shakes her head, stunned. She helps herself to another Bushmill’s and then relates an equally shocking story. She says Molly told her that she killed her stepfather last night with a hatchet. I think immediately of Molly at the funeral reception eating several figs as fast as she could.

  Those Goddamned figs.

  “You don’t believe her, do you?” Frank asks. He’s almost yelling. “You’re takin’ the word of a kid,” he goes on. “That’s just plain crazy! She’s tellin’ you a story.”

  “This morning she showed me the grave,” Dott says. “The place Molly says she and her mother buried Victor Hammond. They did it last night. By flashlight.”

  “You dig him up?” This reasonable question comes from Frank. “You actually see the body?”

  “No. That’s a job for the sheriff’s department. Before we report this, I think you should know that Molly said she and her mother had both been eating a lot of figs. From your tree, Frank.”

  Those Goddamned figs.

  Frank snorts, his face blooming red. “Lordy-God. You and Cassidy got an imagination that just don’t quit!” He turns his bloodshot eyes on me. “And a’ course, the killer’s a female. Young, yes, but a female. I don’t believe this crap, not for one little bitty minute!” He tosses off his Irish and lifts the bottle to pour another.

  I put a hand on the whiskey and bring it back down to the table. “Cool it with the booze, will you Frank? This is a hell of a mess, and we have to stay sharp.” He looks pissed but pushes his glass away.

  “What do you mean,” Dott asks, “about ‘of course it’s a female killer’?”

  “Boy’s got a notion,” Frank says, flashing me an angry look. “Some half-assed idea about my figs making women crazy. He thinks there’s something in them that just affects women. If you got a dick, you’re okay.”

  “I don’t know anything, Frank! Why do you get so pissed? I’m just trying to come up with a reason for these murders, that’s all.”

  “Maybe you feel … responsible?” Dott asks, her voice soft. She reaches for Frank’s hand, but he jerks it away. “Not that you are, of course. But maybe because it’s your tree—”

  “Bullshit!” Frank says.

  “Okay, okay, let’s move on.” I say. “Let me lay out for you what we know for sure. In just the past few days, three woman have admitted serious problems with their marriages and two have apparently been driven to murder. That’s unheard of in a community as small as Diablo, and that’s just the ones we know about. And now, Dott tells us that Molly has confessed to killing her stepfather.” I fish a cigarette from my shirt pocket, light up, and sit down at the table. “If that’s true, there have been three men murdered. The women and the girl all had access to the figs and had eaten plenty. When you add all this to the phenomenal growth of that fig—”

  “Bullshit” Frank says again. “Doesn’t make sense. None of this crap makes sense. Figs turning women into killers? Hah!”

  “I know there are huge holes in my theory, but there’s enough to it, I think, to take some action. And I keep telling you, Frank, you haven’t seen that tree for three or four days now.”

  “Sweet baby Jesus, Cassidy, I saw it four days ago!”

  “It’s a different tree today. The barricade I started on Monday is too small now.”

  “Couldn’t be,” Frank says, shaking his head.

  “So Cass,” Dott says, arms folded, sitting forward at the edge of her chair. “You believe the figs affected these … females. They changed emotionally?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Finally, I own up to what I truly think.

  “Interesting,” Dott says. She stands, and the kitchen seems smaller. “The tree is different, Frank. I think it’s evil.” She speaks in a matter of fact manner, as if her analysis is the only logical conclusion.

  “Hah!” says Frank, cheeks rosy once again. “Evil, is it? My tree is evil and comes from the devil. Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Uncle Frank—”

  The old man stands up so fast he knocks his chair over, and Louie careens out from under the table. Frank glares at Dott. “You’d do well to keep your crazy ideas—”

  “Shut the fuck up, Frank,” I say, grabbing Louie’s collar and pulling him to me. In the stunned silence that follows my outburst, I can hear my uncle’s ragged breath. I need to shut up as well, but I can’t. “If you’ve got another theory, let’s hear it. If not, how about getting off this derisive kick you’re on? If we’re going to do any good here, we have to get along with each other. Right?”

  I wonder then if Frank is going to cock that skinny right arm of his and let me have it. But he’s just looking at me like he doesn’t know who the hell I am.

  “Cass, you say you have enough belief in this theory of yours to act on it,” Dott says calmly, as if participating in an intelligent discussion. “What do you have in mind?”

  “If I’m right about this, there may be a real epidemic. There may be bodies out there we don’t know anything about yet. It could be there’s one for every man connected to a woman who’s eaten figs from that tree. First off, we need to destroy The Tree. Then we need to contact every woman … Frank, the only time those figs were offered to the public was at the funeral reception, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess so, Cassidy, but hold on a minute,” Frank says, calmer now. “If you’re serious about this, we’ll have to get Manny in on it. He’s the law around here, you know.”

  “Right now the law is that dickhead Schmidt. I don’t think he’d take us very seriously, do you?”

  Right then I hear footsteps on the porch. I hear the screen door open, and Shelly walks into the kitchen followed by Lester-Lee. They look like they’ve been rolling in dirt; Shelly’s knees are caked with it. Both are flushed, excited.

  “We’ve had a wild ride!” Shelly says, her eyes bright. She grins at everyone, and I have to grin back.

  Whatever’s happened, this girl has had a fine time!

  Lester is another story—he looks scared.

  “Is Georgie all right?” Frank asks. As usual, the old man seems more concerned with his horse than with the people involved.

  “I’m gonna walk him,” Lester says. “But first I have to tell you what happened.” Clearly unnerved, he speaks in a nervous, halting manner. “Women, two of them. Off their horses, they were picking up figs under the tree. They saw us. Waved and the like but not friendly. They yelled at us, called Georgie by name. I couldn’t figure how they knew his name.”

  “Everybody around here knows Georgie,” Frank says.

  “Georgie was weird,” Shelly says. She seems almost breathless with excitement. “At first, he wanted to go to the tree. But then, when the w
omen called to him, he didn’t want to go. He got scared and he threw me!”

  “He was just confused,” Frank says, looking pretty confused himself.

  “The women were mounted by then,” Lester says, “coming toward us. Chasing us! I got Georgie, yanked Shelly up onto him along with me, and took off. We were just barely ahead of the women! They almost got to Shelly before I pulled her up.”

  Shelly seems more excited than scared, like the whole thing was a thrilling adventure.

  “Describe ’em,” Frank says. “The women.”

  “Both tall and lean,” Lester says. “Dark hair pulled back.”

  “They wore black blouses, long black skirts,” Shelly adds. “Religious looking.”

  “Sisters,” Frank says. “The McClain sisters. Religious crazy ladies. They were at the funeral reception.”

  “Eating figs like crazy, I’ll bet,” I say.

  “Well … maybe,” Frank says. He looks bewildered.

  Lester-Lee sets off to unsaddle and walk Georgie while Shelly calls Charlotte to fill her in and ask for a ride back to the Russo house. She then helps Frank make up some sandwiches.

  Molly is still asleep, and no one has heard from her mother.

  When Charlotte arrives, we all sit down at the kitchen table for lunch and to try to come up with some sort of plan.

  “We need a list of women who may have picked up some figs at the reception,” Charlotte says. “Who put that service together, Frank?”

  “Schwartz,” Frank says, “Gwendolyn. Her number’s in the book by the phone.”

  “I’ll call her,” Charlotte says, and I’m grateful for her help.

  Frank has a fast sandwich and then excuses himself. “Start this plan-stuff without me,” he says. “I’ve got an errand.”

  To say he’s sick of this tree situation is putting it mildly for sure. Frank Murphy is fed up. To the teeth, for shit sakes! He knows he’s being a pain about that tree, but he’s just not sure. How could a tree produce a fruit that turns females into bloodthirsty killers? How? Next thing, he’ll find out Godzilla is real too.

  When Frank had finally lured Cassidy back to the ranch, he had been downright thrilled. And now he’s downright pissed. He had been spooked by that quake, and he’d thought the presence of his nephew would be just the thing to shoo that feeling away. But Cassidy has disappointed him. He’s turned out spookier than the earthquake with this wild theory of his, and yet Frank knows he has to have another look at that tree.